“Chiaki’s dead,” a quiet voice comes from the other side of the table. Ichika’s eyes search for sympathy, but Kana doesn’t understand a word. “Chiaki… which Chiaki?” “Chiaki Sano?” Ichika replies. “We were in the same class.” “The curly-haired one?” Ichika nods. “What happened?” “I don’t know. She didn’t leave a note.” “She killed herself?” “Yes. With a door handle, at her parents’ house. She used her Mac charger.” “Was the cable long enough?” “No idea.”
I walked past a poster for Desert of Namibia in Shimokitazawa, and something about it caught me off guard. Kana’s face—its profound emptiness—pulled at me. I wasn’t sure if it reminded me more of myself or of people I used to know, people from a time in my life when everyone seemed to lack something essential, some basic capacity to feel. A lack of empathy was everywhere back then, in my hometown and definitely in my own heart. And I catch myself doing it still sometimes, wearing that same empty look even when I’m with people I actually care about, and I hate it when I notice it happening.
Yumi Kawai is extraordinary as Kana. She’s 21, works at a laser hair removal salon in Tokyo, and she’s always on the edge of something you can’t quite name. She drifts between two men—one who steadies her with careful, almost desperate affection, another whose charm masks a cruelty that matches her own. She doesn’t really choose between them. She just moves between worlds, carrying her restlessness like weather, and Kawai makes you feel the weight of it.
Yoko Yamanaka made her debut film on basically nothing when she was a teenager, and now she’s made something that doesn’t hurry, doesn’t explain itself. The film holds in tight, boxy 4:3 frames—hair removal cubicles, cramped kitchens, narrow hallways—and it feels claustrophobic in a way that perfectly mirrors what’s happening inside Kana. She’s surrounded by men who can’t quite hear her even when she’s screaming.
There’s this scene where Honda comes home from a work trip where he went to a hostess bar, and what follows is honest in a way that feels almost painful to watch. The apologies that mean nothing, the moment Kana’s quiet fury becomes something physical and irrational, and the film refuses to tell you who’s right. They’re both somehow both.
And then there’s the salon, which is actually kind of funny—Kana and her coworker speculating about an elderly woman’s bikini wax, Kana getting fired for telling a customer she’s been wasting money on cosmetic procedures. The film does this thing where it cuts between absurdist comedy and something genuinely unsettling without warning, and that tonal whiplash is exactly what it feels like to be around someone like Kana. You don’t know what’s coming.
Midway through, Kana sees a therapist, and it’s one of the most real psychiatric scenes I’ve seen in a movie. The doctor’s careful questions, Kana suddenly ranting about pedophilia as a philosophical point, her asking the therapist to dinner. They float the idea of bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, but nothing sticks. Kana’s trying to understand who she is, and she says it so quietly you almost miss it, and that feels important.
By the end the film gets strange—panda ants, campfire songs, parallel universes bleeding into what was a fairly grounded story—and some people will feel like that’s liberating while others will feel the ground disappear. Maybe it’s the least controlled part of the film, but there’s something right about that incoherence too. Kana can’t be resolved. She can’t be diagnosed or taught a lesson or fit into an arc. She just continues, and that’s the whole point.
Yumi Kawai’s performance has this electricity to it, this quality where suffering looks like something alive and vital. She deserves every award she got for this. She never condescends to Kana, never asks you to feel sorry for her, never explains her away.
Desert of Namibia isn’t comfortable and it doesn’t want to be. But watching it made me feel like I was seeing something necessary, a film that holds contradiction the way we actually have to hold it in our lives—uneasy and unflinching, refusing easy answers, refusing to turn its impossible heroine into something safe or understood.
Video games are the only thing that can pull my brain out of its own self-destructive patterns completely. I’ve known this about myself for a while now—how they distract me from the spiral, from reaching for my phone to let some pseudo-social feed numb everything. My best memories, the ones that actually matter, they’re tangled up with games somehow. Winning a Super Nintendo on Austrian children’s television as a kid. That feeling of wandering through flea markets hunting for treasures with the PlayStation logo on them. Fighting impossible odds with a party held together by hope and the last scraps of health bars.
I went to GG Bavaria last weekend, this small gaming convention in Munich that somehow feels like the comfortable little sister to Gamescom. I wasn’t expecting much, honestly. But the moment I walked into that hall, something just clicked. There was this density of actual developers there—people whose games you’d just watched someone playing at a booth, and you could just walk over and talk to them. That doesn’t happen at the huge conventions. You usually get a faceless industry. Here you got creators and community actually meeting.
What really got me, what I wasn’t prepared for, was seeing friends there. Michi had brought Incredibug—this adorable little physics platformer where you play as a pill bug uniting crustaceans against some menacing smart home system. And then there was Bardcore, this game by Flo and Tomas and Svea and Ludwig that I’d playtested with them, the one with the bards and the quirky skeletons and the black bat dragon. There’s something about watching people you know show the things they’ve built to strangers. Watching those strangers’ faces light up. It’s a small, perfect kind of moment.
The evenings are where the convention really came alive. They’d shuffle everyone out of the main hall and then the DJ would start—all anime openings and Nintendo soundtracks, which sounds so niche until you’re standing there with a couple hundred people singing along to One Piece, Case Closed, and Neon Genesis Evangelion theme songs. I remember standing there with a free drink and a cookie, watching other people create little characters on screens, and just feeling this strange, genuine warmth. This is where your people are, you know? Everyone speaking the same language.
I drove home in Ludwig’s packed car with four other people crammed in, all of us talking about nothing in particular—university, water damage, the specific problems of village life. And I realized I was happy. Just completely, simply happy.
I’m thinking about going to Gamescom again. It’s been years, back when I had a press badge and could slip away from the chaos into the quiet rooms. But I’m also wondering if I have the energy for that right now. My body doesn’t always cooperate with what I want from it. What I do know is that GG Bavaria 2026 felt like an event that caught exactly the right moment. Like it understood what it was supposed to be. And if you’re even slightly into any of this—games, art, the weird beautiful intersection of all these people who speak the same language—I’d say get a ticket next year. Good game, Bavaria.
Philipp sits alone in his small Tokyo apartment with a bento box and a cold beer, staring out the window at all these people whose lives went somewhere else. And I think we’ve all been that person, watching through glass at a world that kept moving without us. He wonders if they’re happier, or if they’re just as lonely as he is—which is maybe the loneliest question you can ask yourself.
His life changes when he stumbles into the rental family industry. I know, it sounds strange. But it’s real—there are actual companies in Japan where you can hire someone to be your family member for a few hours. To fill the spaces where people should be. And Philipp, this washed-up American actor who came to Tokyo chasing something and got stuck instead, somehow ends up working there.
The first job he takes is absolutely surreal. He’s paid to be a mourner at a funeral for a man who’s still alive—literally lying in the casket—because the guy wanted to hear people say nice things about him. And I think that image broke something open in me because it’s so brutally honest about what we all want. We want to know that we matter. We want someone to show up.
What got me, though, was how real it became. The deeper Philipp goes into these artificial worlds, the more genuine everything feels. The boundaries just blur. And then he meets Mia, and suddenly he’s not just performing anymore—he’s building an actual relationship with a kid who thinks he’s her father. A kid who was rejected from a fancy school because she doesn’t have one. And now she does, except he’s not real, and that’s the thing that keeps you awake at night about this whole situation.
Following Philipp in Rental Family reminded me of my loneliest moments in a foreign city. When everyone else was busy becoming part of something and I was still on the outside, pressing my face against the window. When I was scared I’d made a huge mistake. When I started to wonder if I was just going to end up completely alone in a place I’d dreamed about living in. There was something in his character that felt like a possible future version of myself—like a warning and a question all at once. What happens when you chase something so hard and it doesn’t turn out the way you imagined? Do you keep pushing, or do you admit defeat?
Brendan Fraser carries this whole thing on his shoulders and honestly, he’s never been better. He’s got this weight to him—this sense of a person who’s always between identities, stumbling from one role to the next like he’s never quite sure who he is underneath all of it. He made me cry multiple times, which I wasn’t expecting. By the end, you still don’t really know who Phillip is, and I think that’s kind of the point.
The film is deeply, specifically Japanese—Tokyo as this stage-like backdrop where people are hunting for connection in the concrete and glass and neon. It’s a mirror held up to loneliness as a structural problem, not just a personal one. But it also feels universal because we all know this hunger. We all know what it’s like to want someone to choose us, to show up for us, to make us feel like we exist.
Philipp probably doesn’t remember why those lonely evenings used to define him, because now he’s one of the people who took the weird path. The one who dared to try something that doesn’t fit into the normal shape of things. And maybe that’s what this whole thing is really about—the courage it takes to step off the window ledge and actually become part of the world, even if it’s messy and uncertain and you don’t know where it’s going to take you.
The questions that occupy me most when designing this website are: Who am I? What do I want? And what’s the point of any of this? The answers to these self-centered existential crises are not easy to find, because they shift depending on my mood and emotional state, and reveal themselves as traps whenever I finally manage to corner them and practically beg for mercy—and the enlightenment that should follow.
Then I try to remember why I started blogging in the first place. Did I want to feel important? To connect with others? To prove to the world out there that I existed? Did I simply lack alternatives, given that shortly after the turn of the millennium there was no YouTube, no podcasts, and the written word was one of the few means of carrying my thoughts, feelings, and opinions outward?
My love of blogging probably stems from the fact that I enjoyed reading books as a child, and through that developed a fairly extensive vocabulary that I wanted to express, garnished with my own stories. This ambition was barely noticed or appreciated by my teachers, but it was by people in my closer circle, who wanted to know whether—and what—I was writing about them.
My love of publishing texts on the internet is probably rooted in the knowledge, or at least the desperate hope, that people I knew were reading them. Friends I had hurt. Acquaintances I hadn’t seen in a while. Girls I was in love with. Through my blog, I could transform my longing for them into frequently very embarrassing texts, without having to address those feelings to them directly.
Perhaps this approach was somewhat cowardly, and maybe my words—saturated with heartache and world-weariness—never reached the eyes they were actually intended for. But at the very least, I had created a creative island for myself where I could do as I pleased. And that was not only incredibly liberating, but gradually became an important part of my life.
At many points along my path, I could only begin to pursue happiness again after pulling various spiraling thoughts from my head and hurling them onto digital paper, only to then blast them out into the great wide world. The nameless feeling that came with clicking Publish was somewhere between catharsis and orgasm. The more personal, honest, and emotionally naked my confessions were, the greater the relief. I’m only happy when my words change the world—at least the one I call home.
Over the decades, my blog has evolved into a diary whose intimate entries lie buried under a mountain of attention-hungry, now entirely worthless drivel. Sometimes I come across one of them and feel a little sad that it’s no longer part of this great wide world, but seems to have been erased. Perhaps I can undo that.
The questions that occupy me most when designing this website are: Who am I? What do I want? And what’s the point of any of this? I still haven’t found the answers to these self-centered existential crises, but at least I’ve begun to track them down through countless psychologically questionable acts of self-reflection—or so I hope.
It’s difficult for me to find the line between introverted solitude and extroverted self-expression. One extreme would be a diary locked in a vault, into which I write all my thoughts in secret symbols; the other, an OnlyFans account in which I expose not only myself but also my sensitive data—passwords and all. Middle grounds are hard for me to walk.
In order to design something and actually finish it to the point where I can fill it with content, I first have to strip a project’s purpose down to its essentials. And at this task—which sounds so simple yet is incredibly complicated—I have obsessively worn myself to the bone. After all, this publication is meant to represent me and my thoughts. And to achieve that, I first had to figure out who I actually was—or at least, who I no longer was.
I now want to treat this dispatch as a personal notebook, into which I can enter texts about art, music, books, technology, film, fashion, travel, games, food, and my life in general. What matters to me is that everything I write must relate to me—my thoughts, my experiences, my feelings, my dreams, my fears, my hopes, and my opinions—because otherwise it’s worthless.
Going forward, I will focus primarily on the written word. I have removed the images that used to decorate every single post, because I realized that I sometimes never published certain texts for the simple reason that, even after hours or sometimes days of searching, I couldn’t find a suitable illustration. If I want to add a photo or video to a post from now on, I will simply link to it directly within the text—life can be that simple.
As a fitting typeface, I have chosen TeX Gyre Heros Condensed by Bogusław Jackowski and Janusz M. Nowacki, because it works well even on small mobile screens. In the past I always found a serif counterpart for headings, timestamps, and supplementary information—but even that felt like too much in this design. Instead, I’m largely limiting myself to the limits of my new favorite typeface. Japanese characters are the one exception, represented by Ryoko Nishizuka’s Source Han Sans JP.
I hope that this website—and everything I have cut, burned, and destroyed for it—will help me figure out who I am, what I want, and what any of this is for. Perhaps I need to become (again) conscious of the fact that this journal is not only the center and pivot point, but also the only constant in my otherwise chaotic life. But this can only work if it becomes a part of that life once more.
I’ve decided to use Japan as the thematic foundation for my upcoming bachelor’s thesis in design. How exactly I want to approach this is still somewhat uncertain. At first, I intended to shoot a documentary about the colorful underground cultures in the Land of the Rising Sun. Cultures permeated by depression, anxiety about the future, and a kind of resentment toward society by their followers.
I wanted to cover everything from eccentric horror manga and underage idol groups to rape porn that only narrowly falls under artistic freedom, and speak with pop-culture experts about whether Japan’s aging population might eventually cause these scenes to die out. However, this plan ultimately struck me as somewhat too overambitious. I should probably be a little more modest.
Then I remembered that my professors at the Japanese university where I studied had always encouraged me to use my projects to explore stories drawn from my own life, my own feelings, and my own experiences. Because it gives an intention much more soul.
At the very least, I know that I want to address Japan and my time here in my bachelor’s thesis. And I want to take this chance to connect the project with my love for Tokyo. For when I close my eyes and think of Japan, I see not only the brightly lit streets of Shinjuku, Shibuya, and Akihabara, plastered with neon signs, but also the countless secrets hidden within them—secrets waiting to be uncovered and told.
Since I now at least understand that I want to portray Tokyo at night in film for my thesis, I will spend the next three weeks in Japan’s capital, preferably venturing out after sunset to wander through temples, parks, and towering buildings in search of my own story that I want to bring to life by film.
For this purpose, I have booked a bed at a quite cheap capsule hotel in the Sumida district and will dive into the always loudly pulsing metropolis from there. What exactly will come out of all this, I still don’t know. But sometimes I simply have to throw all my previous plans overboard and take a courageous leap of faith in order to transform adventures into stories.
My time here in Kumamoto is now coming to an end. For a full year I have been an exchange student at the Faculty of Design of Japan’s Sojo University, exploring new ideas in both artistic and technical fields.
Day after day, I wandered the two campuses that rise above the city, learning about typography, painting, and graphic design in lecture halls, tinkering with Arduinos and Raspberry Pis in the computer club, and studying Japanese in the library with friends.
I’ve met so many wonderful people, traveled across half the country with them, and through them gained deep insights into a different kind of society—glimpses that remain forever closed to most travelers. It’s hard to express how grateful I am to have lived through these colorful adventures.
I came to see my year in Kumamoto as my own little Persona game, determined to experience every side of this city. That’s why I dragged my friends to every restaurant, café, izakaya, karaoke bar, shop, park, cinema, and exhibition Kumamoto had to offer.
I wanted to taste every dish, see every movie, and join every festival. I even felt a quiet pride as I rushed past tourists to complete my own personal missions at city hall, the post office, or the housing agency—tasks usually reserved for locals.
I walked the narrow path along the river through all four seasons, from the first cherry blossom to the final snowflake. And on every single day, there was something new waiting to be discovered.
Of course, I’m sad to leave, to part from so many people with whom I shared my days, my worries, my hopes, and dreams. Yet I’m deeply grateful for every moment I was allowed to spend here. Kumamoto and its people will always hold a quiet place in my heart.
This year at the far end of the world has shown me that I can find my way anywhere, make friends everywhere, and keep gathering new goals, ideas, and insights. I’ve grown in Kumamoto, and that growth has prepared me for whatever adventures may come next.
Wherever life takes me, I’ll carry this place within me. Farewell, Kumamoto—and perhaps, one day, our paths will cross again. At least, I hope so.
For exactly one year now I have been living in Japan. I have a Japanese phone number, a Japanese bank account, a Japanese social security number. As a student at the art faculty of a Japanese university, I have met many local creatives as well as wonderful people from all over the world who, like me, are trying to find their place in this demanding society.
When I’m not sitting in lecture halls, studios, and cafeterias having my broken Japanese put to the test, my life plays out by day between cinemas, galleries, and museums, and by night between izakaya, karaoke bars, and supermarkets that stay open twenty-four hours a day, on nearly every corner of the city, bright and humming.
When I look back on this year, I see myself walking with friends along the river lined with freshly blossoming cherry trees, heading to the next spring festival. It’s the same river that led us in summer to the fireworks, in autumn to the castle, and in winter to the Christmas market, and where on quiet days white egrets basked beside turtles looking bored.
In the park the frogs croaked, in the brook, patterned koi raced each other, between the laundromat and the fast-food place I told the girl with the roguish smile and the short, thick, jet-black hair that I liked her. “好きだよ!” still echoes through the cold night, before the brightly lit temple on the hill called us. “付き合ってください!”
Even after this year, Japanese society remains a book with seven seals to me. Somewhere between well-meant politeness and militant rule-conformity, people operate day in, day out with the same mixture of a desire for individuality and a fear of otherness.
The Japanese are a close-knit and perfectly synchronized collective that, up to a certain point, tolerates outside influences with interested curiosity and at the same time rejects everything that isn’t through and through Japanese.
This cultural instinct for self-preservation hasn’t diminished my love for Japan in the least, for at every moment here I have felt welcome. And I can hardly wait to see what adventures still await me in this fascinating country in the months and years ahead.
On a warm summer evening, when the cicadas were diligently chirping away and the moon was slowly pushing itself onto the stage of the sky, a friend and I were on our way home from an exhibition when, not far off, we first heard music and shortly after cheerful laughter. Because we were curious and still had a bit of energy left, we decided to see what was going on there.
So we picked our way through the neighborhood’s ever-narrowing streets and walked past streams, houses, and playgrounds until, a short time later, we stood at the edge of a small park where a neighborhood festival was underway. And it took less than a minute before friendly, perhaps slightly tipsy, people invited us to join the little festivity.
So we made ourselves comfortable on the blue tarp spread out in the middle of the park and looked around. In front of us a thrown-together band was playing familiar Japanese songs, and all around small stalls had been set up selling cool drinks and fried delicacies.
Around us sat talkative families, and children chased dogs, cats, and each other, or danced acrobatically and interestingly to the guitar tones of the cheerful musical artists.
We watched the summer spectacle unfolding before us with interest, and my companion confessed to me that she hadn’t known about this festival at all—despite the fact that she had already lived in this neighborhood for several years.
I personally was glad to be allowed to be part of this small gathering. After all, I don’t stumble into a little Japanese summer festival every day.
And as much as I love darting over the crossing in Shibuya, admiring Sensoji in Asakusa, and indulging in the latest nerd trends in Akihabara, my heart truly opens only when I discover Japan from intimate sides that remain hidden to most outsiders. Because they aren’t made for them, because they aren’t advertised, because they happen off all the beaten paths.
And so we stayed until the end, until the band had given its last turn onstage. And as people said their farewells, we too set off home, warmed by the sense of having experienced something small we will draw on for a long time.
We arrived at the foot of Mount Tatsuda, the site of the Hosokawa family temple, Taishoji. Today the grounds belong to Tatsuda Nature Park, green, wide, and quiet.
Among bamboo and cedars stand four mausoleums: for Hosokawa Fujitaka, first lord of the Kumamoto domain, his wife, his son Hosokawa Tadaoki, the second lord, and Tadaoki’s wife, Hosokawa Gracia.
History you can touch. The teahouse Ko-sho-ken moved me most. Restored from Tadaoki’s drawings, it recalls a man who was a warrior and a tea master.
At the entrance sits a hand-washing stone he loved. In Kyoto, Toyotomi Hideyoshi and tea master Sen no Rikyu drew water from it. Later the Hosokawa lords carried a basin on sankin-kotai journeys to Edo to hold tea ceremonies—a traveling vessel.
And then there is the shadow of Miyamoto Musashi. One of his supposed graves is said to be here. In all, five places in Japan claim to be Musashi’s final resting place—three of them in Kumamoto, where he spent his last years and died in 1645.
Another grave lies in Musashizuka Park on the old Ozu road, the former National Route 57, among cedars. Legend says Musashi was buried there in armor with his sword, following his wish to “protect the Hosokawa from behind” as they passed.
The park holds a stone inscribed Stone Pagoda of the Sword Master Musashi and a bronze statue. The third grave, Nishi-Musashizuka, is in the Shimasaki district. Which is the real one? No one knows to this day.
Since 1955 the area has belonged to the city of Kumamoto as a loan from the Hosokawa family and has been called Tatsuda Nature Park. For people here it is simply a lovely place to breathe: walking paths, shade, birds, benches, a hush in the trees.
Officially, together with the Myogeji temple precinct in Kitaoka Nature Park, the site is designated a National Historic Site, because the Hosokawa family graveyard lies here.
If you like history but not glass cases, the Taishoji temple grounds offer a quiet, dignified spot. Tea, samurai, and stories—and yet it is only a park where children laugh, strollers roll by, and the air smells of resin after sun, and crows wheel overhead. That, to me, is the Kumamoto I love.
Sometimes I wished I could muster the courage to leave everything behind, lock myself away forever in an apartment, and devote the rest of my life to a single online role-playing game.
In the midst of an enchanted fantasy world full of wonders, dreams and secrets I would transform from a peasant boy into a heroic warrior, find unimaginable treasures and fight monsters, and band together with other outcasts bored with real life to form a sworn adventuring party.
My days would be governed by quests, rituals, and leveling, by the pulse of raids, and the slow comfort of companionship the real world denied me. My existence would turn into a digital meaningfulness whose end would arrive only when the servers were switched off.
Moriko Morioka, thirty years old, single, and unemployed, put my dream into practice: An escape from reality. After losing her job she became a NEET, neither working nor studying, and seeking refuge she drifted into the World Wide Web. There she immersed herself in online games and reinvented her life as a young man named Hayashi.
As a newcomer she nearly dies in the game but is rescued just in time by a girl called Lily. Through Lily she finds allies she can trust and begins a life online that finally feels fulfilling.
Meanwhile, in the real world, she meets a handsome businessman who reminds her of someone she recently encountered. Will that encounter influence the life she has built in the game, and what will become of Moriko’s fulfilled MMORPG life?
Recovery of an MMO Junkie by Rin Kokuyo is one of my comfort anime, even though I am not much for romances and the director involved later turned out to be a disgrace.
I still love anime about people living inside online role-playing games like World of Warcraft, Guild Wars 2, or Final Fantasy XIV. Whether it is Sword Art Online, Shangri-La Frontier, or Bofuri: I Don’t Want to Get Hurt, so I’ll Max Out My Defense, I enjoy watching others enact my secret dream: finding not only the time of their lives but a kind of meaning in an otherwise hollow existence.
And perhaps one day I, too, will summon the nerve, like Moriko, to renounce the drab, gray, utterly magic-less reality and finally surrender forever, without regret, to the warm, connected wonder of a digital world.
Japan is a country full of treats. Those who want to fill a hungry stomach efficiently and cheaply can find sushi, tempura, and ramen on every corner, in different price ranges, in hidden restaurants or crowded supermarkets. But Japan would not be Japan if it hadn’t absorbed other culinary cultures and made them its own.
Cities brim not only with steaming noodle shops and futuristic chains where raw fish on rice travels past on conveyor belts, but also offer delights from Spanish and Italian kitchens or, for those who prefer hearty, fatty, generous portions, the American culinary world.
You encounter these options everywhere, from tiny stalls and family-run izakayas to high-end restaurants and bustling food halls in the most unexpected neighborhoods.
Although I love Japanese food in all its health-promoting variety, I sometimes have to descend into Western-influenced fast-food depths to keep from losing my mind. After all, nothing soothes a stressed head like calorie-drenched soul food.
Japan tempts hearts that long for an early death by cheeseburgers, French fries and sugary cold drinks not only with imported names such as McDonald’s, Burger King, and TGI Friday’s, but also with homegrown chains founded in the Land of the Rising Sun.
From MOS Burger to Dom Dom and on to Zetteria, the choices range wide: sandwiches piled thick with meat, cheese, and vegetables, fried platters, and combos that seem to dare you to resist. They are available at train stations, convenience locations and late-night outlets across the country.
My personal go-to franchise, frequented with friends, is Freshness Burger, known for its delicious fat bombs. Its first branch opened in Shibuya in the early 1980s. The official slogan, “Burger cafe where adults can relax that proposes a high-quality eating habit”, is as curiously phrased as the similarly English-sounding slogans of other competitors.
But in my experience Freshness Burger not only serves the most generously topped and juiciest sandwiches, it also often offers surprising specials that I am only too happy to devour.
And, what is almost more important: The fries taste, unlike those from the better-known rivals, as if they were more than a sadly looking side dish. Gigi Hadid once famously said: “Eat clean to stay fit, have a burger to stay sane.” And she was right.
My journey begins in the Northshire Valley, enclosed by high mountains, somewhere in the thickly wooded Elwynn Forest. Before me stands not only the abbey of the local brotherhood but also an adventure that will take me into frozen deserts, bubbling volcanoes, and creepy ghost towns.
When I meet my friends, masquerading as knights, thieves, and wizards, behind the towering gates of the royal fortress Stormwind, and outfit myself there with keen blades, shining shields, and magical potions, I can hardly rein in my anticipation.
The scent of pine and old stone, the flutter of banners, and the clanking of armor all heighten the thrill. One thing is certain: Whatever challenges await in this digital wonderland, we will endure and overcome them together.
World of Warcraft is probably the largest and thus best-known online role-playing game, where paying participants slip into the roles of elves, dwarves, gnomes, orcs, trolls, and even talking pandabears on the fantastic planet of Azeroth.
They explore mysterious continents, live through adventures and complete quests, forge friendships, build alliances, and clash with enemies for power and glory. Players create characters, shape their skills, take on professions, tackle dungeons, trade, and socialize.
When the heroes are not busy fishing, collecting pets, or idly bouncing around auction houses, they immerse themselves in an epic saga of love, hatred, and broken dreams in which Alliance and Horde face each other bloodily and vie for the favor of gods and devils—by any means imaginable.
When I installed World of Warcraft on my newly bought Mac Mini in the mid-2000s, I played straight through until exhaustion set in at dawn. The months that followed were an experience that can never be repeated. Everything felt new, thrilling, and magical.
People around the globe logged into World of Warcraft to swap dreary everyday life for a generic but interactive Lord of the Rings copy. Some players became completely lost in it, even to this day, although twenty years on the initial fascination has largely faded.
I would give anything to wake once more in the Northshire Valley, ringed by high mountains, and set off with my friends to rediscover Azeroth and its fantastic tales, as if seeing it anew. But times change.
Summer here in Japan is slowly drawing to a close, though no one has informed the sun. It remains so hot and muggy that every step outdoors becomes a sweaty ordeal, at least when I dare to leave the house in broad daylight.
Even so, over these past months I’ve tried to see, experience, and take in as much as I can. After all, every minute in this country, in this adventure, is precious.
Sooner or later I’ll be back on a plane, heading home, and any moment I haven’t used to the fullest will feel wasted. I want to keep that potential regret small, so I push myself to go, to look, to listen, to be present, and to savor what this place offers.
I grabbed dear friends and headed with them into every shop and restaurant that looked even vaguely inviting. We drove into the mountains and out to the water. We wandered through cities, museums, and temples. I met locals and people from every corner of the globe whose stories, dreams, or simply their way of not taking life too seriously touched and inspired me.
Japan is a riotously colorful grab-bag, a lucky packet worth opening and exploring. Whether in nerdy manga shops, smoky izakaya, or mist-shrouded samurai graveyards, I’m grateful for each memory I’m allowed to carry along on the rest of my journey, a pocketful of moments that clink like coins and remind me why I came so far in the first place.
And while the sun spent the days of this summer beating down on us without mercy, as if to taunt us and prove itself the ruler of the sky, Kumamoto at night turned into an idyllic dreamscape, a black-blue paradise full of chirring cicadas, croaking frogs, and purring cats.
Fireworks stitched light across the dark vault, and in meadows ringed by small houses people sat and grilled, drank, and sang. Neighbors waved, wind bells tinkled, and smoke drifted upward like a prayer.
Now summer here in Japan is coming to an end—and with it my year in this city at the far edge of the world, a place that welcomed me, challenged me, and, in ways I never expected, changed who I am.
The other night over dinner, a friend asked why I love lesser-known films so much. Her favorites are American action blockbusters like Die Hard, The Transporter, and the high-octane The Fast and the Furious series with Vin Diesel, Paul Walker, and Michelle Rodriguez, while my patchy watchlist includes titles like Nightcrawler, Melancholia, and My Small Land.
My quick, perhaps rash, answer was that I enjoy movies that lodge in my memory, that I might still recall years later because they moved me, fascinated me, or taught me something. Maybe it’s simply that I was in love with someone in the cast. I chase the afterglow: A scene that lingers, a line that won’t fade, a feeling that taps me on the shoulder after the credits roll.
In the shadow of the multiplexes in Kumamoto, somewhere between Toho, Aeon, and SMT, which lure crowds with hits like Jurassic World, Under Ninja, and the latest Demon Slayer, plus popcorn, tortilla chips, and syrupy cola in huge cups, stands my favorite cinema: The Denkikan.
Its dark walls, hung with obscure posters, host local gems and far-flung wonders, whose popularity sits somewhere between celery salad, cloudy sunsets, and computers running Linux as a daily driver.
How many people can say they saw Oasis, The Jazz Loft, or All We Imagine as Light in a theater? A haven where the projector hums, the aisles creak, and I catch whispers of other lives. A schedule like a treasure map inviting me to trust the curators and go somewhere unexpected.
With a freshly brewed coffee on one side and a companion on the other, I let the Denkikan carry me into unfamiliar worlds. On these long screenings, there are often no more than five fellow travelers, scattered among the seats.
Of course, I value the blockbuster experience too. Surrendering to wild action with sweet-and-salty snacks is as valid as falling for small secrets. Yet there is special magic when, in my little favorite theater, I watch Japanese indie films like Rainy Blue, At the Bench, and Linda Linda Linda.
Those are the films that make my heart beat faster, the ones that hum behind ordinary days, turn the walk home into an epilogue, and remind me that quiet stories can claim space in a life.
Staggering from the cave on my last reserves, I let my eyes adjust to the harsh sunlight as a vast, mountain-studded snowscape unfurls before me. In towns clasped by timber and stone, merchants, thieves, and kings ply their trades. Dragons, werewolves, and vampires wake. Bright hoards and darker magics hide from the gaze of a budding civil war.
I wipe fresh bear blood from my skin and set out for the next village. It is not the first time I have roamed these forests, nor will it be the last. Once more I have returned. To the valleys of Skyrim, where the wind bites like iron and distant watchtowers blink with fire as paths fork, promising danger, coin, and stories for the stubborn and brave.
Two hundred years after the Oblivion Crisis, the Empire of Tamriel in The Elder Scrolls V stands at the brink. The High King of Skyrim has been assassinated. New alliances form and stake their claim to the throne.
Yet amid this conflict, a far more perilous, ancient threat stirs to life. The dragons, whose existence is whispered in long-forgotten passages of the Elder Scrolls and deemed extinct, have returned to Tamriel.
Skyrim’s future, and that of the entire Empire, hangs in the balance as the land waits for the prophecy to unfold: the coming of the Dragonborn, a hero wielding the Power of the Voice, the Thu’um, and the only one capable of standing against the dragons—foretold in runes and shouts carved into cold stone walls.
Nothing sets my little nerd heart racing like diving into The Elder Scrolls V. Again and again. Sometimes as a kindhearted knight who rescues fair maidens, builds homes, and adopts children. Sometimes as a ruthless mage who slaughters monsters and farmers alike. And sometimes as a naked madman who, thanks to supernatural powers, can vault over castle walls, marry deities, and fight Spider-Man, with essentially one overriding goal: to hoard every cheese wheel in the realm.
The Elder Scrolls V is a vast playground full of marvelous characters and intriguing stories. Returning to the world of Skyrim is, each time, a blend of adventure and coming home, a feeling only a handful of computer games ever manage to create with enduring comfort for me.
Although my chest houses the heart of a digital minimalist and light-footed traveler who thinks in bits and bytes and has gradually moved the baggage of his not-so-young life into the cloud, I have nonetheless kept a soft spot for printed media.
Whether books, magazines, or newspapers, something happens to me when I hold these riotously colorful works of art in my hands and can not only look at them but also feel them, smell them and, to a certain extent, even hear them.
I buy them sometimes fresh off the press at the kiosk or happily second-hand, always knowing that I will take their secrets into myself and then release them back into the world before someone else can fall in love with them.
One of my favorite magazines is the Japanese Popeye. It’s a monthly fashion and men’s magazine based in Tokyo, addressing clothes, sports, and everyday culture from a young male perspective.
Popeye was founded in 1976 by Yoshihisa Kinameri, who saw Japan at the time in a state of drift and wanted to encourage the country’s youth toward a healthier lifestyle.
In the meantime it has grown into one of the nation’s most influential cultural publications. The magazine is widely known for introducing American youth culture to Japanese readers.
In his book Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style, W. David Marx described Popeye’s debut issue as “a sunny take on life in California, where youth were carving out the future for the rest of civilization.”
Each issue tackles a specific theme that it introduces to its readers. Sometimes it is about trips to the small and big metropolises of the world, New York, Seoul, London, Taipei, Paris, about the freshest films, books, and fashion trends, about cool restaurants with which city boys can impress their girlfriend—if they even have one.
But most interesting to me is the Japanese gaze on the world and the selection of stories Popeye correspondents bring back to readers in Tokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto, and also from the farthest corners of Okinawa, Hokkaido, or Kyushu.
I dig the style, the interviews, the photo features, especially the Girls in the City series. Popeye is a beautifully designed declaration of love to mindful consumption and one reason print must never die.
The weather over the past few months here in Kumamoto seems to recognize only two possible settings. Either it strives to mimic the lava-laced dungeons of hell and cook us alive, or it bombards us so mercilessly with rain, gales, and typhoons that building an ark seems the logical step for ferrying ourselves, and a few stray animals, to safety.
Thanks to climate change, or rather to those who deny it, the weather has digivolved into my personal arch-enemy, and I, in turn, into one of those people who cannot help, at every opportunity these days, lamenting how awful things already are and how much worse they are likely to become—assuming, of course, there is any future left for us at all, for anyone paying attention.
The other day I came home seared through, surely nurturing one or two splendidly developing cases of skin cancer, only to realize that, precisely as I pulled the front door shut behind me and took a brief cold shower to stop the sweating, the rain began outside.
The joy at this long-overdue cool-down, and the prudent fact that I had just finished the groceries and therefore did not need to venture back out, did not last long.
What started as an exciting thunderstorm, complete with flash after flash and rolling thunder, quickly morphed into a rainstorm so merciless that one chirpy, softly whirring disaster notification after another began lighting up my phone, stacking themselves into a cheerful little tower of alarms on the glowing lock screen.
In front of my house the street turned into a long paddling pool, while I was first instructed to evacuate and later, because the bridges were overflowing, told to wait it out.
Since I live on the second floor, I watched the drama through the window and on special reports on TV. My only fear was that the power might fail or the water supply be hit, but that did not happen.
Sleep was impossible that night, because my phone chimed every few hours, sending grim alerts one after another. While I, as I learned next morning, got off lightly, others coped with flooded homes, cars, and supermarkets. Let us hope this was the worst we will have to endure in the near future.
There are certain Japanese subcultures to which, to date, I’ve never really found an entry point. Among them are animated VTubers, masked superheroes à la Kamen Rider, and kaiju—giant monsters that, at regular intervals, stomp Tokyo flat. Well-known examples include Rodan, Mothra, King Ghidorah, Gamera, and of course the universally beloved Godzilla, brought to life by Ishiro Honda.
I did see Roland Emmerich’s American version in theaters in the late ’90s, yet the destructive spectacle didn’t leave much of an impression on me whatsoever. And that’s strange, because I generally adore it when the world is reduced to rubble in the media I consume. Somehow, though, this particular behemoth and his city-crushing antics never quite worked their way under my skin.
The basic idea for Godzilla came from producer Tomoyuki Tanaka. The inspiration is said to have been the incident of a Japanese fishing boat that strayed into the fallout zone of an American nuclear weapons test.
The first film, from 1954, in its original Japanese version is not only technically impressive in its effects, it is also a thoughtfully constructed work in terms of plot and drama, one that can be read as an allegory for Japan’s trauma after the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, or as a direct reaction to the nuclear mishap that struck the small fishing boat. Since then, and with a nod to King Kong, Godzilla has run amok and spread fear and terror—most often in Japan’s major cities.
To develop feelings for the skyscraper-tall and perhaps even misunderstood reptile, I recently watched the newest, critic-lauded installment in the film saga, Takashi Yamazaki’s Godzilla Minus One.
There, a kamikaze pilot tormented by survivor’s guilt seeks redemption when a giant monster he failed to kill is transformed by radiation from atomic bomb tests and lays siege to postwar Japan. It’s about honor, guilt, love, grief, friendship, responsibility—and, naturally, many demolished properties.
Unfortunately, I was as whelmed by this Godzilla outing as I once was by Roland Emmerich’s attempt to bring the creature to New York. Maybe I simply don’t fear irradiated monsters, no matter how loudly they roar. Godzilla and I, despite its cultural relevance, will probably never be friends. What a pity.
Summer in Japan is barbecue season. Partly that’s because it is, let’s say, bold to leave raw fish outdoors for longer than three seconds in these godless, blistering temperatures, let alone try to serve it to anyone.
And partly it’s because there is nothing more flavorful than sinking your teeth, with an ice-cold beer, or in my case tea loaded with rattling ice cubes, in freshly grilled scraps of meat, blazing-hot sausages, and the occasional almost-scorched piece of vegetable.
Ideally it happens while good conversations flow and cheerful company gathers around. In that setting even the sweatiest evenings can be endured with a little style, a lot of taste, and decent entertainment, and somehow they pass pleasantly instead of painfully. That, in short, is summer survival, Japanese-style.
A few friends and I therefore met above the rooftops of Kumamoto, at the American-leaning burger, hot-dog, and barbecue spot Jiro 26, to celebrate that day’s sunset once again for the brief coolness it brought along.
We were entrusted with cute little gas grills and got to ornament each of them with bite-sized steaks, strips of bacon, and wiener sausages. Between the meats we set down carrots, cabbage, and bell peppers. When everything was cooked through and tantalizing, we dipped the treats in punchy sauces and let them melt away on our damp tongues.
From the terrace we watched the city settle as the sky dimmed. Tongs clicked and grills hissed softly while we hovered, trading pieces, comparing doneness, raising toasts to the breeze and fading light.
Because we are, all of us, small gluttonous creatures, we raided the steaming pot of curry after the barbecue, as well as the rice cooker standing beside it with an almost innocent air.
To wrap things up we went bowling at the nearby sports center, where we taught the pins a lesson in fear. Evenings like these are my regular reminder of why I love Japan—apart from the candy-colored entertainment industry and the tropes that are so quick to see through.
After all, here I get to have a wonderful time with even more wonderful people I would never have met otherwise. They anchor me to ordinary joy and make the city feel friendly, close, and warmly lived-in—and delicious barbecue comes on top.
Sometimes I refuse to consume media that has become too popular. Whether films, shows, or video games, once the hype train really gathers speed and it feels as if the entire planet is trying to convince me that I have to watch, listen to, or simply experience this thing because it’s the finest achievement humanity has produced in its more than 300,000-year history, I react almost reflexively with a defense mechanism that looks suspiciously like an allergy.
I tense up, dig in my heels, and avoid it on principle. Familiar examples are Squid Game, The Weeknd, and Balatro, whose emotional impact on my life falls somewhere between militant indifference and a burning, slightly irrational hatred that I can’t quite justify even to myself.
Yet I have decided to change this attitude. Exercising healthy agency by refusing to chase every, mostly artificially stoked, trend is admirable, and I still value that instinct. But when I renounce every recommendation, even those from close friends, and retreat into obscure niches, I insulate myself bit by bit from the mainstream and thus from the shared experiences of an entire generation, depriving myself of any chance to feel genuine empathy for others.
I stop speaking the same cultural language. Following this new logic, I recently watched Bong Joon Ho’s Parasite, approaching it with open curiosity, and trying to meet the work on its own terms rather than through resentment. That was my small but deliberate experiment in loosening my stubborn grip.
In the film, the Kim family has hit rock bottom. Father, mother, son, and daughter live in a dim semi-basement and will take any odd job. Only when the youngest gets hired as a tutor in the ultra-chic villa of the Park family do the Kims board the carousel of class conflict.
With clever schemes, talent, and teamwork, they push out the Parks’ employees one by one. Before long, the Kims are indispensable to their new employers. Then an unforeseen incident sets off a chain of events as unpredictable as it is unbelievable.
I found Parasite as brilliant, surprising, and surreal as everyone said. I’m glad this positive experience is my first step back toward a renewed love of pop culture.
The Japanese language is a mountain that can be climbed only through perseverance, diligence, and the support of people who have already mastered it. Step by step, piece by piece, and word by word, I haul myself from one ledge to the next.
What began as a picturesque hike through the gentle woods of romaji, hiragana, and katakana, sweetened by simple vocabulary and understandable grammar, with one little success after another, turned, with each waystation I managed to reach, into a personal odyssey among ambiguous kanji, hazy shades of politeness, and pitch accents I can hardly distinguish.
As I climb, the air thins and I lean on the ropes offered by guides. Yet even as the path narrows and the rocks bite, the summit still glints somewhere ahead, inviting.
On my Japanese-learning journey so far I have ridden out every high and low. There is euphoria when I not only understand something but can reshape it and use it in my own words. And there is frustration when the cashier at the nearby supermarket asks me a question and all I can manage is “大丈夫”, because from her stream of speech I could not catch any of the usual anchors like 伏る, カード, or 箸.
At those times I either feel a surge of drive and reconfigure my whole life into Japanese, listening to podcasts, buying stacks of manga, and watching YouTube, only to crash, burned out, a few days later. Or I simply want to quit, once and for all, and walk away from the mountain altogether.
After riding those emotional waves, I realized that everyone has to find a personal way of learning Japanese. For some people it works to ban every other language from daily life and, for a time, almost become Japanese. Others keep studying Spanish, Korean, and Icelandic alongside it and somehow rack up more progress than I do. For still others the best path is to keep things loose, curious, and fun, following interest rather than duty, and letting momentum build slowly.
I very clearly belong to that last group. And I count myself fortunate that there are kind people who actively encourage me, answer questions, correct my stumbles, and cheer from the trail as I keep moving forward, sometimes crawling, sometimes striding, but always, stubbornly, continuing the climb.
From early youth, my life was divided into chapters named for the women I happened to love at the time. Whether in Berlin, in Tokyo, or wherever I drifted, and whether anything became a relationship, whether intimacy happened or not, it was always too easy for me to become so intent on one woman that she defined an entire era. From this came obsessions that at times stretched across years, fed by depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, and a self-diagnosed borderline condition, and they often ended in an emotional detonation. After a few quiet weeks or months, another woman would appear. Hopes, dreams, and fantasies were projected onto her, and the cycle began again.
There is a name for this hyperfocused state: Limerence. The term was introduced in 1979 by Dorothy Tennov, an American professor of behavioral psychology, in her book Love and Limerence. It denotes an extreme form of being in love, already more than just having a simple crush on someone, and the patterns that accompany it: Relentless, nearly compulsive thinking about the beloved. Longing for reciprocation. Constant fear of rejection. A blind spot for her negative traits. A narrowing of perception to objects and incidents that relate to her. And shyness and uncertainty in her presence. According to Tennov, limerence may pass into love if a relationship takes hold. If it remains one-sided, it fades of its own accord, and the state can last from a few months to several years.
My limerences resulted in me organizing entire days around the woman I’m currently fixated on. There is no stalking on my part, yet jealousy and possessiveness appear, of course at odds with reality. When energy runs high, an open, charismatic version of me steps forward. When my body and mind are tired, withdrawal follows. Over time it became clear that my fixation is not on the woman as she is, but on the separate fragments of an ideal assembled for her. The fall begins when my feelings go unreturned and expectations collapse, and the only useful act is an unconditional retreat and a renewed willingness to meet other people, with the hope that this vicious circle will finally break - no matter how, and by whom.
Good stories put a quiet spell on me. Whether they arrive as books, films, or video games, what lingers afterward, often for far longer than I expect, isn’t the glossy, polished shell so many media try to sell these days, but the people inside and the moments that temper them into something tougher and wiser.
That is why adventures pull me in. Maniac Mansion, Leisure Suit Larry, and The Secret of Monkey Island don’t just tell varied, engaging tales—they let me stand close enough to feel them. And sometimes the mood can tilt darker, which suits me fine. So it does in the pulp thriller The Drifter, where the light thins and the edges grow hard.
In The Drifter we follow Mick Carter as he is hauled headfirst into a tangled web of shady corporations, murder, and a madman’s thousand-year obsession. The hobo has been adrift for a while, trading one job for another, never staying long anywhere. He jumps a freight car toward the town he once called home, witnesses a brutal killing, is chased by high-tech soldiers, thrown into a reservoir, and drowned.
That, however, is only the beginning of his trouble. His consciousness comes loose and is forced back into his body mere seconds before death. He ends up wanted for the murder he saw, tormented by his own past, and stalked by the conviction that something from the far side is on his trail.
What begins as supposed fantasies in a middle-aged loser’s head swiftly becomes a layered adventure suspended between a tragic past and a future that looks spent. The story moves Mick along at a sure pace, one situation to the next, with barely a breath in between.
One moment he’s assembling a Molotov cocktail from a bottle of high-proof rum. The next he’s interrogating a corrupt neurosurgeon. Before long he has to swing out of a high-rise window on a frayed extension cord.
The Drifter is a gripping rollercoaster of feeling, its lineages easy to sense: Steven King, Michael Crichton, and John Carpenter, with a trace of 1970s Australian grindhouse. In the end, good stories never die out.
I never thought of myself as particularly attached to home, yet staying away too long causes a small ache that points, stubbornly, toward Germany. Sometimes it’s nothing more than the sound of the language, its clipped edges and sudden softnesses, absent from the air around me. At other moments a single habit or custom goes missing, and the day stumbles.
An unspoken social rule fails to hold where I am, and the floor feels a little slanted. There are days when none of that speaks loud enough, and the craving reduces itself to something simpler and more insistent: Food. The kind that anchors a life even when one pretends not to notice.
After almost a year in Japan, the local fare has become familiar and, I admit it, beloved. Sushi and sashimi. Ramen and soba. Karaage and tempura. Bowls of rice, miso soup drifting its warm salt, plates of pickled vegetables that square the meal.
When a different appetite insists, the shelves and coolers answer with Japanese versions of spaghetti, pizza, and richly filled sandwiches from convenience stores and neighborhood supermarkets, each with its own taste and charm that refuses easy comparison.
Still, there are hours when German hausmannskost presses forward. The Sunday dishes my grandmother conjured onto the table at noon, the steam rising as if from her sleeves. Beef roulades, käsespätzle, fried potatoes. Or, if nothing else, a good, moist loaf of black bread.
To quiet that longing, Erika and I went to the German beer restaurant Oden in downtown and set out to fill our bellies with Central European comforts. The menu staged its pretzels, bratwurst, and potato salads between Japanese side dishes in a way that didn’t look especially German, and the food came with chopsticks that we used with wide smiles on our faces.
The room didn’t shift into Bavaria, nor did time turn obliging. The city outside kept its pace, and we ate the meal it offered. Yet the distance shortened by a finger’s width, and the missing eased for the span of an afternoon, enough to carry me back into the week with a quieter hunger for home.
It’s no secret that, deep in my heart, I’m a nerd. I love wacky video games, quietly vibe to anime soundtracks, and enjoy stories in which foolish villagers become true heroes. Pen-and-paper adventures draw me in, and I gladly take part. Among mixed groups of barbarians, mages, and warlocks, I fight monsters, find great treasure, and rescue fair maidens.
Although my media consume often leads me down the psychological abysses of human beings to understand them, and perhaps myself, better, from time to time I simply need a hefty pinch of fantastic, humorous tales somewhere between fantasy and science fiction. The kind that let my soul hang loose. One such refuge was the film Honor Among Thieves from the Dungeons & Dragons universe, which I finally managed to watch recently.
Is there honor among thieves? Our unusual hero in this exciting fantasy flick certainly doesn’t ask. Former bard and thief Edgin breaks out of prison with his partner, the barbarian Holga. In a world full of long-lost legends, opaque magic, and overweight Wyrmsmiths, the two join the wizard Simon, the druid Doric, and the paladin Xenk to form a thieving crew.
Their special mission is clear: Recover a lost relic and stop the cunning rogue Forge and his dark plans. Yet he knows how to make the lives of our heroes as difficult as possible. The magical venture is full of dangers, and plenty goes wrong, but the thieves are not easily discouraged. Where there is no honor, there are no rules. Whatever awaits them, they will be ready. Perhaps.
Honor Among Thieves is a colorful, witty, and adventurous fantasy film in the best sense. The world around Baldur’s Gate, Neverwinter, and the Sword Coast invites a mental dive and resurfacing. It reminded me of those absurd pen-and-paper evenings with friends, when we pulled every kind of nonsense and regularly drove our game master to madness.
The film pleased me so much that I urgently long for a sequel. As a series, the story would also have worked. Some narrative strands could then have been told more fully. It was like a smaller The Lord of the Rings, one that doesn’t take itself quite as seriously as the original sometimes does. Through Honor Among Thieves, I rediscovered my affection for classic fantasy and would gladly see more of Edgin and his cheerful crew.
Everyone seems to hold a different idea of minimalism. For me it means freedom. Freedom from objects that weigh on me, distract me, or hold me back. Consciously and unconsciously I try to remove, or at least shrink, anything that blocks spontaneity or agency.
Over the years I have learned to let go. I have noticed that many things that seem essential are nothing more than cargo—both material and mental. When they are gone, I breathe more steadily and act more directly.
Most of the time the rule is simple: Once something leaves my field of vision, it leaves my mind as well. The room created by subtraction becomes quiet, and in that quiet I can decide what I truly want.
I have become a nomad without fixed roots, moving from place to place and observing each location with childlike curiosity. Whether my journey stretches across Europe, America, and now Asia, or consists of a short walk to the nearest café, I want to rise, step out, and move without schedules, packing lists, or negotiation.
Even the laptop that once promised mobility began to interfere. Whenever I left the room I needed a backpack, and the weight on my shoulders sharpened my awareness of limitation.
That awareness felt heavy, not only on my body but on my thoughts. I learned that mobility is not only distance but also ease. When ease disappears, travel becomes a task rather than a movement.
To carry as little as possible and still be ready for anything, I placed my whole digital existence inside one object: my phone. It holds my books, movies, games, music, and personal pictures. I can write, photograph, and record anywhere, whether I sit by the sea, climb a hill, or lie in a hospital bed.
The screen guides me through unfamiliar streets, links me with other people, and manages my knowledge, plans, and finances. Even if the city unravels around me, the small rectangle in my pocket holds its quiet order and points me toward the next turn.
I no longer measure freedom by the number of things I own but by the lightness with which I can leave them behind. To me, pure minimalism is carrying my entire life in the single device that never leaves my side.
Since my earliest days I have loved Japanese role‑playing games. No other genre draws me so deep into hidden worlds, deliberate stories, and mentally unstable characters. Dragon Quest, Secret of Mana, Chrono Trigger—whenever little boys rise to become god-slayers, I remain before the glowing screen for hundreds of hours, tracing each dialogue box while the world outside steadily burns to the ground.
Over the years I learned that these Far Eastern legends reach far beyond my room. They travel across languages and teach strangers to dream in the same fantasy worlds. Today their imprint is visible in Clair Obscur: Expedition 33, a surprise hit from a studio in France. The developers do not hide their admiration. It breathes through every single visible polygon.
The game unfolds on the small island of Lumière, housed inside the Belle Époque filtered through stone, steel, and smoke. For sixty‑seven years the inhabitants have faced an annual event called Gommage. Each summer a goddess known as the Paintress writes a number on the sky, always one smaller than the previous. Everyone whose age is the same or greater dies, quietly, without marks.
To break this cycle, the city council selects a squad after each ceremony and sends it across the channel to stop the Paintress before the next inscription. None have returned. Expedition 33 boards its vessel with hopes, dreams, and fears of what lies beyond the sea. We follow the march of these brave souls through a world that almost seems to be too beautiful to be true.
Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is not a Japanese role‑playing game, even when the palette, the soundtrack, and the battle rolls insist on that lineage.
During my journey I recognised fragments of NieR Automata, echoes of Final Fantasy, and the depths of Xenoblade Chronicles. Yet the imitation stops short of substance.
The protagonists are nothing but tristful replicas of stratified, flesh-and-blood individuals. The world changes little and blends together, its flora and fauna repeating in blurred loops, and the final revelation comes short in epicness.
Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is the Avatar: The Last Airbender of video games—a botched attempt to mimic the emotional range of its idols without grasping the force that makes the originals so devastating and compelling. What remains is a rebuilt framework in vaguely French attire. I’d rather stay inside my Japanese wonderlands.
I have lived in Japan for almost a year now. The steady scrutiny that accompanies the life of a so‑called gaijin outside the big cities no longer unsettles me.
Children greet me as they coast past on bicycles, pensioners bow if I avoid blocking the aisles, and girls in navy uniforms let their eyes linger for a moment when they think no one notices.
Instead of discomfort, I feel quiet ease. People treat me with kindness or at least with courtesy that seems honest. Many are happy to speak a few words, test their English, or ask why I picked their town over the neon capitals they know from television. Each morning I rehearse simple Japanese, relieved when the sounds land cleanly.
I come from a country known for old wounds and a renewed appetite for exclusion. It’s hard for me to ignore or even forget that.
Japan is conservative, and I understood that before stepping off the plane, yet I was still shaken when an extremist party drew strong support in the recent election, most of it from voters my age or younger, some of them friends who share coffee with me on Saturdays.
Their approval surprised me more than the numbers on the screen. It showed me that the rejection I thought I had left behind can surface anywhere. The campaign’s orange flyers appeared suddenly, on walls and in hands. Some teachers at my university shrugged, saying protest votes were unavoidable, then changed the topic.
My frustration grew when I could not show those friendly, curious people how they were being guided. This nation’s fishers of men use the same routine every radical group prefers. Short slogans, invented statistics, and a steady supply of unease. With those tools they collect not only votes but also the public attention needed for patient work on real, often tangled problems.
Some asked why I remain liberal. The reason is simple and selfish. I want to live in a world that does not restrict movement, a place where eyes follow me only out of curiosity and never out of hate. Nothing else seems worth defending.
I remind myself that freedom rests on ordinary choices made every ordinary day. I count each conversation as practice for that defense, even when it ends in silence.
I was living on FamilyMart rice balls and low blood sugar dreams. Tokyo nights too hot to sleep and too cold to stay awake—it’s always 3:47 a.m. when you walk into a konbini. The neon light like a kiss from a dying god. The buzz of the fridges like the sigh of someone who’s given up.
Konbinis are churches. Sacred spaces where nobody prays but everyone kneels. Bent before microwave ramen, counting coins. The salaryman with his suit crumpled like a used cigarette box. The girl with smeared lipstick, eyeliner like bruises. The boy in a school uniform who’s not going home tonight. We’re all there for the same reason—because the world outside is too much, and this fluorescent purgatory asks nothing of us.
I’d stand in front of the refrigerated drinks like it was an altar. Pocari Sweat, lemon chu-hi, cold coffee in PET bottles. I’d buy a rice ball with salmon, melon bread, a lighter I didn’t need. My hands were shaking. I liked the way they shook. Made me feel alive, or close to it. Outside, the rain tasted like metal and regret. I’d suck it off my lips and watch people slide through the streets like ghosts, all of us moving toward some convenience store or away from something worse.
There’s a konbini every few blocks, like veins pumping sugar and trash into the city’s bloodstream. Every one of them the same. Open 24/7, eyes never blinking. You can lose yourself in them—not in a romantic way, but in the way people vanish into cracks, forgotten until they rot. The konbini is where you go when you have nowhere else. When your apartment’s too small, too quiet, too full of memory. When your body wants something it can’t name. Salt, sugar, heat, nicotine. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway. Because the lights are always on. Because the shelves are always full. Because the world ends softly, one plastic bag at a time.
I’m collecting places like bruises, and Kumamoto is teaching me how to hold them. I want to swallow this city whole—its bars, its noodle shops, the grease-stained counters where old men nurse their drinks like they’re the last thing keeping them tethered. I want every corner that smells like soy and sweat, the kind of sweat that comes from standing over boiling broth all day.
The thing is, I don’t want to experience this place like a tourist. I want it messy and cheap and at two in the morning when only ghosts and drunk boys are awake. Karaoke rooms where someone’s always crying into a microphone. Dark izakayas where salarymen tell the same story over and over, and nobody stops them because that’s the whole point. Host clubs where the smiles are plastic but the laughter feels real, even when it isn’t. Coffee shops with maids serving you silence that’s thick like syrup.
I’ll sit anywhere, eat anything. The city center thrumming like a neon heart or out near the edges where streets don’t even make it onto maps. And the only currency that matters is having someone with you. Someone local. Someone who knows the places that don’t exist online, who walks you there like they’re showing you their own bones.
I remember this one night with her. We found a hot pot place downtown where the broth was boiling like we were. You fish things out with chopsticks—meat, mushrooms, vegetables—and they come up steaming and half-drowned in soy. Robot waiters rolled past with their fake smiles and real pudding. The sauce stained everything, our fingers, the table, maybe our memories of what we were before we sat down.
There’s no better way to know a city than to eat it. No better way to belong than to chew on its streets. And somewhere between the steam rising off the broth and the neon bleeding through the windows, we made quiet plans for places we hadn’t touched yet, nights we still wanted to break open.
I felt it then—this buzzing just under my ribs. The feeling that maybe we’re not just consuming, surviving here. Maybe we’re actually building something real.
Who gives a shit what Hollywood’s golden boys are sweating over in their hot rooms with their endless rewrites and plastic champagne. Because at the beginning of this millennium something happened. Something too soft to scream and too sharp to forget.
The best movie of all time slipped through like smoke. Lost in Translation. And all the computer effects and starlet tits in the world can’t erase it.
Coked-up executives can pump a movie full of crap and call it love, but it won’t bleed like this one. It won’t ache like this one. This one didn’t even need Los Angeles, New York, or whatever American tax haven dump bent over the lowest—it had Tokyo like a slow pulse under pale skin.
Bob Harris is falling apart. A middle-aged ghost in a five-star coffin. With some whisky in one hand and endless exhaustion in the other. Charlotte is drowning quietly in a fresh white dress, married but lonely like a window in winter.
They find each other in silence, in elevator glances, in night-blue bars and half-empty hotel pools. No grand confession. No clichéd strings. Just that quiet panic of two souls brushing against each other in a foreign city that doesn’t care whether you live or die.
They don’t fall in love. They dissolve together. Time fucks them over like it always does. But for a few moments, they forget the script. They make up something better. Something real.
Bill Murray doesn’t act. He exists. Scarlett Johansson doesn’t fake. She glows like she’s lit from inside by something bruised and holy. Sofia Coppola doesn’t direct. She whispers through the lens. And somewhere in the distance I can hear Happy End’s Gather the Wind, like an echo that holds this serene fairytale together.
Lost in Translation isn’t for people looking for endings. It’s for the ones who stare at strangers in the subway and want to cry. For those who fall in love with cities. With moments. With people they were never supposed to meet. It’s for the broken, the dreamers, the ones who can’t stop remembering things that never quite happened. And yeah. It’s fucking beautiful.
I participated in an art contest. Nothing serious, but it swallowed me whole. The theme was Yokai. Japanese spirits, monsters, the beautiful weirdness that lives between shadows and dreams.
For this, I built a canvas with my bare hands in my Japanese Arts class. Cut the wood, stretched the cloth. I wanted it to feel like something real. Not digital. Not fake. Something that bleeds when touched.
I used traditional materials. Glue, brushes, powdered pigments that smelled like the inside of a shrine. Nothing fancy. Just old magic.
I spent days sitting in our classroom, hunched over it like a secret I couldn’t share. The canvas stared back at me. It whispered things. Or maybe I was just tired.
My yokai was mine. No one else’s. A hybrid born from salt and fear—a cross between umeboshi, that sour, shriveled plum that tastes like a punch in the mouth, and umibozu, the sea ghost with a black, formless body that capsizes ships when no one’s looking.
I called it Umebozu. A pun. A joke only the sea would understand. It looks like a plum, but it drowns you. The painting was a colorful homage. An amateurish love letter.
I shaped my small world to mirror Katsushika Hokusai’s wooden masterpiece The Great Wave off Kanagawa, but in a more cheerful way. The yokai stared from the center of the storm. Big eyes. Wrinkled skin. A hidden smile that made me happy.
People asked what it meant, and I explained. They smiled. They liked it. Sometimes I imagined the Umebozu slipping off the page, crawling into the real world, hiding in rain puddles or tea cups or behind vending machines late at night.
I started seeing it everywhere. The curve of a wave in the river. The color of a bruise on my arm. It followed me home in the folds of my clothes, in the ink under my fingernails. I dreamed of salt and storms and laughing things that lived in the sea.
And when I woke up, I missed it. I missed him. My little yokai. My plum ghost. Maybe he was never just a joke. Maybe he was the part of me that never fit, never spoke. But always smiled.
I was drifting, low blood sugar, the air like soup. I hadn’t eaten all day, or maybe I had—I don’t remember anymore. Walking through this supermarket in Japan, one of those blindingly clean ones with neon light and weird elevator music playing overhead, and it was so cold. So cold. Fish eyes staring at me from slabs of ice.
And then there it was. Whale. Raw flesh like wet velvet, whispering at me from behind cellophane. I stared at it the way you stare at someone you’ve seen in a dream before. Wrong and perfect at the same time. I bought it like buying a secret, fed some yen into the machine, heard it beep, and just like that, the small pieces of a slaughtered giant were mine.
Back at home the silence was loud. I didn’t cook it. Just opened the package, dropped the slices onto shredded carrots and radish, squeezed a lemon wedge like a little prayer, and ate them with metal chopsticks. They tasted like horse. Like blood and memory. Like something I wasn’t supposed to taste.
I thought about the whales, sure. Thought about the documentaries and the guilt people wear like expensive jackets. But mostly I thought: when else? When else would I ever get to know this feeling, this very specific wrongness melting on my tongue? I ate the whole thing slowly, like a ritual, like a dare, and when it was done I just sat there with the low hum of the fridge and my own breath rising and falling like I was learning how to breathe for the first time.
There’s something in my gut now, not quite guilt, not quite satisfaction. Something older. Animal. Like I remembered something I shouldn’t have. Next time I want to eat dolphin. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe to feel worse, maybe to feel better, maybe just to feel anything at all. It’s not about taste anymore. It’s about going somewhere I can’t come back from.
I watched Akira and it never left. That’s the thing nobody tells you about movies like this—they don’t just exist in those two hours in the dark. They become part of how you see everything after.
Neo-Tokyo is a wound. It breathes smoke and vomits neon. The streets are soaked in broken dreams and syringes and that specific kind of beautiful hopelessness that only exists in cities that have already died once. Skyscrapers scream in color, pink and blue and acid green. And somewhere in there is Tetsuo, just a kid like any other, until something inside him wakes up. Not love. Power. The kind that destroys things.
I loved him and Kaneda together—two orphans on that red bike, moving fast enough to forget they had nothing. No grand plans, no meaning-making, just the engine humming and the need to burn. They were the kind of kids who exist in the margins of stories, usually invisible. But they mattered.
Then the city turned on him. Split him open. Filled him with electricity and madness. And Kaneda couldn’t reach him anymore because that’s what happens when power becomes too big for a person to hold. It eats them from the inside.
What got me about Akira was how it moved—those cells melting into each other, worlds collapsing. Otomo didn’t predict the future, he showed us we were already living in it. The movie felt less like fiction and more like prophecy, like something that had already happened and we were just catching up to the impact of it. It infected everything after. The image of it, the feeling of it, lived in my chest for years.
There’s something pure about how badly a movie like this wants to show you something true about the world, even if that truth is uncomfortable and dark and beautiful in a way that breaks you a little. I wish more things were made with that kind of commitment, that kind of refusal to look away.
Sometimes I’m not sure whether the world I currently find myself in is real. Then I strain to search for glitches that the simulation around me may have overlooked—only to eventually give up in frustration and realize, disappointed, that I’m not permitted to catch even the slightest glimpse behind the curtain.
And this despite the fact that I could swear there have been enough moments in my life when I should have slipped into eternal oblivion. Yet I’m still here—if only in the fading aftereffects of my own thoughts.
Perhaps I’m forbidden from being forgotten—by myself as well as by others. I was born in the year of dystopia, on an unremarkable winter morning somewhere in southern Germany. My mother raised me on her own, supported by her family, who soon became mine as well.
I was never particularly diligent, let alone ambitious. Instead of doing homework, I preferred to daydream and lose myself in the colorful worlds of television series, video games, and fantasy novels. After catching enough Pokémon, watching enough anime, and kissing enough girls in my small hometown, I eventually felt drawn out into the big wide world.
I found myself in Berlin, Tokyo, and New York. In London, Paris, and Rome. In China, Canada, and Turkey. Whether I was ever truly in those places, or whether all my small and great adventures took place only in my imagination, may perhaps reveal itself at the end of my journey.
At the moment, I’m roaming the streets of a mid-sized city in southwestern Japan while studying the analog and digital arts of depressed people and even more depressed robots. After searching far too long for the truth of everything within myself, I recently decided to throw myself into the unknown with open arms and allow myself to be swallowed by the countless possibilities of this planet.
I was determined to squeeze every last ounce of experience out of Kumamoto before time did what it always does—slip away like it owned the place. When my friend mentioned a classical concert, I said yes before my brain caught up to my mouth. Something about that city made me say yes to everything, like I was collecting moments like they were currency I’d need later.
The day had that golden quality where sunlight does something almost obscene to everything it touches. We’d just come from eating the kind of food that ruins you for everything else—rice that felt like eating a cloud, soup with the kind of depth that makes you think about generations of grandmothers passing down secrets through flavor. We walked through the city slowly, taking our time like we weren’t running away from anything. The usual chaos was there—vending machines humming out their own frequency, kids chasing pigeons, the whole beautiful mess of a place that’s alive.
The concert hall appeared like something that had landed there on purpose, all glass and stone and intention. Inside it was packed with families, kids bouncing in their seats, parents looking exhausted and content the way only parents can. A young guy came out with a flute and played like it was his voice, like the instrument was just the medium. When the Totoro theme started bleeding through the speakers, something shifted in the room. Ghibli soundtracks do something weird to people—they’re not just music, they’re every childhood memory you forgot you had, wrapped up in something bittersweet and aching.
Then this woman walked out and sang like she was trying to tell you something important. Her voice had weight. And then a kid, maybe twelve, took the mic with that specific terror only kids get before they do something brave, and just opened their mouth and let it out. The whole room held its breath.
And then everyone lost it. People started singing, dancing, laughing like they’d been given permission to remember they were alive. Strangers became something softer than friends. It wasn’t reverent or quiet or the kind of culture you experience behind ropes in a museum. It was loud and messy and genuine, the kind of thing that reminds you why humans keep making art in the first place.
For the first time in days, I didn’t feel like I was running out of time. I just felt like I was there.
Kumamoto wasn’t mine when I got here. It was just gray concrete and train stations and the specific kind of noise that makes you feel invisible. But then something shifted—maybe it was just time, or maybe the city decided I was worth knowing. Suddenly there were colors everywhere. Temple eaves catching the last light. Vending machines glowing at three in the morning. The kind of small details that make you feel like the place is actually alive.
What got me most was how the blank spaces in my head started filling in. You know that feeling when you first arrive somewhere and it’s all static, no shape to it? One day it’s just streets you walked through, and the next day it’s *places*—specific corners that mean something now. A convenience store you pass at exactly the right time. A playground with swings that sound a certain way. Little alleys where cats watch you like they’re judging whether you deserve to be there.
I found people too, which honestly surprised me. Not through trying or anything intentional. Just accidental conversations that turned into inside jokes that turned into actual friendships. We started walking through the city like we were trying to figure it out with our bodies, if that makes sense. They showed me places I would have been too cautious to find alone. There’s something about moving through a city with someone else—it changes what you’re capable of noticing.
One day we went to this massive mall floating above the train station like some kind of steel spaceship. It was exactly the kind of place I’d normally avoid—too bright, too much, all neon fever dreams and aggressive modernity. But then we ended up at this shabu-shabu place on the top floor, sitting above all that noise, and the whole city was just spread out below us like it was showing us what we’d been walking through. The hot pot was bubbling, meat curling, mushrooms opening up like they were surrendering. We kept dipping and burning our tongues and talking about nothing in particular, but it felt like maybe something was actually happening. Like the city was finally recognizing us as something other than ghosts passing through.
I know this sounds dramatic. It probably is. But there’s something about being in a place long enough for it to stop being scenery and start being home, even if it’s not supposed to be. Even if you’re just passing through.
Being in Japan feels like existing inside a dream that keeps restarting. There’s neon bleeding into everything, this dazed quality to how people move through the world, and I’m just wandering through it all not quite sure if I’m understanding anything correctly. Tokyo’s electric streets, Osaka’s weird late-night energy, Kyoto’s temples that feel less like buildings and more like something breathing slowly—I think I’m free here. I think I’m just passing through.
And then it hits me. There’s this feeling that appears without warning, a subtle thing, like someone’s breath on the back of my neck. Not quite fear, not paranoia exactly, but something sharper underneath. The feeling of being perceived. Watched. Cared for, maybe, in a way that feels algorithmic and strange.
They’re everywhere I go. Shibuya crossing, rain-soaked mountain villages where even the air feels sacred, the back alleys where I’m definitely crying for reasons I can’t name. Early morning or middle of the night or some time that doesn’t have a name. They find me regardless. The machines. The vending machines. Jidouhanbaiki.
They glow like they’re praying, humming softly, full of something I didn’t ask for but somehow need. They’re not just selling drinks—that would be simple and boring. They’re offering icy lemon sodas that taste like summer, black coffee hot enough to burn, milk tea with pearls floating in it like little secrets. Exotic fruits wrapped in plastic that catches the light. Ties, umbrellas, the weird specificity of it all. Sometimes underwear if you know where to look. They understand something about longing.
There’s something about them that feels like watching a person who’s been through something and come out the other side. They’re steadier than the convenience stores, quieter, more faithful. The blood moving through the city while everything else sleeps or screams or just exists in that strange middle space. They never close. They never judge. They give you something warm when you’re cold and something cold when you’re burning up from the inside.
Some of them are genuinely beautiful. I’ve seen ones that feel less like retail and more like whatever lives in the space between art and necessity. They’re just sitting there on corners like they know something about who you were before all this. I still don’t know if they’re watching me or if I’ve become them somehow, but I keep feeding my money in and they keep giving me exactly what I didn’t know I was missing. There’s something honest about that exchange that feels rare.
I wasn’t expecting Kumamoto Castle to hit me the way it did. I mean, I knew it would be impressive—it’s famous for a reason—but standing at its base, looking up at these walls that had literally been destroyed and rebuilt, something shifted. The earthquake happened. The ground actually split open. The walls crumbled. And then people just... put it back together. Stone by stone. It’s wild to think about that kind of persistence.
Walking along the perimeter, I kept noticing how you can actually see the history embedded in the stone itself. Some pieces are dark and weathered, scarred by fire and time and violence. Others are newer, cleaner, set into place with this obvious precision and care. It’s like the castle is literally made of its own story, and you’re just walking through it.
Inside was the heavy stuff. Swords and armor behind glass, and this iron mask that just stared at nothing with this empty grin. It hit differently knowing there was once an actual face behind it, someone breathing, sweating, about to go do something terrible or defend something they loved. It’s one thing to read about history. It’s another to stand in front of the objects and feel how real it was.
Then I came back out into the chaos of the food market and honestly, that contrast was everything. From all that weight and silence to this alive, loud, steaming mess of fried food and voices. I grabbed some fried croquettes filled with horse meat because why not, and the first bite was this rich, unfamiliar thing. By the third bite it started to make sense, started to feel less strange. There’s something about eating something unexpected in a place this layered—it all kind of feeds into each other.
The castle looked different at night, lit up against the dark sky. Less like a monument and more like it was still standing guard or something. I don’t know. There’s probably some pretentious thing to say about how the past and present exist in the same space here, but mostly I just felt lucky to be standing there thinking about it.
Tokyo swallows me in its heat. The asphalt quivers, glass panes tremble. Neon lights flicker in my eyes like broken memories. I drift with the crowd, let myself be pushed, my body feverish, my head full of everything and nothing. Then I’m inside—inside the world of teamLab. Borderless—no walls, no doors, no boundaries. Only light.
Waves of color ripple across the floor, over my shoes, over my hands. The warmth of the room caresses my skin, as if the light itself had fingers. I walk on. A dark hall. Then—explosions of flowers, meadows rising from shadows, pollen drifting in slow motion. I raise my hand, and the room shifts with me. My body is a line in a poem writing itself.
I run through the rain of the artificial night, lights bursting on my tongue like candy. My reflection fractures into glassy surfaces—thousands of versions of me staring back. Girls made of light, boys made of shadows, ghosts in a city that never stands still. Someone laughs, a sound like an echo from a dream. I lie down on the floor, looking up into the nothingness, flooded with color.
No beginning, no end—only this moment. My heart beats to the rhythm of the light. I close my eyes. Tokyo whispers. And I’m weightless. I dive deeper into the colors, as if I could drown in an ocean of light. But it doesn’t feel like drowning. It feels like being lost, like time has stopped chasing me.
The walls breathe, the floor pulses, and I forget myself in the movement, in the silence, in this odd dance of pixels and dust. Everything is near and distant at once, like the sound of a song I’ve never heard but somehow remember. Every step reshapes the world around me, painting a new image onto the canvas of space.
A flower blooms beneath my feet, and in its petals, I see myself—fractured yet whole, shifting through all my contradictions. I turn in circles. Colors weave and unwind, vanish only to return. The light makes my thoughts flicker, my heart jumps to the beat of a melody only space knows. It’s a dream that never ends. Or maybe it’s the moment I finally wake up.
I’ve spent a lot of time in Ikebukuro after dark, and honestly, I think you have to go there at night to really get what Tokyo is doing. It’s intense in a way that feels almost necessary—like the whole city needs somewhere to let loose and just breathe differently. Everyone’s there after work with their colleagues or alone or with people they probably shouldn’t be with, and there’s this palpable sense that anything could happen, or nothing will, and either way nobody’s really checking.
The bars are stuffed in everywhere. You’ll find yourself in some tiny restaurant or standing at a counter in a place that barely fits three people, and it’s perfect because you’re close enough to actual life to feel something. The drinks are cheap and strong, the food smells incredible, and there’s this electricity in the air that I haven’t really found anywhere else. It’s not glamorous—it’s kind of grimy actually, neon reflecting off wet pavement, the smell of ramen and cigarettes mixing with something else I can’t quite name.
What gets me about Ikebukuro is how alive it feels. There’s pachinko sounds bleeding into conversations, people leaning against walls waiting for who knows what, these moments of real connection happening in the shadows between the flashing signs. I remember standing in Sunshine City looking down at everything spread out below, and thinking about how many lives were happening simultaneously in that chaos. How many people were there for completely different reasons—some running toward something, some running away.
When I walk through those streets, especially late when it gets quieter but never quiet, I feel like I could disappear completely and nobody would notice. There’s something comforting about that. You can just exist there without explanation. The city doesn’t ask who you are or what you want. It just lets you be whatever you need to be in that moment.
One of the favorite pastimes of people here in Kyushu is asking me about my favorite Japanese food. My answer depends on the day, but I usually say ramen. And no, I don’t mean the cheap instant kind you find in supermarkets. I mean real ramen—made with real ingredients. The kind you find in a tiny restaurant tucked away in some unknown back alley.
Nothing revives me more at night than a hot, steaming bowl of soup filled with noodles, meat, vegetables, mushrooms, and a soft-boiled egg. And because I spent years addicted to Sriracha and thoroughly destroyed my taste buds, I pile on as much chili powder and fresh garlic as the Japanese immigration authorities will allow.
Getting into ramen is like diving into a rabbit hole of broths, noodle varieties, and regional specialties. Originally, wheat noodle soup came from China, but in the early 20th century, Japan adopted it and made it their own. After World War II, when wheat imports from the U.S. increased, ramen became a staple. Today, every region has its own version.
Some shops simmer their broth for over 24 hours to achieve the perfect flavor. Others focus on experimental fusion creations—something that fascinates me as much as the food itself. I’ve tried quite a few bowls of ramen, and despite all the variations, one truth remains: A good bowl of ramen always feels like coming home.
On my trip to Fukuoka, I couldn’t miss the chance to try the city’s most famous dish—one that’s beloved far beyond Japan’s borders: Tonkotsu ramen. This broth is the opposite of subtle—thick, smooth, and packed with umami. The secret? Pork bones simmered for hours until they break down, infusing the soup with that unmistakable milky richness.
The noodles are thinner than in other types of ramen, allowing them to absorb the heavy broth. It’s served with tender pork belly, fresh spring onions, and a creamy egg. If you know what you’re doing, you order a noodle refill. My sensei and I certainly did enjoy it at 大砲ラーメン. Tonkotsu ramen isn’t just a dish—it’s an addiction.
I adore good typography. The bigger, bolder, and more brutal it is, the more I fall in love with it. Whether classically placed on a snow-white background or chaotically scattered across colorful illustrations, typography is truly effective only when it snaps people out of their wandering thoughts the moment they see it.
As British artist Mark Boulton aptly observed: “Most people think typography is about fonts. Most designers think typography is about fonts. Typography is more than that, it’s expressing language through type. Placement, composition, typechoice.” And as part of our ongoing design studies, we took a trip to Fukuoka to visit an annual typography exhibition.
Nestled on the northern shore of Japan’s beautiful Kyushu Island, Fukuoka is a vibrant city where tradition and modernity blend seamlessly. Known for its welcoming atmosphere, it’s a haven for food lovers, with steaming bowls of Hakata ramen served at bustling yatai street stalls.
Beyond its culinary delights, Fukuoka boasts serene temples like the iconic Kushida Shrine, sandy beaches, and a quite thriving art scene. With walkable streets, sleek shopping districts, and a reputation for being one of Japan’s most livable cities, Fukuoka offers curious visitors like us a chance to experience Japanese renowned warmth and innovation, all wrapped in an irresistible coastal charm.
The exhibition itself was a vibrant exploration of Asian and Western typography created by students and masters alike. Whether featured in books, on posters, or even online, the famous Japanese dedication to perfection was evident in every single project.
Personally, I was especially drawn to works that made bold use of hiragana, katakana, and kanji, creating a modern form of calligraphy that made my Japanophile heart beat faster. After viewing the exhibition, we had the freedom to explore Fukuoka on our own. We first hopped on a bus to the city center, treated ourselves to a bowl of hot ramen, and then wandered through the streets to soak in more of this enchanting city.
They said it was for our Japanese Arts Class. Something about sketching wild animals to improve our line sensitivity. But in reality, it was about sunshine, good company, and getting to know some new place—at least for me.
I walked to the local zoo on the other side of the city. It took hours, but I didn’t mind. I had my AirPods with some cheesy J-pop on and the sky above me was this deep electric blue, full of possibility.
I passed babbling creeks that glittered like broken mirrors and old parks where tiny dogs pulled at their leashes like they had somewhere better to be. Streets were quiet, except for the soft whir of bicycle wheels and wind brushing tree leaves like secrets.
At the zoo, I met my friends. Paint-stained fingers, backpacks full of snacks and sketchbooks. We were a mess, but in a beautiful way. The kind that makes old ladies smile at you like they remember being wild once too.
We wandered through the zoo like it was a playground for our eyes. Yeah, the cages were small. But even depressed animals are at least something. Tigers with lazy elegance. Bears scratching their backs against stones like it was their full-time job. Flamingos standing like proud poets in pink.
Then came the petting area. Round guinea pigs, soft like clouds, twitchy noses, black and soulless eyes, the kind of small joy that gets under my skin in the best way possible.
We rode the creaky Ferris wheel and watched over the lake, surrounded by red oaks. Then we found these old mechanical animals. We dropped in a coin and zoomed across the pavement like we were five again. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.
Lunch under the trees. Bentos from the nearest konbini, crispy chicken, egg rolls, rice sprinkled with furikake. Someone had these chocolate cubes wrapped in gold foil.
We shared, laughing with our mouths full. We didn’t talk about work. Or stress. Or anything heavy. Just strolling, eating, laughing. Making something out of the moment.
We were together, the sun was shining, and it felt like one of those days I tuck into my memory forever.
The lanterns outside 老之倉庫 glowed with a soft, amber light, cutting through the early evening haze like scattered fireflies. It was the kind of place you’d pass a hundred times without noticing until someone told you it was worth stepping inside. That someone, in my case, was a group of classmates from Sojo University.
After the school festival, they had decided we should celebrate here. Inside, the air was warm, alive with the hum of conversation and the low, melodic clinking of glasses. The aroma of hops blended with the scent of food. I found myself at a long table, surrounded by faces that were both familiar and foreign, a constellation of new friendships still forming.
“You don’t drink?” someone asked, their tone more curious than judgmental. “No, but I’m here for the company.” This answer seemed to satisfy them, and soon the table’s attention turned back to ordering. Golden drafts arrived, frothy and luminous, like small suns. I watched as my friends lifted their glasses in a toast, their voices rising together in a symphony of celebration. “Kanpai!”
It wasn’t the beer that mattered. It was the act of sharing, of weaving ourselves into the rhythm of the evening. My oolong tea’s earthy bitterness grounded me, a counterpoint to the effervescence of the room. As I sipped, I thought about how people often seek connection through what they consume.
The conversation ebbed and flowed. Stories about the festival, plans for the weekend, fragments of dreams shared in halting English and Japanese. Outside, the city exhaled softly, the sounds of distant cars and bicycles slipping through the cracks of the night. By the time we left, the lanterns had grown brighter, their glow pooling on the cobblestones like liquid amber.
I felt lighter somehow, not because of what I had drunk but because of the time spent together, the threads of connection woven tighter. As we slowly walked to one of Kumamoto’s karaoke clubs, I realized that Ichinosoko wasn’t just a place to drink, it was a place to belong, even if only for an evening.
Over the weekend, my Japanese university transformed into a vibrant school festival. Students from all faculties buzzed around the campus like busy bees, setting up tents, stages, and stalls, and filling them with life, color, and energy.
There was an abundance of food, drinks, games, performances, raffles, and competitions—including a show by a somewhat famous idol from Tokyo, whose appearance drew an enthusiastic crowd. The spectacle concluded with a dazzling fireworks display that lit up the night sky.
Afterward, we gathered at an izakaya downtown for the final celebration, where we laughed, reminisced, and spent our hard-earned money on very delicious food and drinks.
Our group ran a stall at the festival, selling Sri Lankan delicacies like fried noodles with meat. My first day began at the archery clubhouse on the outskirts of campus, where we worked together to prepare the ingredients—carefully cutting meat and vegetables into bite-sized and pan-ready portions.
Once everything was ready, we transported it to our stall, where the ingredients were fried to perfection, packed into transparent boxes, and enthusiastically advertised to passing festival-goers.
Meanwhile, students from other courses were equally busy, offering sweet waffles, hot yakitori, fresh coffee, and an assortment of games like goldfish catching, ring tossing, and a lively lottery.
Gamers showcased their skills in intense Super Smash Bros. matches, flexed their strength in arm wrestling contests, and danced with boundless energy to popular K-pop hits.
As the festival neared its end, the main stage transformed into the site of an exciting raffle. Visitors who had diligently collected stamp marks at various food and game stalls over the two days eagerly awaited their chance to win fantastic prizes like AirPods, smartwatches, and even a Nintendo Switch.
Our reward was simpler yet equally satisfying: Feasting on leftover food, savoring the beauty of the fireworks display, and, to top it all off, visiting an izakaya and singing our hearts out at karaoke in the city center.
So we went to visit this soy sauce brewery in this small town called Ashikita, down in Kumamoto, and honestly what struck me most wasn’t the production methods or even the whole complicated history of how they’ve been making soy sauce since 1909. It was the story behind why we were even there in the first place.
The Iwanaga family nearly lost everything in 2020 when these torrential rains flooded Kyushu. Sodai Iwanaga was telling us about how the water reached two meters high in their town, and I’m standing there trying to imagine that, trying to picture your entire life’s work—five generations of it—just underwater. Instead of giving up, which honestly would have made sense, they decided to crowdfund their rebuilding. Almost a thousand people helped them raise nearly ninety thousand dollars. And the messages people sent back were just devastating in the best way. Someone wrote that their dining table had never been without a bottle of Iwanaga soy sauce. Like, this product was that woven into someone’s life.
What got me was thinking about how many people’s entire existence is tied up in these small businesses, these things they’ve inherited and cared for and built their identity around. The Iwanagas could have walked away. Instead they asked their community for help, and their community showed up. And now they’re making soy sauce and vinegar and miso paste again in this little factory that feels like it hasn’t really changed much in decades, which is kind of the point.
Visiting the brewery, I kept thinking about how the visual design of their products—the labels, the bottles, the whole presentation—was actually telling a story. Every detail mattered. It wasn’t just about what was inside the bottle. It was about this family choosing to rebuild, choosing to keep doing what they’ve always done, in a place that’s still visibly recovering. You can see the recovery happening around Ashikita if you look. And somehow their soy sauce is part of that healing process. One bottle at a time.
Few places in the world exude a more peaceful aura than museums and galleries—though perhaps supermarkets at 4 o’clock in the morning come close. These sanctuaries of natural wonders, historical milestones, and cultural achievements stand apart from the chaotic events of the outside world.
Those who step inside join an exclusive clientele, people who have deliberately chosen to immerse themselves in what they hope is an inspiring parallel universe. Within these walls, time seems to pause, encouraging visitors to leave with the aspiration of making the world a little better—or at least not worse. A friend and I recently visited the Contemporary Art Museum here in Kumamoto.
Situated in the heart of the city, this museum is far more than a repository of art—it is a symbol of Kumamoto’s commitment to inclusivity, creativity, and forward-thinking ideals. Its mission is clear: To foster a tolerant city that embraces diversity and to inspire a future where every citizen can live a fulfilling, art-enriched life.
The museum’s vision is built upon three core principles: offering a welcoming space for cultural exploration, stirring deep emotional connections through art, and collaborating with the community to envision a brighter future for the city. This is a place of reflection, imagination, and shared inspiration—a space where the lively spirit of Kumamoto is celebrated.
The exhibitions we explored at the Contemporary Art Museum in Kumamoto ranged from thought-provoking Japanese paintings to intimate photography and interactive installations, each one a visually stunning testament to the museum’s dedication to showcasing a rich tapestry of creative expression. By the end of our visit, we even had the chance to become part of a colorful, participatory work of art.
Kumamoto deeply values culture, and the Contemporary Art Museum is just the beginning of my journey. There are countless museums, galleries, and exhibitions waiting for me to discover, each promising its own unique contribution to the city’s vibrant artistic landscape.
There’s always something interesting happening in the center of Kumamoto. On my way to the city’s downtown museum with a friend to check out a few free public exhibitions on a special open day, we stumbled upon a toy swap meet in front of a popular shopping center—and the runtish crowd that came with it.
This colorful event didn’t catch us entirely off guard, as our art teachers had not only warned us in advance but also handed us a few action figures to trade. So, before immersing ourselves in the world of paintings, photography, and installations, we took a deep breath and dove into the exciting universe of bright plastic toys, cute plush animals, and shiny trading cards.
As with most things here in Japan, the swap meet also had some kind of system. At one stand, we could exchange our action figures for points, which we then used to buy toys displayed on the other tables. The more valuable the product, the more points it cost—simple enough. Wandering through mountains of Far Eastern playthings, we picked out a few favorites.
I chose a small book about Japanese ghost figures, which fit perfectly with my participation in the yokai drawing competition. I was quite thrilled with my find, though we didn’t have enough points for much else. What we weren’t prepared for was the grand finale waiting for us at the very end of the amusing event.
The climatic highlight of the swap meet was an auction, where children, parents, and some random nerds like me could bid their leftover points on especially valuable toys. The selection included everything from Pokémon plushies to musical instruments and brightly wrapped plastic sculptures, the purpose of which I still can’t fathom.
While I spent just two small points on my cute book, the little monsters around us were screaming bids in the triple digits just to take home a goofy-looking sheep. Some kids cried. After witnessing this lively social and cultural spectacle, we finally made our way to the museum. Admission was eventually free on that very day, after all. Hurray!
I recently joined a drawing class here at my university in Kumamoto. After learning the fundamentals of Japanese painting over the past few weeks, it’s now time to put that knowledge into practice.
Most of the works my diligent fellow students create, sometimes after months of effort, are entered into various competitions, primarily national ones, offering not only fame and honor but sometimes even monetary rewards or other prizes.
Following the well-known saying, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” I’ve decided to participate in a competition as well. And I’ve really found a good one: The sunny island of Shodoshima is hosting a drawing competition with a focus on yokai.
Yokai are supernatural creatures, spirits, or beings from Japanese folklore, embodying a wide range of traits from mischievous and playful to malevolent and terrifying. They often reflect cultural beliefs, natural phenomena, or moral lessons.
Famous examples include Kappa, water-dwelling creatures known for their fondness for cucumbers and cunning tricks, Kitsune, fox spirits associated with intelligence and shapeshifting, and Tengu, bird-like beings often depicted as mountain protectors and skilled martial artists.
Yokai are deeply rooted in Japanese culture, often appearing in famous myths, art, and even way more modern media like anime, manga, and video games.
The required canvas size is manageable enough to give beginners like me a fair chance. My teachers kindly provided books on yokai and encouraged me to gather inspiration, develop ideas, and start sketching.
I now have just under a month to complete the painting, which includes preparing the canvas and producing the necessary paints, colors, and glue. I’m very glad that my fellow students are also there to help me.
If I win, I’ll not only receive money and a special artifact but also be part of a ceremony on the beautiful island of Shodoshima. Wish me luck as I compete against master’s students, amateur artists, and professional painters. How hard could it be, am I right you guys?
A few years ago, I snuck out of the house on Halloween night and wandered through my dark, foggy, and eerily deserted hometown. With a scary story by ghost hunter John Sinclair playing in my ear, this one about a brothel haunted by vampires, it felt like the perfect entertainment for such a spooky night.
The atmosphere was electrifying, the kind of mystery that sends shivers down your spine in the best possible way. The only person I encountered that evening was a long-haired bottle collector making his rounds through the dense fog, his silhouette occasionally flickering into view before vanishing again. Every second of that enigmatic Halloween was unforgettable.
Since that night, I’ve developed a deep fondness for exploring the streets of whichever city I find myself in during Halloween. This year, as I’m living in Japan, I made it a priority to continue my quiet tradition here. My daily route often winds around the castle park, past residential buildings, shops, and Kumamoto’s always-vibrant downtown.
Around Halloween, this area transforms into a lively spectacle, with the market square near the popular bus station bursting with food stalls, shops, and a small but lively stage. In the heart of the square, a mix of cute witches, playful ghosts, and furries scurried about, juggling pizza slices, Coca-Cola bottles, and shopping bags.
On stage, children were applauded for their creative costumes. One memorable highlight was a little girl dressed as Sailor Moon, confidently shouting into the microphone with such enthusiasm that it took a gentle intervention to end her impromptu performance.
Halloween has always held a special place in my heart, but celebrating it in a city where others embrace it with equal fervor elevates the experience to another level. There’s a unique magic in blending my reflective tradition of wandering with the vibrant communal energy of a place like Kumamoto. The streets, the costumes, the laughter, and the shared love for all things spooky—this is Halloween at its finest.
My Japanese exchange university regularly organizes events on special occasions to bring Japanese and international students together. These include excursions to fascinating places around Kumamoto, like bridges, breweries, and golden One Piece statues, several competitions to improve participants’ English language skills, and farraginous festivities celebrating special cultural holidays.
Halloween, with its colorful disguises, mysterious customs, and sweet treats, sometimes scary, sometimes not, is no exception. The Japanese people here on the island of Kyushu embrace this day enthusiastically, and Sojo University has made its own contribution to this modern tradition.
On the spookiest day of the year, I was invited to a cozy Halloween party hosted by my university at its International Learning Center. The event featured an abundance of Japanese snacks and drinks—many of which were still completely unfamiliar to me. Students and lecturers dressed up as dinosaurs, witches, and bloody knife-wielding murderers, creating a festive atmosphere.
I had interesting conversations with new people, which made the evening even more enjoyable. My costume? Gru from Despicable Me, of course. Despite my immeasurable efforts, I couldn’t secure first prize in the costume competition. Too bad! But I’m not a sore loser—most of the time, at least.
Halloween has become one of my favorite days of the year. Growing up in Germany in the 1980s and 1990s, I only experienced it as it slowly began to gain popularity in Europe.
Unfortunately, by the time German kids started trick-or-treating, I was already a little too old for it. My childhood Halloween tradition was limited to watching The Simpsons Halloween specials on TV while snacking on skull-shaped chocolates.
This year, I’m thrilled to celebrate Halloween in Japan, a country where the fascination with ghosts, spirits, and yokai is deeply ingrained in the culture. It’s been an unforgettable experience to embrace the spooky season in such a unique and meaningful way.
So, honestly, my days here in Kumamoto kind of rotate around the same few places—my apartment where I sleep and work and do laundry, campus where I run between lectures, and downtown, which is where I actually live, if that makes sense. That’s where everything happens. That’s where the city feels real.
Downtown is right under the castle, which is beautiful, and there are these three covered shopping streets—Kamitori, Shimotori, Shinshigai—that are always buzzing with something. Restaurants, tiny bars, bakeries, weird little shops selling things I didn’t know I needed, cafés where I’ve probably spent more money than I’d like to admit. It’s the kind of place that feels different depending on what time you walk through it, what you’re looking for, who you’re with.
And I’ve kind of decided, maybe a little desperately, that I’m going to actually explore all of it while I’m here. Like, I don’t want to leave Kumamoto in a few years and realize I spent the whole time going to the same three places out of comfort or habit. There’s something about being somewhere temporary that makes you acutely aware of how finite it is, you know? So I keep trying new restaurants, new shops, wandering into places that look interesting.
The annoying part is that some restaurants only have ticket machines with Japanese characters, and I genuinely cannot figure out what I’m ordering half the time. It’s humbling. But that’s when having friends around actually saves me—they’ll explain what button does what, and then next time I might actually know. My Japanese is getting there, slowly, but honestly some days I wonder if I’m just moving backwards.
But walking around downtown, talking to people, eating something new, getting a little lost—it feels like the actual point of being here. Kumamoto’s not flashy. It’s not what people think of when they think Japan tourism. But there’s something real about it. Something that makes you want to stay for one more coffee, walk one more block, try one more thing before heading home.
The Land of the Rising Sun is not only renowned for its, let’s call it, alternative entertainment industry but also its breathtaking fireworks festivals. And one of the most stunning takes place every October in southern Kyushu, in the town of Yatsushiro in beautiful Kumamoto Prefecture.
This vibrant spectacle showcases Japan’s finest light and sound artistry, with unparalleled effects created by the country’s leading pyrotechnicians—or at least, that’s how it was advertised to potential visitors.
Intrigued, I took a crowded local train to Yatsushiro with a couple of friends, where we not only admired the dazzling night sky displays but also savored a delightful evening barbecue.
At the cozy barbecue in a local parking lot on the outskirts of Yatsushiro, nestled in a quiet neighborhood, we indulged in an array of delicious Japanese fried delicacies, sweet and salty snacks, and, for those so inclined, an abundance of cold and fruity beer-mix drinks.
During the evening, we struck up a conversation with a possibly tipsy gentleman who claimed to be a famous voice actor from Tokyo. He enthusiastically told us he had starred in iconic robot anime like Gundam. I found this really fascinating and had a pleasant chat with him, but eventually, my friends politely yet firmly ushered him on his way. “Bye-bye, Ojisan,” I said with a mix of amusement and relief.
The fireworks competition began at nightfall and had a Disney theme. Whether it was The Lion King, Frozen, or Aladdin, each display featured classic animation-inspired scenes, paired with matching music and spectacular explosions in every color imaginable.
Standing there, on the outskirts of a, at least to me, unknown Japanese city, surrounded by wonderful people, delicious food, and a stunning hanabi show, filled me with joy. I couldn’t stop smiling—even while waiting in the long queue at the overcrowded small train station or enduring the, let’s say, cozy ride home a couple of hours later. And I simply can’t wait to experience all the amazing more things Japan has to offer.
I realized very early on that Japanese entertainment is far superior to its Western counterpart. As a small child, German television introduced me to series like Maya the Bee, Vicky the Viking, and Heidi, which were far more heartfelt, emotional, and exciting than anything Disney and its contemporaries offered.
Of course, I loved normal cartoons too, but when East Asian classics such as Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and One Piece finally arrived in Central Europe a few years later, I found myself craving everything from the Land of the Rising Sun. I devoured anime magazines, bought shonen manga anthologies, and spent my pocket money on Japanese music CDs. An otaku was born.
When you think of otaku paradise, Akihabara, Tokyo’s Electric Town, naturally comes to mind. It’s a haven for every nerdy heart, offering everything from anime and manga to provocative figurines. However, my personal favorite store is on the other side of the city, nestled in the heart of Shibuya. The Mandarake there is somewhat hidden between a ramen restaurant and a guitar shop.
Descending the stairs into this underground otaku dungeon, I suddenly find myself surrounded by everything I truly love. The aisles overflow with movies, comics, trading cards, figurines, CDs, video games, consoles, magazines, drawing supplies, hentai, and all sorts of quirky odds and ends.
Whether it’s iconic series like Pokémon, Astro Boy, and Neon Genesis Evangelion or hidden gems like Excel Saga, Genshiken, and Eden of the East, Mandarake offers such a vast and wonderfully obscure selection that I could easily spend my life savings here—and still only scratch the surface.
The real obstacle, however, is that I’m broke. Sometimes, I wish I were obsessed enough with one series to want every piece of merchandise available. But because I have an eclectic taste and like a bit of everything, I usually find satisfaction in simply wandering through the labyrinthine aisles, soaking in the vibrant atmosphere, and drawing inspiration from the colorful characters around me.
At Sojo University in Kumamoto, where I am, as you all know by know, spending a semester abroad, a two-day festival with all the trimmings is set to take place in just a few weeks. All the faculties will participate, putting on a vibrant showcase of activities. At least, that’s the plan.
The festival will feature numerous food and game stalls, a large stage with various performances, and a spectacular fireworks display. There’s even a special guest—a pop idol from Tokyo. I imagine the whole thing will feel like one of those heartwarming anime episodes where the entire school plans a festival, only for the city to be attacked by ugly alien monsters—or something along those lines.
Recently, I joined a fun and vibrant group called Sojo Buddies—a lively mix of Japanese and international students from various faculties at Sojo University. The witty group organizes exciting events in Kumamoto and beyond, plans excursions to interesting places, and occasionally meets for meals at delicious restaurants.
Since good food brings people together, we’ve decided to run a food stall at the festival, serving spicy curry and other delicacies inspired by Sri Lankan cuisine. To ensure we know what we’re doing, and to avoid making fools of ourselves at the festival, we held a group cooking session, followed by a very essential taste test—and it was a complete success.
Cooking with such an amusing group was a nice experience, even though my main contribution was aggressively breaking pasta into small pieces—just as the recipe we received instructed. In the end, we were all quite pleased with the result. I got to meet many new people, and we capped off the evening by watching a live broadcast of a local basketball team’s match.
We’re more or less confident our food stall will be a gigantic hit at the upcoming festival, and the more money we raise, the grander our after-show party at some izakaya will be. Now, we eagerly await the festival at Sojo University. Hopefully, no ugly alien monsters will decide to attack our city in the meantime.
Japan is not only known for its eye-catching fashion, delicious food, and captivating animation art but also for its frequent earthquakes of varying severity, a consequence of its geographical location. Ever since the Great Kanto Earthquake in the year 1923 and, more recently, the Tohoku Earthquake in the year 2011, both the inhabitants of this East Asian island and visitors alike have been acutely aware of the ever-present danger simmering beneath their feet.
Even the city of Kumamoto, where I am currently staying, experienced devastating earthquakes in the year 2016, which not only destroyed a bunch of city districts but also its famous landmark: The Kumamoto Castle.
As a recent resident of Kumamoto City, I felt compelled to, and also had to, attend a disaster preparedness seminar. Together with a few friends, I fulfilled this obligation at the first available opportunity. We visited a local fire station, where we learned how to act in the event of an impending disaster.
The seminar included an engaging video, hands-on simulations involving the four elements, fire, water, wind, and earth, and a Q&A session with the quite dedicated course instructor. After this experience, I feel confident in my ability to pull through should the worst occur. That said, perhaps I should also attend a seminar on surviving a zombie apocalypse—just to be fully prepared.
One key takeaway from the seminar was the importance of having a emergency bag. What should it include? A flashlight, a portable radio, a helmet, a protective hood, work gloves, a blanket, batteries, a lighter, candles, water, food, instant noodles, a can opener, a knife, clothing, cash, and a first-aid kit.
Having gained some expertise in disaster preparedness, I even found myself featured on Japanese television, sharing my thoughts on this crucial topic. Although I’ve grown accustomed to the frequent, minor tremors here, the specter of the legendary Nankai megathrust earthquake looms large in everyone’s mind. But I wouldn’t mind if it held off for a while longer…
Autumn showed up in Kumamoto, and honestly, it’s been doing something to me. There’s this moment every year where the heat finally breaks and the whole city just exhales, and I’m finding myself walking around way more than I used to, taking streets I’ve never seen before, just watching how everything shifts. Sometimes there’s a cat lying in the sun somewhere stupid. Sometimes I find a tiny shrine wedged between two buildings or a café that feels like it’s been waiting for someone specific to walk through its door. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel like you’re constantly discovering something that was always there, which is maybe the best feeling.
This is when those red spider lilies show up—these impossibly bright flowers that everyone here seems to love, and for good reason. They’re the kind of thing that makes you want to stop and actually look at something, you know? So when the Japanese Arts Club organized this walk out to some field with a river running through it, surrounded by mountains and all these green trees that still don’t quite feel real to me, I went. And we just stood there picking out the prettiest ones we could find, carefully digging them up with their roots still attached, bringing them back to the studio like we’d found treasure.
I sat down with my sharpened pencils and watercolors and tried to put one of these flowers onto paper. And it actually worked. Like, it surprised me. Something about having the flower right there in front of you, about taking the time to really look at it and move your hand slowly enough to actually capture something true about it—I don’t know. It gave me this quiet confidence that maybe I could actually try painting one in the traditional style eventually. I’ve been thinking about what the first one should be. Got a small canvas sitting around waiting for me to get brave enough.
But there’s no rush. That’s the thing I’m learning here. Good things take time, and that’s not a cliché when you’re actually living it. Everything moves at its own pace, and somehow that feels revolutionary.
You know how you go to Japan thinking you’re gonna eat healthy, all that sushi and fish and perfectly portioned everything, and then you immediately get knocked over by the sheer abundance of delicious things waiting to be eaten? Yeah, that happened to me. Somewhere between my first bowl of ramen and discovering okonomiyaki, I just kind of surrendered to the fact that I was gonna try literally everything.
So that’s what I did. I went on this beautiful, reckless food tour through the country, eating my way through cheap fast food joints and upscale restaurants and tiny bars that smelled like grilled meat and soy sauce. Tempura, yakitori, karaage—all of it. The kind of eating where you’re not thinking anymore, you’re just experiencing, just tasting, just existing in that moment where something really good is in your mouth.
The problem—and this is where the dream crashes into reality—is that Japan, despite being absolutely incredible, is also aggressively expensive. Like, stepping into a random supermarket and seeing prices on fruit that make you audibly gasp kind of expensive. I’m a broke student, which means my wallet has actual limits, and those limits were being tested daily.
But here’s where it gets good. Every single night, this guy shows up. The supermarket savior, basically. He walks through the aisles with his little stickers, slashing prices in half on all the bentos and sushi and prepared food that’s about to hit its expiration window. And then it’s like watching nature’s most primal instinct kick in—everyone descends at once, this beautiful chaos of people grabbing the deals. If you’re fast enough, patient enough, you get to eat incredible food for basically nothing.
That’s how you survive eating well in Japan on nothing. You just have to believe in the sticker man.
When I showed the last art teacher who had to put up with me my sketches of naked bodies, which I had more or less painstakingly created in the months prior, he said to me, and I am not exaggerating here, that they were the worst works he had ever seen. In. His. Entire. Life. This man certainly knew no mercy.
But not only was he right, his words also confirmed something I had long suspected: I was better suited for digital art than analog art. I even resigned myself to the likelihood of failing his course due to my lack of talent, a fate only avoided when a tipsy fellow student intervened. She sent him a borderline humorous email, miraculously persuading him to let me pass.
Thanks to this pivotal experience, I would have given up the marvelous craft of pen and paper forever if I hadn’t met two inspiring girls in Japan who invited me to drop by their art club. I tried to explain my complete lack of drawing skills, but before I knew it, I was standing in a room filled with paints, brushes, and canvases.
The teachers, bustling around the space, promptly handed me pens, sketch pads, and art books, urging me to create my first painting. I met other nice students, drank some black coffee, and, almost by accident, became part of the Japanese Arts Masters Club. It all happened so quickly and I’m not quite sure if I’ll fit in here. But it can’t hurt to try it out, right?
My first tasks are to study the basics of Japanese drawing and to learn how to create my own art utensils. Once I’ve accomplished that, I’ll start sketching plants and eventually choose a motif to bring to life on paper. With this, nothing stands in the way of my new career as a painter.
Soon, my masterpieces will adorn the walls of the world’s greatest galleries, hanging proudly alongside Vincent van Gogh, Pablo Picasso, and Salvador Dalí. Visitors will marvel at my creations, shed tears of awe, and collapse with joy. And to think, all of this began with joining the art club. Or, as the modern Japanese mangaka Imigimuru aptly put it: “This art club has a problem!” And that problem… is me.
The other day, I asked myself whether I had ever consciously decided to become a designer. The answer was a perplexed shake of the head from one of the little men that haunt my mind. Like much of my life, it was more by chance than sheer will to succeed that I found myself on the path of those who make a living from creative work—or at least try to.
Did I have the potential to choose alternative career paths? Perhaps. Did I make use of it? No. Why not? Maybe because I’ve always been more comfortable with subjectivity than objectivity. Does that mean I’m swimming in money, with my art hanging in the Museum of Modern Art in New York? Yes, no, maybe? Hello? Hello?!
If it weren’t for my almost success-allergic life decisions, I wouldn’t be where I am today: The Department of Design at Japan’s Sojo University in Kumamoto. Not far from the main campus, creative minds, and also me, work under one roof with art students on illustrations, advertising campaigns, products, typography, sculptures, 3D and app design, interfaces, and paintings in every shape and color.
This is where I’ll spend most of my time in Japan, trying to channel as much visionary power as possible into my work so that I don’t feel too out of place when it comes time to present my results alongside my fellow students in the University’s very own art gallery in downtown.
We learn to see the world through fresh eyes, engaging all five senses to explore and create. By paying attention to the everyday, we uncover new perspectives and develop unique ways of expressing ideas. Through trial and error, we shape our creativity, finding inspiration in the ordinary and transforming it into the extraordinary.
This is a place to grow at our own pace, driven by curiosity and a love for discovery. I’m excited to see how much I can learn from this environment and how well I can complement my skills with impressions from a different world. Perhaps this journey will shape me into a designer whose work might one day hang in the Museum of Modern Art in New York.
Guess who is now officially enrolled at Sojo University in the beautiful city of Kumamoto? That’s right—this guy. Founded shortly after the Second World War, the academy evolved from a technical high school and now offers courses in art, architecture, and various sciences.
I ended up at the famous Faculty of Design, where they teach graphic, illustration, typography, photography, video, and 3D, among other subjects. Since I need to earn a minimum number of credits to complete my semester abroad and have no idea what to expect from the lectures, I’ve enrolled in nearly all the courses offered to me. I’ll narrow them down in a couple of weeks based on what I enjoy most.
Sojo University boasts a konbini, several canteens, and even its own hairdresser. There’s also an international learning center where students from around the world can interact with each other and with Japanese classmates.
My first day here felt like stepping into one of those generic school animes. Curious people bustled everywhere, J-pop played in the cafeteria, and inspiring posters covered in kanji adorned the walls.
Interestingly, I am the only exchange student in my faculty. All my lectures are in Japanese, but the professors and students go out of their way to communicate with me through ambitious English, animated hand gestures, and a variety of translation apps.
Initially, I was quite worried about fitting in here. I’m twice the age of most other students, don’t speak their language at all, and only know the Japanese school system from fantastic tales where usually something supernatural happens in the first chapter.
However, my fears have not materialized. The initial shyness of my classmates quickly faded. They either find me personally, or at least the country I come from, fascinating. They’re eager to show me everything they think I’ll find new and exciting and help me navigate the social, organizational, and, especially, communication challenges of my exotic life in Japan. I believe I’ll have a great time at Sojo University—or at least I hope so.
As I prepare to spend the foreseeable future in Japan and am passionate about the culture of the Land of the Rising Sun, it feels only natural to learn the language. And where better to embark on this journey, one I hope will ultimately broaden my intellectual horizons, than in the heart of Japan? Exactly.
With that in mind, I visited the Tokyo Metropolitan Central Library in the vibrant international district of Roppongi. Armed with textbooks, a notepad, and a pen, I began learning my third language after German and English, immersing myself in a world I had chosen for myself. As Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote: “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” Amen, brother.
To make this process both efficient and enjoyable, I decided to invest in the みんなの日本語 textbooks, purchased from the 書泉ブックタワー in Akihabara.
This set of books has been an invaluable resource, guiding me through the intricacies of Japanese: learning the hiragana, katakana, and kanji scripts, expanding my vocabulary, mastering grammar, and picking up useful phrases for everyday life.
Like any ambitious student of Japanese, my journey begins with the first alphabet: Hiragana. The word literally means “flowing” or “simple kana,” making it the counterpart to the more complex kanji, which no human in the world truly masters because they’re so difficult to learn.
Hiragana and katakana are both kana systems, and with a few exceptions, each mora in the Japanese language is represented by a character or digraph in these sets. Translating words from the Latin alphabet into hiragana is relatively straightforward—I just have to follow the character table consistently.
However, two challenges arise: Navigating tricky rules and knowing when certain words are transliterated not into hiragana but into the more Western-oriented katakana. Mastering hiragana is the easiest hurdle on this linguistic adventure. Once I tackle my first kanji, I’ll look back at the simplicity of hiragana with nostalgia. But let’s not dwell on that future just yet.
Welcome to Kumamoto, a city nestled in the westernmost part of Japan on the beautiful island of Kyushu. Known as the “City of Bears,” this charming locale will be my cozy home for the next six months as I embark on my exciting semester abroad at the Faculty of Design at the private and prestigious Sojo University.
Here, I hope to refine my skills in typography, illustration, and computer graphics—though, of course, I sometimes wonder if there’s much left to improve. Waiting for laughs. I’m staying in a dormitory with other exchange students from around the world, about twenty minutes from the university’s main campus and another ten minutes from the creative art campus.
From my apartment, located in the higher part of the city, I can see the iconic Kumamoto Castle. Renowned far beyond Japan’s borders, the building sits majestically atop a hill, surrounded by a lush green park and beautifully illuminated with colorful lights in the evenings.
At the heart of Kumamoto lies the lively downtown area, anchored by the Kamitori and Shimotori shopping streets. These bustling arcades are lined with cafés, konbini, book stores, museums, karaoke spots, bars, restaurants, bathhouses, cinemas, boutiques, izakaya, barbers, teahouses, galleries, and countless other shops. Whether it’s day or night, there’s always something thrilling happening in the city center.
I can’t wait to spend the next months exploring its many offerings and getting to know its vibrant culture. Upon arriving in Kumamoto, I couldn’t help but feel like I had stepped into my own Persona adventure.
Much like the game’s protagonists, I find myself in a foreign Japanese city, at a new school, and with a few months to navigate unfamiliar surroundings, forge friendships, and soak up as much as I can—though saving the world might be a stretch.
I’m determined to make the most of this incredible opportunity, collecting unforgettable memories and experiences along the way. After all, I know how rare and special this chance is, and I plan to savor every moment of it.
When I’m not enjoying the crème de la crème of the musical entertainment world, characterized by Italian operas, French chansons, and South American jazz, I immerse myself in the underground bunkers of Japanese idols. From internationally renowned classics like AKB48 to the nostalgic sounds of Morning Musume and short-lived Eurodance groups such as SweetS, D&D, and Folder 5, I know, listen to, and love them all.
These groups, a wild mix of personalities, sing about love, friendship, and emotions, accompanied by cheerfully poppy melodies that barely conceal the melancholic undertones—cries for help aimed at suicidal schoolgirls and kinky hikikomori.
My current favorite idol band is Sakurazaka46, which emerged from Keyakizaka46 with its center, Yurina Hirate. They are some kind of sister group to Nogizaka46 and Hinatazaka46 and a rival to AKB48, NMB48, and SKE48.
Sakurazaka46 briefly attracted international media attention a few years ago when their predecessor group wore outfits resembling the Schutzstaffel military uniforms of Nazi Germany during a concert. This sparked controversy, and the record company had to issue a formal apology.
Despite, or perhaps because of, this incident, fans remained loyal to the group. Today, they call themselves Buddies—and I am really proud to count myself among them.
Because I’m a huge admirer of Sakurazaka46, I couldn’t resist visiting an exhibition in Shibuya as part of their latest single release. The exhibit featured personal messages from members like Karin Fujiyoshi, Rina Matsuda, and Hikaru Morita, along with behind-the-scenes photos, stage outfits, music documentaries, and other smelly fans to mingle with.
On a personal note, I had to process the bittersweet news that Rina Uemura and Fuyuka Saito were using the exhibition as a platform to announce their graduation. But as a connoisseur of Japanese idol culture, farewells are part of the experience. Speaking of farewells, does anyone know what Atsuko Maeda is up to these days?
Nothing makes me happier than walking through the rainy streets of Tokyo. After the hot days behind us, with concrete and bones alike melting, I wanted to cheer naked and weep with joy at the sight of the first gray cloud creeping over our heads.
The sidewalks are lined with dancing umbrellas, some black, some white, most without any colors, but I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to cower. I don’t want to protect myself from the drops that timidly, then stormily, splash down on us.
For the first time since arriving in this city, I don’t wither away when I bravely step under the open sky. I can finally breathe again. Finally live again. Finally savor my existence—if only for a very brief moment.
The rain lures me into the back alleys of Ueno. I stand on a bridge, the clattering carriages of the Ginza Line rattling below, making their way to the next stations. The parks are empty, people hop around under the awnings of storefronts.
I feel closer to Tokyo than I have in a long time. Away from the must-see places, I find myself at an unfamiliar corner—between a pharmacy, a shoemaker, and a bus stop. It smells of ramen, cars, and opportunities.
A group of yellow-capped children waddles past me in their sailor uniforms. They stare at me. One of them begins to wave and greet me, the others join in, a chorus of “Hello!” sounds. I say “Hello!” back. We are all a little happier now.
I wish for the rain to dissolve my body, for me to become one with this city, right here, right now. I don’t care if I perish forever. I want this place at the end of the world to absorb me and never let me go.
Tokyo is my religion, my destiny, my God. If my soul will only find peace when I can proudly proclaim that I am Tokyo and Tokyo is me, then so be it. The sky shifts, trembling blue, red, and black before me, as if watching anxiously to see if the man-made spot of land beyond it will accept my humble sacrifice.
But on this day, the love of my life forgoes my gift, leaving me out in the rain. Perhaps Tokyo graciously wants to grant me a few more days within it before calling me to it forever.
Tokyo is a grab bag of emotions and experiences. Every turn in a new direction brings a fresh adventure and another story to tell. I love wandering through the bustling streets, shops, and cafés of the Japanese capital.
Yet, I am also grateful for moments spent in more or less sacred places scattered across the spacious city. Surrounded by green trees and towering gates, these temples and shrines serve different gods and spirits.
The smaller and more hidden they are, the happier I am to find them, feeling as if I’m the first person in ages to rediscover them. I conveniently ignore the burning candles and fresh offerings that suggest others have been there before me.
Sometimes, though, I seek the enlightenment and support of truly powerful energies. Because I need all the assistance I can get to bring my messy life at least somewhat back on track. This is what led me to the famous Meiji Shrine in Shibuya, nestled between the fashion district of Harajuku and the serene Yoyogi Park.
The shrine, built in the early nineteen-twenties and dedicated to the deified spirits of Emperor Meiji and Empress Shoken, is divided into two sections: Naien and Gaien. Although the original structure was destroyed in the air raids of World War II, it was rebuilt in the nineteen-fifties through public donations. And it’s absolutely stunning.
Though I’m an atheist and think about gods the way I think about unseasoned food and watery coffee, I still tossed a few yen into the donation box, clapped my hands, bowed a few times, and even bought a wooden plaque, or Ema, to write down a few wishes and leave a small part of myself there.
As I strolled slowly through the shrine, watching traditionally dressed miko and fashion-forward trendsetters pass by, I was reminded once again of how much I love Japan’s fluent blend of tradition and modernity. In special places like these, I temporarily let go of my atheism, enjoying the thought of a hidden world intertwined with our own—if only just a little.
Though the Skytree has been a colorful rival towering over Tokyo’s skyline for years now, when it comes to captivating the eyes of residents, tourists, and the occasional bird, the Tokyo Tower remains the landmark of this East Asian metropolis for me.
In how many films, documentaries, and anime series have I marveled at this red-and-orange wonder of architectural significance, serving as the backdrop to tales of great love and even greater destruction? Seeing this colorful tribute to the Eiffel Tower always makes my heart beat faster. No journey to the Land of the Rising Sun would be complete without cozying up to the magical metal of this man-made giant.
The communications boom of the fifties prompted the Japanese government to construct a large broadcasting tower to relay information throughout the Kanto region. Additionally, amid the post-war economic recovery, Japan sought a monument to symbolize its resurgence from World War II—one of the most devastated nations rising again.
The resulting Tokyo Tower gained international fame through mentions in anime and manga like Magic Knight Rayearth, Doraemon, Tenchi Muyo!, Revue Starlight, Please Save My Earth, Cardcaptor Sakura, Digimon, Detective Conan, and Death Note, becoming a symbol of Japan and its eclectic capital for weebs around the world.
Stepping out of the elevator and onto the observation deck, I see the lights of Minato, Shibuya, and Meguro below. The Rainbow Bridge glows with vibrant colors. Around me, tourists fight for the best selfies, capturing themselves with the sprawling metropolis as their backdrop.
Here I am, in the heart of the one and only Tokyo Tower, which graces the pastel backgrounds of Naoko Takeuchi’s popular masterpiece Sailor Moon—the source of my lifelong love for it since childhood. If it were legally, physically, and biologically possible, I would outright marry Tokyo Tower and have lots of cute, little mini towers with it—but I’d probably be deported just for trying.
If there’s one unsettling truth I hadn’t anticipated, it’s that Tokyo will become a blazing inferno this fall with a single goal in mind: To kill me. The moment I step out of my air-conditioned hotel, I’m transformed into a soaked creature, my sweaty silhouette a testament to a body in agony.
All for wanting a little sightseeing in Shibuya, Akihabara, and Shimokitazawa, only to be punished by some evil god, spirit, or yokai wielding the concentrated power of a thousand suns. I was completely unprepared for this unfair battle with climate change, which ambushed me along the way and turned my joyful journey into an odyssey in the blink of an eye.
I have to plan my daily trips through this burning concrete jungle down to the very minute—though, of course, that’s hardly possible. If I spend even a second too long away from the air-conditioned havens of subway stations, department stores, and art museums almost sealed off from the outside world, I liquefy into a dark, sweaty, and miserable mess that not even the iciest drinks from the omnipresent vending machines can save.
Japan wants me, and anyone else brave, or stupid, enough to face the open air on these diabolical days, to know who’s in charge—and no portable fan, mobile sunshade, or colorful popsicle can spare us from that harsh reality.
The longer I endure this endless game of hide-and-seek with the sun, the clearer it becomes: There’s no point trying to strategize against nature’s brutal counterattack on humanity. My time here in Tokyo is finite, and I’m not going to let a giant fireball in the sky ruin my trip.
Stepping out of a Family Mart onto the midday streets of Asakusa, I begin to melt at the first step, as the beloved konbini jingle morphs into the tune from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly in my boiling head. Fuck you, sun, I think as a puddle of sweat forms beneath my feet, and I slowly drag myself toward the next temple, shrine, or cute maid café for a few photos. I will survive—hopefully.
As I leave the grimy swamps of Velen behind and stride through Novigrad’s gates, a city brimming with possibilities opens up before me. Cheeky rascals dart through the winding alleys of this bustling harbor metropolis, under the watchful gaze of the Eternal Fire that looms over its inhabitants.
Banks, brothels, and shops of craftsmen line the streets, and I catch the sounds of singing and laughter from countless pubs. I head toward the Rosemary and Thyme tavern to meet my old friends Dandelion and Zoltan, hoping to moisten my dry throat before I continue my journey to the freezing Isles of Skellige to find the most important person in my sad life: Ciri.
There are few video games that linger in my mind even years later. Games that left an enormous impression, that made me love and appreciate their characters, whose music still echoes in my ears, and whose vivid scenes play out in my mind’s eye.
The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt is one of those epic titles. As Geralt of Rivia, I crept through dark, goblin-infested caves reeking of decay, fought off monsters, specters, and whoresons, and wandered through lost worlds that hinted at the end of our own. And when I didn’t feel like doing my duty as a student of the Wolf, I played cards, got piss-drunk, and chased after fair maidens across Redania’s seedy beds.
Sometimes, I crave the chance to dive into a gritty fantasy world and live beyond the bounds of good and evil. Games like Skyrim, Dragon’s Dogma, and Divinity: Original Sin serve as a unique form of escapism. The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt is my personal favorite—a vivid universe where I can fully immerse myself.
Based on the books by Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski, the adventure is a rollercoaster of bloody encounters, humorous moments, and tender scenes. I’d give anything to erase my fond memories of that wondrous journey and walk through Novigrad’s gates for the first time once more, in search of peace, happiness, and the occasional fair maid.
Of course, Tokyo has its ordinary side, its normal, even boring aspects. Men in dark suits, towering walls of skyscrapers, and loud, crowded subways. But then, I step through a door and suddenly I find myself in a sugary Tokyo, where everything around me is glossy, fluffy, and overwhelmingly gaudy.
When it comes to fashion in all its glorious shapes, colors, and magnificence, the Far Eastern metropolis of Tokyo is a vast and vibrant universe, full of small and massive clothing stores, hidden vintage shops, and independent galleries. Old stores close, and new ones sprout like mushrooms in an endless cycle. It’s nearly impossible to stay fully up-to-date.
What’s even more intriguing than just keeping pace with fashion is the experience of wandering through Tokyo’s diverse stores myself. Especially in Harajuku, Tokyo’s iconic district where styles are created, mixed, and discarded faster than I can say “kawaii,” the sheer variety of colors adds warmth to the bustling crowds of this megacity.
Strikingly printed sweaters, pants, and bags adorned with all kinds of cute accessories fill the alleyways. Style-conscious schoolgirls cast off their dull sailor uniforms after the bell rings and slip into the latest trends they’ve picked up from stores like Nadia, Honey Salon, and Love Drug, ready to showcase them in the lit streets.
Labels such as Milklim, Kirby, and Jóuetie are all the rage among trendsetters in the metropolis. These can be effortlessly paired with established brands like A Bathing Ape, Comme des Garçons, and Billionaire Boys Club. Harajuku is a true Land of Cockaigne. Every step through this magical neighborhood feels like another adventure waiting to unfold.
One moment, Sailor Moon gazes at me from the shelves, the next, I’m standing in a soft toy wonderland, and suddenly, there’s a candy paradise around me. Tokyo is a vibrant wonderland, and nowhere is this more evident than in its peculiar stores, none more dazzling than those found in Harajuku.
There is no place in Tokyo that feels homier than Shimokitazawa. The alleyways are lined with cafés, second-hand shops, and record stores. A few years ago, the neighborhood in Setagaya was considered a hipster haven, but it has since become a meeting point for those who find Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara too crowded, too loud, and frankly, too mainstream.
Visitors who make their way here are seeking slow moments in contrast to the otherwise hectic pace of life. Shimokitazawa smells of pastries, jazz plays softly in the background, and the staff are dressed as if they’ve stepped straight out of fashion magazines like Popeye, Brutus, and Fudge.
At the start of the millennium, the Setagaya City Council released plans to redevelop a large portion of Shimokitazawa, located in the southwestern corner of the Kitazawa district, which included the construction of several high-rise buildings and the extension of a highway through the area.
The narrow, winding streets and small alleyways, cherished by residents and visitors alike as part of Shimokitazawa’s appeal, have made this plan controversial, with some viewing it as degrading and overly commercialized. A decade ago, Shimokitazawa Station was restructured, sparking major changes deep in the heart of this charming neighborhood.
As I sit in a bookstore, watching passersby come and go, I sip my coffee and nibble on the mini chocolate pretzels that came with it. To improve my Japanese, I’ve picked up some textbooks and flip through pages filled with hiragana, katakana, and kanji. If I could move to Tokyo, I’d probably settle in Shimokitazawa.
Then I’d sit in this bookstore every day, drinking coffee, snacking on mini chocolate pretzels, and learning Japanese for the rest of my life. Banana Yoshimoto wrote in her book Moshi Moshi: “When I considered the destruction of the earth, I felt I’d deal with it when I saw it happening, but when I thought of losing Shimokitazawa, I felt real fear.”
There’s probably no place in the world that makes weebs’ hearts beat faster than Akihabara. Enthusiasts of Japanese pop culture will find everything they could dream of in this district, known far beyond the borders of Tokyo. From anime, manga, video games, and J-pop CDs to books, trading cards, figures, model kits, cosplay costumes, and even hentai, it’s a paradise for otaku.
But Akihabara isn’t called the Electronic City for nothing. For those less into nerdy pop culture, it’s a haven for tech lovers, offering everything from cell phones and computers to spare parts and gadgets. Akihabara is a phenomenon that completely consumes everyone who enters it.
Historically, Akihabara was located near one of Edo’s city gates, serving as a gateway between the city and northwestern Japan. This made it home to many craftsmen, merchants, and samurai. Since its opening in 1890, Akihabara Station became a hub for freight traffic, fostering the growth of a vegetable and fruit market.
By the 1920s, the station saw heavy passenger traffic as it opened to public transport. After World War II, the district’s black market thrived in the absence of strong government control, transforming Akihabara into a bustling market town. By the 1930s, it evolved into a center for household electronics, solidifying its reputation in this niche.
Walking through Akihabara’s bustling streets, I’m greeted by big-eyed cartoon characters with even bigger breasts. Girls in brightly colored maid outfits shout cheerfully, offering flyers for themed cafés. The air is filled with the scent of plastic, tea, and sweat.
In the stores, young women and middle-aged men alike browse the latest issues of Weekly Shonen Jump, Ribon, and Ciao. Each floor is a universe unto itself—some filled with slot machines, others with art supplies, and hidden ones with cute sex toys. Once I’ve immersed myself in Akihabara’s fantastic anime, manga, and video game world, I may never find my way out again.
As with every nineties nerd, The Legend of Zelda is one of the game series that has accompanied me since childhood. My real entry into the series was the third installment, The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past on the Super Nintendo. I played this adventure so many times that I knew every area by heart.
Thanks to a questionably legal cheat module I picked up at a flea market, I squeezed every last bit of life out of the game. It allowed me to have all the items from the start and sneak past the otherwise stubborn guards on that rainy, fateful day without even beginning the obligatory castle tour. I’m sure Nintendo wouldn’t have appreciated that kind of rebellion.
The stories in The Legend of Zelda games are typically the same: A silent knight tries to save a kingdom overrun by dark forces and, ideally, wins the heart of a beautiful princess in the process. Since this premise alone wouldn’t draw anyone away from the comfort of their couch, the series thrives on tricky puzzles, quirky characters, and an enchanting world full of exploration.
Of course, The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time on the Nintendo 64 was the game that truly immortalized the series for me. A vast 3D world to freely explore, paired with assets that literally blew my mind. And following that one, Majora’s Mask became my all-time favorite.
For me, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild on the Switch is the logical progression from the first Nintendo 64 installment. The world is even bigger, the puzzles even trickier, and Zelda even prettier. There’s probably no other game where I enjoy aimlessly wandering, just to see what I’ll discover next.
And I always find something—a deserted beach, a quaint village, a mysterious labyrinth. I only wish there had been a few real dungeons and larger cities with more inhabitants. Running into the same old shrines and stables got a bit tiresome after a while. Nevertheless, Breath of the Wild is an experience that will forever hold a special place in my heart.
Tokyo is much more than just Shibuya, Akihabara, and Harajuku. If I want to experience different places than the usual tourists, I have to go to places that are less well-known but no less exciting. For example, Odaiba, the artificial island in Tokyo Bay, which is a popular entertainment and shopping area for locals.
Before 1996, Odaiba was purely a business district. The Japanese economy was at one of its peaks and the island was to become the model of futuristic living. In total, the construction of the island cost over 10 billion US dollars. But the bubble burst in 1991, an event the Japanese called Kakaku Hakai. Half a decade later, the area was mostly abandoned.
After the renovation, Odaiba became a thriving entertainment and shopping center with all kinds of restaurants, stores, and amusement arcades. A giant Gundam statue looms over visitors, who usually arrive in the evening, and there is no end of comics, collectible figures, and knick-knacks. Odaiba is a nostalgic paradise that visitors to the Japanese capital shouldn’t miss.
The Daiba Itchome Shotengai, which is located in the middle of a shopping center and seems to be from a bygone era, is particularly worth a visit. Coming here is like traveling back in time. Many families, as well as some nerds, take the opportunity to experience exactly that, right there.
When I enter the shopping street, I feel as if I’ve been teleported to a fantasy memory. There are old slot machines, pinball machines, and pachinko machines. Posters of idols from the eighties, nineties, and early two-thousands hang on the walls. I recognize the faces of Yumi Matsutoya, Ayumi Hamasaki, and Perfume.
The shelves are crammed with food and bric-a-brac. There are sweets, ice cream, and chewing gum. But also plushies, toy cars, and colorful printed socks. Anime and manga everywhere. I can catch goldfish at one stand, play Mario Kart at the next, and a ghost house awaits me a few meters away. If I died here and now, I wouldn’t even be angry.
Tokyo, once known as Edo, began as a small, insignificant dump. It only grew into the most important city in Japan when Tokugawa Ieyasu, the third feudal ruler after Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, built a castle there in 1590.
If I’m looking to explore beyond the hottest fashion trends, tastiest food varieties, and cutest schoolgirls in Tokyo, beyond Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara, then Asakusa is the place for me.
Not only is it home to the hotel where I’m staying, but it also hosts Sensoji, the oldest Buddhist temple in the city. For a long time, Asakusa was known as an entertainment district, home to kabuki and rakugo theaters.
Asakusa has a past I could still sense here and there. After the Meiji Restoration, the modern entertainment industry began to take root, with Western theaters and cinemas emerging. However, after World War II, Asakusa’s popularity as an entertainment hub waned, with districts like Shinjuku rising to prominence.
Today, in addition to Sensoji, Asakusa is primarily known for the Nakamise shopping promenade and the annual Shinto festival, Sanja Matsuri. I also found many delicious traditional restaurants around the temple, where I could grill and season my own food, as well as numerous pachinko halls where I could test my luck.
This enormous metropolis on the other side of the world has a deeply traditional side. And every walk through Asakusa is also a journey into the past. Just a step out of one of the bustling shopping streets, and I’ll find myself in the middle of a small forest, an old temple complex, or surrounded by lovingly crafted shrines.
I can only imagine the small and grand spectacles that have taken place at Sensoji over the past thousand years. Despite all the colorful anime, manga, and video games that I typically associate with Japan, I feel surprisingly grounded and calm here. Perhaps I should visit such holy and magical places more often.
For many years now, I wanted nothing to do with German culture. I switched all my consumption habits to English and looked down contemptuously on anyone still crawling through the oozy cesspool of German-language entertainment because they didn’t know any better.
For me, German-dubbed TV shows were proof of bottomless stupidity. German novels fell into one of two categories: Cheesy crime junk set on the Baltic coast, or coming-of-age ‘my-mother-is-an-alcoholic-and-I-just-want-to-fuck‘ bullshit. As for German music, I wanted to hear, haha, nothing about it—just the thought of the whole Schlager-pop-Deutschrap crap made me want to vomit.
Now that I’m older, wiser, and totally at peace with myself (#IWish), I’ve come to finally realize that I can’t tear myself away from my German roots, no matter how much, for whatever reason, I wished I could. I need the German language. I love the German language. I don’t want to reject it. Its systematic harshness is simply divine.
And the German language is not just another random dialect on this earth, it’s a shared identity between me and those who use it. I’ve learned that the German language and its accompanying culture can inspire me in ways, especially on a deep, intrinsic level, that no other vernacular can.
So now, I actively seek out people who express their feelings, thoughts, and hopes as authentically as possible in my mother tongue, using it in creative ways, especially in music. Artists like Paula Hartmann, Berq, and Lotte give me a cozy sense of home with their lyrics, even when I’m standing on the other side of the world.
My latest discovery is Liska. Her songs are genuinely emotional without descending into cheesiness, and they resonate with me through various feelings and experiences. German-language music hasn’t been this interesting since Juli, Wir sind Helden, and the very, very, very early days of Silbermond.
When I think of Japan, I picture the bustling intersection at the heart of Shibuya. As the traffic lights at each corner finally turn green, crowds of uniformed salarymen, laughing schoolgirls, and amazed tourists stream toward one another, briefly merging into a homogeneous mass before dispersing back into their daily routines.
On my first visit to the Land of the Rising Sun, halfway across the globe, the very first place I consciously visited was this iconic landmark in the middle of Tokyo. I took the train straight from the airport to Shibuya, met a few friendly people there, and found myself not only in the center of Japan, but in the center of my world.
Due to the anticipation of the 2020 Olympic Games and their underwhelming presentation a year later, the popular district at the heart of Japan’s capital has undergone significant transformation in the recent decade to appeal to both locals and visitors. I became most aware of this with the redesign of the city’s famous Shibuya 109 logo, which sits prominently atop a fashion-savvy shopping center.
The more such signposts change, the more I realize that time is moving on helplessly and doesn’t care about my nostalgic feelings. But maybe that’s a good thing. After all, change is life and the more Shibuya develops, the less I have to worry about its future.
As I stand at the edge of the intersection, I see the red traffic lights ahead, rising above the crowd on the opposite side, and the models advertising clothes, food, and phone contracts on massive screens. I hear the voices of those around me, the eager motorcade, and the man on a platform shouting into the crowd with a megaphone.
I smell a mix of expensive perfume and cheap deodorant, taste the green tea I’m carrying in a plastic bottle, and brace myself to feel the bodies of hundreds of people. Then, the moment comes. Red turns to green. I step forward, becoming one with Shibuya, Tokyo, and Japan—neither for the first time nor the last.
When Hikari is thrust onto the recently set up stage of a seemingly innocent chamber play, fate strikes a desperate blow against the most stubborn and dangerous form of conservatism—the one powered by pure fear of being alone. The audience demands change before it is suffocated by the dreariness of the powerful. Fresh blood must pave the way for a new future.
Few of the actors suspect that the light of hope conceals a story of self-sacrifice that transcends any level of human friendship. The bright star in the sky seems within reach, but whoever touches it in the end must live on with the possible burden of drifting apart from the ones they love.
Both strangers and friends sometimes ask about my favorite anime. Then I proudly list widely known classics like Neon Genesis Evangelion, Cowboy Bebop, and Ghost in the Shell. After all, these titles suggest what kind of anime I prefer and where my roots lie in this sometimes condemned Japanese art form.
I also secretly hope this keeps me from being labeled a complete weeb if I omit that I also enjoyed series like Akebi’s Sailor Uniform, Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid, and Eromanga Sensei—for various reasons.
However, one of my all-time favorite anime is, and remains, Revue Starlight by Tomohiro Furukawa—because it is simply perfect from start to finish.
Revue Starlight follows a motley group of friendly schoolgirls from a renowned theater academy who secretly battle each other underground to become the star of their personal stage in life. When the lazy Karen’s lost childhood friend suddenly appears in class, it triggers the healing of a world whose progress has come to a standstill.
Everything about Revue Starlight is exceptional. The characters are fantastic, the animation style is striking, and the music is so good that I could listen to the soundtrack on repeat for days. It’s a shame that Revue Starlight is only known to a few hardcore fans. I sincerely hope you watch it one day and celebrate it as passionately as I do.
The plane I’m on is taking me to a place that couldn’t be further from home. Am I running away from myself, or am I simply longing for another world that will make me love my own again? Those who share my destination feel understood only from afar.
I stifle my fear of the unknown with the certainty that I’ve chosen it over the comforting arms of monotony on purpose. After all, standing still is death, and death will come soon enough. It seems only logical to sacrifice time with people I like for the possibility of uncovering white spots on my personal map. So, I close my eyes and wait for the moment when the doors to a strange universe open for me.
Before I finally begin my semester abroad in the Japanese coastal city of Kumamoto on Kyushu as a student of the renowned Sojo University in October, I plan to spend a few days in Tokyo.
It’s been over ten years since I last visited this enchanted metropolis at the edge of the world, and I can’t wait to aimlessly wander through the wonderous temples of Shibuya, the cheerful bars of Shinjuku, and the farraginous manga stores of Akihabara to see what has changed in the last decade. I’ve booked a room in a modest hotel in Asakusa and will set out from there, day and night, to explore both the bustling streets and the narrow alleyways nearby and beyond.
Having already lived in Tokyo and visited cities like Osaka, Kyoto, and Yokohama, I feel prepared for the biggest culture shocks and can focus on seeking new experiences and adventures—hopefully beyond the typical tourist attractions. The plane I’m on is taking me to a place that couldn’t be further from home.
That place is Tokyo, a man-made melting pot of diverse cultures where all my escapist dreams, hopes, and fantasies converge. May I find even a fraction of my expectations between the lives of millions of people. I hope to return home with new ideas, goals, and visions. Perhaps I’ll even meet myself over there, on the other side of the world.
Exactly one year ago, I moved to Augsburg. I wanted not only to be closer to my university but also to the people I had spent most of my time with since starting my studies. The city in the far south of Germany welcomed me with open arms, gradually drawing me into its most remote corners thanks to the warmth of various friendly faces.
I wandered through vivid house parties, colorful music festivals, and boozy riverside gatherings, made myself comfortable in cozy bars, and spent my nights with like-minded souls. No matter where I ended up at the end of the day, I was always surrounded by people whose true love for the present moment seemed boundless.
Now, my self-imposed fate is once again pulling me away from a life I’ve slowly come to love. With my semester abroad in Japan approaching, I’ve sublet my apartment to a fellow student, meaning I’ll have to say goodbye to Augsburg—at least for a while.
I know the city will keep breathing, loving, and crying without me, continuing to be a euphoric playground for all kinds of human escapades. To Augsburg, I am just a fleeting visitor on my eternal quest for happiness. But that’s okay.
I realized long ago that staying in one place too long does me no good. Maybe I’m nothing more than a restless nomad who’s secretly afraid of any kind of commitment.
As I gaze over the seemingly endless rooftops of Augsburg, watching the sky slowly darken while the laughter and lights behind me grow brighter, I realize that I will miss this city and the people I’m leaving behind in it. The stories they write from now on will no longer include my name. I’ll become their past.
But sometimes, I have to make grown-up decisions, even if I’d rather avoid obligations. It’s not so bad. After all, I’m not saying goodbye forever. And with that certainty, I can dive into my next adventure without any worry. Because, deep down, I might already know that Augsburg is a place I’ll want to return to and stay a little longer. At least maybe.
Before we part ways for a while due to our upcoming semester abroad, I spent a few memorable evenings with my friends. Investing quality time with people I care about is incredibly important for maintaining mental stability and avoiding the depressive phases that tend to creep in when I’m left alone with my thoughts for too long.
I’m someone who only understands how much I care about certain people once they’re gone. That’s why I’m a little afraid that I might only realize too late how important the network of friends I’ve built over the past few years is to me—as soon as I step off the plane without anyone else on the other side of the world.
We annoyed neighbors during gaming competitions, sweated up stairs during movings, devoured Asian delicacies on movie nights, flirted in beer gardens and ice cream parlors, emptied cold drinks by rivers and lakes, and fought monsters, priests, and potential murderers during game nights, pen-and-paper sessions, and mystery dinners.
There were also afternoon coffee parties and bar visits at the city’s trendiest spots, with deep conversations about life, love, and death. I spent as much time as possible with other human beings, draining my social battery to the max. But it was worth it, because I knew our window of opportunity would very soon close.
I know myself. It can be dangerous for me to cram too many appointments into a short period of time. That usually ends in temporary burnout, leaving me unable to exit my apartment for days, weeks, or even months—and during those tough times, not even my antidepressants help.
But just before my semester abroad and the impending flight to Japan, I didn’t have the luxury of pacing myself. Sometimes life gets in the way, and you either seize the moments that come with it—or simply miss them for good. I’m glad I had the strength to take advantage of every opportunity that came my way. In the end, I have no regrets when it’s finally time to say goodbye.
I pride myself on having excellent taste when it comes to cultural offerings. The more East Asian indie films from the late nineties I watch, the more superior I feel to the world out there. Although I often have no idea what exactly I’ve just gotten myself into, I like to compare it to jazz: the more I think of tortured cats when I listen to it, the more profound, creative and adult it must be.
As long as I’m consuming something that at least gives me the feeling that I’m witnessing something higher, I’m happy. Maybe if I’m able to fully understand Hideaki Anno’s psychological drama film Ritual someday, I’ll become some kind of holy cinephile god—who knows.
However, there are also evenings when I suddenly find myself in front of one or two reality TV shows on Netflix because my friends wanted me to watch with them how the singer from the band Tokio Hotel, you may still know them from songs like Monsoon, Don’t Jump, and… surely another one, getting fucked up at the Oktoberfest, eats curd balls at his mom’s, and drives through the desert with his twin brother in a camper van.
The fun went on for eight episodes. At the end I wasn’t much wiser than before, quite the opposite in fact, but at least there was delicious Hwachae with watermelon, mango, and some undefinable goo to eat in the meantime.
I more or less secretly hope that there will be a second season of the series, after all, I’ve invested time in it now, which should have paid off. Will Bill and Marc ever become a couple? How much alcohol can the average Kaulitz brother take in a day without collapsing? And do I have to listen to a certain podcast to keep up to date and because I may have promised someone without really thinking about the consequences? I’ll probably never know.
Trash television is a welcome change for my constantly stressed brain. Because sometimes it’s quite a good idea to dive into completely irrelevant parallel worlds with even more irrelevant protagonists in them.
As someone who typically enjoys gaming with a controller in hand or a keyboard under his fingers, sitting in front of a screen, and snacking while exploring old ruins, bustling towns, or enchanted forests with my illustrious group of virtual adventurers, I’ve found myself more frequently gathered around a table with others in recent years, passing balls, cards, and dice.
Whether playing for drinks, stakes, or simply for pride, with the right group, a fun evening was always guaranteed. Together, we played through Poker, Tac, and Dungeons & Dragons, held competitions, and sometimes even invented our own rules to make the games more interesting.
It’s amazing how distinct traits of individual players emerge when they’re placed in a group, seated around a table, and given the chance to win a round or two. They love psychology, fantasy, or social justice and show this more or less consciously in their actions.
Some analyze every strategy in great detail, while others dive into the chaos with a naive Leeroy Jenkins mindset. Some try to assist their rivals when they sense unfairness, while others show no mercy. Some lose interest the moment they sense they won’t win, while others persevere until the bitter end. The more distinct my opponents’ characteristics, the more interesting the game becomes.
The game nights I’ve spent with friends have also taught me a lot about myself. For one, my ambition is heavily tied to my mood. When I’m in a good mood, it’s easier to accept losses and celebrate wins. I’ve also realized that the conversations during the games mean more to me than the games themselves. The dialogues that arise are things that might otherwise go unspoken.
And finally, I’ve learned that I really hate Tac. It’s just a complicated version of Ludo with cards, for whatever reason. But despite that, I’m grateful to the wonderful people who have introduced me to a world of tabletop gaming that’s so different from my usual digital realm.
I enjoy cooking with others because I love combining good food with even better company. Of course, I don’t do this with just anyone, but with people who are either close to my heart or just kinda hot. We go to the nearest store together, decide what to prepare while browsing the colorfully stacked shelves, pick out fresh, delicious ingredients, and then head home with our jam-packed bags.
There, we chop vegetables, fry fish, meat, or tofu, and toss some noodles into a pot. Meanwhile, we listen to the latest playlists on Spotify, chat about the ups and downs of life, and eagerly anticipate the upcoming feast, enjoying some fizzy drinks along the way.
The real fun begins once the cooking is done. Whether there are two, three, or ten of us around the table, we take a moment to look at each other before diving in, filling our plates with salmon, salad, and summer rolls. Conversation flows freely as we talk about the world and its wonders, big and small, or relax with a Netflix show or two.
And if we’re not in the mood for the inevitable clean-up afterward, we simply open a delivery app and save ourselves the hassle, scrolling through pictures of pizzas, sushi, or stir-fried noodles. An hour later we sit on someone’s bed, enjoying some delicious Pad Thai, a cute anime, and some human connection.
Sure, I don’t always need company when I’m eating-whether it’s a carefully crafted meal or a quick snack. Sometimes, I sneak into the supermarket next door in the evening, grab some nearly expired nigiri at half-price, and hope the salmonella gods spare me again, as I wash it down with a bottle of Diet Coke.
Dessert might be a handful of cornflakes that I nearly choke on because a Zelda Let’s Play distracted me from chewing. It can be quite relaxing to spend an evening like that now and then, but I shouldn’t rely on this so-called lifestyle all the time, because, as the saying goes, “Food tastes better when shared with friends.”
Kaos doesn’t have it easy. Not only does the teenage manga tryhard look like a primary school student and have no friends besides some curious animals she meets on her way home, but she’s just learned that her four panel artworks came last in a survey among national comic book fans.
Before Kaos considers hitting up with Truck-kun to finally end her misery, her editor suggests she move into a dormitory for manga artists to improve her creative skills and perhaps participate a bit more in social life. Before Kaos knows it, she becomes part of a quirky crew of fanatical artists who all share one weeby goal: to achieve their big dream of a career in manga.
In the anime genre Cute Girls Doing Cute Things, the name says it all. There are no epic adventures, devious villains, or hard-to-guess plot twists. These comfy slice of life stories revolve around cute girls doing cute things—nothing more, nothing less. They go out for ice cream, chat at school, hang out in parks, visit bathhouses, and encourage each other in tough moments so they don’t give up.
Shows like Comic Girls are pure balm for the soul when the world feels too chaotic, stressful, and overwhelming. Life can be a real jerk sometimes, but in these colorful fantasy universes, every challenge can be solved with a little courage, fun, and good friends.
In the style of K-On!, New Game!, and Non Non Biyori, the different characters in Comic Girls complement each other, growing stronger together. Little Kaos meets the energetic Koyume, the tomboyish Tsubasa, the shy Ruki, and the somewhat sinister Suzu in the dorm. Each of them has their own fears, but together they can overcome them and make progress in life.
And there’s always something to laugh about, often through awkward or embarrassing situations. When I’m not in the mood for earth-shattering blockbusters, I cozy up with a hot cup of tea and watch anime like Comic Girls, enjoying cute girls doing cute things—nothing more, nothing less.
Every semester, the Werkschau is the grand finale at the Faculty of Design. At this vernissage, students from Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg present their final projects from all areas of analog and digital art. From photography, books, and drawings to computer games and interactive installations, everything that’s new, cool, or just fun is included.
There’s also live music, delicious food, and plenty of refreshing drinks, along with many familiar and unfamiliar faces who don’t want to miss out on the hustle and bustle. And if that’s not enough, you can dance into the morning at the after-show party in a nearby club.
I personally had my hands more than full at this year’s Werkschau. Not only was I a member of the generally stressed team that organized this illustrious event, but I also presented my short film Into the Woods, which had previously premiered in a museum.
Additionally, I spoke to fellow students about their entrepreneurial plans after graduation for my work at the start-up incubator Funkenwerk, the central contact point for innovative ideas at Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg. I even stood behind the bar as a member of the student council to ensure that everyone stayed hydrated in the sunny weather—mostly with beer.
The end of the vivid exhibition also marked the end of my fourth semester at Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg and heralded my temporary farewell. It’s amazing how much mental stress built up over the past few weeks and has now disappeared in one fell swoop.
I will spend the next month and a half organizing all the necessary preparations for my upcoming semester abroad in Japan. I need to sublet my apartment, finalize the last necessary documents, and attend a farewell party or two before most of my friends disperse into the big wide world. So long, my beloved university. We will see each other again next year.
My collection of Japanese indie movies has grown considerably in recent years. What I appreciate most are the quieter slice-of-life titles that provide intimate insights into the small and large everyday problems of East Asian inhabitants.
It doesn’t matter whether the stories take place in the colorful, vibrant streets of Japan’s big cities or among the mountains, lakes, and valleys of rural areas.
Of course, the more I feel connected to the protagonists and their experiences, the more the films resonate with me. As Philip Pullman said, “After nourishment, shelter, and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.”
Last night, I watched Emma Kawawada’s My Small Land. It’s about a girl named Sarya, whose parents are Kurdish refugees from Turkey living in Japan. She pretends to be German to her friends because she has had better experiences with this than with the truth.
While her father works, Sarya looks after her younger siblings and contemplates her future, as she will soon be going to college. An intimate relationship develops with her colleague Sota, and her feelings become increasingly clear.
Sarya wants a completely normal life. When her father’s application for asylum is rejected, the world she has worked so hard to build begins to crumble.
My Small Land is a haunting movie about the balancing act of a young refugee caught between two worlds, searching for her own. As the story progresses, I felt more intensely the inner turmoil pushing Sarya to her emotional limits as she tries to save her siblings from the fate that lies before them. Sarya’s life becomes a gauntlet of cultural constraints, social circumstances, and her own dreams.
My Small Land depicts the sacrifices people make to avoid being broken by reality. After watching it, I realized once again how much my privileges protect me from these challenges and the hard decisions that I’ve been able to avoid—at least so far.
I embrace my nerdy side not only through my limitless Japanophilia, which manifests in an arguably unhealthy consumption of anime, manga, dramas, books, and pop music I can’t even understand, but also through my love of geeky tabletop role-playing games.
In this exciting fantasy realm, I navigate enchanted kingdoms as a magical dragon warrior, explore small towns overtaken by Cthulhu’s monsters as a clumsy policeman, and venture through enemy spaceships as a trigger-happy hophead.
Tabletop role-playing games are like a carefree vacation for my brain, offering a chance to let loose and try things I (probably) wouldn’t dare to do in real life.
A couple of friends and I have been members of a role-playing club for some time now, where we more or less regularly experiment with different scenarios, characters, and rulebooks. From fantasy to science fiction to cyberpunk, there’s nothing we wouldn’t dare to try.
Personally, I prefer the bloody horror one shot adventures, where we slip into the roles of unsuspecting citizens who roam through abandoned settlements, haunted mansions, and cursed cathedrals, only to face crazy cultists, hungry vampires, and, in the last dungeon, an overpowering deity and, in the best-case scenario, be torn to shreds by it. After all, survival is only for cowards.
I’ve wanted to try tabletop role-playing games for a long time after hearing about them in various podcasts, YouTube videos, and not least in Stranger Things. So, I’m thrilled to have found other people who are just as eager to dive into other worlds and let their imaginations run wild.
Where else can you try to ride angry unicorns, shoot the newly born Antichrist, or drown a doomed metropolis in smelly feces to perhaps save it from its fate, only to realize in the end that all these ideas were rather semi-smart? Exactly. When I’m on my semester abroad, we’ll try to hold the sessions online. And maybe I’ll find a group in Japan that’s keen to play, too. Who knows.
Anyone who knows me even a little bit understands that soccer doesn’t interest me in the slightest. During some World Cups, I am a vague fan of the Japanese national team, but only to the extent that I follow their wins and losses from the sidelines.
I generally have little interest in spending several hours watching others compete in sports unless they are characters in an anime or manga to whom I have formed an emotional attachment.
In the end, my favorite soccer team remains the Kickers around Kakeru Daichi, even though they only know about winning tournaments from hearsay. But at least they scored a goal against the Falcons once. Yeah.
Despite my general disinterest in any ball sports, I went to a public viewing event in the city center on Friday night with some friends because Germany was playing Spain in the last sixteen round of the European Football Championship.
As we all know, our national team lost, but I doubt anyone there cared less about that than I did. So why was I there anyway? Because I realized that it’s essential to socialize regularly, especially when you’re hanging out with people you know, like, and can have fun with. The reason for getting together becomes secondary. It’s much more important to feel connected to others—and eat some snacks while you’re at it.
The time I can spend with these people is finite. And that’s not just because of my own mortality, but because we’ll soon have to say goodbye to each other as the semester abroad is just around the corner. Mine in Japan doesn’t start until the fall, but others will be leaving in a few weeks to explore the world. From Spain to Canada to South Korea, everything is included. We won’t see each other again until next spring.
That’s why I’m trying to spend as much time as possible with my friends before our schedules scatter us in all directions. And that, in turn, means that I even watch soccer with them, despite my interest in it being around freezing point.
Although I’ve always considered myself a global cosmopolitan who has long since cut ties with German pop culture, Paula Hartmann’s Kleine Feuer has been my most-listened-to album over the past few months. There were days when nothing else played in my AirPods all day but these 15 songs, from beginning to end, over and over again, morning, noon, and night.
“Others see ghosts, I only see you,” Paula whispers to herself without any empathy. “So long shadows with so little light. You send a smiley face, trap doors open. My heart is a ghost town and you are the ghost. The wine at two makes me cry again at three, then I fall asleep.”
Paula’s apathetic voice and the bleakly pulsating beats are the anthem of my default emotional state, which I can only escape when I’m with other people, and which I fall back into as soon as I’m alone. The Berlin singer comments on the world I’m trapped in on solitary evenings.
“Wish we could talk to each other, wish us one last summer. Hear my friends say: ‘Everything will be fine one day.’ As long as you swim through the rain and thunder. Where’s our happy home? I’ve forgotten where I live. Listen to our last notes, otherwise silence on my phone. Share no more songs, share no more smoke. Share the stars and the moon.”
I like tracks that I can listen to in the background, but also immerse myself in. Paula’s music covers me like a blanket and reminds me that other people feel the same way as I do.
“The cord of my hoodie tastes like fall and the first birds are screaming in pain. The colorful ravens put on their black coats. A grandma behind every windowsill. The first bus wipes me up and then breathes me out. A brake light beacon in the exhaust, rusty leaves on cobblestones. A quick thought about you and suddenly gravity has me again. Kicks my legs, fall down and break. Your roof turns gray walls into a house. In it, we exchange disappointments for a lifetime.”
My favorite project of the semester, which is slowly coming to an end, was a short film I created for the compulsory elective course Motion assets. The topic was Young People and Old Trees.
While my fellow students focused on animations to complete the task, I insisted on making a real film and was allowed to do so. After all, I had always wanted to do something like this.
So, I grabbed a good friend of mine and we went to the nearest forest together to shoot Into the Woods. I can confidently say that the movie is an absolute masterpiece, and I’m expecting a call from Hollywood any second now to become the next world’s most famous director.
The short film is about a young woman who embarks on a journey into the depths of the forest to meet her destiny. I aimed to combine the flair of The Blair Witch Project with the aesthetics of David Hamilton.
The piano music, which I composed while tapping away on my keyboard, is intended to give the story an ominous touch. The countless retro filters I applied to the videos provide the whole piece with a dreamy feel.
Incidentally, the ending features a computer-generated imagery firework that makes even Michael Bay look outdated. I really enjoyed the shooting, even though the model caught eight ticks in the process. Suffering for the sake of art.
Into the Woods premiered in a museum last weekend, and interested viewers asked me afterward whether the young woman survived, what the fire meant, and if the movie was an allusion to the climate crisis we’re currently in.
I replied that I would answer all their questions in the upcoming second part, Into the Woods 2: Revenge of the Trees. Finally, I’ve acquired a taste for chasing nude girls through nature in front of my camera.
Fortunately, I’ve received a bunch of requests from potential models who would like to participate. So, you can look forward to my next magnum opus, which will be shown in an artistic, or adult oriented, movie theater near you.
I love dystopian movies. Children of Men, The Road, Snowpiercer—the more hopelessly the future is depicted, the happier I grin. Classical psychoanalytic theory would attribute my passion for the end of the world to the death drive, the urge for doom and destruction.
This concept was first proposed by the Russian psychoanalyst Sabina Spielrein in her essay Destruction as the Cause of Coming Into Being and later expanded upon by Sigmund Freud in Beyond the Pleasure Principle.
Personally, however, I believe I am simply fascinated by chaos because my life is a minefield of self-imposed rules, and I need confirmation that abandoning them would lead to anarchy.
Last night, I watched Alex Garland’s Civil War starring Kirsten Dunst, Nick Offerman, and Cailee Spaeny. In the dystopian thriller, the President of the United States illegally secures a third term in office, plunging the country into another civil war.
A ragtag group of journalists embarks on a dangerous road trip to conduct one last interview with the fascist Donald Trump lookalike before the rebel army reaches the White House to end the man-made horror and restore democracy to the deeply divided nation. But between them and the most powerful man in the world lies a mayhem universe full of racist lunatics, mindless soldiers, and creepy murderers.
The mental appeal of Civil War lies in the increased probability that the world it depicts could become reality with just a few wrong decisions. Many inhabitants of the land of opportunity already yearn for anarchic freedom and want to turn the United States of America into a lawless theme park where anything deemed unpatriotic, or just Mexican, can be shot at.
Perhaps Civil War is not just a glimpse into the future but into our present. And because this idea is only exciting until it comes true, next time I’ll prefer watching another unrealistic disaster movie. Preferably something with zombies, asteroids, or ravenous sharks that live in tornadoes.
A few friends and I were out and about at the Augsburg Summer Nights over the weekend. For a few days, the city center transforms into one big party with all kinds of music stages, food stalls, and even a silent disco.
But before we threw ourselves into the thundering crowds of the Bavarian town, we chilled out in a pal’s garden right next to the hustle and bustle, treated ourselves to a few cool drinks, and shared some funny life stories.
There, I met an amusing sports student whose chaotic love life sweetened my evening, and my psychologically quite committed playmate, with whose help I became the undisputed king of a certain board game.
Unfortunately, I have to say that I didn’t really enjoy the Augsburg Summer Nights—unlike my friends. There were just far too many people crammed into one place. I couldn’t enjoy the various music performances or have a bite to eat in peace. Everyone transformed into a huge ocean of bodies and I felt like I was drowning right in it.
I was glad when I finally stepped out of the barrier into the airy freedom again and took a few breaths without being pushed around by a crowd. The first thing I did with my newfound freedom was grab an ice-cold Coke Zero from a nearby convenience store and watch the colorful and very loud turmoil from afar.
This experience made me realize once again that although I don’t mind lots of people coming together in one place, I only enjoy it if they move in one direction as quickly as I do. That way, I can simply glide through them like some kind of slippery fish, as I do it in big cities like New York, Tokyo, or even Berlin. For the fun part, however, such events are not really for me.
I prefer quieter house parties where I can talk, drink, and dance with the guests without getting run over by a horde of drunken revelers. But after all, everyone has a different idea of fun. And I don’t judge if others had a nice evening or two at the Augsburg Summer Nights. You do you.
It’s an afflicting feeling to know people with whom I once felt very close, but who are no longer part of my life. It’s not as if they’ve moved away, disappeared, or even died, but our relationship has changed so much from one day to the next that we no longer communicate. Not even when we are literally standing next to each other.
Then we ignore one another because that’s what you have to do under these circumstances. And if we would usually have talked, laughed, and shared a few worries, we are now like strangers who happen to be finding themselves in the same place and will soon go our separate ways again without even looking at each other’s faces.
I find this situation particularly difficult at times when I experience something interesting or get exciting news that I would otherwise have liked to share with this person immediately. Until recently, these topics eventually mattered to both of us, or at least we knew that the human being on the other side of the city always had an open ear.
But just before I mindlessly reach for my phone to write her an update on my world or record a voice message asking for her honest opinion or valuable expertise, I remember that I’m no longer allowed to communicate with my former friend and have to deal with this current challenge piling up in front of me on my own.
The hole that this person leaves in my heart will close. Her profile photo will slide further down in the messages and, at some point, disappear. Other faces will take her place and talk, laugh, and share some worries with me. I will soon have forgotten this once important character and the melancholy feeling of emptiness that she’s causing.
It will be as if she had never existed at all. And then I will no longer reach for my phone to share a part of my life with her, because for a brief moment I forgot that this person is no longer a part of it. But before that happens, I wonder if this gloomy emotion I’m carrying around could have been avoided, or if it was inevitable.
The idyllic town of Kumamoto is located on the island of Kyushu in the southwest of Japan and has not only a beautiful castle, an old samurai house, and a colorful landscape garden to offer but also a university that happens to be the partner institution of my college.
This means that every semester there is a lively exchange of academics-to-be between these two learning establishments. Some students are sent from Japan to Germany, and some students are sent from Germany to Japan in return. And guess who has two thumbs and is one of the ambitious people sent from Europe’s politically split heart to the Land of the Rising Sun? This guy!
I will be spending the upcoming semester as an exchange student at the private Sojo University in Kumamoto, where I’m going to study creative subjects such as Graphic Design, Photography, and Manga Media in the Department of Design at the Faculty of Art.
I will be living in a free dormitory that is only a few minutes’ walk from the university’s campus and available to students from all around the world.
The winter semester doesn’t start until October, but I’ll be spending a few weeks in my favorite city of Tokyo beforehand, exploring my old hoods Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara and hopefully seeing some old friends from back then.
The flights to and within Japan and the hotel in Tokyo are already booked. Now I just have to sublet my apartment in Germany and make the remaining travel arrangements so that I’m ready to go to the Land of the Rising Sun for the third time in my life this fall.
I should probably use the next few months to improve my Japanese language skills. Otherwise, it could be a bit difficult to communicate with my fellow students and the rest of the locals during my semester abroad in Kumamoto, because I probably won’t get very far with just basics like “Hello,” “Goodbye,” and “Sorry, but where’s the nearest toilet?” See you soon, Japan. I hope you’ve missed me.
I’m not sure if it’s my diet, the sun, or my antidepressants, but lately, I’ve generally been worrying less about my life. Whereas I used to spend weeks, months, maybe even years, doing nothing but creating as many sorrows as humanly possible in my mind, I’ve recently been blessed with a stoic calmness that is almost uncanny.
There’s so much free space in my head now, and I can fill it however I want. It’s not as if I don’t care about what happens to and around me, but I take note of it, accept it, grow a little from it, and then continue on my way. Maybe that’s just what you do as some kind of functioning adult—or somebody who pretends to be one.
In the past, even the smallest unforeseeable obstacle would have sent me into acute self-doubt and bottomless panic. But today, I know that difficulties are not only part of life but are essential for me to be a better person tomorrow. And that it is an art to use them to my own advantage.
With this knowledge, I don’t waste a second too much on problems that aren’t really problems at all. Not only that: with this newly acquired form of acceptable equanimity, I automatically allow myself to have fun without any, or at least many, regrets. Because when I invest less time in irrelevant conflicts that should be ignored, I have more time for the good things in life.
So I prefer to spend my time with people who also choose to have fun. I don’t care what exactly they understand by this term or why they have decided to do so. Maybe they don’t want to be alone. Maybe they need a distraction from their everyday worries. Or maybe they have simply learned that celebrating the time we spend together has no negative impact on our future. Quite the opposite.
Life is too short to spend it only in my own head. It’s always the happiest moments that I like to remember the most. So I try to collect a bunch of them before it’s too late. Because as Frank Ocean once said: “Have as much fun as possible!” Amen, brother.
Last night I found myself at a house party in a part of town I haven’t been before, where half the girls in attendance seemed to be called Julia. I like house parties. They’re much more cozy than clubs. And you can have intense conversations there, often with people you’ve just met.
The birthday girl had gone to great lengths to make her party pleasant. In addition to champagne, snacks, and suitable music, there was a bowl full of little challenges at the entrance that each guest could complete if they wanted to. My task was to transform myself into a so-called woo girl and to cheer loudly even at the most inappropriate moments.
Between the colorful fog machine, soap bubbles everywhere, and a drying rack turned into a beer pong table, I met new people who sweetened my evening with their stories. A photographer struggling with herself, a psychologist from Vienna, and an artist whose individual skills made a packed balcony roar with laughter.
I think it’s important to surround myself with new people and be inspired, guided, and encouraged by their dreams, hopes, and perhaps even worries at times when I seem to be at a standstill, at a loss, or generally thinking too much about the purpose of it all. And house parties are the perfect opportunity to meet just such folks.
As I step outside and board the over-punctual night bus with two of the many Julias, I am glad to have been here today among all the cheerful faces, whose laughter from the bottom of their hearts makes me forget my own sorrows.
The evening has shown me once again that this city is full of unique and interesting characters. And it is unfortunately far too easy to overlook them repeatedly in my stressful everyday life as I rush through the big and small streets. But it’s worth stopping, listening, and both hearing their stories and enriching them with my thoughts. I’m already looking forward to the next house party—wherever it may take place.
I voted in the European elections this morning. After I bought a coffee at the nearby coffee shop and went for a walk to the next elementary school, where the voting took place, I chose the Green Party because they most closely represent my political views on environmental protection, digitalization, and human rights.
I don’t want to leave Europe to the radical left or the radical right. People who trample on our fundamental democratic values out of greed, ideology, or sheer stupidity must not be the ones who end up destroying our chances of a future worth living. Because tomorrow belongs to those who are committed not to fear, but to hope.
I don’t believe in heritage, tradition, and nationalism. Although I was born in Germany, I do not feel German at all, but as a citizen of the world who is dedicated to the wonders and possibilities of all the different cultures this planet provides.
For me, the idea of a unified Europe is the logical step away from restrictive borders and towards an open society characterized by a wide variety of people, cultures, and views.
Thanks to the benefits, safeguards, and support of the European Union, I have met countless amazing people from different corners of the Earth that I would never have been able to meet without the opportunities of a united continent.
We should be happy to be part of Europe because it strengthens us financially, socially, and culturally. The European Union must be led by people who have only one goal in mind: to improve our community and the lives of us all.
By casting my vote, I have helped to ensure that we are hopefully spared a dystopian future in which radicals, fascists, and populists, under the guise of democracy, aim to undermine and destroy it and our very own existences following thereafter.
Committing ourselves to the European idea is the best chance we have of a realistic utopia in this period of human history. We are united in diversity, we are the future, we are Europe.
When I was younger, I used to attribute my emotional shortcomings to being a spoiled only child. I had to be the center of attention in every group I was part of. If that didn’t happen, I would go to great lengths to convince everyone around me that I was the focal point of their otherwise unbearable lives. I was an obnoxious drama queen with a distinct main character complex—or maybe I was just bored as hell.
I began to realize that my own thoughts would become my greatest enemy. The constant overthinking about everything and everyone led to a melancholy toward the world and its people. Painful memories gave way to a selfish lack of empathy.
The guilt from poor decisions triggered emotional swings that not only affected me but also those I cared about. I grew afraid of moving forward, knowing that even the smallest steps could end in disaster. My mind became a prison of doubts, loneliness, and self-destruction.
Escaping myself seemed impossible. Even the smallest hint of stress, anxiety, or unpredictability would send me spiraling back into old patterns and harmful habits I thought I had left behind. Most of my mental energy went toward resisting the madness that loomed just one wrong thought away. I knew that if I gave in, I would be lost forever—and that wasn’t worth it. At least, not yet.
I’ve come to terms with a bitter defeat in my ongoing battle with my mind and realized that I can’t go on without professional help. Without support, I keep slipping into the same mental loops and faulty conclusions. Then I grow more frustrated, lonelier, and weaker.
My doctor has diagnosed me with moderate depression. Starting today, I’ll be taking prescription medication to prevent mental crashes, balance my emotions, and hopefully feel happier. I’ve also been referred to a psychiatric ward for therapy. It’s an option worth trying. I hope these steps will help me lead a somewhat normal life, or at least call a ceasefire in the war raging in my head.
Although life feels like it will drag on forever, and I’m convinced of my own immortality anyway, a bitter truth hangs over my head like the proverbial sword of Damocles: I will die. I’m not sick, at least I hope not, but the day I die will come, without a doubt.
How am I supposed to deal with this bitter realization without slipping into paralyzing apathy or pure panic, weighed down by my weltschmerz? Exactly: I try to make the best of the time I have left on this planet.
This resolution doesn’t always work. Sometimes I lie in bed for days, letting life’s opportunities pass me by, like some fool who doesn’t even understand the fear of missing out.
On days when I have enough energy, curiosity, and hope, I step outside my front door and actively face the universe. I want to experience something new: an adventure, fresh faces, or something I’ve never seen before with my own eyes. It doesn’t always have to be a grand event or life-changing moment.
Sometimes, giving the small things a chance is enough. I visit an unfamiliar place—a café, a store, or a nearby lake—or strike up conversations with people I’ve just met or haven’t interacted with much before. Sometimes they’re hilarious. Or, I confront problems and fears with new approaches, solving and eliminating them for good.
I’m often so blinded by routine, that I don’t even consider exploring alternatives. Coffee? Black. Sneakers? White. Girls? Blonde. Sometimes, though, I avoid the unfamiliar because I’m afraid that even a harmless choice will plunge me into mental chaos, forcing me to expend significant effort to regain my balance—only to return to the tried and tested.
This has happened far too often, and I can’t ignore the risk. But maybe, the one new thing I embrace on a seemingly inconsequential yet fateful day could be the key to a whole new life. Because no matter how small or unimportant it may seem, every possibility carries the potential for something great.
This event has been planned for weeks in my mind. I storm through the front door, undress, and throw my clothes on the white sheets and pillows-covered bed. I enter the now brightly lit bathroom with a fully loaded electric razor and stand in front of the mirror. A little push in the right direction and the machine starts to buzz.
“Anticipation has a habit to set you up for disappointment in evening entertainment but tonight there’ll be some love,” Alex Turner yells into my ear. “Tonight there’ll be a ruckus, yeah, regardless of what’s gone before.”
It’s about time. I’m not allowed to think anymore. Now is the time for action. I place the vibrating device on my head and it starts to shred through my hair. Dark tufts rain down around me. In a few minutes, I will be a new person.
I’m the artist of my own self. I try to optimize my body, my appearance, and my clothes so that they no longer cause me any problems. In my mind and the outside world. Because I’m in a constant battle between minimalism, depression, and mulling over irrelevancies. And, let’s be honest, a big chunk of laziness too.
Usually, it’s the same story all over again. I think about reducing my lifestyle in terms of food, habits, or stuff I own. The longer the decision to do so runs through my thoughts, the result is always something like: sure, why not? So I delete it.
Sometimes it returns somehow but usually I don’t give a fuck about it and it just disappears from my mind, my future, and my life. If I don’t regret doing it immediately, I know that I’ve made the right decision. Like shaving my head and thinking: This action brings me one step closer to my ultimate self.
There must be no more options, just my own unique and individual standard. It’s time to emancipate myself from my doubts. That’s why I choose one path in every single respect. And I try to stick to it, with some adjustments of course. The universe is chaotic enough. So I’m happy about any lack of alternatives—even if it’s only brought about by myself.
This is my Britney moment. The big difference between her situation and mine is that she did it out of mental desperation and I did it out of an unavoidable step in my perfectionist master plan.
The liberating feeling you get when you run an electric razor through your hair and realize that there’s no going back now is probably somewhere between orgasm and murder. And it’s only that good the first time. That’s for sure. Because from now on it’ll be just another routine that I have to implement into my life. It’ll soon become completely normal for me.
I look at my work of art in the mirror. No racing heart, no regrets. Just absolute satisfaction that I no longer have to worry about this part of my life. And, who knows, maybe Britney felt the same.
I firmly believe that expectations are the root of all disappointment in interpersonal relationships. Expectations will always let me down, no matter who or what they’re directed at.
If I assume that someone I care about will act in a way I expect, I’ve already set myself up for failure. There is no exception to this harsh law of life. Even when expectations seem to be met, it’s often an illusion.
Why do people I place expectations on end up disappointing me? It’s not that they do it on purpose, they have their own expectations of situations, goals, hopes, and people. They’re playing the same doomed game, just with different players.
They don’t know what’s going on inside me. And they don’t have to, nor do they need or want to. They have their own thoughts and worries, and they’re busy enough with those.
So, should I never place any expectations on anyone or anything again? Perhaps. But maybe it’s enough to avoid basing my entire emotional world on those expectations and falling apart when things don’t go as I imagined.
I should aim to be strong enough, so grounded in myself, that the actions of others don’t throw me off course. The more satisfied I am with myself, the more I can tolerate not being the focus of others’ attention. And that’s a good thing.
I must be careful not to fall into the same traps as many others who overthink their lives, relationships, and dreams. Unmet expectations can lead not only to disappointment but also to the destruction of important friendships.
Unmet expectations offer valuable lessons. They help me reflect on myself and the people around me. Approaching people without expectations allows me to enrich my life with the experiences they trustingly share, without expecting anything in return.
I shouldn’t close myself off to this opportunity but approach it with an open heart—even if I may never truly become part of the world of the one I hold those expectations for.
Hello. My name’s Marcel, and my various hobbies include reading, cooking, and sabotaging my own life. Then I chase away friends, place obstacles in the path of my success, and sacrifice myself for irrelevant beliefs.
While normal people know when to stop and avoid repeating the same mistakes, I crave unnecessary drama and go the extra mile. All I reap from these self-destructive tendencies are disappointment, anger, and loneliness.
The worst part is, I know when it’s better to stay quiet, when a situation doesn’t need to escalate—but something inside me wants to watch my world burn, over and over again.
With this attitude, I’m putting people through pointless tests they can’t pass, just to prove to myself that these friendships were doomed from the start. That I’m better off alone, because relying on others only leads to disappointment.
Thanks to my “superior” mindset, I save myself the time, which I can now spend alone—trapped in my head with no chance of escape.
It’s hard for me to tell who’s truly a friend and who just happens to share the same space. Who’s forced to spend time with me but looks for the next chance to get away. And just when I’m surrounded by people to whom I’ve devoted thoughts, dreams, and hopes, I feel alone again.
Why bother making connections if they’re only going to be shallow, collapsing like a house of cards with just a few wrong words? I could save myself the trouble. I shouldn’t set up false expectations, and if I did get disappointed, I’d only have myself to blame.
Should I stop people from entering my life and wave them away before they even get close? Since there’s nothing left but to spend some time together and then say goodbye?
It’s unrealistic to form friendships with everyone. It’s enough to share a moment, to enjoy each other’s company before moving on. And it’s okay to dedicate thoughts, dreams, and hopes to those fleeting connections.
Each faculty at our university has its very own student council. There is one for computer science, one for humanities and natural sciences, one for architecture and civil engineering, one for electrical engineering, one for mechanical and process engineering and one for economics.
And then there’s the motley crew that I’ve been a member of: The Design Student Council. This is where illustrious people from the three degree courses Communication Design, Interactive Media, and Creative Engineering come together to chat about art, events, and life in general over pizza, beer, and music, as well as to have a bit of a rant about the other student councils.
Through the student council, I got to know all sorts of great people from different areas of the university who would otherwise have remained unknown to me and would have continued to pass me by without a greeting in the canteen. Together we organize flea markets, karaoke evenings, and exhibitions, act as contacts for new students, and try to improve university life with our ideas.
Sometimes we spend hours discussing grievances at our faculty, sometimes we try to answer the eternal question of how many primary school children we could defeat in a fight to the death. The correct answer, of course, is seven—everyone knows that.
I am very glad that in my first semester I dared to sit down week after week in a room full of people who were becoming fewer and fewer strangers to me, and through this, from my perspective, quite courageous step, I became part of a community that enriched my time at university in many ways.
Gradually, more and more of my friends have found their way into the Design Student Council, and thus to free cold drinks, and rumor has it that I have already spent a night or two in our designated room after the evening got a little out of hand. Every faculty at our university has its own student council—and ours is undoubtedly the best.
We’re at a party. Strange and familiar faces hover around us, drinking and shouting. Cheerful music fills the air. The garden where we celebrate is lit up in bright colors.
You’re having fun, drifting from one bottle to the next, from one taste to another, from one mouth to the next. People are waiting for you to push beyond the limit. Things are spinning out of control. The mood shifts. It’s no longer fun.
The night grows darker. You fall, lying on your back on the grass, laughing with the others around you. Your top has slipped up, exposing more than you realize. I walk over, cover you, and pull you to your feet. It’s hard to tell if you’re laughing or crying.
You try to kiss me. I turn away, pressing your head to my shoulder. “I love you very much,” I whisper in your ear. Silence. “I love you too,” you answer quietly. Björk’s voice whispers, “Your mouth floats above my bed at night, my own private moon.”
You nestle your head against mine, the faint smell of beer, salt, and cigarettes mingling in your breath. Hair to hair. Skin to skin. Pulse to pulse.
“Just because the mind can make up whatever it wants, doesn’t mean that it’ll never come true, won’t ever happen. Please, could I change that?” I can feel your body against mine. “Just because she can.” This moment feels like the most important thing in the world.
“Is that the right thing to do? Oh, I just don’t know.” You turn toward me, your face close. “Let me introduce one to the other. The dream and the real, get them acquainted. Introduce. A mouth to a mouth.”
Your face becomes mine. I taste your lips, your tongue. Your breath enters me, warm, filled with beer, salt, cigarettes, and a hint of loneliness. “The dream and the real, get them acquainted.”
Maybe hope can win. “Can I just sneak up from behind?” I plead. “Now please, can I kiss her?” I shout. “Is that the right thing to do?” The void answers softly, “Oh, I just don’t know. There’s a line there, I can’t cross it.” I wake up, am lost, can no longer deny it.
This semester, we took part in a workshop with the popular Hungarian artist István Horkay as part of our Werkwoche at Technical University of Applied Sciences in Augsburg. His collage posters are famous and have been exhibited in galleries all over the world.
István Horkay embarked on his journey by graduating from the School of Fine Arts in Budapest. Following this, he was offered an opportunity to enrich his skills at the Academy of Fine Arts in Cracow, where he earned his Master of Fine Arts. And he taught us exactly that: The fine arts.
István Horkay’s art is epitomic in the double meaning of the word. A fragment, an incised part of something that already exists, and, because of this incision, a violation of the finished surface, the tangle of writing or a finished picture. This is based on the experience that people, by transmitting themselves through signs, feign a kind of meaningfulness.
In István Horkay’s work, this textual meaningfulness always appears differently, as contrasting colors appear on the surface in separate places. His posters are not only experimental but life itself.
It was a great experience to work with István Horkay and his lovely wife and design some works under his personal guidance. I was allowed to design a total of three posters, which I called The Book of Love, The Bachelor of Arts and Jazz.
The workshop was complemented by an exhibition that took place together with a display of the most beautiful German books.
The Werkwoche was a great opportunity to creatively break out of the daily routine of studying and try something completely new. I’m looking forward to taking part again in the near future.
My second semester was rewarding—I had a great time, made new connections, and deepened existing ones. That’s what college is all about. At least for me.
In the semester after next I have the chance to spend it abroad and was asked to choose a university in a country that interests me. After some thoughtful consideration, I’ve narrowed down my options to Japan, Taiwan, and Lithuania.
In a few weeks, I will know where my journey will take me. I would agree with all the choices. Simply because each of them offers opportunities that I will never have again.
Let’s see where destiny will take me to. Until then I’m looking forward to my fourth semester with new courses, new people, and new adventures. Yeah.
Since the beginning of my college attendance and the subsequent move to a new city, my entire circle of friends consists of my fellow students. That wouldn’t really be a problem. After all, they are all great people with their very own dreams, hopes, and goals. And I’ve grown very fond of some of them over time.
We’ve partied the night away together, sunbathed by the lake, cooked delicious food, danced, played tabletop role-playing games, watched anime, and had profound conversations about the meaning of it all. The time I spend with these people means a lot to me.
But I’m realizing that the age difference between me and them is leading to interpersonal difficulties. After all, I am now 40 years old and most of them are around 20. And that’s not a very healthy relationship.
When we celebrated my birthday in a trendy bar in the city center a few days ago, we had a lot of fun. Expensive drinks, loud music, and a few colorful drugs. Everything I need to have a good time.
But of course, I noticed that I was the oldest person there. I couldn’t flirt with anyone because otherwise, I would have felt like a creep. And that’s not all: I’m generally not allowed to develop feelings for my fellow students that go beyond friendship. No matter how much I would like to sometimes.
Because otherwise, I feel like I’m abusing their trust in me as a friend. But since I would like to be in a romantic relationship again because I honestly miss that in my life, I now feel a little trapped in this adolescent world.
I have therefore resolved to finally grow up. At least partially. I need to expand my circle of friends. Get to know people who will help me grow. Mentally. And with whom I have the chance to develop intimate relationships that are not possible in my current environment for various reasons.
However, I don’t yet know how I’m going to do this. Maybe I should find a new hobby. Or go to places that are frequented by people of the same age. Or maybe it’s enough to walk through the world a little more consciously and be more open to new folks.
The important thing is not to get too comfortable in my present surroundings. Otherwise, I will deny myself opportunities that are currently hidden from me.
As of today, I am 40 years old. So it’s about time to talk about my midlife crisis. Strictly speaking, I’ve been in it for four decades now, but in order to have a good starting point for today’s topic, let’s just assume that it’s reached its peak today.
My midlife crisis manifests itself internally through constant reflection, depression, and self-destructive tendencies and externally through continuous optimization of my, at least in my eyes, perfect outfit.
I am a great advocate of a single appearance. While normal people wear a different wardrobe every day, consisting of all kinds of colors, shapes, and brands, I have made it my mission to find the ideal piece of clothing for every part of my body. And, yes, I know that this behavior is the result of some error in my head. But let’s call it minimalism.
I quickly realized that the majority of my individual uniform had to be black. That way I don’t have to worry about any color combinations. Black always fits, looks good, and is also slimming. No other color has so many wins.
What’s more, my outfit has to be cheap, basic, and available everywhere. Even if, for whatever reason, I end up in Guatemala, I need to be able to go into town and replace a used item of clothing there.
That’s why I’ve chosen a few international companies whose products I use to present myself to the world. Of course, I always adapt this decision. After all, my outfit is alive. Like me. I’m not dead. Yet.
Most of my clothes are from H&M. Because the quality is good, the price is reasonable, and availability is guaranteed. One plus point is that the basics are not printed with logos. They are simple, modern, and have a good shape. I can also dye them if they are washed out.
So I’ve bought the same black pants, T-shirts, hoodies, sweaters, jackets, underpants, scarves, and gloves several times so that I can change them every day.
Of course, I can’t wear too many nameless basics, otherwise I have no character. That’s why my cap printed with the New York Yankees logo is from New Era. Because I wanted something American.
And since black only looks good with white accents, because otherwise you seem like a mortician, I’m wearing a pair of white Nike Air Force 1 with white Nike Everyday Cushioned Training Crew socks. Because it’s the default right now.
My outfit is rounded off with black Jisco glasses, a vintage Casio watch, and Apple AirPod Pros. Done. This is how stylish a midlife crisis can be. At least in my head.
When websites like MySpace, Facebook, and Twitter emerged in the early 2000s, I was fascinated by the possibilities they brought. Whether I was chatting with buddies, flirting with girls, or discussing the latest One Piece episode with other fans, social media turned the internet into a place where strangers could become acquaintances, and acquaintances could become friends.
Social media shaped who I am today. Facebook took me to Berlin, Twitter to Japan, and Instagram to America. I reveled in the benefits of this universe, but I watched with regret as these platforms gradually became breeding grounds for hate, ignorance, and depression.
Suddenly, social media was no longer fun. Still, I didn’t want to abandon the dream of a connected world, because there were people on these platforms who meant something to me. For far too long, I ignored my inner voice telling me it was time to say goodbye to the hollow shell that social media had become.
Maybe I was just afraid, or perhaps I was hoping I’d find a reason to keep denying the inevitable. But the longer I stayed, the more out of place I felt amid the angry voices, blunt propaganda, and false promises. So, I had only one choice to finally shed this mental burden that had weighed on me for years: delete social media. And now, I’ve done it.
Besides my retreat from social media, I’ve also stopped using emojis in emails, chats, and text messages. I’ve disabled the buttons that let me decorate my thoughts with colorful little pictures on my phone and computer. My words have to stand on their own. And if they can’t, then I’ve failed as a writer—and as a decent human being.
Of course, emojis serve a purpose. They’re meant to fill the gaps where words fall short. Without them, there will be misunderstandings, arguments, and, ultimately, conflicts. But I don’t care about that. As usual, the world should revolve around me and my decisions, no matter how arbitrary or illogical they may seem.
When a brave adventurer has spent the entire day climbing mountains, recovering treasures, and battling giants, while trying to keep every single one of his limbs attached to his body, there are three things that drive him to look forward to the next day: Beer. Meat. And sex.
After all, he’s got tough memories in his head, hard-earned coin in his pocket, and an even harder erection in his pants. And he needs to deal with these potential problem-makers as quickly as possible, so they don’t lead to his downfall in the long run. The only question is: Which establishment will help him the most in this delicate matter for the least amount of money?
Stunk and Zel are two prime examples of these now not-so-theoretical fortune hunters. For the jaded human and the high-spirited elf, real life begins when they step onto the streets, now aglow with the city’s colorful neon signs, after a tingling brew at the Ale & Eats inn, run by the ever-bubbly bird lady Meidri.
From there, they can slip into the well-oiled, frequently used orifices of willing prostitutes. After all, there are plenty available here, in every conceivable shape, color, and function imaginable. One day, they rescue the angel Crimvael from the clutches of a wild monster and introduce the innocent soul to the pleasures of jolly light girls.
I enjoyed Interspecies Reviewers more than I expected. Stunk and Zel are two lovable, horny guys who want to mount anything that breaths. Their boundary-pushing sexcapades are so colorful, amusing, and over the top that I’d love to see a second season. But for various reasons, it will likely never happen.
So I have no choice but to close my eyes, have a few warm thoughts, and imagine myself joining Stunk and Zel’s illustrious troupe, about to get down and dirty in the nearest fantasy brothel. I’m even thinking about getting the manga, just because I want to know which brightly lit establishments my testosterone-fueled friends will end up in next.
God had the best cocaine. My friends assured me of that. Nothing was as clear, pure, and effective as the contents of the transparent bags she carefully placed on the table at weekends.
God was not even twenty years old. She had long black hair and a round face. We called her God because she went to a notorious Catholic boarding school for girls. We should have named her Devil, at least if her stories from there were to be believed.
Since God liked me, I was always allowed to snort for free. But that privilege made me feel like a mooch, so I paid for her food at McDonald’s and her drinks at Bar 25 in return. Sometimes at least.
While I randomly consumed everything I could get my hands on, God only used cocaine to function. Her minimalist usage made a great impression on me.
After a trip to her parents in the south, God never returned to Berlin. Rumor has it there was trouble with a classmate. God had smashed her head so hard against a sink in the restroom during an argument that it broke. We never heard from God again. That was also the end of my cocaine phase.
When I think of Japan, my mind drifts to sushi, manga, and suicide. It’s a country of pure contrasts, where neon lights pulse with life, yet shadows loom just as brightly. Recently, I watched Sion Sono’s cult masterpiece Suicide Club, a delirious descent into the bizarre phenomenon of mass suicides sweeping the East Asian nation.
The film from 2001, featuring appearances by Ryo Ishibashi, Akaji Maro, and Masatoshi Nagase, unfolds like a sinister puzzle, with Detective Kuroda and his team fumbling through a trail of cryptic clues: Rancid sports bags, clunky early-internet websites, and a deeply unnerving pop idol group that’s equal parts saccharine and sinister. And I love it.
The opening scene is burned into my head: Dozens of uniformed schoolgirls, hands clasped and faces alight with giddy laughter, throwing themselves in front of a speeding subway train. Blood sprays across the station like something out of a grotesque art installation. It’s horrifying, absurd, and iconic—a tone-setter for the ride that follows.
From there, the movie spirals into a dizzying blend of splatter gore, J-pop surrealism, and psychological labyrinths. What’s it all about? The search for identity? Love? Friendship? Or is it just a meditation on flesh? Sion Sono doesn’t hand out answers. Instead, he dares me to sit with the madness and draw my own conclusions.
There’s something inconceivably irresistible about shows and movies set in Tokyo right around the turn of the millennium. Foldable phones snapping shut with satisfying clicks, Eurobeat tracks pumping through crowded arcades, schoolgirls in sailor suits dashing to catch the last train—it was the very last time when Japan felt like the epicenter of cool, a fever-dream era that unfortunately will never quite return.
Suicide Club captures that strange moment perfectly, preserving it in all its chaotic, messy glory. And if there’s one message I take away from this twisted gem, it’s that you have to treat life like a write-once hard drive. Although, it would be nice to forget the bad things.
The second semester of my studies in Interactive Media has just said goodbye to me. Officially it doesn’t end until the end of September but with the semester break starting in the next few days, I can justifiably say that my first year at college is now over.
It has been a year full of new people, experiences, and joy of life. I have learned, designed, and programmed. We made our own movies, build machines, and create animations, tried our hand at programming languages, and almost single-handedly destroyed the university’s beverage budget in the form of beer, beer, and more beer.
I joined the design student council and a Dungeons & Dragons club, helped out at events in front of and behind the scenes, and spent some nights at the campus because I missed the last train home more than once.
While a few months ago, I was still convinced that I wanted to devote myself entirely to visual wonders and thus pursue a Bachelor of Arts, in recent weeks I have come to the decision that I would like to try my hand at the Bachelor of Science after all and thus prove myself in the world of bits and bytes.
The good thing about this plan is that if it fails, I can still crawl back into the art world the following semester. Possibly because the physics-soaked math has taken the fun out of it for me. I would then only have to make up a few missing modules.
In the next semester, we will have to try out various elective modules in the areas of design, computer science, and gaming and decide in which country we would like to spend our semester abroad.
I’m currently leaning towards Japan, Finland, or Estonia, but I still have little a bit of time to think about it in peace. Besides, I have to be accepted there first, and this decision is, sadly, not mine alone. But let’s see in which part of the world I’ll end up in the coming winter.
My versatile studies have given me, and I’m not exaggerating, a sense of life again. A reason to get up early in the morning. To come to campus with joy, smile at familiar faces, and experience new adventures with people I already know or just met for the first time. And for that, I want to thank everyone who has shared this journey with me so far.
I’m really glad I decided to apply at Technical University of Applied Sciences in Augsburg last year for being able to have this opportunity and excited to see what challenges await me next semester.
Japan is not only a land of cultural traditions, technological achievements, and historical, social, and geographical challenges, but for many enthusiasts it is a nation of great and small wonders waiting to be discovered and explored.
Over the past decades, Tokyo has developed into an international hotspot for pop culture, from fashion and music to art. In Kyoto, you’ll find the most beautiful temples; in Osaka, the most delicious delicacies; in Yokohama, the most exhilarating nightlife.
Those who make it as far as Okinawa, Hokkaido, or Tottori experience Japan in its most multifaceted form. They see that anything is possible here. They realize they are standing in the midst of a cultural treasure trove and need only choose a direction.
In anime and manga, wide-eyed space pirates, power-hungry swordsmen, and brave magical girls come to life. In J-pop and J-rock, both the bright and shadowed sides of life are sung about. And in countless novels—from Banana Yoshimoto and Haruki Murakami to Mieko Kawakami—quiet and outspoken heroes alike search for happiness.
Japanese pop culture is full of love, desire, and passion. It seems to burst outward in every conceivable direction, and with every loud bang a new discovery, a new story, a new potential passion comes to life.
My observations of the Land of the Rising Sun, poured into words, are declarations of love to this seemingly endless universe of creative daydreams—one into which you can immerse yourself at will, whose brightly illuminated gates stand open to all who wander the world with open eyes in search of an inspiring home.
I want to celebrate Japanese pop culture in Germany and beyond. Whether fashion, art, music, films, books, games, travel, technology, food, or life in general—whether anime, manga, or J-pop—whether widely known far beyond the borders of the Far East or long since faded into eternal insider status in its homeland.
For you, I set out on a journey into the distance, in search of an alternative world whose energy can be felt from here, whose courage can be sensed from here, whose love can be felt even from afar. I want to grasp it and understand it—and hold it close to us.
In my texts on Japanese pop culture, which I regularly publish on this blog, I sit beside Spike Spiegel in the cockpit in Cowboy Bebop, save the world with Asuka Langley Soryu and her friends in Neon Genesis Evangelion, and wander with Ginko through the spirit-filled forests of a long-forgotten world in Mushishi.
I dive into the bustling chaos of Takeshita Street in the heart of Harajuku, let myself be swept away by the gaming kids in front of the flickering screens in Akihabara, and settle into a well-hidden jazz café in Shimokitazawa to listen, over a cup of matcha tea, to the lively sounds of Ryo Fukui, Casiopea, and Soil & “Pimp” Sessions.
And now and then, I travel back in time to a Japan that no longer exists: to the exciting 1970s of creative revolution, the brightly glowing 1980s of economic dominance, and the sobering 1990s of financial decline. Each era is as beautiful as it is different, waiting to be discovered and brought back to life.
Every single one of my articles about Japan is a digital homage to the creative spirits of a nation that so often seems far away. If you enjoy looking beyond the cultural horizon, if you are always searching for something new, exciting, and surprising, and if you are not afraid of perhaps losing yourself forever in a labyrinth of otherness, then you are in exactly the right place here.
Discover Japan’s most imaginative side with me, again and again. I look forward to embarking with you, in my upcoming articles about the Land of the Rising Sun, on an unforgettable expedition into the depths of Far Eastern ingenuity—and to uncovering together one or another lost treasure hidden somewhere in the depths of Tokyo, Kyoto, or Osaka.
Of course I can’t always have what I want. That would be far too easy anyway. My own happiness sometimes collides with the dreams and wishes of others. And I have no right to hurt them just because I hold the questionable belief that I absolutely must be the main character in every single story that is told.
Every now and then I have to admit to myself that, in a play, I only occupy a supporting role and that the spotlight is directed at someone else. No matter how hard that may be on my own ego. Sometimes I am neither Romeo nor Juliet, but simply some random fruit vendor who suffers dutifully in the background.
If the slim, black-clad girl I like—with her white sneakers marked by life, who grins shamelessly at just the right moments—the girl I want to spend time with, experience adventures with, forge memories with, and face the perils of the world alongside, already has someone like that by her side, who—surprise—is not me, then the only correct path I should be capable of taking is the one that leads away.
Away from this captivating girl, away from her supposedly radiant happiness, away from the creeping pain I have grown accustomed to in recent times out of sheer ignorance toward myself and perhaps a touch of masochism.
Above all, away from the inner urge to perhaps still obtain—through some random, completely logic-defying miracle of this universe—the chance to become part of this slowly dissolving hope.
Before I cause irreparable damage. To myself and to the girl I actually wanted to win over. Because all I could achieve with this desperate plan is hatred, anger, and an almost unimaginable loneliness. And I certainly don’t want that. Unless I am already lost. But then everything is too late anyway.
So while she’s lying in bed with her boyfriend late at night, having watched a show, he was allowed to dive into her, and now, without sparing a single thought for me, has fallen asleep tightly cuddled up to him, I stand after a mediocre party in the rain, with two cold, rancid McDonald’s cheeseburgers in a bag, at the main station, waiting for the last train home—only to indulge in the one pastime I desperately wanted to prevent: thinking about her.
These embarrassing and pitiful emotional scars could be avoided if I followed the advice that emerged from a boozy round of others. That I should distract myself. That I should talk to the nice but uninteresting faces about more than just a few irrelevant sentences. That I might thereby find someone who could burn themselves into my emotional world just as deeply as the person whose attention I am trying to draw to myself by every conceivable means.
But of course I don’t want that. Because everyone else is just empty shells compared to this one girl. And even though I know perfectly well that this isn’t true, it’s far easier to regard this both subjective and objective lie as an established truth and thus dissolve undisturbed in my own self-pity. After all, heartbreak is much more fun when I abandon all hope.
Perhaps because this way of dealing with sorrow is also much easier than having to face the uncomfortable reality that I may not actually be infatuated with the girl herself, but with the false expectations I pumped into her from the very beginning.
Because what do I really know about this girl, beyond the scattered stories she so graciously shared with me, and the connections I had to piece together myself—otherwise I would have been staring at a patchwork of other people’s memories? Exactly: nothing. I know absolutely nothing. And realizing this fact is the first step out of my own broken head and into the real world.
On top of that, as could hardly be otherwise, I’m a good person. Of course I am. At least that’s what I tell myself so I don’t go completely insane. I don’t want to barge into someone else’s romance, no matter how broken and certainly miserable I might imagine it to be. Such a devious attack would not be my place and would also be deeply misanthropic. And probably very stupid.
Besides—and this is the most important point—it would get me nothing. I wouldn’t be the brave hero rescuing the helpless princess from the clutches of a painful relationship. No, I would simply be some random asshole who got too caught up in his own movie and, from whatever psychopathic abyss, decided that his only chance at happiness was to destroy that of others.
And no one wants anything to do with someone like that. Ever. Least of all the girl far removed from my own crumbling world, whose grin I see before me when I close my eyes. Her happiness should be untouchable. Even if she has decided that I myself may not be a part of it.
So I am left with nothing else but to scrape together the last remnants of my own sanity, my own reason, and perhaps a bit of my own pride, and arrive at the only right decision that is worth pursuing.
Namely, that I must tear down, burn, and blow up these bridges built in the wrong direction as quickly as possible, turn around, and finally walk once more along the ridge of mental health. Before it is possibly too late.
Maybe the other nice faces aren’t just empty shells after all. Maybe one of them can evoke the same feelings in me as the slim, black-clad girl with the white sneakers marked by life. Maybe one of them is just as pretty, smart, and cheeky—if only I allow for that potential instead of dismissing it with irritation from the outset. And if everything goes well, I might even forget why I was so fascinated by that one shamelessly grinning person in the first place.
Well then, are you all already as excited as I am? Of course you are. Because this week my second semester in the Interactive Media degree program at Augsburg University of Applied Sciences is beginning. And ahead of me—and my daring fellow companions—lie a few months full of fun, excitement, and… very… nice… other… things. The main thing is that there’s something with alliteration. Because that always sounds good.
And since you’re surely absolutely dying to know what awaits little Marcel this semester, why don’t we all take a look at exactly that together. Because let’s be honest: you don’t have anything better to do right now anyway. Exactly. So… let the wild ride begin!
In the Introduction to Interactive Design, we’ll get an overview of systems of order, the principles of interaction and interface design, the basics of creative prototyping, cross-media design and creativity techniques, basic analog and digital design tools, and the fundamentals of usability as well as design theory. Presumably it’s also about the fundamental fundamentals of the fundamentals—but that’s obviously just speculative wishful thinking.
In any case, we’ll definitely learn information design, data visualization, mapping, screen design—so typography, grids, and design systems—the basics of usability and human-centered design, as well as generative design. That all sounds very fascinating indeed.
After successfully completing the module, we’ll be able to apply basic design principles and typography appropriately across different digital output media, independently prototype design tasks using analog and digital design tools, apply fundamental design and creativity techniques, solve tasks experimentally and process-oriented through prototypes and design variants, and analyze and visualize processes.
The course Introduction to Audiovisual Design, in turn, spans a wide arc from the elementary forms of expression in animation to methodological design concepts for time-based media. Both conceptual design and artistic experimentation are encouraged. The lectures challenge us to actively participate and to develop our own positions.
The working groups and workshops provide hands-on experience, fostering personal experience and self-organization within teams. Group work is, after all, the very best thing in the world. Everyone loves it. And the teaching methods are oriented toward critical discourse and practical experience.
A major focus here is animation. In lectures, the most important animation cultures are presented exemplarily, and in workshops, simple animation techniques are practiced. In addition, cinematic means of expression are also covered—again introduced in lectures and then applied in workshops. This is where we build the bridge to storyboarding, an essential design technique for audiovisual media. Discussions of current and classic media art, as well as excursions to relevant festivals and exhibitions, round out the program.
In the Introduction to Web Technologies, we learn all about the internet and how it works. We study the functionality of key browser protocols, the technical foundations of websites, and the basics of frontend programming. We acquire knowledge about the practical and correct use of relevant internet protocols and browser interfaces, the implementation of designed websites, navigation and manipulation of the DOM using JavaScript and jQuery, and the creation of interactive websites.
We also learn how to analyze connection problems and browser traffic performance in relation to web applications, as well as how to plan and implement our own websites using various developer tools. In the end, we’ll understand what HTTP, TCP, APIs, WebSockets, WebRTC, XML, HTML, CSS, JavaScript, and jQuery are. Hopefully. Wasn’t CSS a band once?
In the Introduction to Software Development, we learn how to design, implement, document, and test our own applications. These applications also include graphics and user interaction via graphical interfaces. By the end of the module, we’ll be able to transfer the acquired knowledge and skills to a small, self-developed software project and put it into operation.
We learn all about development phases, requirements analysis, design, implementation, testing, deployment, and maintenance of programs, as well as methods of agile software development and advanced concepts of object-oriented programming such as class hierarchies, inheritance, and polymorphism, along with programming graphical user interfaces. The content is made practically tangible through an individually planned and implemented software project carried out during the lab.
On a very personal note, the next part of the Japanese language course is also coming up for me, in which we’ll learn the second Japanese script, Katakana. It’s basically the alternative—and mostly Western-term-used—little brother of Hiragana. During the course, we’ll even all go out for Japanese food together and order our dishes in the East Asian national language. How exciting. “Ichi sushi kudasai!”
And since I postponed the programming exam from the first to the second semester—because my private fortune teller decided it should be so—I also get to look forward to another round of Processing. Hooray. At least I’m not alone in this, because some of my fellow students were just as incapable and are therefore in the same boat as me. That immediately makes me feel less lonely.
In any case, I’m excited to see what adventurous projects we’ll tackle in the new courses, and after the one-and-a-half-month-long semester break—which seemed to go on forever—I’m actually looking forward to returning to a somewhat structured daily routine that is not self-determined by me. On the other hand, the semester break could of course have lasted another three to eighty-seven months longer. I would certainly have been the last to complain.
By the end of this semester, we’ll also have to decide whether we want to pursue the artistic or the technical track. My choice is already clear. And that’s not only because of the traumatic computer science exam that I still sometimes dream about—only to wake up late at night drenched in sweat, shouting, “A, A, B, B, A, A, B, A, B, A, B, B, B, A… C?!”
My heart simply beats more for the colorful world of subjectively evaluated art. Objective technology, with all its rules, regulations, and laws invented by some mathematicians that are nearly impossible to argue away, is for me more of a means to an end—and therefore secondary. Yes, dear computer scientists, I know this sentence hurts a lot. But you’ll just have to get over it. Really.
As in the previous semester, I’ll then once again present you with a conclusion of the months behind me, in which I’ll proudly proclaim why I am the best, smartest, and probably also most handsome student Augsburg University of Applied Sciences has ever had. And while you’re still laughing, I’ll already be sailing off into the sunset on my yacht—paid for solely by my high IQ—with a very lightly clothed Selena Gomez in my arms. Or something like that.
From up here you can see the lush green meadows, the azure-blue sea, and the clear, sunny sky. Gentle piano melodies echo through the overgrown high-rises. The decaying buildings are the last memorials to a civilization that was not prepared for its sudden departure.
In the distant future, invaders from another world attack Earth without warning and unleash machine lifeforms to take over the planet. Faced with this insurmountable threat, humanity is driven from its home and flees to the Moon.
The Council of the Exiled organizes a technologically seemingly superior resistance force of android soldiers who attempt to reclaim Earth. To finally break the stalemate, the organization deploys a new unit of infantry: YoRHa.
Meanwhile, in the abandoned wasteland that was once a place filled with bustle and laughter, the battle between machines and androids continues to rage. A war that may soon bring to light the long-forgotten truth about this world and the fate of humanity…
Released in 2017, the role-playing game NieR:Automata by the Japanese artist Yoko Taro could easily have disappeared into the depths alongside countless similar titles because of its premise. Alien monsters attack Earth while humanity desperately struggles for survival. As if one had not already seen, heard, and played through something like that thousands of times before…
Yet while all those other works are forgotten shortly after their more or less tedious completion, even years later one keeps thinking back to what was experienced in the visually stunning successor to NieR Replicant. Because the end of the world has rarely been portrayed as so radically depressing, hopeless, and philosophically heavy.
NieR:Automata is an unforgettable experience on many different levels. The characters burn themselves into one’s emotional world. The epic music by Keiichi Okabe continuously shatters even the most cheerful-seeming thoughts. And the fact that you must successfully finish the game multiple times to fully understand the story—only to end up empty-handed again at the very end, after giving it your all—puts the finishing touch on the whole experience.
Anyone who wants to find happiness in a world of merciless hopelessness and ultimately drown in absolute depression cannot avoid NieR:Automata. Before long, they will be fighting side by side with 2B, 9S, and A2 against a seemingly insurmountable fate. And they will become part of a story whose true ending seems to flee with every step taken toward it—only to struggle desperately against its own resolution at the very last moment, by every conceivable means.
I love walking. Drop me anywhere on this round ball of Earth, point me in any direction, and I’ll set off. From A to B, crisscrossing, straight ahead or in circles. The main thing is to keep going, always further. And when I talk about running, I don’t mean jogging, racing, or sprinting—good God, no—but the most relaxed form of human locomotion: walking.
Over the past few years I’ve gradually increased my walking volume. Not long ago my daily step count was still in the single- or double-digit range, but I kept pushing my limit higher and higher. Three digits soon became four. Four digits eventually became five. And five digits might one day even become six. If that’s humanly possible at all.
The number of ten thousand steps a day—randomly pulled out of thin air by a Japanese company for advertising purposes and scientifically completely irrelevant—I can now easily manage. At the moment I’m hovering around an average of twenty thousand steps, like some kind of elite athlete.
My success—so inspiring to every single human on this planet—rests on three significant pillars of individual achievement: boredom, routine, and distraction. I simply have nothing better to do. I only do things if I’m used to doing them. And I only stick with something if my thoughts are occupied with something else while I’m doing it.
With alternative sporting activities, like jogging for example, I spend every second of the agonizing and seemingly never-ending process hoping that some confused hunter will mistake me for a graceful deer—or at least a somewhat stocky wild boar—and shoot me in the forest so it will finally be over. When I’m walking, on the other hand, I’m often surprised to realize I’ve already been doing it for two, three, sometimes four hours without actively noticing.
During the time when I’m more or less abusing my two still-functioning legs, I prefer listening to some kind of alternative-culture podcasts. For example 8-4 Play. Or Retrograde Amnesia. Or Axe of the Blood God. Anything where a few hardcore nerds passionately talk for hours about a topic that has narrowly missed mainstream mass consumption. The geekier, more multi-voiced, and more lively it is, the better.
Then, armed with my noise-canceling headphones, I stride rapidly through cities, across fields, along the lake. Past cars, people, and nice-smelling cafés, boutiques, and döner stands. Always with just one goal in mind: keep walking, always keep going, until I’m so exhausted I almost have to puke.
In Augsburg, where I’m currently studying as you may know, I have a regular route that has been carefully optimized but still leaves room for experimentation. I like the city a lot because it’s neither too big nor too small, and because you can disappear either into deserted alleyways or into the bustling chaos of the crowds—depending on what you feel like at the moment.
On a day completely at my disposal, I get off two stops before the main station, walk to the university library, treat myself to a coffee and a bit of laptop time, and then take a big loop through the Textile District, one or two parks, and the old town before buying something to eat at Rewe and heading home again.
And I do exactly that every day, over and over again, like a broken robot with no life. But it works. Because it’s routine. Because I like the varied route. Because I know exactly where, along my seemingly random path, I can rest, where I can get online, and where I can go to the bathroom. And that kind of certainty is exactly what mentally disadvantaged autists like me need.
This calculated knowledge drastically reduces the chances of unpleasant surprises while still leaving enough room for new ideas, secrets, and discoveries. And occasionally you even meet people you already know—or haven’t met yet—and can chat with them for a bit. At least that way you don’t feel quite so lonely while stubbornly walking in circles.
“But Marcel, if you walk twelve-bazillion kilometers every day, why are you still such a fat pig?” To that cheeky and completely unexpected question I have three perfectly thought-out and formulated answers. First: shut up. Second: no idea—how should I know? Third: I’m working on it, okay?! More information will be available in my upcoming self-help book, soon to appear at your trusted bookstore: Boss Transformation: From Battle Colossus to a Line in the Landscape.
While I’m preaching to you here about walking, what I actually want to make clear is that if you, for whatever reason, need more movement in your life, all you have to do is find something that doesn’t completely piss you off while you’re doing it. That can be literally anything. Except maybe sitting on the couch eating chips—unless you’re losing weight while doing it. If you are, then you’ve basically won at life.
The only rule you need to follow is that you must keep trying the different activities available to you until you finally find something where, while doing it, you don’t secretly wish for sudden cardiac arrest as an excuse to stop. Some people get lucky and find it on the first try, others only on the hundredth. That risk is something you just have to accept—but it’s worth it.
And if for me that means walking along paths in spring, summer, autumn, and winter—whether in sunshine, rain, or snow—and hopefully not getting run over by a bus, then for you it might be… who knows… football. Or tennis. Or climbing skyscrapers without safety gear or clothing. If the standard-issue stuff isn’t for you, then you should look beyond the obvious. Life is full of possibilities—you just have to use them.
Alright, enough guru talk for today. I’m going to put on my smelly sports shoes that are already almost crying out loudly for mercy, pick a five-hour podcast about the best Super Nintendo games of the early nineties, and head out into the wide world like little Hans. And if I do end up getting run over by a bus, at least I’ll have died doing something I truly love with all my heart. And not everyone can say that.
A misaligned photograph of the future, born in the fever of Japan’s growth in the sixties and seventies. Traditions, quiet and fine, threaded through with wabi-sabi as an inner pulse, keep time beneath the noise. Buildings that refuse to shed their rust, that keep a film of dull gray on the fingers, stand as patient witnesses. A floating consolation, and a smell of open country, move down the lanes and linger in the alleys.
The story of Millennium Parade unfolds in a forked-off Tokyo, grown out of this zone – our shared room of side-by-side living. The city has laid aside its earlier addiction to polish and noiseless urbanity. Instead, it sets out toward a strange, beautiful, absurdly ideal future metropolis, nourished by disorder and yet leaning toward transcendence.
The self-titled debut album by the Japanese music group Millennium Parade has been on constant rotation for me since release. After all, the record is packed only with absolute bangers from start to finish. Bon Dance? Slammer. Fly With Me? Slammer. Familia? Slammer.
The only tricky part is explaining the genre, because Millennium Parade simply hurl everything they have, pop, hip-hop, electronic, dance, rock, funk, jazz, and rap, into a single pot, give it a hard stir, and then fling the multicolored mash against the wall to see what dazzles.
It splatters, clings, and somehow composes a picture that feels both chaotic and deliberate, a collage that swings from sugar rush to steel-edged groove, music that keeps its playfulness even while sounding engineered with obsessive care. Unskippable.
Millennium Parade persuade not only with modern songs for modern people, but also with a visual presentation rarely seen. The videos and live appearances by the collective surrounding Daiki Tsuneta of King Gnu overflow with off-the-wall ideas and meticulous craft, mixing animation, stage design, and camera play into a kind of kinetic theater.
Every frame feels engineered, yet the work breathes. Spectacle never strangles the spark. Their aesthetic extends the music’s argument. The future can be unruly and tender at once, a city of images that invites touch. And I can hardly wait to finally hold the new record from this Japanese collective in my own hands, whenever it may choose to appear. Because nothing would make my heart happier than waking in a neon-soaked, alternate-timeline cyberpunk Tokyo.
Vroom, vroom, vroom—off they go, those daredevil devils in their souped-up death machines. At the Redline, after all, anything goes. The greatest racing competition in the universe only takes place every five years, and that’s exactly why absolutely everyone wants to claim the glory for themselves. All while organized crime and militaristic governments try to exploit the spectacle for their own purposes.
Joshua Punkhead, a reckless hotshot who has clearly never heard of speed limits and who crashes through everything with his ultra-tuned ride that isn’t up a tree by the count of three, has only one goal: to become the winner of the Redline. And that’s despite the fact that his crush, Sonoshee, is also competing—and has absolutely no intention of letting him win.
The murmur among the intergalactic spectators grows loud when it becomes clear that the current race will take place on Roboworld. Its militant inhabitants have absolutely no desire for a bunch of insane sports junkies to tear across their planet and possibly stumble upon one or two secret weapons of mass destruction.
A deadly game begins. Because it’s not just the other racers chasing Joshua—whom everyone simply calls JP—but also the president of Roboworld and his lackeys, who have set their sights on him and his fellow competitors. Can this loudmouthed guy with gasoline in his veins conquer both the Redline and Sonoshee’s heart?
From the first second to the last, Redline is fast-paced and wildly colorful action, occasionally broken up by quieter moments to catch your breath. JP is a likable jerk with his heart in the right place. And both the different drivers and the surrounding characters offer enough depth, soul, or simply fun to keep the audience entertained.
If Redline is anything, it’s stylish. You could pause the film at almost any random moment—every single frame would be a vibrant work of art. Whether it’s the tech-packed racing machines, the densely detailed locations, or the sensual women, Redline bursts with illustrative highlights, all underscored by slick music, bombastic sound effects, and one cool line after another.
By the end, it’s hard to believe what an overwhelming visual spectacle has just unfolded before your eyes, and you almost doubt whether you even caught everything that happened at breakneck speed. After all, the screen practically explodes toward the finale in a firework display of glaring colors. But perhaps that very doubt is what makes you want to watch the film all over again.
You can call Redline many things—but boring is definitely not one of them. Anyone who enjoys cool guys in hot rides and even hotter girls who constantly raise the stakes in every scene will appreciate this anime. Everyone else can keep puttering along in their Fiat Punto through a 30-km/h zone and avoid taking any risks in life.
The vacation spot outside Vaasa devoured the four Lund girls. With their tiny bones and their tanned skin, an entire era disappeared. Six kilometers of winding coastline, a popular bathing resort in the fifties. Rows of changing cabins, tall reeds rustling in the wind. Here one finds the era the conservatives long for: when parents could send their children to the beach unsupervised, two dollars for ice cream and a bus ticket in the pockets of their summer trousers.
Mom and Dad shook their heads in concern and concealed the news about the children in Messina, Graad, Gottwald, where, it seemed to them, every week the tiny skeleton of a child was found cast into a replacement wall. Regularly, someone’s daughter who had been kept captive in a basement there for thirty years would flee into the street and scream for help.
But not here. Here there is social democracy. And the delicate peach blossoms of social democracy, its gentle aid programs, these progressive things make the broken soul of a person flare up with a kind of hope. This fantasy land will remain forever untouched by that strange technical urge to build a secret underground room, one with a ventilation system whose vents are disguised in the lawn as miniature clay windmills.
These dark fever clouds of the mind cool in the clear mists of open air; the breath of the distant blue glaciers freezes the sick thoughts of a person. Vaasa. One would much rather live here. And then, on a Tuesday morning, clouds beneath a blue sky, the four sisters went swimming.
The computer role-playing game Disco Elysium, released in 2019 by the Estonian studio ZA/UM, takes place in a world that is raw, merciless, and devoid of any sign of empathy. In an era of political upheaval, in which the survivors of a ruthless war still have to wipe the blood from their faces, everyone searches for the remnants of happiness—whether in one of the great metropolises or far away from the depressive bustle.
Harrier Du Bois, a detective of the 41st precinct of the Revachol Citizens Militia, called simply Harry by his few friends and many enemies, wakes one morning in a run-down seaside hotel with no memory of his past or of the world around him. He and his temporary partner from the 57th precinct, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, have been called to the once idyllic coastal town of Martinaise to investigate the brutal murder of a loudmouthed soldier.
The decaying world of Disco Elysium is full of interesting stories, viewpoints, and characters. From the first minute, the game is like a talkative book that wants to devour you and take your breath away with its never-ending chronicles. Wherever you lead Harry—through the enchanted church, the small supermarket, or the desolate swamp—with every step the history of a place collapses over you, a place that shouldn’t even exist like this… or perhaps it should?
Disco Elysium thrives on its enormous freedom of choice and the not-to-be-underestimated weight of chance. This begins even before Harry opens his eyes for the first time and continues all the way to the bitter end—when you only then realize the path you have taken, without having had any sense of what you may have missed. But by then it is already too late.
Harry’s limited time in Martinaise is essentially a search for himself disguised as a detective adventure. Do you want to confront the town’s inhabitants as a permanently drunk Nazi? As an all-knowing philosopher? As an unabashed muscleman? As an authoritarian logician? Or rather as a likable charmer? The possibilities in Disco Elysium seem almost limitless.
Anyone who immerses themselves in the world of Disco Elysium must renounce every distraction; they must become one with every single polygon that transforms into a living painting on the screen; they must become Harrier Du Bois. Or rather: Harrier Du Bois must become you.
Disco Elysium is an experience that likely does not exist a second time in this form or with this intensity. Martinaise may cover only a fraction of what the rest of the world—lingering in a fog that continuously approaches you—has to offer, but one can sense the immense drama hidden all around. And with every conversation, every question, every new idea, you come a little closer to this epic—without ever being able to grasp it fully. For the greater whole, one simply is not ready yet—and probably never will be.
If I want to, I can become friends with a great many people in a very short time. No matter where I am, no matter the situation, no matter who I’m dealing with. Then I’m funny, captivating, and so incredibly openhearted that it feels as if we’ve known each other for a lifetime.
I share intimate stories and secrets, confess my greatest sins and fears, and give them the feeling that I understand them and would move even the most unreachable levers just so that, simply by having met me, they might become happier. And that’s despite the fact that we only met for the first time five minutes ago.
In the past, I was almost proud of this ability—to actively switch off my shyness, lethargy, and social phobia and suddenly flip them into their complete opposite. Thanks to a trick I taught myself, which I call spontaneous mental distraction, and which works by thinking about something completely different just before doing something stupid or illogical, I do the boldest, craziest, and most charming things without having the chance to reflect on them beforehand. There simply isn’t enough time.
Those actions then feel completely natural and not wrong at all. And afterward I’m always glad I dared to do them, because it allows you to reach people who would otherwise have remained closed off to you. It’s fun to bend the world to my advantage this way. And I once thought that this absolute accessibility made me a better, more complete—and yes, also more popular—person.
Because of this unconventional character trait, I quickly became a central part of many different circles of friends, some of which only formed because of me. I enjoyed it when people desperately wanted to do things with me, competed for my favor at parties, or fell in love with me simply because they believed I was the first and only person on this planet who truly understood them and their problems. The feeling of emotional superiority eventually became normal to me.
But an oppressive truth that I initially dismissed as nonsense slowly became a sad certainty over time: I am a ghost. An empty heart wrapped in flesh without the slightest trace of empathy. A bus full of loudly wailing orphaned children could explode in front of me and it wouldn’t just be that I didn’t care—I would actually be annoyed that the little brats chose this exact moment to burn in front of me and block my way.
The only reason I can make friends with other people so quickly and easily is that they mean nothing to me. And if I do happen to take a particular liking to someone, I analyze them for so long and so intensely until I’ve finally gotten to the bottom of the fascination that drives me crazy—only to drop them afterward like a hot potato. Because I’ve drained everything from them. And then they become, at best, boring or, at worst, unbearable.
When I look back today, thanks to social media, at the various groups of friends that I once thought I was a fundamental part of, many of them still exist—just without me.
The photos that once showed their faces pressed closely together beside mine now have to make do, years later, with one less forced smile. Friends with whom I spent drunken summer nights and spun countless legends became, as if I had never existed, strangers from one day to the next.
I essentially sucked them dry and moved on. Like a ruthless wanderer of emotions who, just a moment ago, was still in the middle of his loved ones—feeling, celebrating, and fucking—and the next moment, when no one was paying attention, had suddenly disappeared.
Never seen again, on the way to the next adventure, only to pull the same stunt as before—just with different faces. At least I brought a few strangers together, so maybe my hunger for feelings had some good side to it, I lie to myself.
If I want to, I can become friends with a great many people in a very short time. No matter where I am, no matter the situation, no matter who I’m dealing with. Then I’m funny, captivating, and so incredibly openhearted that it feels as if we’ve known each other for a lifetime.
Sometimes I wonder whether I even possess any kind of character at all or whether I’m simply a soulless shapeshifter who only ever reflects whatever brings him closest to his current goal. Ideally into the favor, thoughts, or genitals of the person in front of me.
Always the right answer ready, always a cheeky remark at hand, always the correct balancing act between compassion, seriousness, and humor. And if I do give the wrong response once in a while and feel the inner pain of the resulting mental setback, then I learn from it, adjust a few inner screws, and correct them on the next attempt. But is that really me?
The question of who one actually is is as old and clichéd as life itself. Perhaps I’m simply a Frankenstein’s monster cobbled together from book quotes, television wisdom, and sayings I once picked up from someone I happened to admire—pretending to be a human being, when in truth I am nothing more than a parasite somehow kept alive, feeding on the fears, dreams, and problems of others.
Then I pounce like a starving predator on the first depressed-looking victim who crosses my path, tear them apart skin and hair and bone, and indulge myself in their remains so that something—anything—finally fills me again. A new body, a new thought, a new warmth. Anything other than the tasteless nothingness to which I’ve grown accustomed for so long.
But the hint of satisfaction lasts only a short while and disappears as quickly as it came. Because nothing can fill the seemingly endless emptiness inside me—especially not another person who only wanted to be loved, held, and saved, and who is now nothing more than a vague memory in my continuous bloodlust.
So I move on again, disgusted with myself, toward the next pretty face. Hoping that this time everything will be different. Surely it will be.
In the future, our planet will transform into a strange new world in which humanity must endure on an Earth without rain or oceans—only vast, desiccated deserts where two teenagers struggle to survive and search for hope.
The sea, the sky, and the land have been completely polluted by humankind when mysterious objects fall from the heavens. These gigantic structures crash onto the planet and absorb the air, the water, and most living beings into their core, stripping the Earth of the very essence of its nature.
The few remaining inhabitants of Earth fight to survive in a hostile environment and against an oppressive ruling race known as the Rodo. A hot-tempered boy named Ran struggles against the Rodo and against a world in which rain has become nothing more than a legend.
Green Legend Ran by Yu Yamamoto and Satoshi Saga, released in 1992 and 1993, is one of those anime titles that rarely appears on cult lists. Sure, Akira, Spirited Away, or Perfect Blue are always represented, but Green Legend Ran has long existed in the shadows—and entirely without justification.
In fact, it was one of the few titles I once ordered from a catalog on VHS. Alongside *El Hazard* and a *Bubblegum Crisis* music video tape. For whatever reason. I had always intended to get the otaku documentary instead—but at the time I was too young, since it was restricted to viewers 18 and older.
As mentioned earlier, Green Legend Ran is set on a post-apocalyptic Earth with a distinct science-fiction aesthetic. After an extraterrestrial invasion in which six of the so-called Rodo—an apparent race of gigantic monoliths—crash down from space, a massive climate shift is triggered that completely eradicates the oceans and rainfall, transforming the planet largely into an immense desert.
By that time, humanity had already devastated the environment, making a kind of apocalypse inevitable—similar to other environmentally themed anime such as Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, Nadia: The Secret of Blue Water, or Future Boy Conan.
In this brutal new world, two polarized factions have emerged. The first, the Rodoists, is a fanatical religious sect that worships the Rodo while practicing a form of hydraulic despotism. All communities are clustered around one of the monoliths, as they are the only remaining sources of water and food—most of which is gathered near the monoliths in what is known as the Sacred Green.
Travel between communities is rare, since beyond a certain distance from the monoliths the environment becomes so depleted that even the air is no longer breathable, requiring pressurized, spaceship-like vehicles. The second faction, the Hazard, is a secret revolutionary movement that opposes the Rodoists.
The protagonist, Ran, is a young orphan determined to join the Hazard and seek revenge on the scar-chested man who killed his mother. He becomes caught in the middle of a battle between the Hazard and the Rodoists, during which he meets a mysterious silver-haired girl named Aira.
Ran helps several Hazard scouts escape from his city and joins them. Soon afterward, the Rodoist army attacks the Hazard base. Aira is forcibly evacuated by the Hazard against her will. Ran attempts to board the sandship but fails, and begins pursuing it across the desert in a stolen pressure suit.
He is rescued by traveling water and food merchants just before his air supply runs out. The leader of the traders, a thoughtful man named Jeke, offers to help Ran rescue Aira. The rescue attempt goes awry when the Rodoists attack the Hazard sandship and recapture Aira while Ran and the merchants attempt to infiltrate the same vessel.
Divided into three chapters, Green Legend Ran is a rousing adventure film featuring carefully crafted characters who seek happiness after the apocalypse. What begins in a dusty shantytown quickly evolves into an epic journey across deserts, forests, and sacred cities to uncover the secret behind the Rodo.
Co-developed by the well-known illustrators Kenji Teraoka and Yoshiharu Shimizu, the work brims with action, humor, and occasional touches of romance. At times it is quite brutal and, toward the end, features more exposed breasts than many a hentai manga.
Naturally, Green Legend Ran can be interpreted as a metaphor for the environmental catastrophe toward which our species is undeniably heading. Perhaps the Rodo were summoned by the Earth itself to prevent humanity from causing further harm—who knows.
Anyone who enjoys a densely packed adventure anime filled with rugged characters, gigantic sandships, religious fanatics, and a bit of bloodshed will have just as much fun with Green Legend Ran as I did. Not least because of the outstanding soundtrack by Yoichiro Yoshikawa. And who knows—perhaps the film ultimately presents a not-so-implausible vision of the real world’s future.
Honestly, I don’t even know why I’ve been eating less meat in the past few weeks. And when I say less, I actually mean a lot less. It just happened that way. At lunchtime, the cafeteria always served a portion of French fries with ketchup and mayo for a buck—and that was enough for me. Out of curiosity, I picked up a pack of vegan salami at the supermarket, which was actually quite good. And a little avocado, hummus, or pickles with the cheese sandwich: Best.
I’m not concerned about health, climate, taste, culture, or even the animals in my newly discovered meat reduction. Let the critters be chopped up. Preferably quickly and efficiently. Why does everyone want to eat only happy animals? The unhappy ones would be much more worthwhile to be torn out of life. Then, at least, it would be over for them.
I can think of at most three reasons why I don’t have to think like a psychopathic Patrick all day long of roasted pigs, fried chicken, and freshly butchered cows just because I’ve stuffed myself with nothing but fruit, vegetables and cereals for a day.
First, I don’t give a shit about what I eat. I’ve long since reached a redemptive point in terms of nutrition, where the focus is on coffee. And everything else is second to seventh priority. Whether I’m shoving a veal cutlet in my mouth or some soy wheat bean mash-based alternative pudding, I don’t give a fuck. It’s all good—as long as it doesn’t make me throw up.
Second, it makes me feel better than everyone else. At least secretly. When I put the vegan cold cuts on the conveyor belt at the checkout and the guy behind me has his half a kilo of mixed mince for 2.99 dollars, I think to myself that I’m the more modern person of the two of us. Of course, I don’t tell him that. But I let him know it by placing the sliced, rancid sunflower seed porridge with shredded vegetables in it in such an optimal position that he can read what’s written there in big letters under the supermarket logo: “I’m better than you!”
Third, I am a follower. And that’s probably the most important reason of all. You just have to tell me certain things often enough, and eventually, I’ll believe them. When I watch more or less secret recordings of some redneck slaughterhouses, where chickens are trampled, piglets are castrated, and cows are mistreated, then it has at most a short-term effect on me. But the more often I witness such things, the more I think to myself: Okay, okay, from now on more cucumbers, tomatoes, and potatoes should suffer. I get it.
A few years ago, I wrote an insanely important literary text with the brilliant title Vegetarians, fuck you! Meat is for eating, in which I vehemently defended my desire for dead animals. And when I read through this, you can’t call it anything else, philosophical masterpiece, I actually continue to stand by everything I wrote back then. Especially the first three words of the headline are still very close to my heart.
But I have learned in recent months that it is extremely important to try something new and only then decide whether you want to continue on this path—or not. After all, we live in a time that often seems overwhelming and thus equally depressing due to its countless possibilities, but on the other hand, it has never been made easier for us to simply dare to do something different and thereby develop an eclectic view of the world, society and, hopefully, ourselves.
By the way, before any militant vegetarians or even, God forbid, vegans celebrate me now for being the first person on this planet who has at least somewhat reduced his meat consumption, I would like to clarify something. Because I have three more than important rules with this newly discovered life feeling, which I use myself to keep almost rigorously.
First, although I actively do not buy meat and sausage produced from cattle, pigs, chickens, turkeys or, what do I know, monkeys. But I do eat these products when they are offered to me somewhere. For example, when people invite me to eat. The reason is that a little meat can’t hurt. Possibly to prevent some ominous nutritional deficiency. Besides, I assume that this meat, in restaurants or at people’s homes, is of higher quality than when I get a bag of frozen Chicken McNuggets at Aldi.
Secondly, I am not a vegan. It doesn’t matter if it’s milk, cheese, butter, yogurt, eggs, honey, or whatever else you can squeeze out of the critter: It ends up in my mouth. I don’t feel like giving up eighty percent of all food just because, for whatever reason, it contains milk proteins, has been filtered through some fish bladders, or once a chicken egg flew past it. Give it a bone! That amount of boomer mentality is necessary.
Third, I eat fish. Ha! I can already see the surprised look on your face. I love fish. Salmon, pike perch, dorado, trout, halibut, herring, scampi, tuna, clams, crabs, eel, squid, cod, mackerel, plaice, oysters, shrimp, and sardines. Whatever is crawling around in the sea, I will find it, catch it, and inhale it on the spot. And you can send me as many links as you want to some pseudo-scandalous documentaries in which seventy thousand fish have to spend the rest of their lives squeezed into a rain barrel, just so I can slap them on my sushi: I don’t care.
As I write this, I’m stuffing myself with a cheese sandwich with the last vegan salami slice that was still lying around somewhere at home, and I just can’t find a reason why I should have bought the ones with cows, pigs, or horses in them instead. But maybe this is just the beginning of my journey. Possibly I will eventually evolve into a higher being who can live on nothing but sun, air, and coffee. And probably only then would I be truly satisfied with myself and the world.
When Arano steps out of the station in Shibuya, his fate is already sealed. The young man came to Tokyo to make his dreams come true: he wants knives to rain down—preferably into the hearts of the Yakuza, toward whom he harbors an inexplicable and ruthless hatred. “There are too many superfluous elements in this world,” is the credo he keeps murmuring to himself.
Before long, the otherwise rather taciturn Arano, played by Chihara Junia, finds himself caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs and, amid the chaos, befriends the club owner Kamijo, portrayed by Onimaru, as well as the outspoken skater Alice, brought to life by Rin Ozawa. Yet the fragile bonds he forms are quickly torn apart again by greed, revenge, and arrogance.
The film Pornostar, released in 1998, is the debut work of Japanese director Toshiaki Toyoda and can at least not claim one thing: to be normal. Somewhere between drama, thriller, and gangster film—and with a bucket of stage blood thrown in—a hint of a love story even begins to grow, all within the restless backdrop of a Tokyo on the brink of the new millennium.
Pornostar is full of blood, violence, and death. And yet all of this unfolds almost matter-of-factly, incidentally, and with such raw craftsmanship that one almost feels as if sitting in the same room, witnessing one human life after another being extinguished—only to end up back out on the street afterward with a cigarette in one’s mouth, blowing one’s hard-earned yen in the nearest arcade.
The film lacks sympathetic characters with whom one might identify. Arano’s motive for wanting to cleanse the world of the Yakuza can be sensed, but for the most part it remains hidden from the viewer. Kamijo’s fateful step into the clutches of the underworld happens just as casually as the final meeting with Alice, who, of all the characters, might have represented a possible way out for Arano and his dream of raining knives.
But perhaps it is precisely this narrative flaw that makes Pornostar so special. Perhaps one does not even want these people to find happiness. Why should they? They chose of their own free will to take part in this cruel game of the underworld. Perhaps they practically deserve Arano as an avenging angel. And perhaps he too, with the first murder, plunges himself into an abyss from which there can be no escape.
In fact, Pornostar reminded me of the film Love & Pop by Hideaki Anno, which was released the same year—without sharing any other similarity beyond the fact that both are set in the same city. Yet the raw, almost documentary-style filmmaking of both directors could be seen as two sides of the same coin. Only that one side is filled with misbehaving schoolgirls, and the other is… well… filled with blood.
Anyone who watches Pornostar expecting to feel satisfied, inspired, or even happy by the end is mistaken. The film takes no prisoners—quite the opposite. One might wish for one or another character to experience the Grand Summer of Love on Fiji and blissfully slide into the year 2000, but as the Bible already says: “For all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.” And in this heartless world, defying that sacred prophecy seems almost impossible.
Mima Kirigoe is ready to leave her career as a celebrated pop idol behind and pursue a dazzling future as an actress. However, shedding her former image proves far more difficult than she ever imagined, and the dark world of show business threatens to drag her into the depths of despair.
Is Mima able to keep a firm grasp on the things that define her while the strains of her new career path take their toll and a menacing presence from her pop-star past lurks in the background? And as delusions, fiction, and reality begin to blur in her mind, what is it that truly defines her in the first place?
Without a doubt, the 1997 film Perfect Blue by Satoshi Kon, based on the novel of the same name by Yoshikazu Takeuchi, is one of those anime you must see before you die. And just last night, I was finally able to cross that very point off my bucket list. What begins as a story about a starlet and her stalker becomes increasingly entangled with each successive scene in a web of shattered dreams and dubious memories.
As an enthralled viewer, you break through one meta-layer after another with each of Mima’s thoughts—only to be utterly drained in the end by the torrent of psychotic impressions that has just washed over you. Who is Mima? Where is Mima? And above all: why is Mima?
Step by step, you witness how the initially sweet, cheerful, and naïve Mima is cast into a hell of depression, murder, and rape. Who can be trusted—and who cannot? When do you stop being yourself? And in the end, which decision was right—and which was wrong?
Perfect Blue is a visually striking and, thanks to Masahiro Ikumi’s fantastic soundtrack, sonically powerful journey into the deepest abysses of the human soul. The film shows that hope and despair are often separated by nothing more than a single unintended step, and that truth is frequently nothing more than a long-forgotten thought that may once have existed but was quietly replaced by fear, panic, and the longing for a redeeming answer.
While the whole world celebrates South Korea’s cultural boom and it seems like half my classmates are studying abroad in the country’s colorful capital because of it, we must remember a unique collective alongside veterans like Blackpink, Red Velvet, and BTS, and newcomers like Ive, Le Sserafim, and NewJeans: Balming Tiger, the quirky pioneers of Seoul’s idiosyncratic rap scene.
This special group is a blend of multimedia outsiders who throw K-pop from its glittery, polished world into the underground. Imagine Girls’ Generation meets Brockhampton, or Keith Ape meets Abra. I’m hoping to see them live soon, because that would be more than amazing.
Balming Tiger, the self-proclaimed multinational alternative K-pop band, aims to conquer our boring world with their unorthodox style. The collective consists of performers Omega Sapien, Sogumm, BJ Wnjn, and Mudd the Student, producers San Yawn and Unsinkable, video directors Jan’ Qui and Leesuho, visual artist Chanhee Hong, DJ Abyss, and writer Henson Hwang.
Each artist in this ensemble brings a distinct artistic identity and energy, showcasing a broad range of versatility. They approach music with a focus on diversity rather than adhering to a single genre. I especially love Sogumm’s soulful additions to the group’s artistic repertory.
Named after the infamous Asian Tiger Balm ointment, the band’s core creative vision is to reflect and represent the current young generation. Their music is a call to trust in our collective selves, move forward, and embrace love.
Their debut album January Never Dies, along with their first extended play and other works, are vibrant expressions of today’s hyper-expressive Asian youth, drawing from a wide array of Western influences in hip-hop, electronic, and alternative genres.
Songs like Sexy Nukem, Just Fun, and Loop? are as original as they are diverse, appealing even to those listeners who might be skeptical about the aggressive South Korean pop wave.
I finally watched Shinichiro Ueda’s 2017 film One Cut of the Dead the other day. And what can I say? It is, as anyone who has seen it can attest, absolutely fantastic. The big problem is that I really shouldn’t reveal anything about it, not even the genre, because otherwise I strip away all the fun.
Only this much: One Cut of the Dead opens in a run-down, abandoned warehouse where a small film crew is in the middle of shooting a zombie picture… But of course it’s not an ordinary warehouse. Rumor has it that military experiments were carried out here… on human beings! Then, as if from nowhere, real zombies suddenly appear and terrorize the crew. A bloody struggle for survival begins…
What sounds like off-the-shelf junk from the recycling bin turns into one of the most entertaining indie films in recent years, half an hour in. Born in 1984, the same year as me, Shinichiro Ueda succeeds in playing with the audience’s expectations and, in one fell swoop, swings the mood of the entire film around so abruptly that I no longer know what’s up, what’s down, or where front and back even are.
The shift isn’t just clever, it’s brazen, gleeful, and meticulously prepared. Choices that first read as mistakes reassemble into punch lines and reveals. From that point on, the movie’s confidence is unmistakable, and I watch, grinning, as it keeps tightening screws I didn’t realize were there.
One Cut of the Dead lives on the goofs, mishaps, and blunders during the shoot, and on the fact that, while watching those legendary thirty minutes for the first time, I was thinking exactly the things that later suddenly make sense. That some scenes run far too long, that the actors often stare off in arbitrary directions, that the action sometimes unfolds entirely outside the frame. I’d say that, deep down,
One Cut of the Dead is a film about family—for reasons that, of course, only reveal themselves at the end. At the very least, Ueda’s work is full of surprises and grows not only funnier by the minute but also more coherent. If you want to escape the same old mush for nearly two hours, this zombie splatterfest has you covered. Don’t stop shooting!
The Japanese music label Wack, itself belonging to the J-pop giant Avex, is famous for its eccentric groups, among them BiSH, EMPiRE, and Gang Parade.
Founded in 2014 by Junnosuke Watanabe, the company declared a clear mission: To offer a proper stage to artists who are a little more experimental, a little stranger, and not immediately comfortable inside conventional idol frameworks. Crucially, that support doesn’t mean indifference to results.
Even while foregrounding otherness and odd textures, Wack aims its performers toward success and plans their activities with that outcome in mind. The label’s identity sits between provocation and pragmatism, pairing freedom to try unusual ideas with careful presentation and smart promotion so that unorthodox performers can still reach large audiences across Japan.
ASP is one of Wack’s newer workhorses, arriving at a moment when the label has to reorient after the breakup of the exceptional unit BiSH.
To keep up in Japan’s fiercely competitive music market, the group now opens itself even more to alternative directions, trying approaches that are off to the side of mainstream idol pop while still jostling for attention.
Their first album bore a telling, tone-setting title Anal Sex Penis, which makes plain how seriously they take themselves: not at all.
The provocation operates like a wink and a shrug, announcing a willingness to poke at taboos and to laugh at expectations, even as the underlying aim, to succeed within that crowded field, remains in view. From the outset, the band signaled that irreverence was part of their method.
The lineup, Yumeka Nowkana, Nameless, Mog Ryan, Matilder Twins, Wonker Twins, CCCCCC, and Riontown, cheerfully kicks at the fixed rules laid down by their predecessors, especially in live performances, where expectations are treated with irreverence.
Yet they never completely hide what they are at heart: a cast pop-punk band full of shy girls who from time to time prefer to strike quieter, more reflective notes, like in I Won’t Let You Go, my personal favorite.
That mix of brashness and modesty, of noise and pause, shapes ASP’s character. Precisely this seemingly paradoxical spectrum sets them apart from the competition and gives them an unusual opportunity to extend their otherwise rather short half-life, in contrast to the countless peers whose momentum fades quickly in the same crowded, fast-moving idol environment. It keeps curiosity alive while allowing growth without abandoning their origin.
The three sisters Sachi, Yoshino, and Chika live together in a large old house in the Japanese coastal city of Kamakura. When they learn of the death of their estranged father, they decide to travel to the countryside for his funeral.
There, they meet their shy half-sister Suzu for the first time. They quickly grow fond of her and invite her to live with them. Suzu happily agrees and begins a new life with her older sisters.
In Hirokazu Kore-eda’s movie Our Little Sister, set against the vivid backdrop of Kamakura’s changing seasons, the four sisters navigate the full spectrum of human emotion and sustain one another through life’s trials, forging a profoundly intimate bond.
Against the backdrop of the summer ocean sparkling in the sunlight, the glowing autumn leaves, an avenue of magnificent yet fleeting cherry blossom trees, hydrangeas dampened by the rainy season, and a brilliant fireworks display announcing the arrival of a new summer, their moving and deeply relatable story portrays the irreplaceable moments that make up a true family.
Accompanied by the wonderful music of the legendary composer Yoko Kanno—who previously created soundtracks for works such as Tokyo Sora, Petal Dance, and Kamikaze Girls—the audience shares in the sisters’ emotions and challenges in every scene. Every touch of the piano keys carries meaning; every stroke of the violin tells a story.
Our Little Sister is an airy, gentle yet sorrow-tinged drama about people in different stages of life who, though marked by the past, refuse to let it dictate their fate. Sachi, Yoshino, and Chika do not hesitate for a second to take in their young half-sister Suzu and offer her the family she never had.
And when the four young women stand on the beach after yet another trial, laughing as they gaze into the distance, one feels grateful to have met them and the other residents of the small town—to have shared in both the joyful and sorrowful changes.
I hope that the future of the four sisters will shine as brightly as the small fireworks display that had only moments before illuminated the overgrown garden of the large old house.
As she sets off for home, I call after her with the first stupid remark that happens to come to mind. The slender girl dressed in black, wearing white sneakers marked by life, turns around one more time, grins, calls back, and raises her hand. I wave too, and then she steadily becomes a little smaller—smaller still than she already is.
The smoke from her cigarette dances in the otherwise so clear air. I only watch her go for a brief moment; I can’t bear the sight—and the cold that gradually embraces me—any longer. I open the heavy glass door and step once more into the building bursting with other people’s dreams, which over the past months has turned into our refuge from the usually loud, chaotic world outside, seemingly abandoned by all good spirits.
I deliberately want to miss the moment when she disappears completely behind the walls. Maybe because deep down I really am a coward, and this way it takes longer to sink in that without her, here in these light-flooded halls, it’s quite lonely.
There is no worse feeling than being in love with a girl I shouldn’t be in love with—for various reasons. Perhaps because there are simply too many differences between myself and the one on the other side. Because the girl of my affection already has someone who occupies the position I’d like to hold myself. Or because the girl I keep thinking about, at the most impossible times—maybe even constantly—simply doesn’t share the same emotions I so vulnerably hold out to her. And if things go really badly, then all of these points apply at once and hit me all the harder.
One almost insurmountable truth seems certain: this love makes no sense, has no future, and therefore no value. And there’s nothing I can do to change that, no matter how much I turn it over in my mind or wish it were otherwise.
With all my might, I try to find objective arguments for why it would be far more logical if I didn’t feel any affection for the shamelessly grinning person opposite me. But no matter how meticulously I search for them, they simply don’t exist—anywhere.
The lists, tables, and diagrams of negative reasons remain empty again today—as always. Because there’s absolutely nothing that argues against wanting to immerse myself in this body that seems almost ready to burst with different talents.
How could one possibly resist the sober, disarming, and sharp-witted charm of this girl? She’s pretty, she’s smart, she’s cheeky. She always has a stupid quip at the ready, either glows with energy or sinks apathetically into her thoughts, and every time I talk to her she opens up like a human incarnation of a lucky bag full of interesting stories.
Her manner flows seamlessly from brazen brat to motivating muse, without entirely dispensing with rules, guidelines, and socially relevant conventions. At heart, she’s one of the good ones—no matter how much she sometimes tries to conceal that with her abrasive ways and loose tongue.
I collect every new detail of her life like puzzle pieces scattered all over the globe, which, piece by piece, assemble into a lovingly decorated and partially scarred treasure map I can use to orient myself as I discover still more adventures, memories, and inspirations.
Then I sit there, listen, marvel, and travel back with her once more to those fateful moments that made her the—quite literally—wonderful personality she is today.
And no matter how great, meaningful, or varied I may consider my own existence, it’s nothing compared to the plays unfolding before my mind’s eye. I watch, transfixed, and can only gape in astonishment.
This pointless love is not a shock, not a jolt, not an earthquake. It gnaws at me, always a little—sometimes more, sometimes less. Usually in situations when I least expect it, or when I catch sight again of a certain smile shaped by the experiences of a young but exciting life. For a brief moment I am happy, only to remember shortly afterward that there was a reason my heart would soon feel a little heavier again.
Yet contrary to appearances, this pointless love is not an ominous feeling—quite the opposite. Far more bleak would be to deny myself this emotion from the outset. For the fact that I can feel this pointless love anywhere at all in my stunted, empathy-stripped soul is proof that I haven’t completely closed myself off from the world, that I’m not yet dead inside, that there’s still hope I won’t someday drown irretrievably in my minimalist melancholy.
As she sets off for home, I call after her with the first stupid remark that comes to mind. There are no lies hidden in my words, no mockery, and no false expectations. I am fully aware of the position from which I’m almost shouting after her, and that her small world is already fully occupied by figures I can neither replace nor wish to.
The slender girl dressed in black, wearing white sneakers marked by life, turns around one more time, grins, calls back, and raises her hand. I wave too, and then she steadily becomes a little smaller—smaller still than she already is.
The only hope rests on a future in which I may continue to follow that pretty face and listen to its stories. After all, our time together is limited. But the psychologically perhaps not entirely sound fact that other people bore me or even get on my nerves after the shortest time, while this girl does not, is sometimes so new, so rare, so unusual that I simply can’t help staying close to her and waiting with curiosity to see what might still come.
Of course, I have to be careful not to fall into the same traps so many others have fallen into before me. Because unrequited affection can tip over in the blink of an eye, leaving me not only with the sad certainty of an unfulfilled romance but also standing amid the ruins of a friendship turned to dust and ash. And I should obviously avoid that at all costs; otherwise this depressing journey will end not only empty-handed, but with a wounded soul as well.
There’s no worse feeling than being in love with a girl I shouldn’t be in love with—for various reasons. And yet, secretly, I’m a little glad about it. Because it also says a great deal about me and the path I have taken so far.
After all, this emotion, classified as negative from the very beginning, can—with a different perspective—transform in no time into a veritable treasure trove of consciousness-expanding ideas. I just have to draw the right conclusions from it and must not act according to outdated patterns of thought.
This pointless love is a bittersweet gift from which I can draw insights, gather inspiration, and gain a lesson or two about myself and others. It gives me the opportunity to enrich my own life with the experiences of the girl, which she shares so trustingly.
I should by no means close myself off to this chance—on the contrary, I should face it as open-heartedly as possible. Even if, or perhaps precisely because, I will probably never reach the actual goal: becoming a part of the world of the one to whom this pointless love is directed.
But hope—no matter how small, feeble, or unrealistic it may be—is known to die last. And sometimes that’s all I need to keep going in this usually so loud, chaotic world abandoned by all good spirits that waits for me out there, beyond these light-flooded halls.
To live up to my rediscovered campaign of unconditional openness, I of course don’t want to withhold how my first semester in the Interactive Media program at Augsburg University of Applied Sciences went. After all, we’ve just received the grades for our exams. And let’s put it this way: it went better than expected. Really.
It borders on an organizational miracle that I survived the scientific area so unscathed. Maybe the evening group prayers with my fellow students via one or two text messages actually did help after all. And that despite having learned that you should never demand anything from God, only ask politely. And also: if you only turn to God in a crisis but don’t think of him when things are going well, then he’s first busy forgiving you before he helps you. But apparently God is more laid-back than one might think. So, in that sense: thx. And: lots of love.
Of course, I didn’t miss out on a clichéd bit of fun: trying to crash the university’s online administration server with one reload after another until the grades finally became visible. But it didn’t work. Probably I should have reloaded not every five minutes, but every five seconds. Oh well—now I know for next time.
My lawyer, by the way, advises me to make it clear at this point that I will not attempt to crash the university’s server—or any other server, or anything else in this world—in any way whatsoever. Neither intentionally nor accidentally. These days, you can never be too careful. Many thanks to Mr. Goldberg of the law firm Goldberg and Partners. Props where props are due.
I’m quite satisfied with the results of my first semester, but I’m also aware that I’ll only manage the coming years if I cram the material into my head more consistently, more regularly, and with far more commitment. With the right mix of Anki, repetition, and the Pomodoro technique. At least those are the three strategies I plan to focus on. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully. What do I know about proper studying anyway.
I’ve also realized something else—something I hadn’t definitively decided at the beginning of my studies: which degree I want to pursue. Bachelor of Arts or Bachelor of Science. We have to know by the third semester.
But if the computer science exam offers even a small glimpse of what’s still to come, then I will cling to the Bachelor of Arts with all my might. Because otherwise I might end up standing there empty-handed. After all, good and bad art can always somehow be argued for—but computer science is like a killer robot gone out of control. It knows no mercy, only zeros and ones. Pass or fail. Life or death. And I know which side I’d be on.
Apart from that, I can say that the Interactive Media program at Augsburg University of Applied Sciences is a lot of fun, very varied, and should be interesting for anyone who feels reasonably at home in both the artistic and the technical worlds.
A large part of the entertainment value also comes, of course, from the fellow students with whom you battle through lectures, practicals, and exams—but that’s probably the case in any degree program. And in that respect, I’ve been really lucky. Shout-outs to Group C, which a perhaps slightly too clever person rightly described as those who always sat in the back row at school.
Unfortunately, I can no longer claim to be a freshman. This very time-limited term, in combination with my not-quite-so-dewy person, had always caused wide eyes and the occasional stammer in people standing opposite me.
In any case, I’m curious to see what new adventures await us in the second semester, and I’ll be spending the next few weeks reviewing the fundamentals of programming so that I can also pass the postponed exam successfully. Hopefully. But at least I’m not the only one who hasn’t yet managed to get this topic behind them—for whatever reasons.
And with that, we close another chapter of my rediscovered campaign of unconditional openness. I hope you’ll join me again next time as the more or less exciting journey of Marcel Winatschek as a student continues.
Will he crash a certain server? Will he be the first person to be awarded a master’s degree in the second semester because he is finally recognized as the global genius he always claimed to be? So handsome, so smart, and yet so modest. Or will he be exmatriculated because the glass buildings of the university simply aren’t fireproof enough for him and his—let’s call them—accidents? Stay tuned; we’ll know more soon. Hooray.
Sometimes all it takes is a single instant, a moment, even the tiniest thought—and suddenly I’m falling again. Just a second ago I was laughing, content with my life because, for once, something had finally worked out the way I had always wished it would, or at least I had no reason, for a change, to hate the world and every single person in it. And then, a second later, I plunge back into the same old, worn-out abyss from which it becomes a little harder to climb out every time.
Then there seems to be no gray, no gradations. Only black and white. I am either saturated with the pure joy of eternal existence, or nothing has any meaning and it would be better if I disappeared from the face of the earth right here and now, because then I wouldn’t have to think anymore about why, for God’s sake, everything was shit again—even though just a few minutes ago it had been going so well. There is nothing in between. No rope, no safety net. I either soar or I crash.
What I had just considered secure, good, and immune to negative thoughts is suddenly put back on trial. I start to brood. To doubt. To question everything I had already regarded as settled. Mistrust then envelops me like a leaden cloak that wraps itself smoothly around my body and slowly presses me down to the ground—where, apparently, I belong.
Was that comment this morning really meant kindly? The emphasis was a bit too ironic, the accompanying look just a little too mocking. Is it possible that everything this person has ever said to me and about me wasn’t meant seriously at all? Is there any proof that we actually get along well? He’s probably just making a fool of me. Because in the end he’s just like everyone else. And I have no choice but to see through him before it’s too late—for whatever that might mean.
Often it’s enough if the other person doesn’t immediately reply to a supposedly totally casual, funny WhatsApp message that is definitely not dripping with self-doubt. No one could have guessed that the spontaneous-sounding remark had been painstakingly crafted over hours in a specially opened word-processing document and adorned with the perfect mix of emojis, punctuation, and colloquial touches to come across as humanly normal as possible when I finally send it at the optimally calculated time. After all, not everyone is such a complete psychopath as I am.
Then I suddenly find myself back on the same roller coaster as thousands of times before, with the familiar loops of thought that I keep trying to break—of course without success. Because in every mental decision I stubbornly take the same directions I have always chosen. As if I had learned absolutely nothing since the last collapse. And that, even though I had sworn to myself that next time everything would be better—or at least different.
So once again I rattle through all the stations of inner turmoil in my little, rusty cart of questionable metaphors and at the end of the ride arrive at the one single true realization I have always arrived at: that I am not worth it—whatever it is that happens to matter to me at that moment.
I am not worth having friends. I am not worth experiencing love. I am not worth being attractive. I am not worth being taken seriously. I am not worth being successful. I am not worth being an equal. I am not worth being allowed to be happy. Everyone else is worthy—just not me.
But I should have known that from the start. Why had I even bothered to build up hopes in the form of this fragile house of cards when it was obvious that the slightest gust of wind would make everything collapse again? I could really have spared myself the effort. How foolish. If you won’t listen, you have to feel. Your own fault.
These extreme mood swings always come when I need them least. When I had finally made peace with myself, when I had found myself again, when the world wasn’t actually so bad. But no such luck. The world was bad. Really bad. It had conspired against the one person who simply wanted to find happiness. And that person was me.
Of course, it went without saying that I myself was responsible for the misery I had just thought myself into. As always, it was the others who were to blame. After all, I only wanted the best for myself, for them, for everyone. Didn’t they sense that? Didn’t they know that? Maybe I should have tried a little harder to convince them of my deeply good intentions…
Once I’ve hit the ground, I’m left with only two options: to remain there and come to terms with the bitter truth that I’m simply a bad person, or to reach upward again in the hope of somehow finding a way to change my fate carved in stone—however that might be possible.
Sometimes all it takes is a single instant, a moment, the tiniest thought—and suddenly I’m falling again. Perhaps it’s impossible to defend myself against these external and internal influences. Perhaps they always hit me, and with such force that I no longer know which way is up or down. Like an enemy who knows me inside and out and always aims precisely at the most exposed weak spot. Which makes sense. Because that enemy is me—and no one else.
And yet perhaps I can set up mental safety nets in advance that will catch me when these mood swings take aim at me again. A bag full of good, safe thoughts that protect me from falling back into the familiar abyss. Comforting truths that remain valid even when everything else has fallen victim to despair. And a solid basic trust in myself—that despite my psychological shortcomings, I have worth. As a person. As a friend. And as someone whose love for themselves will, hopefully, overcome even the greatest fears.
Japanese music is a collection of anthems for my own little messed-up world. Whether it reminds me of sad anime episodes, the churning background music in video games, heartbreak, or my first few moments at Narita airport, stepping through the “Welcome to Japan” banner into an universe of cultural, technological, and human wonder, J-pop and J-rock are always there for me.
They plug a little of the constant melancholy in my small, perpetually annoyed and bored heart. The energetic music of bands like Indigo la End, King Gnu, and Asian Kung-Fu Generation is a frequent soundtrack to my thoughts, worries, and desires. And so are Hitsujibungaku.
For decades, rock music from the Land of the Rising Sun was in a creative crisis. There was little sign of anarchy, change, or revolution. Artists in the genre seemed content to strum away as a copy of a copy of a copy, delivering a run-of-the-mill sound that, for good reasons, didn’t resonate outside Japan. They were simply too tame, too dull, and too boring, like rebels without hate—or even drugs.
Hitsujibungaku, however, also don’t aim for destruction, decline, or chaos—but that doesn’t really matter. Celebrated by the Japanese press as a “smooth whirlwind,” Hitsujibungaku, roughly translating to “literature for sheep”, quickly made their musical breakthrough.
Hitsujibungaku’s songs speak of the search for happiness, dancing in the moonlight, and dreams of an endless summer. When I hear Moeka Shiotsuka’s voice, accompanied by Yurika Kasai and Hiroa Fukuda, I know they mean what they play.
“In a world full of unknowns, even if you pretend to be smart, you’ll still get hurt,” she sings. “At some point, you became focused on avoiding failure, giving up what you really want, without even knowing what that is. Not seeing it, overlooking it, becoming skilled only in despair. It’s a bit too early to decide it’s already too late.” If anything is worth preserving in our superficial world, it’s this kind of emotional sincerity.
When I started my studies, my biggest concern wasn’t the course material, the professors, or fears about what the hell I would do with my degree once I had it in my pocket, but rather how the other students would react to me. After all, at the end of my 30s, I was twice their age. Most of them could have been my children. Maybe they were. One or two faces did look familiar…
During the introductory week, my suspicion that I was the oldest person there was confirmed. By a long shot. Not just in my degree program, but generally within a 500-meter radius. Even the janitor was probably younger than me. And he was about to retire.
Should that have given me pause? Yes, perhaps. But now that I was here, I had to make the best of it. In any case, I was mentally preparing myself to spend the next few years in isolation at the senior citizens’ table, slurping porridge and philosophizing with myself about the good old days.
When MySpace was still the measure of all things. When I still had to rewind VHS tapes before returning them to the video store. When the song of the year was a techno remix of the Smurfs. “Every Smurf loves to listen to the radio, full blast anyway. The rhythm crashes into every leg—that’s how dance music for Smurfs should be!”
While the university president gave his third welcome speech of the day, and seemed just as enthusiastic as he had been during his first, the campus was packed with young people who were equally confused and nervous, scurrying back and forth.
Their T-shirts were decorated with more-or-less creative graduation slogans: 12 Years of Walk of Fame – The Stars Leave, the Fans Stay. And: Graduate Today, Captain Tomorrow. Or even: With Their High School Diplomas in Hand, Heroes Become Legends.
With so much concentrated youthfulness, I felt like throwing up. However, I had of course expected this sight beforehand. Because I’m extremely clever. What else could I have expected? Exactly. After all, these people were the norm here—not me. They were the crowd; I was the outsider.
Between the tours of the building, the city, and the room where the beer fridge was located, I got into conversation with my fellow students. Little by little, the uniform mass of more or less fashionably dressed bodies transformed into interesting characters with names, pasts, and humor.
I quickly realized that they were just normal people, each with their own fears, hopes, and dreams. And they were all as excited as I was—if not more so—just for different reasons.
A week full of get-to-know-you tours, various house parties, and a boozy study trip to the Bavarian Forest later, I no longer felt any fear of not being able to fit in because of my advanced age. When I entered the cafeteria the following Monday, the first familiar faces were already beaming at me. “Hey, Marcel!” I heard someone call cheerfully from one of the tables.
I grinned back, followed the lively crowd, and sat down in a free seat among my new companions. Of course, I’m still “the old fart”. Just like Jenny is “the pothead”, Tim is “the farting guy”, and Fiona is “the one who got plowed in a fire truck”. I’m not the only one who gets stupid looks from strange students—no, everyone has their own baggage to carry, in one way or another.
The key to happiness in this case is unconditional openness and a positive attitude—no matter how difficult that may be at times. Being part of a group means being aware of my possibly not-so-glorious shortcomings and taking it with humor when they are in the spotlight. The important thing is to have a good line ready to keep the wheel turning and shift the focus to the next person. It’s a game I only lose if I don’t participate.
Since that fateful first week, hundreds of encounters have blossomed into friendships that have taken me all over the city—to various apartments, clubs, and bars. No matter where I go, I see familiar faces everywhere. Not only from my degree program, the student council, and the courses I took, but also from friends, roommates, and acquaintances who didn’t shy away from me because of my differences but, on the contrary, invited me into their lives.
Of course, I still have to listen to the occasional stupid comment. But that’s part of it. Today, it’s completely normal for me to walk the streets with them, exchange stories, create memories, and delay the morning a little longer. I’m happy to learn more about those who confide in me, to support them with advice, action, and some jokes, and to help them solve one problem or another conscientiously—provided they want that at all.
If you think you hate people, that you don’t need anyone but yourself, that you’re better off closing yourself off from everything and everyone, then you need to pack your bags, set your old life on fire, and go somewhere else. With new people, new opportunities, and new adventures. And as quickly as possible.
Of course, these relationships are not permanent either. I will soon forget many names, faces, and encounters. And they will forget me. Because they have moved on. Or because I have taken a different path. And that’s perfectly fine. Because new people will come into my life again, over and over, as long as I make it possible, in whatever way I can. Some of them will stay—for longer, maybe even forever.
But these opportunities only arise if you don’t nip every conceivable contact in the bud just because you’ve convinced yourself at some point that you’re happier alone. Out of fear, out of pain, out of feeling overwhelmed. Because no matter how strong you think you are in this matter, at some point you will break down. And then it will be too late.
As we stumble out of Iveta’s apartment door, shouting loudly and smelling of tequila, wine, and popcorn schnapps, to grab a few more beers to go, I glance briefly down the brightly lit street. New people are streaming through it, and in the buildings people are laughing, singing, and dancing.
Right now, at this moment, I am part of this backdrop, this ensemble, these stories. Because I took a chance and didn’t close myself off to the unknown, even though that would have been so much easier. Because one thing is certain: I can have alone time when I’m dead.
Mr. Long is not a man of many words. In fact, he hardly speaks at all. His talents lie more in… let’s say… practical work. Mr. Long is a Taiwanese contract killer. One of the good kind—someone who doesn’t ask questions when you give him a place, a time, and a target. Mr. Long simply does what needs to be done. And he’s pretty good at it. Usually.
After his assignment to kill a Yakuza boss goes terribly wrong, Mr. Long, played by Chen Chang, finds himself stranded in a remote Japanese town. With only five days to scrape together the money for his journey home, he receives unexpected help from a little boy named Jun, portrayed by Junyin Bai, and from the unsuspecting townspeople who have fallen in love with his culinary talents. With a makeshift food stand set up by his new friends, he begins cooking and selling Taiwanese noodle soup in front of the local Buddhist temple.
Trouble catches up with this unusual group when a drug dealer tracks down Jun’s mother Lily, brought to life by Yiti Yao, and through her eventually finds Mr. Long as well. Yet despite the inevitable confrontation with his violent past, Mr. Long will find it difficult to give up his new life.
A cold-hearted hitman is showered with altruistic love and forced to surrender to it. The Japanese director Sabu masters the art of blending the ordinary with the unexpected. With a sly touch, he sends his protagonists into unfamiliar territory that expands both their minds and their hearts. Mr. Long shows me that happiness can be found in the most unlikely places.
Mr. Long is difficult to assign to a single genre. With this film, Sabu created a drama whose unexpected moments are amusing, tragic, and shocking all at once—often at times when I least expect it. Just when I think I’ve figured the film out, around the next corner there’s either a clown, a chopped onion, or a knife that can hardly wait to strike again.
I wish for a happy ending for Mr. Long, Jun, and Lily—a place where the three of them can be happy and left alone by the merciless world. But the past of this small patchwork family catches up with them just when I’ve finally stopped resisting the tears welling up in my eyes.
In the end, I myself turn into one of those dreadful cliché viewers who laugh and cry at the same time—and I don’t even care. When Mr. Long looks out the café window to the other side of the street and his life suddenly gains a new meaning, I’m simply glad to have accompanied him on his turbulent journey of few words.
In the most unexpected situations, I encounter girls whose sheer existence fascinates me so much that I can hardly comprehend it. It’s not as if I’m overwhelmed by love, hate, or pity, because the tentative affection I feel for the girl on the other side doesn’t fit into the emotional templates into which I’ve almost instinctively pressed all my previous encounters.
It’s not love, because I’m not consumed by jealousy, desire, or grief. It’s not hate, because I finally feel a touch of empathy again. I’m happy when the girl is happy, and sad when the girl is sad. And it’s not pity, because any supposed fragility I see in the girl is merely a reflection of my own inadequacies.
The more interesting I find a girl, the more I naturally want to learn about her. Even the smallest banalities that no one else is aware of—perhaps not even the girl in the spotlight—become significant, important, even overrated.
What kind of music does she listen to? What clothes does she wear? How exactly did she become the collection of ideas, ideals, and identities that she is today? And what would I even do with the answers to these questions? The incomprehensibility of otherness can drive me mad if I’m not careful.
Not only can I find no definition for my own feelings, I can’t even manage to pigeonhole the girl into neat categories. Every encounter brings new insights, and I feel compelled to shatter the theories I carved in stone the day before.
Then the floor, littered with dust and debris, bears witness to the fact that the irrefutable knowledge of human nature—which I had been convinced of all these years—was worth about as much as the time I wasted trying to find answers to questions that may not even exist. After all, not even the girl in whom I suspect this enlightenment knows of its existence.
Perhaps I project too much onto the girl. Perhaps there’s nothing there. Perhaps she’s just a normal girl who simply wants to come to terms with herself and the world around her and already has enough to deal with.
Maybe I’m just imagining that I’m a little infatuated with her and her supposed secrets because it allows me to ignore the complexity of my own life for a short time. After all, I can only receive my own happiness once I’ve figured out how the girl defines happiness. Reality can wait for me until then.
I rack my brains trying to figure out exactly what feeling I’m experiencing. Because if I could come up with a name for it—a definition—it would be easier to find a way to deal with it, to put it behind me, to come to terms with it. I’m not even sure if what’s buzzing around in my head is a real feeling at all, or if it’s just my imagination because I have too much time to think again.
The feeling without a name is too strong to ignore but too weak to fully engage with. So I carry it around with me out of slowly creeping habit and wait almost anxiously for the moment when it knocks on the door of my chaotic world of thoughts again—usually when the mischievously smiling face that first led me down this strange path, in the truest sense of the word, enters the room.
But perhaps this gap in my own emotional spectrum is also sad proof that I’ve lived my life so far in a predetermined manner, in which even my feelings were copies of copies of copies—from television, from books, from the lies of society. Their names are rules—no, almost laws—for how I should behave when I stumble into one of these feelings.
Do I feel love? Then I despise the relationship the girl is in, burst with jealousy when she even looks at someone else, and cry alone at night, masturbating into my pillow, because I will never be part of her colorful world.
Do I feel hatred? Then I turn the girl’s life into a hell on earth, set fire to her pet, her family, and her entire apartment building, spin the threads of manipulation so skillfully that she ends up collapsing in the street, screaming, because life no longer has any meaning.
Do I feel pity? Then I turn myself into a more or less invisible guardian angel who will do anything to ensure that the victim of my favor never, ever suffers harm again—and I make sure to feel really good and great and important about myself while I’m doing it, because otherwise it all makes no sense.
In the end, it’s all about me and no one else. Just like always. What’s the point of helping someone else if I can’t reap the rewards? Exactly. The worst thing about this nameless feeling is that I may not even have a right to it.
After all, there are far more important people in the life of the girl I want to impose my worn-out template on. I’m nothing more than a fleeting minor character whose stage appearance is so brief that I’m not even explicitly mentioned in the script—at most, perhaps, as a passerby, spectator, or guy no. 5.
But perhaps this insight is enough to make peace with the nameless feeling. Maybe it makes no sense to find meaning in it, because it’s not permanent and can disappear as quickly as it came—at the latest when the girl whose accessible gaze triggered it in the first place has moved on.
On to new scenes, people, stories. While I myself linger in the backdrop that has just been abandoned by the spotlight and is about to dissolve, watching the silhouette that once smiled so disarmingly, only to forget shortly afterwards that the nameless feeling ever existed.
After the more or less sudden end of AMY&PINK, I felt lost. For fifteen years, I had put all my energy into a project that was full of fun, passion, and hope at the beginning, but by the end had become nothing more than a slowly fading burden. When the bright lettering finally disappeared, I didn’t know what to do with myself.
I sank into idleness, the days just passing me by. Was today Tuesday or already Friday? February or September? What year was it anyway? I couldn’t bring myself to do anything productive anymore and spent days, weeks, and months going for walks, watching TV shows, and going through depressive phases where I just lay there, switching between scrolling through Reddit, YouTube, and Pornhub. From sunrise to sunset. And vice versa.
In my late 30s, my life seemed to be over. What else was there to look forward to? Except maybe a heart attack caused by too many frozen pizzas and too little exercise. The only things that kept me alive were the voice messages from my good friend Hannah, who probably knew me better than I knew myself at that point; the programming course I was forced to take by the employment office so that I would at least be busy with something; and the fact that I was far too lazy to commit suicide.
On a much too hot summer day in June, I took the cheap ticket to nearby Munich to run around in circles and listen to a few podcasts. After all, I knew the streets of my hometown so well that they were getting on my nerves. At least there was life in Munich, even if there was none left inside me.
After buying a picture book about Japanese pop culture in a bookstore—because that was the only topic that still interested me even remotely—I sat down on a free bench on my way back to the city center to leaf through it a little and, at the same time, press the ice-cold can of Diet Coke I had bought at the nearby supermarket to my mouth. Its contents had been my main source of nutrition for several weeks—after all, I didn’t want to get any fatter.
When I looked up, I noticed that the bench I was sitting on was in front of the city university. Young people were buzzing all over the grounds, chatting and laughing. Some were in a hurry; others were sitting on the grass. There was a lively atmosphere. The large buildings watched over the small, mostly hectic figures whose futures would be shaped within them.
The setting reminded me of TV shows such as Gilmore Girls, Community, and Greek, and I found it a little sad that I had never had the opportunity to lead what was surely a pretty exciting student life.
My secondary school diploma wasn’t good enough for that, and after completing my training as a media designer, I had simply ignored the option of being allowed to study. After all, I wanted to earn money. With AMY&PINK. And that would undoubtedly live forever and soon become an international media empire. Like Vice. Or the New York Times. Or Russia Today, for that matter. Who needed a degree?
So there I was, in my late 30s, sitting on this bench with nothing but a book and a can of Diet Coke to my name, feeling sorry for myself. Two young women had taken a seat next to me. The blonde proudly told me that her little sister had just registered in time for the entrance exam for the coming winter semester. The brunette was a little overly surprised. “I hope she gets accepted!” “She definitely will!”
When I got home, I became interested in what I could have studied with the qualifications I had gained through my vocational training. Communication Design was listed. Graphic Design. Interactive Media.
I was a little annoyed that I hadn’t taken advantage of this opportunity, but had instead been so stubborn as to consistently ignore any path that led me away from my very own trip. At the time, I was even proud of that stubbornness.
While lethargically clicking around on the internet, I came across the website of the Augsburg University of Applied Sciences, which had been offering a combination of design and computer science in its Interactive Media program for several years and advertised it with flowery words.
The program sounded like a colorful grab bag of everything I enjoyed. Designing. Programming. I would even learn how to create video games. It was pure madness.
Before I could sink back into self-pity over never having taken advantage of this opportunity, a date caught my eye. There was still one week left to apply for the program. The admission requirements stated that not only a high school diploma but also a vocational qualification would be sufficient—provided that I passed the necessary entrance exam.
I took a sip from my seventh can of Diet Coke that day, thought for a moment, and filled out the linked application form. “I can give it a try,” became my motto from that day on. After that, everything happened very quickly.
I was invited to take the entrance exam, which I passed. I was invited to an interview, which I passed. I was sent the application for enrollment, which I submitted on time. At the beginning of October, I entered the campus of Augsburg University of Applied Sciences, sat down in a lecture hall for the first time, and suddenly I was a student.
Just a few weeks earlier, I had thought that my life would be over by the time I reached my late 30s—that there was nothing more to come, that all my dreams had been dreamed and all my hopes buried. Suddenly, I found myself in a completely new story, with new goals, new tasks, and new people. An unexpected adventure had begun—after all, I’m a student for life.
Yusuke looks out of the window. Accompanied by the voice of his deceased wife, houses, trees, and the sea fly past him. He doesn’t notice that there is another person sitting in the red Saab 900 Turbo in front of him as he fills in the gaps in the sentences with his own words. Misaki will soon drive him to a place where he can finally find himself.
Last night, I saw Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s Drive My Car for the second time. The Oscar-winning Best International Feature Film is based on the short story of the same name from Haruki Murakami’s 2014 book Men Without Women and tells the story of two people whose fateful encounter no one could have foreseen—least of all themselves.
Yusuke is a successful stage actor and director who is married to the mysterious Oto, a beautiful playwright with whom he shares a peaceful life despite a painful past. When Oto suddenly dies, Yusuke is left with unanswered questions and the regret that he could not really understand her—nor did he want to.
Two years later, still struggling with Oto’s death, Yusuke accepts an offer to direct a production of Uncle Vanya in Hiroshima. He drives his beloved fire-red Saab 900 Turbo to the big city in the west, where, upon arrival, he learns to his surprise and disappointment that, for legal reasons, he is forced to let Misaki, a young chauffeur who hides her own traumatic past, drive his car.
Rehearsals progress, and eventually Yusuke and Misaki develop a routine, with the Saab increasingly becoming an unexpected confessional for both driver and passenger. Less pleasant for Yusuke, however, is the decision to cast Koji, a handsome young television actor with an unwanted connection to his late wife, in the lead role.
As the premiere approaches, tensions between the cast and crew grow, and Yusuke’s increasingly intimate conversations with Misaki force him to face uncomfortable truths and uncover haunting secrets left behind by his wife.
I’m glad I’ve now seen Drive My Car for the second time, because with each new encounter I have different expectations of the characters, whose thoughts and actions seem to reflect my understanding of human interaction.
The character of Misaki, for example, now vaguely reminds me of someone I met recently. Her sober, disarming, and astute manner invites me to want to learn more about her. What does she think? Why does she think that way? And who—or what—made her who she is today?
The flowing conversations in Drive My Car are like intimate dances whose intention is to build bridges to the other person—brick by brick, meter by meter. With each new day that dawns in Hiroshima, there is a chance that two people will open up a little more to each other, only to be rewarded with new insights, no matter how painful they may be. And these insights apply not only to the other person, but often to myself as well.
Only those who have not even attempted to understand Drive My Car would describe it as calm. Every scene is seething with tension: Yusuke, who cannot forgive himself for his wife’s death and searches for answers that may not even exist; Misaki, whose observations only become words of trust when she assesses the chances of further hurt as low; and Koji, whose search for meaning can only save others, but not himself.
Eiko Ishibashi’s selectively used music dispels the absolute silence at just the right moments, which is otherwise interrupted only by glances, touches, and conversations. Extensive tracking shots across the autumnal Japanese backdrop make the characters appear as if in a diorama, their desires, hopes, and dreams seeming small and lonely.
A meta-level runs through the entire film: the story of Uncle Vanya, who is confronted with his life and his missteps in Anton Chekhov’s world-famous play. The character of Vanya represents someone who has spent his life working toward something that never came to fruition. It is a reflection on time and emotions wasted—a theme that both Yusuke and Misaki grapple with throughout the film, as both deeply regret their past relationships.
Drive My Car is mature in the truest sense of the word. Its characters have shed all childishness, all banality—indeed, all traces of joie de vivre—and try, with their last ounce of strength, to maneuver safely through the thicket of painful memories, only to have to admit in the end that they cannot drive away from the past, not even in a red Saab 900 Turbo.
I recently watched the documentary Our Lies and Truths about the rise and downfall of the Japanese girl group Keyakizaka46. After all, in recent years Techi and her comrades have been the idols I listened to most.
Songs like Silent Majority, Ambivalent, and especially 黒い羊 still play on endless loop for me today, and the accompanying music videos are performative masterworks.
Yasushi Akimoto, who has been responsible for acts such as AKB48, Onyanko Club, and Iz*One and also created Keyakizaka46, is not for nothing Japan’s most gifted and at the same time most hated producer. “Some people say Yasushi Akimoto destroyed the Japanese music industry, and I agree,” noted Agency for Cultural Affairs Commissioner Shunichi Tokura in cutting words.
The most striking thing about Keyakizaka46, first sister group to Nogizaka46, once slated to debut as Toriizaka46, and already missing two members before its first show, is neither the music nor the choreography, and certainly not the powerful man behind them.
It is the force with which their center, Yurina Hirate, seized the group’s inner climate and public face in no time, then year by year slipped toward madness, until, after much back-and-forth, she finally announced her departure in 2020.
Soon after, the band renamed itself Sakurazaka46, unable to cope with the hole left by Yurina “Techi” Hirate, who had joined at fourteen. The 2020 label-made film Lies and Truths depicts sustained decay—depression, burnout, and total overextension from Techi, and a strange mix of envy, fury, and admiration among her colleagues.
Techi was a prodigy, and no one could handle it—least of all herself. In interviews, former members recall Yurina Hirate’s impact and search for when everything went wrong.
No one knows what turned her, hailed as a reborn Momoe Yamaguchi and, at fifteen, among the year’s most attractive idols, from a cheerful girl into someone alone and apathetic in dark corners. Only she does, and she won’t say. Maybe someday, she hinted in a 2020 radio interview.
Even in the film she appears in fragments: She dances, sometimes falls, draws gazes, then implodes, sobbing “I can’t!” before backstage staff force on a new costume.
Keyakizaka46 sang of youth, rebellion, and being different—messages that pierced schoolgirls and traumatized outsiders. What remains is brief brilliance, lingering remnants, and a restless soul seeking happiness elsewhere.
Even today, people I don’t really know still ask me—by email, letter, and by shouting through open windows—what actually happened to AMY&PINK. The portal of good cheer. The party ship of Berlin’s newcomers. The voice of a generation that never wanted to grow up, partied for three days straight at Berghain, and woke up one morning in the ruins of their own denial of reality.
The reflexive answer to the highly individual question of why AMY&PINK no longer exists is: “No idea.” And that wouldn’t even be a lie. Because I really don’t know. Maybe it just happened that way at some point. Maybe there was no longer any place for it in today’s media world. Maybe things just have to end at some point before they are kept alive artificially (even longer) for reasons that are incomprehensible.
AMY&PINK saw the light of day in 2007 as the successor to my private blog, Tokyopunk, just as I was on my way to Berlin to begin my training as a designer in the field of conception and visualization at a digital new media agency. Everything was new, everything was exciting, everything in my life suddenly revolved around the German capital and the colorful people who bustled around in it.
I filled my new project with personal stories, finds from the internet, and the occasional fresh music video, and found passionate writers such as Hannah, Caro, Ines, Misha, Wenke, Sara, Meltem, Jana, Daniela, and Leni to take the site to the next level. AMY&PINK transformed from a small blog into one of the nation’s most widely read online magazines.
In the early years of the new decade, AMY&PINK was the digital go-to for young rebels, hipsters, and avant-gardists—and those who wanted to be just that, or at least know what these chaotic guys were up to and spouting nonsense about.
We were invited by brands such as Mercedes, Microsoft, and Deutsche Telekom to events throughout Germany and around the world: New York, Toronto, London. Rome, Shenzhen, Los Angeles. Lisbon, Monaco, Las Vegas. To get drunk there with Kendrick Lamar, Tokio Hotel, and Frank Ocean. And all because we wrote strange things on the internet, constantly used swear words, and there were people who wanted to read exactly that.
And every now and then there were bare breasts to be seen. Or girls throwing up. Or swastikas made of cocaine. The more provocative, the better. The press loved and hated us at the same time—much like our readers.
Unfortunately, the problem was that I continuously maneuvered AMY&PINK into a spiral of “what the fucks” from which I soon couldn’t get the site out. At first, everything was funny, ironic, and over the top, but at some point a completely far-fetched professionalization of the content took hold. On the one hand, we had to be even more outrageous than everyone else to keep readers interested; on the other hand, advertisers demanded fewer exposed genitals on the homepage.
On top of that, the Wild West days of the internet were over by the mid-2010s. Any visual content that wasn’t contractually approved by the copyright holder, rights manager, and preferably three to twelve additional lawyers couldn’t be published. The site lost its visual punch because everything consisted of official press photos, the texts became increasingly absurd and unrealistic, and AMY&PINK transformed from a radiant rock star into a washed-up madman who drunkenly assured strangers on the street that he was still cool—“really now, you, burp, stupid cunts!”
With the departure of important AMY&PINK authors, the diversity of voices that had long ensured balance in the site’s content also disappeared. Before the decline, every photo series about fucking teenagers was accompanied by an intimate text about heartbreak, every LSD-soaked music video by an amusing travelogue, every bizarre triviality by a story about the small and big experiences of those who had chosen AMY&PINK as the medium to realize themselves digitally. After all, they could have published their texts in Vice, Huck, or the local newspaper.
But at some point, there were only empty shock articles left—attracting attention at any cost, when no one had been interested for a long time. I tried to save AMY&PINK. Really. God is not my witness, but my friend Hannah is—without whom I might have drowned in my own madness long ago. The poor thing had to listen to the drama every day, for years on end. “You have to be able to make something out of this!” “That can’t be all there is!” “Maybe try again in another language?”
I was caught in an endless cycle of brooding, doubting, and trying things out. If I were even a fraction as cool as I always pretended to be in my countless articles, I would have poured gasoline on AMY&PINK years ago, lit it on fire, and let it explode behind me in cinematic slow motion while I walked toward the camera with a crazy smile on my face. But I’m not cool. And I can’t just let go that easily.
After all, visitor numbers were still quite good, the content we had built up over the years was being clicked on diligently, and any SEO expert would have been happy with such metrics. But in the end, I spent far too much time trying to save AMY&PINK—time that I should have invested in more important things. Finding a real job, for example. Having children, planting trees, building houses, whatever.
Only to admit to myself at some point that AMY&PINK wasn’t going to work out. Not because the website itself wasn’t working anymore, but because I had outgrown the whole thing and it was finally time to say goodbye. AMY&PINK had been fun at one point, but now it wasn’t anymore. And no number of clicks in the world could change that feeling.
So one fine morning, I sat down in front of my laptop with a hot coffee, made a backup of the site, and then deleted it from the server. And I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I was simply done with the whole thing. AMY&PINK was dead. And I didn’t care. I finished my coffee, got up, and went for a walk.
Even today, people I don’t really know still ask me—by email, letter, and shouting through open windows—what actually happened to AMY&PINK. The portal of good cheer. The party ship of Berlin’s newcomers. The voice of a generation that never wanted to grow up, partied for three days at Berghain, and woke up one morning in the ruins of their own denial of reality.
The reflexive answer to the highly individual question of why AMY&PINK no longer exists is: “Because I wasn’t enjoying it anymore.” And it took me a long time to admit to myself that this reason alone was enough to end it, even though logic said otherwise.
Instead, I now have my own little blog again, which I can fill with content that really interests me, and where it doesn’t matter if I’m the only one who reads it or likes it. Here, it doesn’t matter if I write about my current favorite Japanese band or publish a short story about a city at the end of the world. I can even rescue some articles from AMY&PINK and post them here if I think they would fit in well. Why not? I can now (once again) do what I want. Hurray.
I learned a lot from AMY&PINK and the people who had anything to do with it. But now it’s time to let the subject rest and start something new. The world out there is huge, and the possibilities for finding happiness are limitless. You just have to have the courage to let go, reach out to the unknown, and let it lead you to new adventures—before it’s too late.
This website has undergone many changes over the years. From a small blog by a Bavarian media designer to a collection of stories by creative minds from all over Germany. From the Bible of Berlin nightlife to a gonzo magazine for hipsters. From a digital news site to a never-sleeping ticker of viral events. Until, at some point, I was faced with a sheer monster of false expectations and hopeless prospects.
This blog wanted to be everything, but collapsed as a result, unable to do anything right anymore. For various reasons. I had forgotten what this was really about and wanted to remain relevant at all costs in this fast-paced media world. With my eyes fixed on the future, there was only one choice: keep up. Keep up with the news. Keep up with the trends. Keep up with the loud, shiny, and flashy. I had to be even more extreme than everyone else.
At some point, I just blindly churned out news, lookbooks, gossip, YouTube videos, shitstorms, and tits in a completely irrelevant mix. The main thing was that something was happening. Whether I liked it or not didn’t matter. Stand out at any cost. Fake it till you make it. The future could only get better. But it didn’t.
I broke down in a battle I could neither win nor wanted to win. This website had filled itself to bursting with nonsense and bullshit. Of course, I didn’t want to admit it, while everyone else was already shaking their heads. It had to be wilder and wilder, bigger and bigger—stand out at any cost.
A relaunch every year. Every year the same promise, packed into a pseudo-epic article, that now everything would be like it used to be. That I understood what readers really wanted. That this blog finally wanted to be good again.
But I broke that promise again and again. Because the world around me was getting louder and brighter and flashier, and I couldn’t stop the carousel I was on until my bad metaphors blew up in my face and this website literally broke under the weight of verbal and illustrated shit.
In the end, I just wanted it to be over. I was about to delete the site, the archives, all the files. This blog had failed. I wanted world domination. But what I got was a glimpse into the absolute emptiness of a possibly bright future that I had ruined for myself. None of the fun, the expectations, the hope remained.
On a final night drenched in wine, I rummaged through the old texts—the ones that were published on this website when blogs were just becoming popular. When life was still a game. When the world still seemed to be in order. They had long since been lost in digital nirvana and crushed under a cement block of meaninglessness. I read them. And they were good.
These ten-year-old texts about love, about dreams, about the expectations of an entire generation—they were good. Just good. These texts were better than most of what had been published on this website in recent years. All the fast-paced dramas and rumors and deeds of some walking, breathing attention deficit disorder. All the digital constructs of a money-hungry industry whose little cogs had long since been ravaged by burnout and depression. All the never-ending news of a world that seemed to spin a little faster with each passing day.
They were obsolete the moment they were written. Wasted words without meaning. Without resonance. Without weight. I realized that there was only one way to save this blog. And that was to do the exact opposite of what I had considered my task in recent years. To get off this metaphorically still incredibly stupid carousel—which today seems to almost take off due to its speed—to look at it from a safe distance and to go my own way, with my own definition of time.
What does that mean now? I want the texts that appear on this website to be relevant not only in the next ten minutes, but also in the next ten years. Someone in the distant future, when hoverboards can really hover and we fly to Space Spring Break on Mars for the weekend, should read them and think: That speaks to my soul. That inspires me to try something new. I should show this to the people I like and love.
You shouldn’t be able to tell how old the content is. Because it’s completely irrelevant. Of course, no sentence is written for eternity. Texts written from the heart are always a snapshot of a moment in time—a portrait of the era in which they were written. But We’re Too Young for True Love has a different half-life than Miley Cyrus Pissed on the Floor Again. Although the latter does have its appeal, in a way. For some people, at least.
What does that mean for this blog? I want it to become a colorful grab bag full of surprises again, with something wonderful for everyone. Whether you want to read a fascinating review of an apocalyptic film or the emotional thoughts of me traveling through Japan. Whether it’s about the enamored introduction of a new band or the painful experiences of growing up. Whether you just want to look at a few digital treasures or witness an epic story in the depths of Berlin.
It’s important to me that the articles that appear on this website from now on are so great, so beautiful, so worth reading that they will still be relevant in one, two, five—maybe even ten—years, without losing the rough edges that move me when I write.
Cowboy Bebop will still be a cult classic in a decade. Haruki Murakami’s books will still be important in a decade. Texts about heartbreak will still inspire people, a decade from now, to take control of their lives again—or at least to wallow in self-pity a little more beautifully.
To make a fresh start, I have completely archived this blog, wiped the server, and started again from scratch with a just do it mentality. Little by little, I will now select old articles, revise them, correct them, improve them, and polish them up so that I can publish them again. But of course, I will also regularly add new content and mix it in so that there is always something exciting to discover.
With each new day, my digital diary will grow a little more—slowly, steadily, and with joy. For this purpose, I’ve created a design that is as minimalistic, spartan, and brutal as possible, because nothing should distract from the content.
The irony of this text lies in two points, of course. Firstly, it is basically just another one of those repetitive pseudo-epic texts that praise the resurrection of this website and swear solemnly that everything will now be as it used to be. After all, that has always worked very well so far. And secondly, it denounces the transience of words and is itself one of those texts that, for reasons of content, will lose its relevance in no time at all.
I simply want my blog to become a peaceful garden in the middle of an unmanageable digital jungle full of nonsense—where everyone can have fun, whether they want to indulge in the profoundly formulated transience of being or just a few short notes from my chaotic mind.
Everyone is welcome here, free to look around and take away the thoughts and opinions they consider important and right. Or not. I would be delighted to continue accompanying, entertaining, and inspiring you, my readers, on your turbulent journey through life. In my own way.
Have you ever sat in front of the TV or your laptop and wondered what the dumbest thing to watch might be, after binging every single episode of The Big Bang Theory, Two and a Half Men, and How I Met Your Mother? The answer is: In Another World with My Smartphone. That’s the dumbest thing. Not the dumbest anime—no—but simply the dumbest thing that has ever been created and then broadcast anywhere, at any time, in any way. By a mile. By a mile the dumbest.
What’s it about? The fifteen-year-old Touya Mochizuki is accidentally killed by God with a lightning bolt. As an apology, God lets him live again—but since he can’t send him back to his old world, he reincarnates him in a fantasy world instead, granting him one free wish.
Touya uses that wish to take his smartphone with him into the new world, which God kindly upgrades as well. He can’t contact his old world with it, but the phone can easily be recharged with magic and otherwise works just like it did before. He can read news websites from his world and even use Google Maps for his new fantasy world.
Since God happens to be having a pretty good day, he also boosts Touya’s physical, magical, and cognitive abilities on top of that—basically as compensation for accidentally murdering him. Touya makes full use of his second chance at life and befriends lots of different people, mainly women and high-ranking figures in the new world. He begins traveling from country to country, resolving political disputes, completing small quests, and casually enjoying himself with his newly found allies.
What at first sounds like a nice little anime adventure you could watch in between other things soon turns out, after the opening episodes, to be a pointless parade of boobs. After Touya meets about ten different run-of-the-mill girls in the first few episodes—ranging from toddlers to sex bombs to a 600-year-old vampire queen in a teenage body—the story quickly devolves into nothing but the question of which of the under-served minors Touya will eventually marry.
In Another World with My Smartphone feels like it was written by a pubescent twelve-year-old who has absolutely no idea how social interactions are supposed to work in order to make even the slightest bit of sense.
For example, one episode revolves solely around the extremely important question of which of the ten walking fantasy pin-ups for perverts gets to show Touya her more-or-less existent underwear first. Every now and then a few ninjas, monsters, or dragons show up, but they’re dealt with within five minutes so the show can quickly return to what it considers the important stuff.
I watched In Another World with My Smartphone all the way to the end. Not because I hoped the series might somehow turn things around and tell an adventurous story in what initially looks like a cliché fantasy world—no. After the first three episodes it was already clear to me that this was all garbage.
And In Another World with My Smartphone isn’t stupid in a funny way or dumb in an entertaining way. No—it’s simply awful. Plain and simple. Honestly, I was just too lazy to turn it off and find something else to play in the background while I jotted down stock market prices or something.
Everyone responsible for In Another World with My Smartphone, or involved in its creation, should be sued into the ground. You know me: I like breasts. Small ones, big ones, young ones, old ones, light ones, dark ones. And I don’t care if feminism gets trampled underfoot, as long as it makes sense within the world being presented to me.
That’s the great thing about movies and TV shows: they can show whatever they want. They don’t have to be role models. They can go over the top. Just because some poor idiot gets shot every week in CSI: Miami doesn’t automatically mean every viewer thinks murder is a good thing.
But In Another World with My Smartphone simply makes no sense—for anyone. Neither for the audience nor for the characters. And just when you’ve finally settled a bit into the characters and the world and think, Well, it’s not that bad, the creators throw a few more half-naked lunatics into the animated harem for idiots.
What haven’t we had yet? Robots with boobs? Here you go! A scientist in stockings? Here you go! A twelve-year-old with a marriage fetish? Here you go! Now everyone fight over Touya—the uptight loser in the white pimp coat whose only defining trait is a magical phone. Even the most pedophilic Harald would probably feel like he’s being thoroughly messed with while watching In Another World with My Smartphone.
If you’re thinking about giving In Another World with My Smartphone a try just to form your own opinion, then I can only say: No. I forbid it. Every raccoon run over multiple times on the Route 66 can give you a better story than whatever was cobbled together here into an anime while the creators sat at their drawing boards with their pants open and eventually threw any semblance of plot overboard so that irrelevant fantasy girls could outdo each other minute by minute in their desperate horniness. In Another World with My Smartphone is the dumbest thing. By a mile. By a mile the dumbest.
Let’s get this out of the way right away: Monster Girls is not exactly the deepest, smartest, or even remotely the most beautiful anime under the sun. Quite the opposite. The utterly idiotic story fits on a cum-stained biscuit, the dialogue mostly consists of swearing, screaming, and moaning, and the illustrations look like they came straight out of one of those seventh-rate hentai dating simulations made by some Russian backwoods developers that you regularly get thrown at you on Steam in ten-packs for about two bucks.
So what’s it about? For years the Japanese government had kept a secret: mythical creatures such as centaurs, mermaids, harpies, and lamias are real. Three years before the events of Monster Girls begin, the government revealed the existence of these beings and introduced a kind of cultural exchange program.
Since then, these creatures have become part of human society and live with ordinary families like exchange students or au-pair participants, though with different duties and restrictions. For example, humans are not allowed to mate with the strange beings. For whatever reason.
Enter Kimihito Kurusu, a typical run-of-the-mill Japanese fuckboy. When Kuroko Smith, a coordinator for the Japanese cultural exchange program and a female copy of a certain agent from the film Matrix, accidentally delivers the very frightened and embarrassed lamia Mia to his door, he doesn’t have the nerve to send her away and lets her move in. Naturally.
As the story progresses, Kimihito meets other female monsters, each belonging to a different species, and gives them shelter as well. Some arrive more or less by chance, others are forced on him by Kuroko or push themselves into his life, and it doesn’t take long before he finds himself in a chaotic situation in which he tries to live in harmony with his new housemates while dealing with their constant wishes, fears, and the drama that results from helping them adjust to life in the human world.
However, the situation takes a new turn after Kimihito is more or less charmingly informed that, due to an expected change in the law concerning relationships between species, he is expected—essentially as a test subject—to marry one of the girls, which greatly intensifies the competition for his attention.
Over time, episode by episode, other liminal beings also become attracted to him and start trying to win him over, much to Kimihito’s embarrassment and to the utter annoyance of his already outrageously horny housemates.
Monster Girls is one of those typical harem anime that has been told a thousand times before, in which a nose-bleeding protagonist is pursued by around ten extremely horny female characters. The only difference is that this time they happen to be monsters with more or less large breasts who absolutely want to be mounted right here and now.
We have Mia, the snake with the big breasts; Papi, the harpy with the small breasts; Zentrea, the centaur with the gigantic breasts; Sue, the slime creature with flexible breasts; Melu, the mermaid with big breasts; Rachnera, the spider with enormous breasts; Lala, the dullahan with big breasts; Zombina, the zombie with thick breasts; Tionisha, the ogre with huge breasts; Manako, the cyclops with small breasts; Doppel, the shapeshifter with average-sized breasts; Polt, the kobold with big breasts; Ki, the dryad with massive breasts; Lilith, the devil with small breasts; Cattle, the minotaur with enormous breasts; Luz, the fox with small breasts; Merino, the sheep with big breasts; and of course agent Kuroko, who is likewise blessed with a generous chest. By whoever.
In Monster Girls, the viewer is constantly bombarded from all sides by exposed secondary sexual characteristics—usually straight into Kimihito’s face, which causes him to cry, complain, or bleed. Often all three at once. The series doesn’t offer much more narrative depth than that. But that’s fine. Monster Girls doesn’t convince through an emotional story, clever twists, or even its drawing style.
Just watch the first five minutes of Monster Girls and you’ll know exactly what to expect from the following episodes. The series really only aims to do one thing: be fun. Anyone who has ever wanted to see an angry horse with big, wet boobs take down a motorcycle pickpocket will be in exactly the right place with Monster Girls. It doesn’t get any smarter than that—but not much dumber either. And in today’s otherwise unpredictable world, that’s worth something too.
For some, Monster Girls is a contemporary critique of the ongoing racism and sexism in 21st-century Japanese society. For others, it’s a colorful masturbation aid for perverts who have always wondered what sex with a moist, big-breasted snake might feel like.
Or, as the famous German philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel supposedly always used to say: “Why not both?”
As Rui lies sweaty on her stomach in bed in front of Natsuo, her bottom clad in skimpy underwear thrust toward him, his heart begins to beat faster with every passing second. Rui coughs. The cold seems to be bothering her. The only thing that will help now is the freshly unwrapped suppository that Natsuo is holding in his hand.
He gently pulls down his little stepsister’s damp panties. Natsuo’s youthful modesty prevents him from looking directly at Rui’s most intimate parts, so he carefully feels his way between her legs with the white suppository. The girl whimpers.
The first opening Natsuo reaches with his fingertips doesn’t seem to be the right one. “Higher…” Rui gasps quietly, her face pressed into a pillow as her older stepbrother tries to gently push the suppository into her moist entrance.
“I’m sorry…” is all Natsuo can say before feeling his way a few inches higher and then lovingly pushing the medicine into her tight, conception-longing exit. Only Rui’s gurgling moans break the silence in her dimly lit bedroom. Soon she will feel better again.
Welcome to the scandalous world of Domestic Girlfriend, the anime for people who somehow find incest and sexual intercourse with wards quite acceptable, but would rather not promote blood libel and horny teachers. Here, there is kissing, fondling, and fooling around until the break bell rings, but somehow everything is quite nice, cute, and funny. At least until the first feelings develop.
Natsuo Fuji has a crush on one of his teachers, Hina Tachibana, but since he knows he has no chance of ever getting into a relationship with her, he lets his friends talk him into going to a party where he meets the quiet Rui.
One thing leads to another and then, well, neither of them is a virgin anymore. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what they expected, but that’s okay. They’re just ships passing in the night and will never have to see each other again, right?
But when Natsuo’s father announces that he is getting remarried, Natsuo learns that he will also have two new stepsisters. Now there’s a problem, because, what a coincidence, one of them is his teacher Hina and the other is Rui. Yes, the family dinners at Natsuo’s house are about to become more or less really awkward in Domestic Girlfriend.
What sounds like a nice love story with a little physical contact quickly develops into a drama harem with hentai elements. Rarely have I wished so much for a protagonist to fail in all his endeavors and for karma to really kick him in his constantly swollen soft parts as I do for Natsuo in Domestic Girlfriend.
Natsuo cheats, lies, and fibs his way through every interpersonal relationship, hurting everyone who crosses his path within a ten-kilometer radius. Of course, Natsuo is unaware of any guilt. He’s just looking for true love. And if people who develop feelings for him get hurt in the process, that’s not his problem. After all, it’s their own fault for falling for his innocent ways.
But instead of punishing him for breaking his little stepsister’s heart and hymen, massaging his suicidal classmate’s breasts, and then fucking his teacher, he ends up winning an award for best young writer, because after all, it’s his big dream to become an author. And Rui, whom he has been messing with from the very beginning, spreads her legs for him again to celebrate the occasion.
If the credits hadn’t come before, Natsuo would probably have won the lottery too. Because Domestic Girlfriend teaches us that karma can’t hurt you if you simply praise improvement after every misstep and smile away all signs of remorse in a sympathetic manner. After all, Natsuo is the main character in his own life story and, hehe, hoho, if you have tits and, for whatever reason, ended up near him, then you’re just out of luck.
Instead of having to listen to Natsuo’s annoying whining all the time, I would have preferred to learn more about his boss Masaki, the gay and adorable flamboyant restaurant owner with a yakuza past. But there probably wouldn’t have been much room for underage breasts in his colorful annals.
The best thing for Domestic Girlfriend would have been if Natsuo, after his well-deserved fall down the stairs caused by his literature club friend Miu, simply hadn’t woken up. Because then we would have been spared the schmaltzy and completely far-fetched rest of the so-called story, and Rui would have found her well-deserved happiness. With me, for example. Right, I’m going to stick a suppository up my rear end now—Domestic Girlfriend has made me sick.
Back in the day, as everyone knows, everything was better. The music. The weather. The food. The love. And of course television, too. These days it’s nothing but crap. But were anime better back then as well? You might think so. Sailor Moon. Cowboy Bebop. Neon Genesis Evangelion. All classics from that era that still convince today through their likable characters, their great stories, or simply their sheer epic scale.
Oh! My Goddess is without a doubt a classic. The anime released in 2005, based on a manga, is still celebrated decades later as one of the most popular animated series from the Land of the Rising Sun. Likable characters? Definitely! A great story? Uh, well… if you want to call it that. Sheer epicness? Eh.
So what’s it about? Keiichi Morisato is a second-year college student who accidentally calls the Technical Goddess Hotline. The goddess Belldandy appears and informs him that her agency has received a system request from him and that she is supposed to grant him a single wish. Believing someone is playing a prank on him, he wishes that she would stay with him forever. And his wish is granted.
Since he cannot live with Belldandy in his all-male dormitory, they are forced to look for alternative accommodation and eventually find shelter in an old Buddhist temple.
They are allowed to stay there indefinitely because the monk who lives there has gone on a pilgrimage to India after being impressed by Belldandy’s innate kindness. Keiichi’s life with Belldandy becomes even more hectic when her older sister Urd and her younger sister Skuld also move in. A series of adventures follows as his relationship with Belldandy develops.
There’s a reason anime series today are no longer made the way they were back then. And that reason is: lack of ideas. Keiichi is the typical shy, run-of-the-mill Japanese loser who gets nosebleeds just from seeing two cloud formations shaped like breasts. Belldandy is perfect. Period. And all the other characters are… there.
In Oh! My Goddess, 26 episodes attempt to connect the creative beginning with the emotional ending. What happens in between is completely irrelevant. While the creators initially tried to portray the unusual situation Keiichi finds himself in after his wish—sometimes humorously, sometimes sadly—the stories become increasingly absurd over time. And not in a good way.
By the midpoint of the series at the latest, it’s basically just random goddesses and demonesses insulting each other. Then suddenly they’re racing cars, unleashing robots on one another, and eventually something explodes while a pseudo-homosexual motorcycle club cheers. The end. Next episode. The same thing again. And if they only had about three yen of budget left for an episode, then it takes place entirely inside a house. Occasionally you see the garden. Wow.
Some episodes aren’t worth the celluloid they were recorded on. The intro plays, then shortly afterward the credits roll, and you’re left wondering: what actually happened there? Did anything happen at all? The little goddess and her older sister had an argument and Keiichi fell down. That’s it. The theme song was the best part of the episode.
Oh! My Goddess is the perfect background-watch adventure. It has the charm of an Kids’ WB anime series, the kind where you just drift from episode to episode and it didn’t matter if you missed one because you actually got up and went to play soccer with your friends.
Basically, you can watch the first five and the last five episodes of Oh! My Goddess and you won’t have missed anything. And if you find yourself wondering what relevance some previously unseen character has? The answer is always: none. They just suddenly appeared. And cause trouble. That’s all.
Oh! My Goddess would have been a better series if it had simply focused on the relationship between Keiichi and Belldandy. And whoever suggested that it would be funny if Belldandy’s entire family gradually showed up should have been fired on the spot before they even finished the sentence. Back then everything was better. Except Oh! My Goddess.
Tatsuya Egawa’s Golden Boy was the first anime that made me realize that Japanese cartoons weren’t just for little boys and girls but could also go in a more adult direction. This was despite the fact that the series aired on MTV in a heavily edited version—if you still remember MTV.
What’s Golden Boy about? Kintaro Oe was top of his class at Tokyo University’s Faculty of Law, one of the most prestigious in the whole world. Having mastered the entire curriculum without any problems, he disappears shortly before graduating. Now, he rides his bicycle through Japan searching for the most important things in life: the lessons you can’t learn in a classroom. That’s one way to put it.
In essence, each story revolves around Kintaro encountering a more or less big city somewhere along the road where he spots an attractive girl and immediately decides to pursue her. Literally and figuratively, as while the girl has no interest in him, he does everything possible to impress her. And when I say everything, I mean absolutely everything.
Kintaro tutors a wealthy daughter in math, cooks ramen at some restaurant and even cleans dirty toilets at a software company—all just to disappear again before actually getting what he wants. Golden Boy may only have six episodes in total, all fairly similar, but this anime still holds a very special place in my heart even today.
Tatsuya Egawa introduced me to the concept of adult themes in anime and inspired an entire generation of horny teenagers to give it a chance as an adult medium. If you’ve only ever associated anime with Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and Spirited Away, Golden Boy will open both your eyes and the door to a sticky world that long-lost souls call hentai. It will even take your mental virginity.
Before you know it, you will find yourself standing in a forest of pulsating tentacle penises, with one hand down your pants, watching Japanese schoolgirls being fucked across some parallel dimension until they ultimately explode. But that, my dear and innocent children, is a story for another time…
What Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, or Mariah Carey might be in Western realms, that is what women named Hikaru Utada, Namie Amuro, and Seiko Matsuda are in Japan. Grand shows, powerful voices, and an abundance of feminine energy—this is how the Far Eastern audience knows and loves its female superstars. They dazzle with charisma, glamour, and emotional performances that blend strength with elegance.
These artists are more than singers, they are icons who have shaped the image of Japanese pop culture for decades, inspiring countless fans across generations. Their concerts fill arenas, their songs dominate the charts, and their influence stretches far beyond Japan’s borders, defining what it means to be a pop legend in Asia’s ever-evolving music scene.
Whoever ventures into this alternative glittering world will not escape it easily. Suddenly they find themselves clicking through one fascinating J-Pop playlist after another, trying to sing along with Arashi, Morning Musume, and Akina Nakamori using fragments of learned words like 世界, こころ, and 愛してる.
Yet no one reaches the heights of one particular artist—the uncrowned, immortal, and one true queen of Japanese pop music: Ayumi Hamasaki. With more than twenty studio albums and numerous best-of compilations, Ayumi Hamasaki stands among the greatest stars the Land of the Rising Sun has ever produced. After a brief detour into hip-hop, her name alone now evokes admiration and nostalgia, symbolizing an entire era of musical brilliance and emotional expression.
Albums such as A Song for ×, LOVEppears, and Duty have sold millions of copies and, thanks to file sharing and passionate CD importers, have found many fans abroad. International audiences discovered her partly through the popularity of Japanese animated series like Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and Ranma ½, which brought attention to Asian singers and pop culture.
Born in Fukuoka, Ayumi Hamasaki sang and wrote her way into the radios and hearts of listeners with self-written and often self-composed songs like Voyage, Boys & Girls, and Dearest. She is the Queen of J-Pop. Her songs will outlast time itself, and her passion for music has inspired a new generation of Japanese artists such as Aimyon, Yoasobi, and Kenshi Yonezu.
It is well known that when you’re drunk, you do the stupidest things. Sending your ex a WhatsApp message with a shirtless selfie attached, for example. Convincing yourself that one more vodka Red Bull will go down just fine and that an hour later you definitely won’t be vomiting into your own pillow at home. Or getting into a fight with a bouncer. All three very stupid things. But you do what you have to do.
Kobayashi also enjoys getting drunk. The Japanese programmer is alone. And she has time. Enough time to head into the city with a bottle of sake and then back out again. That she doesn’t stay sober for long goes without saying. And because Kobayashi is in such a good mood, she drives into the forest. As one does. As a drunk programmer.
Among all the dark trees and the nighttime grass, she encounters a dragon. Tohru. As one does. As a drunk programmer. And she invites her to come live with her. As one does. As a drunk programmer. That’s how the story of Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid begins—and it doesn’t get any less absurd from there.
Anyone looking for normality in this anime series will be quickly disappointed, again and again. Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid is a cliché bomb like no other. But it’s fun. Unlike other cliché-filled anime. Here, madness is still written with a capital M. When Tohru enters Kobayashi’s small apartment, she transforms into a pretty maid—and stays that way.
There’s not much to say about the remaining characters. Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid knows it’s an anime. And because it knows it’s an anime, all its characters are pure anime archetypes. We have the cute loli. The unhinged otaku. The busty sex bomb. The shy student. The gluttonous office worker. The perpetually annoyed grouch. And my personal favorite: the kindergarten friend who’s in love with the cute loli—initially a bit of a brat, but soon bursting with joy at the slightest touch from her beloved.
So in Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid, we follow the daily life of Kobayashi and her housekeeper from another world. We go shopping with them. We visit a bathhouse. We attend a comic convention. Of course, together with all sorts of other colorful characters who gradually appear out of nowhere and create even more chaos.
The series Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid is, above all, one thing: fun, fun, fun. From the first to the last second, one anime bomb explodes after another. Sometimes small, sometimes big. Sometimes quiet, sometimes loud. Sometimes intimate, sometimes hilarious. But always with a great deal of love for the characters and the audience.
As a first anime experience, I wouldn’t necessarily recommend Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid. Films by Studio Ghibli are more suitable for that. Or Your Name. Or perhaps Cowboy Bebop. But if you’ve watched enough anime to playfully engage with its stereotypes, then Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid is a guaranteed firework display of good vibes.
Sure, sex is pretty great. But have you ever watched all the episodes of K-On! in one sitting, only to feel such a massive void in your heart afterward that you immediately started all over again just to even begin to fill it? Exactly. K-On! is pure joie de vivre, a love letter to cheerfulness, to carefree days, to the plans and hopes we all once had at some point.
When the daydreamer Yui starts high school, she firmly resolves to finally get off her lazy butt and join a school club so she won’t end up being a loser. The only question is: which one? Luckily, the newly formed school band is desperately looking for a guitarist.
This could be the beginning of a wonderful friendship and an amazing musical career for Yui. Unfortunately, she hasn’t the faintest clue how to play the guitar and has zero stage experience. On top of that, she’s easily distracted, and whenever she learns something new, she forgets something else. This is going to be a tough challenge for the other band members…
K-On! isn’t about an epic legend, grand heroic deeds, or saving the world. K-On! is about Yui—so warm-hearted, lazy, gluttonous, clumsy, naive, and adorable that it’s an absolute joy to watch her little everyday school adventures.
And it’s about her four best friends—Mio, Ritsu, Mugi, and Azusa (whom Yui affectionately calls Azumiau)—their shared, unstoppable ambition to become the best rock band in the world with After School Tea Time, and the sweet Papua softshell turtle Ton-chan, who diligently swims back and forth in the background. And about Yui’s little sister Ui, without whom nothing would probably function at all, and whose self-sacrificing devotion will undoubtedly one day become a case for the nearest psychiatrist.
If you ever feel lonely, depressed, and abandoned by the entire world, just watch an episode of K-On! before reaching for the bottle, the pillbox, or even the rope. And then another episode. And another. Until you eventually start all over again. Again and again. Forever.
K-On! makes you realize what life is really about: overcoming fears, gathering new experiences, and perhaps even finding friends for life who will stick with you through thick and thin. And maybe you’ll even rediscover your love for breezy, lighthearted pop music—the kind you once traded in for hip hop and electronic beats.
Anyone who doesn’t feel comfortable, welcomed, and at home here from the very first minute is truly beyond help. K-On! proves that sometimes it’s the small stories that truly melt your heart.
And no matter how much your soul has already been eaten away by cynicism and the general suffering of the world, after a personally prescribed K-On! cure, you’ll automatically feel more content, happier, and more positively inclined toward the entire universe.
Because Yui’s carefree nature—quite literally—rubs off even on the most sarcastic grump. Guaranteed. K-On! is sugary sweet, melodic, and absolutely iconic. And on top of that, there’s a generous dollop of whipped cream—because life is hard enough as it is.
When I finally got my driver’s license in my early 20s and raced through the streets of my uptight hometown in my mother’s bright red Seat Ibiza, criss-crossing back and forth, there was no hip hop, no techno, and no Britney Spears shouting from my speakers. No. It was the then-new single by a Japanese pop musician. Her name was Kumi Koda. The song was Butterfly.
My girlfriend at the time, who was sitting huddled in the passenger seat, was mortified as we sped past the local ice cream parlor, the school, and the outdoor pool. With Butterfly blaring at full volume. The fact that she let me back in her life after that is probably one of the most mysterious wonders of the world in human history.
Of course, it makes absolutely no sense for me to listen to Japanese music. I’m not Japanese and I don’t speak Japanese. No matter how much I sometimes wish I did and no matter how many Japanese courses I’ve endured. And believe me, there have been quite a few.
My teachers are utterly desperate with me. Greetings go out to Mr. Hasegawa, Ms. Takeda, and Mr. Sugimoto. To Ms. Ikeda, Ms. Takahashi, and Ms. Watanabe. To Mr. Fujiwara, Mr. Noguchi, and Ms. Yokoyama. To Ms. Ota, Ms. Sato, and Mr. Suzuki. And to Ms. Weatherby-Harrington.
After about 20 years and countless Japanese lessons, on a good day I can count to seven, distinguish between こころ for heart and こども for children, and shout “はじめまして、わたしはマセルです！” for “Hello, my name is Marcel!” That’s it. Really.
You’d think that after all the Japanese anime, comics, series, films, concerts, books, dramas, video games, and what feels like hundreds of thousands of songs, I’d be able to do a little more. But no. Even for my great love, Japanese pop culture, I’m still too lazy to seriously learn Japanese.
But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I’ve met enough Japanese students in my life who wanted to turn their hobby into a career, and with every new word they learned, they became less and less interested in consuming anything Japanese. Perhaps because that’s when you really realize that Japan is just a normal country with problems, boredom, and a relatively average entertainment industry. Like Germany. Or America. Or Romania.
Hundreds of Japanese people wouldn’t throw themselves off strategically well-placed bridges, skyscrapers, and train stations every year if the nation in the far, far East were as great as it is portrayed in K-On!. And that’s despite the fact that the show is virtually an all-around credible documentary about the everyday school life of young adolescents in the Land of the Rising Sun.
But due to my complete mental block, I can’t even begin to comprehend any further meaning of a Japanese word. To me, everything Japanese sounds great. Everything is wonderful. Everything has something magical about it. If you get wet when Jacques from some Parisian suburb asks you for directions to the nearest public toilet in the worst French accent, then Japanese has the same effect on me. “What are you saying, little Japanese girl? Your dog has warts on its balls? Kawaii!”
I’m that typical, fat, run-of-the-mill nerd who’s always one step away from his first heart attack, who considers Japan to be the Mecca of evolutionary creativity and celebrates everything with even a single Japanese character on it, even though he couldn’t tell it apart from Chinese, with a completely unnatural level of obsession.
Soon I’ll be buying cuddly pillows with childlike, half-clothed waifus on them, who are of course actually thousand-year-old vampire queens. I’ll only eat rice drizzled with sake. And I’ll officially change my name to Marcel-san.
When musical gods like Hikaru Utada, Scandal, or Asian Kung-Fu Generation pound on the keys, strings, and microphones, roaring, screaming, and strumming, I don’t hear hackneyed lyrics about love, pain, and freedom. I hear the pulse of Tokyo. The vibration of Osaka. The voice of Kyoto. And sometimes even the fart of Los Angeles.
With songs like First Love, Secret Base, or Rewrite, I can piece together my own stories in my head. Imagine my own personal credits. Fantasize about my life on the other side of the world.
J-pop exudes the same kind of magic you had as a child when you heard English-language songs on the radio and didn’t yet have to understand what nonsense was being sung about. “Can you blow my whistle baby, whistle baby?” Uh, no thanks, I’d rather not.
Of course, I could look up the translations of these songs on the internet. But that would be very stupid. Then I would know that my creative heroes, whom I’ve been listening to ever since there was a Japanese song on some Sailor Moon soundtrack CD that forever changed my taste to, let’s say, alternative, so that now I have no friends left, spout the same pop-rock-backed brain shit as Taylor Swift, The Weeknd, and Adele. Only in Japanese. And then I might as well hang myself.
Nevertheless, I would argue at this point that J-pop is the best music genre humanity has ever produced. Jazz is dead. Hip hop is murky. Even the otherwise universally celebrated K-pop is nothing more than colorful.
Japanese pop music, on the other hand, is melodic, emotional, and captivating with an incredible power that you otherwise only experience when you accidentally find yourself at an anime convention surrounded by sweaty weebs armed with two to seven Canon SLR cameras and a sixteen-year-old dressed as Rem from Re:Zero.
Because when you don’t have to pay attention to the lyrics, but only to the musical performance as a whole, you realize the sophistication, skill, and sonic perfection that many Japanese artists put into their completely authentic work. And I can rightly claim, notice, and evaluate this. After all, I studied music history for 63 years. At the Moon University.
Maybe J-pop just broke me. Because in their four-minute songs, they like to mix eight different music genres, three orchestras, and a singer screaming at the top of her lungs, stir it all up, and turn the epic switch up to 11. So that you might think the universe is about to explode while God dies and the Keio Girls Senior High School choir cries in the background.
J-pop is the anthem of my own little messed-up world. The Japanese music industry doesn’t care whether I listen to the songs or not. Whether I worship the stars or not. Whether I watch the music videos or not. They’re not marketed to me through TV commercials, radio slots, and newsletters. I don’t exist for them.
I can figure out their meaning for myself. I know nothing about their scandals or problems or rumors. J-pop is a huge, personal playlist. Just for me. Because everyone else thinks the songs are crap.
Its emotional range has something for every situation in my life. For dancing. For laughing. For crying. Whether they remind me of sad anime episodes or the stirring background music in video games or heartbreak or my first minutes at Narita Airport, when I stepped through the Welcome to Japan banner into a world full of cultural, technological, and human wonders. J-pop is always there for me and fills the void of wanderlust in my small, constantly annoyed and bored heart.
Of course, J-pop isn’t cool. Even Japanese people don’t think J-pop is cool. When I once mentioned at a picnic in Yoyogi Park that I like AKB48, I was allowed to spend the rest of my trip to Japan alone.
Apparently, a report about me was repeated every hour on state television, warning the population about me and saying that it was better to stay away from me. A gaijin who likes AKB48 and admits it publicly? If you see this walking hentai, drop everything! Including your children and pets. And run for your bare life!
Cool Japanese people like Swedish indie bands, American rappers, and British DJs. But definitely not a bunch of plastered Yukis from next door who have been thrown together into a so-called band by sleazy pimp managers and now have to jump up and down and back and forth to pop dance music until something inside them breaks.
They realize that only overweight, middle-aged office workers want to celebrate them and have sex with them at the same time. And then, after their identity crisis, often accompanied by shaving their heads and crying in front of TV cameras, they are replaced by younger models. On the other hand, this is probably the case throughout the entertainment industry. Everywhere. All over the world.
And when you watch interviews with Japanese bands and musicians, there is no pride in what they have created. No arrogance. Not even a hint of self-confidence. Rather, the exact opposite. A collective apology for being responsible for such noise, which is falsely labeled and sold as music by record companies. As if they should be ashamed of following their dreams. Instead of taking over their fathers’ cement factories, as befits true Japanese descendants. After all, they have brought shame upon Otosan. Shame!
Not even they themselves seem to like J-pop. For whatever reason. But maybe that’s just Japanese reserve and politeness, which is clichédly admired and celebrated in every travelogue, no matter how lacking in individuality. They are very shy, you see. The Japanese. All Japanese people. There are no exceptions. Every child knows that.
But maybe I’m just weird. Not in a cool way. Oh God, definitely not in a cool way. More in a Should we commit him now or wait two weeks? kind of way.
When I hear even a single beat of any Ed Sheeran memorial song on the radio, I want to turn into a mass murderer on the spot. But put me in front of a ten-hour YouTube video of The Best Anime Theme Songs from 1980 to Today at full volume and I’ll starve and die of thirst at the same time. Because I just can’t turn it off. A Cruel Angel’s Thesis is just such a banger.
I’m fully aware that with this revelation, I have forever ruined any chance of future sexual intercourse. But I just can’t pretend to like people like Katy Perry, Justin Timberlake, or Sabrina Carpenter anymore. I just can’t. Their songs. Their stories. Their thoughts. They just mean nothing to me. Pure. Utter. Nothing.
Instead, I sit here, close my eyes with pleasure, and listen to Perfume, Kyary Pamyu Pamyu, and Babymetal. How they sing about “せかい”, “ドキドキ”, and “はなび”. And I’m happy. Even though, or maybe even because, I don’t understand a single word.
There’s a cream called “Like a Virgin” for about twenty-five euros that you apply daily and it’s supposed to tighten your vagina back to adolescence. The active ingredient is alum. The marketing is refreshingly blunt: you’ll feel younger and your partner will feel bigger. I have no idea if it actually works.
What struck me was reading someone genuinely think through why they’d want to try it — not manufactured shame, just the straightforward fact of how bodies change over years with different partners and casual sex and living. A normal thing. A product designed to reverse it, to keep you frozen at a particular age in a particular place.
I don’t know if the alum is even safe on that tissue. But the product doesn’t need to work to be effective. It just needs to convince you that natural change is a problem that has a solution for sale. That’s the real trick of it.
I’ve spent more cumulative hours dying in Dark Souls than finishing some entire games. There’s something specific about that kind of consistent destruction - you either come out of it fundamentally changed, or you quit. The saying goes what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, which is obviously bullshit most of the time, but Dark Souls actually proved it could be true.
The Game Kitchen, a studio in Seville, took that feeling and compressed it into a pixel game. Blasphemous shouldn’t work - pixel art and that kind of relentless punishment feel like they belong in completely different genres - but Cvstodia, the world you move through, carries all the dread. Dark, religious, soaked in ritual and blood. You’re the Penitent One, basically the only survivor of something unspeakable, moving through this nightmare looking for something that might not exist.
The game is brutal. The controls feel wrong, like the game is actively resisting your attempts to play it. And the writing is dense - medieval Catholic horror dumped on you in long text blocks while you’re trying not to die. It’s almost like the whole thing is designed to frustrate you into quitting.
If that hasn’t turned you away, you might be the right person for this. If it has, go play Mario instead. Blasphemous is the kind of game that stopped existing for a while - the kind where punishment is the point, where it doesn’t apologize or hold your hand. It’s on PC, Switch, PlayStation, Xbox. This is what I’ve been missing from games.
There was a time when Sido was actually dangerous. I mean, he had that mask thing, some distance between himself and Paul Hartmut Würdig, whoever that guy actually is. But the music came out mean and sexual and he didn’t care what anyone thought about it. The early stuff, “Mein Block,” “Strip für mich,” “Fuffies im Club”—crude as hell, meant for people living in Berlin on the margins, kids who had nothing going for them. That was real.
That version doesn’t exist anymore. Somewhere between being a threat and being marketable, something just broke. He’s doing television now, acting in things, making choices that keep him employable and safe. His songs went from being the sound of the margins to being what suburban women hum in their cars.
“Pyramiden” is probably the final betrayal. He’s singing it with Johannes Oerding, this harmless pop guy, and the whole song is about how we’re all people, we all matter, we should just get along. It’s designed to offend no one. The old Sido would have put these people through a wall. Now he’s harmonizing with them about human dignity over some bloated radio arrangement.
What gets me is that it probably works. That’s the thing about going mainstream—you don’t fail, you just succeed at being acceptable. You figure out what people will buy and you make peace with it. Rent is expensive. Tours pay. Television pays even better than being dangerous.
But something dies when you make that deal, and after long enough you stop even noticing it’s gone. You’ve got the career, the family, the setup. You lost the thing that made anyone actually listen.
Novelty gets in the way when you’re traveling with a camera. Especially in Tokyo, where there’s so much visual noise that you think the place will do the work for you. It doesn’t. What matters is whether you can get quiet enough to actually see.
Michael Ivnitsky went to Tokyo and shot work that doesn’t pretend. Fashion photography with a model named Lisa M, the kind of images that read as genuine—the subject isn’t performing herself, the composition isn’t trying to prove anything. It’s just seeing and recording what you see.
I’ve done similar work in other cities and it’s always the same problem at the beginning—I’m distracted by the place, trying to make the location do the heavy lifting. Then something clicks. Usually it’s a clear light, or a moment where the person you’re shooting actually relaxes, or just the specific angle of a face that says something true. When that happens, the city becomes almost irrelevant. Tokyo is dense enough that it takes more work than most places to get to that point, but the work pays off.
What Ivnitsky captured reads like that moment. Not “Tokyo is beautiful and magic”—that’s tourist thinking. Just: I was there with a camera, I found someone worth looking at, the light held, and I didn’t fuck it up. That’s harder than it sounds.
Smooth. That’s the first thought when Cardi B’s voice comes in on “Writing on the Wall.” French Montana’s got a new album coming in November and this is the preview—nothing rough, nothing uncertain. Post Malone’s on it too, which you pretty much figured before clicking play. These three together don’t leave room for mistakes.
And it is smooth. Montana’s been selling consistency since “Unforgettable” went everywhere in 2017, and this is the same formula. Cardi does her thing—her voice is so distinctive now it barely needs melody anymore. Post Malone does his. Montana’s in the middle holding it together. They know exactly what they’re making.
There’s something to like about that kind of competence, that understanding of what will and won’t work. This isn’t trying to surprise anyone or push anything forward. It’s just three successful people making something that will chart, that will fill your evening without asking much of you. Sometimes that’s all you need.
You make a lot of money in China and suddenly you’re not just rich, you’re exposed. Somewhere on the party’s ledger, your name gets flagged as a problem — too much power, wrong kind of influence — and then you’re gone. Overnight, no explanation.
I learned about this from a German-French documentary. They profiled an entrepreneur named Hu Kexin who’d made a fortune in household and agricultural products, then pivoted to something almost whimsical: importing French baking culture. He bought thousands of hectares of French farmland, hired French bakers, wanted to create this whole ecosystem around bringing fresh bread back to China through his company. It’s the kind of ambition that sounds charming until it gets you erased.
Estimates put it at around 400 billionaires and millionaires who’ve simply vanished over the past decade. The Chinese government doesn’t acknowledge it. The Western press reports on it in fits and starts, but it never quite registers as the horror it deserves to be.
The documentary also interviewed Guo Wangui, a Chinese billionaire who fled to New York to stay alive. He was straightforward about the mechanism: the Party let entrepreneurs flourish while building the economy. Once that wealth accumulated into real power, it became a liability. They started making people vanish. His own family members were killed. He tries to warn others on social media, probably knowing it won’t help.
What stuck with me wasn’t the fear in what he described — though that was there — it was how casually he explained it. Like commenting on traffic. The system doesn’t need drama or theater. It just marks you as a problem and then you’re gone, and everyone left behind understands the logic perfectly. There’s something beneath the surface of that country, beneath the cultural richness and economic power, that doesn’t see human beings at all — just assets and liabilities. Once you fall into the latter category, that’s it.
“Chicken Noodle Soup” is stuck in my head and I’ve made peace with it. It’s the J-Hope and Becky G song — J-Hope from BTS, Becky G who shows up in collabs and does solid work. The track is simple and bright and totally designed to lodge itself in your skull. *Chicken noodle soup, chicken noodle soup, chicken noodle soup.* There it is.
BTS has this weird position where they actually translated to English-speaking markets, which most Korean acts never do. The idol system over there produces a lot of competent, disposable hits. These guys broke through that ceiling somehow — timing, star quality, the internet, who knows. They’re everywhere now, which is what matters.
This song doesn’t need any of that success. It’s nothing complicated — just a palette cleanser, something that plays at a party and nobody questions because it’s not trying to be anything. Becky G is solid. J-Hope is fine. The production is smooth. That’s all it needs.
I found Japanese jazz from the seventies by accident — Sadao Watanabe, session players backing singers I’d never heard of — and it rewired what I thought the music could do. There’s a formal precision underneath something loose and exploratory, Western sophistication filtered through Japanese restraint and taste. The production is warm and muffled by today’s standards, and it sounds like it doesn’t care if anyone’s listening. I can’t stop reaching for those records.
The Last of Us didn’t need a sequel. That was the clearest thing about it. The first game ended in a way that broke you—you weren’t sure if what Joel did was right, and that uncertainty was the whole point. Continuing that story felt like it could only fail, either by explaining away what made the ending so powerful or by repeating the formula that had already been perfect.
So when they announced The Last of Us 2, I had the same thought everyone else did: unnecessary. But then I watched the trailer. There was Ellie, older now, with a hardness in her face that the first game hadn’t prepared you for. The announcement made it clear that this wasn’t going to be a comfort sequel—no redemption, no escape. Neil Druckmann and his team understood exactly what people loved about the first game and what they wanted to avoid. Instead of smoothing over the ending, the sequel was going to live inside it, twist inside it.
The central question was meaner than the first game had dared to ask: how far would you go for revenge? What happens to a person when they give themselves over to that completely? What happens to everyone around them? It’s the kind of thing that justifies a sequel, the kind of story that needs to be told even if it means wrecking the beauty of what came before. The trailer didn’t promise catharsis or closure. It promised something harder—a story that would refuse to let you off easy, that would make you complicit in something you wouldn’t want to be complicit in.
I didn’t know how it would land, but I knew the instinct was right. The willingness to hurt your own work for the sake of honesty is rarer than people think.
Summer Walker popped up from Atlanta with this slow, thick R&B that just hangs on you like humidity. Her song “Girls Need Love” was the thing that changed everything — Drake heard it, sent her a message, and suddenly everyone knew her name. But what actually stuck was the way her voice just sits in a track, patient and unhurried, like she’s got nowhere else to be.
Her debut album came out in late 2018 and racked up billions of streams. The new album dropped in October, and before that she’d put out “Playing Games” and a track with A Boogie where what really mattered was that she could pole dance in the video in a way that made you believe she actually loved doing it. Because she does. She talks about it like it’s meditation — coming home, lighting a candle, putting on good music, getting on the pole. There’s something genuinely sensual about that without it needing to be calculated. Just someone who likes their body and what it can do.
Her influences make sense if you listen: Amy Winehouse, Erykah Badu, Jimi Hendrix, Leon Bridges. That span from jazz-soul confessionalism to psychedelic guitar to the patient R&B of Bridges. She’s not trying to be any of them. She’s just pulling from the same well of people who knew how to make space in a track and fill it with something real.
Drake paid attention. 6lack brought her on tour. The numbers were good. But what sticks is smaller — the way she moves through this moment like she’s got nowhere to be, like the music and the attention are nice but not the main thing. The main thing is doing what you actually like. Coming home. Lighting a candle. Getting on the pole. No performance, no strategy. Just that.
Came across these photos Jase Holzer took of Georgie Riot—model, actress from Manchester, runs her own company. Just her and her dog at home. She’s in the bath, on the grass, standing on a red Supreme carpet so red it feels almost aggressive. The whole shoot has this quality of not trying to convince you of anything.
What I keep coming back to is how comfortable she looks in her own space. Not comfortable in a relaxed way—though that’s part of it—but comfortable like she knows exactly what she’s spending her energy on and what’s not worth it. She’s building things. The modeling, the acting, her own operation. You can tell it’s not happening in spite of her existing, it’s happening because she refuses not to build. That’s a different energy than the kind of people who are always performing their own lives for an audience that may or may not be paying attention.
I don’t mean to make it sound like she’s some kind of inspiration or role model or any of that tired language. It’s simpler than that. She’s just someone who looks like she’s not wasting motion. The photos are good because Holzer knows what he’s doing, but what stays with you is how much of herself is in the frame without any effort to put it there. That’s harder than it looks.
I’ve probably played “The Legend of Zelda: Link’s Awakening” more times than I care to count. Game Boy first, then Game Boy Color, then the 3DS. There’s something about it that sticks — the island setting, the dreamlike tone, the way it tilts the Zelda formula. The crocodile that needs dog food. Marin. The whole strange vibe of it.
Here it is again on the Switch Lite, rendered in soft pastel colors. Link waddles around Koholint Island like a claymation character, and after twenty-five years it still holds up. The puzzles are clever, the tone is still specific and weird, the logic is its own thing.
What interests me is how much the Switch Lite feels like a straight continuation of the Game Boy. Small, portable, no TV connection. It came out alongside this remake, which had to be intentional — Nintendo returning to something they’d mostly abandoned. The Game Boy was always about gaming in the margins of your day. Spare moments. You’d pull it out and disappear. The Switch Lite does the exact same thing.
I keep thinking about how games get locked to certain hardware in your memory. I didn’t decide to play Link’s Awakening — I had the Game Boy, I had time to kill, so I played it. Over and over. The Switch Lite works the same way now. Same game, same portable logic, same sense of escape. The machine changed, but you’re still doing what you always did.
There are stretches where I could almost convince myself you’re gone in a normal way, the way people move on. Then something small catches me—your name still in my phone, a laugh that sounds like you, someone asking the question you used to ask—and I’m reaching for my phone thinking I should text you. Ask what you’re doing. Ask why you haven’t posted anything new. A photo. A quote. Some song that would matter to you. And then it hits: you’re not going to post anything. Not ever.
Your old Tumblr is still there, at least. Half of it doesn’t work anymore—videos gone, accounts deleted—but enough remains that I can still see how you thought. I scroll through it sometimes late at night, looking at what you collected, what caught your eye. I wish I’d been different when I had the chance. Less scared. Less useless. Something other than what I was in that moment. I wish I’d just held your hand and said what I actually meant instead of shutting down.
Over and over you kept asking who was going to save you, how you were supposed to save yourself. You wanted to burn. To fight. That wasn’t just something you said—that was the whole thing underneath everything. So I scroll through your archive late at night with my phone, remembering the places we went and the conversations that meant nothing at the time and everything now. I want you to know, wherever you are, that I haven’t forgotten. I’m still here. Still angry about it. Still sad. Still grateful you were real.
I put on “Supersize” and immediately understood why this was inevitable. Shirin David spent years on YouTube building an audience around her image—Hamburg, early twenties, Lithuanian and Persian, knowing exactly what works. The album is just the obvious next step.
The songs don’t pretend. “Der Körper ist gewaxt, alles bei mir glatt”—”Gib ihm,” “Brillis,” “Gift.” She sings “Ich wollt’ in Unterwäsche kommen, fick’ deinen Dresscode” with the kind of confidence that only comes from understanding your audience completely. Crude, sexual, unapologetic about what it’s for.
What strikes me is the honesty of it. No artistic mystique, no performance of being more than she is. Just a clear reading of her own appeal and a decision to use it the way that works. That’s harder to find than you’d think.
The album won’t change anything. It wasn’t supposed to. It’s what happens when someone who understands the internet finally stops hinting and just does the thing.
Anime pulls in everyone — brilliant creative people making something beautiful, and complete losers whose entire identity is defending a character pillow. You learn to ignore the latter. The art is what matters, and when you find an anime that hits, everything else disappears.
I grew up on Sailor Moon, Pokémon, Dragon Ball. Then Attack on Titan, Carole & Tuesday, A Silent Voice, and the strange ones: JoJo, Space Dandy, Serial Experiments Lain. If you can look past the fanservice and the embarrassing parts of the fandom, there are complete universes worth getting lost in. Real storytelling, real art.
Germany’s been obsessed with anime since the nineties, but finding a good German podcast about it barely happens. So when Viet Nguyen from Rocket Beans and Jolina Bering, a psychologist, started Nani?! — anime slang for “what?!” — I was honestly surprised it took so long. The podcast is just two people talking casually about their favorite childhood animes, weird new releases, whether something like Jeanne the Kamikaze Thief, that RTL II show everyone watched growing up, might have accidentally awakened something in a lot of viewers.
It’s good because it doesn’t try to be anything else. Two people who like anime, talking without performing, without pretending to be experts. That’s it. That’s enough.
I burned through entire summers in those early SNES RPGs. Secret of Mana, Terranigma, Chrono Trigger—games where you could lose yourself in a pixel world with a band of companions, where magic mattered and the story felt inevitable. I’d disappear into a single game for weeks, not because I was chasing the ending but because I didn’t want to leave.
Children of Morta tries to capture that feeling. It’s a rogue-lite from 11 Bit Studios where you play as the Bergson family, magic users living quietly in an enchanted forest until darkness arrives and tears everything apart. Suddenly it’s about saving the world, protecting Mount Morta, uncovering the rot spreading through the land. Each family member fights differently—weapons, magic, fists—and as you move through the dungeons you unlock new abilities and watch the story unfold. Love, loss, hope, all rendered in pixel art that feels like someone painted it from the memory of how those old games felt.
What works about it is that it operates on two levels. The nostalgia is obvious, the way it captures what made those SNES games actually matter. But there’s also the design itself—the pacing, the way you learn each character by how they move, the sense that you’re watching something unfold rather than just grinding through dungeons. Out on PC, heading to PS4 and Switch eventually.
The family is real. The pixel art is beautiful. The story lands. If you’d rather play Fortnite, that’s your call.
Netflix made a whole series about Tatsumi Kumashiro building the Japanese adult film industry in the 1980s, which is kind of absurd and great. The Naked Director treats it all seriously—not as shock value, just as the business and ambition of building something in an industry most people pretend doesn’t exist. The Japanese porn world had its own weird aesthetic completely separate from the West, and the show actually cares about that history. What gets me is that it exists on Netflix now, mainstream, where you might find it between your other shows. That’s almost defiant.
For two years before it came out, Cyberpunk 2077 was better than any game could be, because it didn’t exist yet. You had trailers, screenshots, developer interviews promising a revolution in open-world design, and what you really had was a projection based on The Witcher 3, which was probably the best open-world RPG ever made — vast, written like actual fiction, worth exploring because the world felt inhabited instead of designed.
Cyberpunk as a genre had been mostly visual wallpaper for decades. Neon and corporations and neural implants, looked great, meant nothing. What made this compelling was that CD Projekt Red would bring their writing sensibility to something with actual narrative weight, actual stakes. That a world of MegaCorps and street gangs and impossible choices might actually feel urgent instead of just pretty.
Keanu Reeves showed up as a digital ghost in the marketing, which should’ve been terrible but felt exactly right for a game about authenticity and fakeness being the same thing. It all lined up. The studio, the source material, the cultural moment, the casting. It felt possible that someone had finally understood how to make cyberpunk matter.
December 2020 arrived and the game was broken. Famously, legendarily broken in ways that took years to fix. But before that, before the launch exposed the gap between what we expected and what was actually there, it was just potential. For a moment it felt like someone got it. That feeling, that anticipation, was worth something even though it didn’t pan out.
I remember when Rezo’s video came out. He was a YouTuber in Germany and he’d made this long takedown of the CDU, the country’s center-right party, and it went everywhere just before an election. Suddenly younger people were actually paying attention to politics. The party’s leadership watched this happen and their response told you everything about where they’d ended up.
Annegret Kramp-Karrenbauer decided the problem wasn’t their policies. It wasn’t that they’d become irrelevant to anyone young. The problem was that people were allowed to watch criticism of them online, and they needed to change that. So she started talking about needing laws to regulate speech before elections. If 70 newspaper editors published anti-CDU editorials right before an election, that would need governing, she said. The more she explained it, the more it was clear she wasn’t talking about fairness. She was talking about control.
She did admit the CDU had bungled their response—too slow, too late. But the answer wasn’t to change anything. It was to make laws. Which is just a cleaner way of saying we can’t make our case more persuasive than the case being made against us, so we need it to be illegal.
What struck me was how honest it all was. A party that still said the word “democracy” was describing, out loud, why it needed to silence critics. She used careful language, talked about “asymmetric mobilization” and “political culture,” but the meaning was obvious. We can’t compete if people can hear both sides, so make it stop.
Europe was building Upload Filters at the same time—automatic systems to remove content from the internet. And you could feel it: wouldn’t those be useful. A way to just erase the wrong kind of speech.
A party that’s aged out doesn’t need laws. It just needs to get old faster.
Claire Cottrill from Boston makes bedroom pop in the literal sense—just her in a room with voice and careful arrangement, everything minimal enough that there’s nowhere to hide. “Pretty Girl” was the breakthrough, this quiet song that didn’t try to impress you, which is harder to pull off than it sounds.
What worked was the realness of it. Not performing authenticity the way so much online music does, just someone with an idea and a camera. Somehow that reached hundreds of millions of people, which makes sense when you think about it—when everything else feels like a performance, actual honesty becomes rare.
She’s putting out her first full album, “Immunity,” in August, with “Bags” as the opening single. The interesting part is what happens at that scale. Whether the smallness that made the early stuff matter survives becoming a real album, becoming a real thing. That’s always the test with someone this young and this genuine—does she stay true to what got people listening, or does something shift.
Berlin at night is a machine. The clubs don’t close, the streets stay packed with people who’ve decided sleep is negotiable, the U-Bahn screams through tunnels until 5 AM and starts again at 4. If you live there long enough, you either learn to sleep through it or you learn to leave. There’s not much middle ground.
Hans Hack got tired of the noise—or maybe just curious about where it didn’t exist—and built a map. The map shows the places in Berlin that are furthest from any street, using OpenStreetMap data to calculate the quiet zones. Not designed green spaces. Just pockets where the traffic falls away, where you can stand and breathe without a horn nearby.
The method is straightforward. He took the road network, drew boundaries around whole city blocks—spaces completely surrounded by streets—and found the points inside each block most distant from any road. The calculation assumes a 2.5-meter minimum road width, the maximum width a car can be. There’s maybe 5 meters of error either way. Precise enough to find actual quiet.
I like tools that work backward from the obvious. Everyone knows parks exist. The map finds the small dead zones, the forgotten centers of neighborhoods, places with no name where distance from street noise is incidental rather than designed. The kind of space you stumble into by accident and think, oh, this is where people go to disappear.
Berlin’s always been a city that doesn’t sleep, and that’s the hook—the promise of perpetual motion, perpetual possibility. But once you’ve lived in it for a while, once the constant movement stops feeling like option and starts feeling like obligation, knowing where the quiet is matters. Even if you never go there.
There’s that thing that happens when you fall down an internet rabbit hole—one link leads to another, then another, and suddenly you’ve lost three hours and become a frothing expert on something completely obscure. For me, it’s been atomic semiotics: the science of how to warn people ten thousand years from now about nuclear waste dumps they won’t understand using symbols they won’t recognize.
Atomic semiotics might sound like science fiction, but it’s real enough to raise the hair on your neck. For decades, scientists around the world have been wrestling with the same problem: how to scare future humans away from something like the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant in New Mexico—a nuclear waste storage facility—assuming those future people won’t speak our languages, won’t recognize our danger symbols, and might not even understand what radiation is. The proposals get progressively more sci-fi: giant monoliths scattered across the landscape, genetically modified cats that glow under radiation, an “atom pope” preaching nuclear gospel to devoted followers.
In 1991, a group of scientists, writers, and philosophers hammered out concrete proposals. The first layer of warning would be massive earthworks—either shaped like the radiation hazard symbol or a skull, or else jagged ridges pointing outward. These are just the introduction. They announce: something important happened here, we thought we were important, and this place is dangerous.
Monoliths would sit inside or on top of these earthworks, with messages carved at different levels. Level two pairs short written warnings with two faces expressing extreme negativity—one modeled on Munch’s The Scream, the other a disgust face designed by psychologist Irenäus Eibl-Eibesfeldt. The next levels escalate: longer passages about the danger, paired with increasingly complex symbols and diagrams meant to communicate what it is, where it is, and how long it stays dangerous—all without any shared language.
What really struck me is the design philosophy behind the empty center. “For human beings, creating a center—we are here—is the first act of ordering chaos,” the designers wrote. “A center has always been a place of privilege and honor. Here, we want to invert that. This center is not a place of privilege or value. It’s the opposite: uninhabited, despised, empty, a void, a non-place.” Turning the symbol inside out. That’s clever.
But would it actually work? That’s where things get philosophically dark. The 1991 group modeled out various scenarios where their warnings would fail entirely. In a “feminist world,” twentieth-century science itself might be written off as arrogant male aggression, so all the warnings get dismissed as examples of that very same thinking. In a world of radical relativism, future people would see the messages as just one incompatible perspective among countless others—meaningless to their worldview. And symbols drift. The skull meant death and danger once; now it means pirates and treasure hunts.
For the slim chance that someone ten thousand years from now can read English, they’ve carved an inscription. “This place is a message… and part of a system of messages… pay attention to it!” It describes the danger: what it is, where it is, how it intensifies toward the center. “The form of the danger is an emanation of energy. The danger is unleashed only if you substantially disturb this place physically.” And at the end: “This place is best shunned and left uninhabited.” That last line might be the most honest thing science has ever written.
They’re still collecting proposals, decades later. Warning songs about radioactive flowers. A massive black monolith. Weird confusing structures inside the facility meant to spook intruders. A couple years ago, some designers won a competition with an idea to reshape the entire site using carbon dioxide, creating unnatural forms and garish colors that would make anyone think twice about going near it.
There’s something melancholic about it all—this enormous effort to communicate across thousands of years to people whose minds might work in ways we can’t predict. We’re throwing messages into the future like bottles into the ocean, hoping. But I also think we’re probably deluding ourselves. People don’t listen to warnings. We never have. We see a skull and we want to dig.
I watched the “Gate of Living” video three times straight, which is what I do when something isn’t done affecting me yet. The visual style—dark, sparse, carefully composed—threads back through her earlier work, these themes she keeps circling in “God, Nor Buddha” and “The Narrow Way” and work that goes back further still. Watch them in sequence and you see it’s all one thing.
Ringo Shiina has spent two decades refusing to be what she was. Started as raw punk and somehow kept getting deeper instead of cycling through the same moves. The albums chart this: “Muzai Moratorium,” “Shōso Strip,” “Karuki Samen Kuri no Hana,” “Sanmon Gossip.” Each one takes her further from what pop music is supposed to do and toward something stranger, colder, more precise. It’s not a style shift—it’s someone pursuing something real.
The “Gate of Living” video is the fullest version of that yet. It doesn’t do what music videos are supposed to do. There’s no performance moment, no narrative arc, just this sustained mood that sits with the song like they came from the same place. And that’s probably the whole point. Most people making things are still working within habits, still following the template of what their work is supposed to be. She stopped doing that years ago.
I wouldn’t call it beautiful, exactly. Compelling, yeah. There’s something genuinely unsettling about it, the way it doesn’t ask you to like it or feel good watching it. But I think that’s what matters more than beauty. Anyone can make something pretty. This is someone who decided prettiness isn’t interesting anymore and just kept going.
It’s been a quarter-century and DiCaprio and Pitt finally end up in the same movie. Tarantino puts them together in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, set in 1969 Los Angeles — the exact moment when the old studio system starts its final collapse. Everything beautiful is dying. TV is eating cinema. The old guard is fading. DiCaprio plays Rick Dalton, a television star watching his relevance evaporate. Pitt is his stunt double, Cliff Booth. There’s an enormous ensemble supporting them — Margot Robbie, Al Pacino, Kurt Russell, Timothy Olyphant, Margaret Qualley — all moving through this specific, doomed landscape with absolute precision.
It’s Tarantino’s ninth film, and something’s shifted in him. The last few weren’t what Pulp Fiction or Jackie Brown were, but this one feels different — less interested in plot mechanics, more interested in period texture, in dialogue that sits with you, in the way a specific moment in time can contain the feeling of an entire era ending. The cinematography is immaculate. Every detail means something.
What gets me is that Tarantino’s not really interested in spectacle here. He’s interested in obsolescence. Rick Dalton is a man realizing that he’s becoming irrelevant, which is a fear every artist carries but almost never admits. You can be skilled, talented, necessary, and still feel the moment when the world decides it’s done with you. When the temperature shifts and you’re no longer setting it. That’s the story.
DiCaprio and Pitt carry something of that weight themselves now. They’re not young anymore. These are guys who spent decades as the most desired actors in the world, and now they’re playing men in a world that’s moving past them. The irony isn’t accidental. Tarantino understands what it means to make art about the moment you start to feel your own obsolescence.
The film comes out in August. I’ll watch it. The real question isn’t whether it works — the real question is what Tarantino is actually trying to confess here, hidden inside a period piece about 1969. That’s where the meat is.
Ellesse’s doing that thing again where 90s sportswear doesn’t feel like nostalgia, just clarity. Bright yellows, clean colors, the kind of windbreaker you could actually wear without second-guessing yourself. There’s something about a brand that’s been around long enough to cycle back to what it was good at. The collection doesn’t try to be anything—it just exists in bright primary colors and simple shapes. That’s the appeal, I think.
I found out she died in one of those mixed news feeds—Grumpy Cat dead at seven from a urinary tract infection, sandwiched between tech announcements and memes that had already moved on. Tardar Sauce. The cat with the permanent scowl.
The thing about Grumpy Cat was that she wasn’t famous for being cute or clever. A genetic disorder—feline dwarfism—had given her an underbite that made her face look perpetually furious. Not performing anger. Not in on a joke. Just a biological accident that somehow became the exact mascot everyone needed for their own bad mood. Posted to Reddit in September 2012. YouTube video three days later. By the time people figured out how to monetize Facebook, she had millions of followers.
What gets me is the speed of it. Not a trained dog doing tricks, not a kid saying something inexplicably funny. Just a cat with a certain expression, and suddenly there’s a hundred-million-dollar empire. Merchandise. TV appearances. Magazine covers. German political parties used her in election posters. When a coffee company tried selling Grumpuccino without paying, her owners sued for 710 thousand and won. A cat that went to court over trademark infringement.
That’s what I can’t stop thinking about now. She wasn’t a celebrity. She was a phenomenon—something that crystallized right when meme culture was learning to be its own economy. She proved people would turn anything into a brand if it gave them something to project onto. A permanent scowl meant whatever you needed it to mean. Your job. Your life. Your mood. She was a mirror that happened to be a cat.
I don’t know if it’s weird to feel something about an animal I never met. But there’s something perfect about her existing by accident, being furious without trying, and somehow becoming immortal in the dumbest way possible. No performance. No apology. Just a face that everyone agreed meant something, and then she was gone.
Die Partei just dropped an AfD blocker. It comes for Chrome and Firefox, plus there’s a physical version for magazines where you literally flip past the content. The whole thing is obviously a joke, but like all Die Partei’s work, it’s also sincere—an argument buried under absurdism.
I get it, though. I’m exhausted by the constant stream of far-right noise and stupidity in my feed. So here’s a tool that erases it. Sonneborn, Die Partei’s leader, frames it as a genuine innovation—a product for people who’ve decided their lives are better when the AfD doesn’t exist in their browser.
Die Partei does this constantly. They’re a real political party in Germany, but their whole practice is built on satire and deflation—taking things that demand to be taken seriously and treating them as beneath serious engagement. In their view, sometimes the most effective response to trolls isn’t debate or counter-argument; it’s deletion.
What makes the joke work is that it’s also literally true. I don’t have to see them. I can opt out of their existence in the media I choose. In reality, of course, they’d still be everywhere outside my browser, still a problem in the actual world. But in my small corner, in the spaces I control, they’re gone. And maybe that’s Die Partei’s real argument—that I don’t owe them my attention.
Die Partei, Germany’s satirical protest party, gave their European election campaign slot to Sea-Watch. Not as a guest appearance or cause du jour—the full thing, uncut. They called it “Hold Your Breath,” and it wasn’t a plea or appeal. It was just facts: one in ten people drown crossing the Mediterranean. The EU doesn’t rescue them. The EU criminalizes rescue workers. The EU pays Libyan militias to drag people back. This is what you’re voting on in a few weeks.
The ZDF wouldn’t air it like that. Too pointed, apparently. So they cut it down, softened the angles, made it fit the usual broadcast texture. The message survived intact, technically, but castrated.
Most of what bothers me about the thing isn’t even the censorship—media outlets always find reasons to soften anything with teeth. It’s that Die Partei even tried it. Campaign ads are almost always performance: image, personality, careful messaging, hours of polling and focus groups. They stripped all that and just put the fact on the screen. One in ten. EU policy. Vote on it. No emotional music, no slow build, no asking you to feel the right way about it. Just visibility.
That’s apparently where the line is. Not at lies—those run constantly. Not at exploitation. At actual clarity about something the state has chosen. The broadcaster’s instinct to edit it down tells you everything you need to know about what makes institutions nervous.
Whether anything changed, whether anyone even noticed, I couldn’t say. Probably not. But the move was clean: you identify the moment where the rules break, and you force the system to explain itself.
Some scam outfit called Constantino Tour sent out invites for a luxury vacation in Antalya to about twenty influencers, and they actually went. One blogger named Anna IX took the bait with her friend Natalie Osada. They flew out of Düsseldorf one evening and landed in Antalya. At the airport exit, three women were waiting with a sign displaying the company’s name. One asked for their passports—supposedly to speed up the hotel check-in. Anna handed hers over without a second thought and they got in the van.
The drive didn’t take long before things fell apart. The place they pulled up to wasn’t any resort. It was a run-down property out in the middle of nowhere, and when they went inside the staff had no bookings. No record of them at all. Anna called the police. Someone called the consulate. They tried reaching the travel agency. Except Constantino Tour didn’t actually exist. It was all a front.
The real target was the passports. A European passport on the black market goes for around ten thousand euros. Twenty influencers meant twenty passports.
They ended up paying for their own hotel rooms and flying back the next evening, out a significant amount of money and not a lesson learned among them. But here’s what gets me: some criminal figured out that you can con twenty narcissists with a phone camera way more reliably than running the traditional schemes anymore. The elderly got smart. They ask questions now, demand proof. Influencers though? Totally defenseless. No thought required. Just promise something shiny and they’re yours.
At some point, Ryan Reynolds just uploaded the entire Detective Pikachu film to his YouTube channel in full. No rental fee, no subscription—just a Hollywood film sitting in your feed like any other video. Free.
I watched mostly to hear whether Reynolds could carry a performance on voice alone. His Pikachu is relentless, just constant quips and riffing, jokes that skew more adult than you’d expect in a kids’ film. It works because he commits completely. The actual plot is skeletal: a kid whose father vanishes teams up with his dad’s old Pokémon partner, who he can somehow understand. Dumb premise, but dumb enough that you stop thinking and let it happen.
What stuck was the strangeness of the thing’s existence. A major studio release, just available on YouTube for nothing. No visible strategy, no expiration. Maybe promotional, maybe a favor, maybe nobody at the studio bothered to take it down. It had the quality of stumbling onto a glitch in the distribution system.
I couldn’t tell you much about the movie now. Reynolds’ voice, mostly, and the weird feeling of watching something that slick on YouTube. Which was probably exactly what they wanted.
I heard a story about Berlin’s wealthiest neighborhood, Grunewald, where the villas sit massive and old and expensive, the kind of place you’d think was untouchable. Turns out billionaires are buying them up, pushing out the millionaires who’d been there for decades. The wealthy have finally discovered what everyone else already knew: if you have something someone richer wants, you’re not going to keep it.
I found the whole thing weirdly satisfying, in a bitter way. Not because I care about millionaires losing property—they’ll be fine. But because it’s so perfectly logical. Gentrification doesn’t stop at some magic threshold of wealth. It doesn’t get more humane the richer you are. It just keeps going, pushing everyone up the chain until someone with deeper pockets shows up and you’re moving again.
I’ve watched it happen in every city. The pattern’s always the same: artists move to cheap neighborhoods, investors notice, prices climb, artists get pushed out to the suburbs, young professionals move in, those prices climb too, and eventually even the people who thought they’d finally made it enough money end up looking at moving vans. It’s a machine that never stops, just keeps churning upward through the tax brackets.
The dark part is how we only call it a problem when it affects people we think deserve better. Working-class families displaced from Kreuzberg or Friedrichshain—that’s gentrification, that’s worth talking about. Millionaires losing their villas to billionaires? That’s just the market, that’s just how it works. Same mechanism, same displacement, same cruelty. Just a different number of zeros, which apparently changes the whole moral weight of it.
I don’t have energy for sympathizing with millionaires watching their real estate portfolios shrink. But I do get something from the symmetry of it—the inescapability, the way greed never runs out of people richer than you, the way there’s always another level you can’t reach. It’s not a lesson about anything. It’s just how it is. The cycle keeps spinning, and everyone thinks they’re finally safe until someone taller walks in.
Henning May’s voice has always been this heavy, honest thing—the kind that doesn’t ask permission to break. Paired with Juju on “Vermissen,” it works in a way I wasn’t prepared for. She comes from SXTN, years of making crude Berlin hip-hop with Nura, reflecting their actual lives back without any apology. When they split up, I wondered what she’d do alone. Then this.
The song’s just the two of them talking about missing someone. May’s voice pulls it up from somewhere deep, and Juju meets him there—no posturing, no reach, no performance. That directness is exactly why it works. She’s never played the part of what a female rapper is supposed to be; she just exists fully in the space. Hearing her alongside May, who does the same thing, feels like the obvious choice once you hear it, even though there’s no reason it should exist.
I keep listening to it. There’s something about the way neither of them tries that makes you believe in it.
Every photo on Instagram is proof that I’m living wrong. Someone figured out how to make showering look like freedom, how to sit on a couch and look like they have something figured out, and I’m here trying not to crack my skull on the shampoo bottle when I slip.
Kirby White is a model from Sydney who somehow made doing nothing look like living. Her feed is just her existing — beach days, couch days, quiet moments — and each image reads like proof that she’s figured out something I haven’t. Even her most unremarkable seconds are devastating.
A photographer named David Collier saw what I saw. He shot her for a series called “Miss White,” published in Naked magazine. It’s Kirby, naked, in an apartment doing regular things. Showering. Cleaning. Being there. Pizza shows up in some shots, which shouldn’t matter but does — it makes the whole thing feel both real and impossible.
If I could find a genie right now I’d trade my entire life for hers without blinking. It’s a stupid thought about a stranger, but that’s what Instagram does. It makes me want to climb inside someone else’s skin just to feel what their life feels like.
You see the studies every couple years now. Young people aren’t drinking. The numbers just keep dropping—eight percent of twelve-to-seventeen year olds drinking weekly, down from over twenty percent in the early 2000s. Which means this whole thing we grew up thinking was inevitable—sneaking alcohol, first beers, getting fucked up as a rite of passage—just isn’t the default story anymore for kids coming up now.
I don’t know if that’s good or bad. It’s just strange to watch something you assumed was universal about youth culture stop being universal. We grew up thinking certain things were just how it happened. You drank. Everyone drank. It was part of the whole script. The statistics break it down: thirteen percent of teenagers binge drink monthly now, versus twenty-five percent back in 2007. The trend’s been moving one direction for a while. For people in their twenties it’s different though—about a third drink regularly, and binge drinking in that age group has ticked back up over the last seven years. So it’s not that young adults quit entirely. It’s specifically teenagers who’ve backed off.
Which leaves me thinking about everything that hangs on that ritual. The stories people tell about becoming themselves. The nights that feel dangerous or necessary. Basements, cars, whatever else is supposed to happen. The scripts we all got handed about what adolescence is. Maybe it all just gets rewritten. Maybe there’s a different kind of risk now, or maybe refusing the old templates is the rebellion.
What’s strange is how fast the generational edge moves. A few years back I was writing like the way I drank was universal—how people drank, period. Now I’m reading statistics about teenagers doing something completely different, and it lands like observing some alien future. That’s just how it happens. Every generation shows up convinced the next one will follow the same playbook. Then they don’t. You’re at that point where you’re too old to get pulled in but old enough to notice it shifting.
Mark Ronson and Lykke Li made Late Night Feelings and the video’s genuinely compelling. There’s a charge to it, a tension between two people who know what they’re doing.
Ronson’s been around long enough that people take him seriously. British producer based in New York since the nineties, started as a club DJ doing cheap gigs and just kept ascending. The fashion world adopted hip-hop for a moment and he rode that wave—worked with Miley Cyrus, built a solid reputation. But he got smart about it. Decided the music itself mattered more than the scene. He still DJs on Friday nights, still plays clubs with friends. But production’s his real work.
Lykke Li doesn’t vanish into a collaboration. Her songs have their own weight—”I Follow Rivers,” “Little Bit.” Pairing her with Ronson felt like something that could work, not just a producer hiring a vocalist.
The video’s intimate without being calculated. There’s a tension running through it that suggests something real existed between them before they filmed it. Most promotional material feels made to go viral or impress. This one doesn’t. I watched it more than once.
I watched the Snyder film back in 2009 and understood almost nothing. Walked out confused, didn’t bother looking up what I’d missed, moved on. Alan Moore’s universe isn’t built for people coming in fresh. It’s built for people who already care, who want to see the source material translated, who have opinions going in. I had none of those things.
HBO is doing a series version now with Regina King, Don Johnson, Jeremy Irons. The pitch is that ten hours gives you room to breathe with something this complex, that you can make it work for people who’ve never read the comic. HBO’s shown they can do that before—Game of Thrones, Westworld, The Sopranos. They know how to unpack dense material.
The actual plot is simple enough: someone kills The Comedian in an alternate New York. Rorschach investigates and finds a pattern. His old partner comes back in. Dr. Manhattan leaves the planet. It’s a murder mystery built on questions about power and morality, about whether anything matters when you can stop a nuclear war. I followed that much in the film. Everything else was noise.
I’m skeptical the HBO version will fix that for me, but I’m curious whether it’ll try. There’s something decent about an adaptation that respects your intelligence enough to demand patience. Or maybe that’s just how I’m justifying my fundamental confusion. Either way, I’ll probably end up watching it.
The worst part about depression is how quietly it arrives. You don’t want to admit it’s there, not really, not until it’s too late to pretend. I spent months telling myself I was just going through something, riding out a low phase, nothing permanent. But somewhere along the way the low became the baseline and I stopped even recognizing it as low anymore.
So I looked for solutions in the most obvious place: the internet. This was stupid. I read somewhere that social media was killing people’s minds, that constant connectivity was eating us alive, that everyone glued to their phones was fundamentally isolated. It made sense. I had my phone in my hand constantly. I was on Instagram, Twitter, WhatsApp, Facebook, all of it. And I felt terrible. The connection between those two things seemed obvious.
I started deleting things. Facebook first. Then WhatsApp because I didn’t want to keep track of four different chat apps. Then my gaming apps because I was too old for that shit anyway. I told myself this was the move, the thing that would fix it. Remove the digital noise and the real me would emerge from underneath. I sat in front of a mostly empty phone and felt certain this was when things would turn around.
Instead I just got lonely. The apps disappeared but the feeling didn’t. So I kept looking online for the answer—in Reddit threads about digital minimalism, in blog posts about reclaiming your attention, in YouTube videos about people who quit the internet entirely. Somewhere in there had to be the magic trick. Some other person who’d figured out what I was missing.
The whole thing was absurd and I knew it while I was doing it. I’d delete Facebook and reinstall it three days later at midnight. I’d organize my music collection obsessively, telling myself that structure was the answer. I’d spend hours reading about privacy settings and mental health and productivity hacks, thinking if I could just find the right system, the right app to remove or the right app to add, something would click into place. The technology had made me broken, so technology had to be the thing that fixed me.
But nothing was getting better. And gradually it dawned on me—the kind of dawn that takes forever because you’re trying so hard not to see it—that I was looking for a cure in the one place it couldn’t exist. The internet didn’t give me depression. It just gave me ten thousand ways to avoid dealing with the depression I already had. I was wasting hours searching for answers I already knew. The real fix wasn’t hiding in some forum or recovery blog or life-hack video. It was sitting in an office somewhere, waiting for me to make an appointment I hadn’t made and probably wasn’t going to make.
I knew that. I knew it the whole time. And knowing it while continuing to do the opposite—continue reading, continue deleting, continue searching—that’s the real trick depression plays. It knows exactly what you’re supposed to do and it lets you know that you know it, and then it convinces you that doing nothing is somehow smarter than that. At least I’m not being a cliché about it, I told myself. At least I’m not broadcasting my pain to strangers on the internet, right? I’m just quietly, privately destroying myself in a slightly different way.
I woke up in a cold sweat at three in the morning thinking about Miley Cyrus without a shirt. The dream had somehow convinced me I hadn’t seen a decent topless photo of her in years—and I was right. Ever since she started doing the whole responsible adult thing, which frankly hasn’t been working. So I grabbed my phone and spent half an hour scrolling through the Miley folder, the collection of better years, just trying to calm down enough to sleep again.
The next morning she dropped a new topless shot on Twitter. Hands covering the important parts, but enough that I could tell she hasn’t forgotten about us—the ones who’ve actually been around since before she decided to perform maturity. Not the full sun-soaked nude I’d secretly be waiting for, but topless is topless. It reads like she’s thinking about it. About being whoever she actually is underneath all the reinvention.
I’ve been watching her negotiate with herself for years. The free spirit or the dignified adult. She keeps landing in this dead zone between them, and it’s painful because you know she doesn’t belong there. I save the new photo, add it to the bloated folder on my phone, and scroll back through the times she seemed closer to just saying fuck it. I’m not expecting a revolution. But every now and then she gives us something like this, and I take it as proof that the Miley I actually liked isn’t completely gone. Just dormant. Maybe waiting for the day she finally stops caring what anyone thinks.
I’ve hit a wall with music made after 1989. The nineties were brutal, the 2000s worse, and everything that came after is just noise piled on older noise. When I see young people on TV clapping along to Image Dragons or Ed Sheeran, I fantasize about walking into that studio and hitting someone. But the real problem isn’t the obviously bad stuff. It’s that I can’t even listen to the good stuff anymore. Dua Lipa, Billie Eilish, Kendrick Lamar—they’re legitimately talented. Poppier than I’d normally want, darker than mainstream radio should allow, actually genuine. I should be into it. But I can’t stomach it. I’ve heard enough music in my life to see the pattern underneath. Everything is just remixing everything else, the same moves in different keys, different faces on old templates, forever. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
The worst part is I can’t even escape backward. My youth music is unbearable now. Nirvana, Shakira, Spice Girls—I want to unsee my teenage self dancing to all of it. So I’ve retreated into obscurity. Haruomi Hosono. Alessandro Alessandroni. Sonny Rollins. Artists so far from the cultural center they’re basically ghosts. That’s where the real music lives—untouched by hype, unbothered by trends, still alive because nobody’s listening.
And that’s where Tokyo’s record shops come in. Waltz, LocoSoul, Dessinee—places where you’re surrounded by decades of music that never got playlisted, never got viral, never got compromised. Walking into these shops isn’t about discovering something cool or being ahead of the curve. It’s about finding music that exists outside the machine entirely. You dig through rows of vinyl from artists nobody remembers, from decades that got erased, and you remember something important: sound doesn’t need validation to matter. It doesn’t need the right moment, the right audience, the right hype cycle. It just needs to exist in a form you can hold and play.
Rammstein have sold over sixteen million records in their twenty-some-year existence. They’ve won Echo Awards, gotten Grammy nominations, sold out Madison Square Garden in under twenty minutes—all while singing exclusively in German. Every album since 1997 has topped the German charts. David Lynch and Lars von Trier have used their songs. They’re arguably the biggest rock band in the world right now, and definitely the most successful German rockers ever. And yet: nobody’s tried to copy them. Not really. A few bands have tested whether they could roll their Rs as majestically as Till Lindemann, but that’s surface level. The real reason Rammstein are untouchable is that they can’t be copied—because their whole existence is rooted in a specific moment in history that won’t repeat.
They came out of the East German underground. Feeling B, First Arsch—bands nobody outside that world knew existed. Then the wall came down and the doors opened and suddenly this particular collision of Black Romanticism, Industrial aesthetics, Artaud’s theater of cruelty, Goethe, Houellebecq, Machine horror, and a thousand other things that somehow cohered into one of the strangest, darkest, most compelling visions in rock music. It wasn’t designed. It wasn’t a formula someone figured out and executed. It evolved out of a place and a time and a set of artists who understood the power of provocation and image and sound in a way that felt genuinely dangerous. You can’t manufacture that in a laboratory.
They’ve just dropped a new song called “Deutschland.” It’s controversial—their work usually is. There’s an album coming in mid-May, and this is the first taste. I haven’t heard what they’ve done with it yet, but the title alone is interesting. It’s the most direct statement they could make: not a cryptic metaphor, not an artistic gesture. Just the name of their country, straight up, on a song during an era where that became loaded in ways it wasn’t before. I’m curious what they’re saying about it.
I’ve been checking for new Sky Ferreira work so rarely that when something actually surfaces, it lands differently. Blonde was 2013—ancient in internet time, back when the whole thing still felt like it might accumulate into something meaningful. After so many years, you stop expecting someone to return and start treating their silence as permanent. But she’s making new things anyway, and there’s something honest about that.
I don’t need to explain why it matters. Some artists you just want to hear from, and I’m relieved she’s still bothering to make work instead of fading into one of those figures you only appreciate in retrospect.
New Rihanna photos for Fenty and I can’t stop looking at them. There’s something about how she just presents herself—wearing her clothes, facing straight into the lens like she’s not trying to convince you of anything. Not performing mystery or aspiration or accessibility. Just showing you what she looks like and what she made.
I’ve seen her do this in music videos, on red carpets, existing around paparazzi over the years, and it’s always the same thing: she’s genuinely comfortable being observed. Not calculating, not performing authenticity. Just actually unbothered. And yeah, she’s beautiful—strikingly beautiful—but that’s not the hook. It’s the confidence. She doesn’t need permission to be that attractive.
The Fenty campaigns work because she owns both the product and model, so there’s no gap between fantasy and reality. No seduction angle, no pretending cosmetics will change your life. Just: here’s what this looks like, here’s what I look like using it, that’s the offer. She shows you straightforwardly and somehow that’s more effective than all the soft-focus promise-making.
There’s something confrontational about using your image that plainly. No hedging about relatability or accessibility. Just someone who knows what she’s got and doesn’t apologize. I think that’s what makes people actually want to buy what she’s selling.
Harajuku cycles through trends so fast that staying current feels pointless, but you go anyway. What dominates one season is dead the next. Stores open and close on some invisible schedule. The rhythm never breaks.
Walking through, the sensory overload hits immediately. Colors shouldn’t sit next to each other but do. Oversized graphic pullovers beside delicate accessories beside things that exist purely as accessories. Somewhere in there are RRR Shop, Peco Club, Pinna — the labels defining this moment — alongside H&M, Converse, Topshop, the bigger brands everywhere else.
The novelty isn’t the names though. It’s what you find if you actually look through the racks. Sailor Moon merch among the coats. A corner devoted entirely to stuffed animals. A store that’s basically just candy. High schoolers come here after school to become someone else for an afternoon, pulling clothes off the racks and it works.
Tokyo’s fashion world is massive and scattered — districts I haven’t explored, design buildings I’ll never see, galleries hidden in backstreets. Harajuku is where all of it concentrates and constantly remakes itself. The pace is impossible to match, but that’s not the point. Something is always different there. You go back anyway.
I’ve lost count of the hours spent in Skyrim—hundreds, across different playthroughs. I finished it again recently on PS4 with all the DLCs because I needed to be back in that frozen world before Elder Scrolls 6 finally shows up. Whenever that is. Years from now, probably.
But waiting sucks when you’re hooked, and there are ways to ease the addiction: the MMO, the card game, and a mobile spin-off called The Elder Scrolls: Blades, coming in spring.
You’re a Blade—that ancient order. Exiled. When you return home, your city’s destroyed, and rebuilding it is the whole point. Bethesda’s promising the stuff that makes these games impossible to stop: console-quality visuals, real magic, endless loot to collect and upgrade, real-time combat where your fingers swing swords and throw lightning.
City customization is there too—shape your home however you want. Arena for just fighting. Then the Abyss: an endless dungeon getting harder the deeper you go, enemies meaner each level. Like those punishment dungeons in old JRPGs, that Lufia cave on Super Nintendo that felt like it went on forever. Except it actually doesn’t stop.
Whether it’ll actually feel like Elder Scrolls or just feel like a mobile game dressed in Elder Scrolls clothes is the thing. Skyrim was massive—hundreds of hours massive. A phone game can’t be that. But I’ll probably play it anyway. The addiction doesn’t really care about reasonable expectations.
Found Daya on a playlist and thought, wait—there’s something real happening here. Most pop music calculates, but underneath this production is actual craft. Someone who knows what they’re doing.
She started young. Piano at three, then everything else—saxophone, guitar, ukulele, flute, whatever caught her ear. By the time she moved to LA in 2015 to work with Gino Barletta, she wasn’t going to learn pop songwriting. She already knew it, and she knew how to write it well. The production is too precise, the melodies too smart, the hooks too good for luck.
And she has the instinctive pop sense that most classically trained people never develop. That’s the rare combination. Technical foundation plus mainstream sensibility, working together instead of against each other. “Don’t Let Me Down” won a Grammy when she was twenty. “Sit Still, Look Pretty” was everywhere. Collaborations with The Chainsmokers, RL Grime, people at her level.
What matters is that she’s too smart for pure commerce and too instinctive for pure technique. She sits in that space where both matter equally, and you don’t get that often. The rise was inevitable.
These three met in LA and spent four years casually making music together before deciding to actually commit. Nora was dishwashing and driving Uber, trying to hold a songwriting career together with what little energy was left. Then at some point it shifted from maybe to definitely. They wrote “Sugar” in ten minutes. It took a year to get the single out.
After that they moved to a small village in the mountains of rural Spain. All three of them in one house, away from everything, betting that isolation might give them what proximity never could.
The video for “Sugar” shows the specific kind of desperation that arrives when you have everything except meaning. There’s this hand that feeds her, and then it hands her a bomb. It’s that hollow panic that hits every morning regardless of what you own, that reaching for something that will never arrive through a screen or a notification. Nora described it like this: you have everything, but the only real connection you have is 4G, and it’s not enough.
Nora grew up moving between Spain, Italy, and Norway. She studied journalism once, briefly, before she figured out music was the thing that mattered. Jan works in synthesis, drawing from Jean Michel Jarre’s approach to sound. Sju plays drums and has been shaped by Warpaint’s sense of texture and space. Together they’ve created something that sounds like it arrived from somewhere else—Suzanne Vega filtered through Kraftwerk, Fleetwood Mac reimagined with cold electronics, pop music that assumes you can think while your body wants to dance.
The band name is clever. Ora The Molecule. A molecule is simultaneously itself and part of something larger. Ora means “now” in Italian, and it’s also the name Nora used in an all-girl band in Oslo years ago. Every melody she brings to the band is the molecule Ora emerging again—the same impulse, the same person, reconstituted.
They were asked about missing the cities they left. Nora said they appreciate both worlds, but right now they need the quiet. Friends from LA visit and bring new input. It’s not escape. It’s about knowing what you actually need to make something honest without all the easier paths closing in.
They want to work with Amadou & Mariam, Warpaint, and Stromae. Not a list of commercial targets. Just artists they actually respect.
Their answer about the future was: “Birds, beats, and ancient futuristic sound waves cutting through the present. Forever, until we die.” That’s what you say when you’ve stopped worrying about the right answer and you’re just speaking the truth.
The Chainsmokers have a new one out with 5 Seconds of Summer. ’Who Do You Love’ and the video’s live. If you’ve been paying attention since ’Closer’ became inescapable, you know the shape of this — something polished and designed to connect, and it usually does.
What’s interesting about these two guys is they never stop. ’Closer’ with Halsey, ’Don’t Let Me Down’ with Daya, ’Paris,’ the Coldplay track — just a steady stream of hits all through last year. Grammy winners, festival headliners, the kind of momentum most artists would retire on. They just kept working.
5 Seconds of Summer is an odd pairing on paper. Boy band meets electronic producers. Except that distinction doesn’t really matter anymore. Pop music is one thing now, everyone borrowing from everyone else, and if it lands it lands.
There’s nothing secret about The Chainsmokers. They understand what works and they execute it over and over. Not mysterious, not groundbreaking, just consistent. And there’s something to respect in that.
Found this Moose Knuckles campaign in Montreal and couldn’t stop thinking about it—a fictional gang called the Knuckle Heads shot by photographer Luis Morales, basically a crew of outsiders on a mission to make the brand known. It’s the kind of ridiculous concept that only works because the clothes are actually good.
The pieces are functional stuff—Wellon jackets, athletic suits—designed for how people actually dress in Montreal. The graphics are rooted in the city itself: Biosphère, Expo references, the maple leaf. That specificity matters because it’s the difference between something that feels like it belongs somewhere and just another product wearing a place like a costume.
Canadian fashion’s never been loud about itself, which is something I’ve always found more interesting than the screaming aesthetic of other scenes. No need to convince anyone it matters. Make something good, root it in where you’re from, let people decide if it speaks to them. The quietness is the point.
What the gang concept really does is make streetwear honest about itself. You wear something not because marketing sold you on it but because it signals something about who you understand yourself to be. That’s subculture. A fictional crew of misfits doing it is just the self-aware version of what was always happening anyway.
First time I heard Alli Neumann I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Twenty-one, an actress trying music, and already sounding like someone who’d studied how Falco got away with it, how Nina Hagen could be crude and brilliant at the same time. The first songs—”Merlot, Macht & Muse,” “Wenn ich dich Seh,” “Hohes Fieber”—had this nervous energy, like she was testing which of her voices people would let her keep.
The second record was a turn. “Monster” opens on this massive Old Hollywood moment, all strings and drama, before she slides in sounding exalted and populist at once. Franz Plasa produced it—worked with Falco on “Mutter, der Mann mit dem Koks ist da”—and the 80s DNA is everywhere. But it isn’t backward. It’s about becoming the thing that wins in a neoliberal world. Not the person afraid of monsters. The one willing to be it.
What kills me is how she never sounds like she’s working. No German art-school gravity, no lyrics trying to sound smart. Just this charm that’s also a little cruel, stopping just short of mean. “Hadn’t I already said I’m sorry, but the monster’s here.” The grin’s in there. She’s done apologizing. She’s not even faking it anymore. And what are you going to do about it, get mad? That’s not the game.
Because it is a game. An arcade game and she’s holding the controller. That’s all it is. She understands it, the music understands it, and somewhere in the delivery I think she’s laughing at how obvious it is that you still have to play to win.
I’ve loved Disgaea since the fifth game, Alliance of Vengeance. The humor’s stupid and earnest at once. The anime art is charming in a way modern games have mostly forgotten. The characters feel like people, not design documents. And underneath all that is a turn-based strategy layer that actually demands something from you. I spent way too many hours with that game, and I’m not sorry.
The Princess Guide takes that Disgaea DNA—character-driven story, anime style, tactical depth—and blows it up. No more turn-based. Instead you get real-time action. Think Ys-style combat, but you’re not the one swinging the sword. You’re the knight teaching a princess how to lead her army through a war.
The premise is simple enough. A kingdom is falling apart. Four princesses from four regions each need to command their people, and they’ve hired you to teach them how to fight and lead. Here’s where it gets interesting: everything you do shapes who they become. You give real-time commands on the battlefield. Between fights, you praise or criticize their choices, and that feedback literally changes what they learn. Four princesses means four separate stories, four different paths through the same war.
What caught my attention was the inversion of the usual power fantasy. You’re not the hero. You’re the person trying to make someone else into a hero, and your decisions matter in ways that go beyond just winning battles. That’s harder than it sounds. There’s pressure in it—did I push her too hard, or not hard enough? Can I actually trust my own judgment about what she needs?
Whether the game pulls it off, I have no idea. But the concept alone makes me want to play it.
Hælos makes music for four in the morning. Not the dancing kind, not the kind that builds toward a peak and leaves you breathless. The kind that plays when you’re alone at someone’s kitchen table, or walking through the empty city, still wired but already crashing. Still tasting the night but already grieving it.
The band is Arthur Delaney, Dom Goldsmith, and Lotti Benardout making electronic music that lives between sad pop and trip hop. It echoes Massive Attack or Portishead or Lamb, but it’s its own thing—sparse and humid at once, like the air in a club after the doors open and the crowd leaves.
I grew up with trip hop in the nineties, and there was always something wistful about that whole era, like it was already mourning the eighties. Hælos feels like it’s mourning right now. It’s mourning for people who’ve learned to get high in ways the nineties never imagined, but still haven’t figured out how to live with the low that follows. Their music sits right in that space, the moment when the drug wears off and you can feel your own sadness come back.
Songs like “Buried in the Sand,” “Kyoto,” and “End of World Party” hint at the same thing—mixing joy and dread without pretending the good feeling ever really lasts. The music doesn’t try to fix anything. It just describes what the night feels like as it’s happening.
I keep coming back to them, especially when I want music that doesn’t lie about how it all feels.
Found Yung Kafa and Kücük Efendi through one of those algorithmic moments and came back to it. They’re German, their mixtape is called Uboot, and there’s something about what they’ve made that keeps pulling you back.
The music has this melodic quality to it, a kind of longing running through everything, but also a distance that keeps it from feeling too familiar. They let you in but not all the way. Most artists go either all the way or they lock you out entirely — these two hold you at arm’s length, and it’s more interesting that way.
What gets me is how intentional it all feels. Every sound is placed. They know how to write a song that lands, that moves through you with shape and purpose. But they’re not playing it safe. There’s risk in the choices, a refusal to smooth anything out or simplify for mass appeal. The aesthetic is consistent — you can feel the vision — but it never gets precious or overthought.
I’m curious where they’re going next. That’s the mark of something that actually matters: it changes how you listen to everything else for a while.
I spent time with May in Düsseldorf, and they’re the kind of band where you understand immediately why they work together and can’t quite explain why to someone else. Maewa’s voice moves between urgent and almost seductive, Christoph hears things in guitar textures that most people miss, Carsten thinks about rhythm like someone who’s spent decades learning it. They’ve been together since 2013, long enough to trust each other’s instincts.
The formation story is unsentimental. Maewa’s old band fell apart, she found Christoph, they found Carsten through a friend, a drummer came and went, and eventually they realized the three of them made better music than the four. That’s it. No origin myth. Just three people whose taste aligned.
They’re funny about the band name. It came from “My Artificial You,” a joke that compressed into May—which Christoph, who spent 25 years running a company before walking away to focus on family and music, has since called “insanely stupid for the digital age.” He’s right, and he knew he was right, and now it’s their name. There’s something honest about that kind of self-aware mistake.
The new album is “My 1st Sony,” and each of them pulled different songs close. “Smear” wrote itself for Maewa in twenty-five minutes—the kind of song that’s just there, whole. Christoph wants the longer ones live, especially the guitar parts that let him disappear into his own riffs. Carsten’s drawn to “Micropsycho,” which he describes with real precision: verses that feel dark and contradictory, then unwinding into a rush, like that moment on a steep coaster when you’re about to drop.
Maewa reads constantly—astronomy, mythology, politics, whatever lands in front of her—and loves science fiction films. That feeds her lyrics. Christoph spends hours experimenting with guitar sounds, building an archive of fragments. Carsten incubates ideas until they hatch, then helps shape what the others bring. It’s a natural division, the way most working bands find their rhythm.
Balancing the music with everything else is harder for some than others. Maewa teaches yoga and acts, so she builds her schedule around the band. Christoph has the luxury of having already left corporate life behind—his choice, and it cost something, but now music gets his full attention. Carsten said flatly, “For me it’s actually difficult. But what must be done, must be done.” That exhaustion was real.
They all dream differently about collaboration. Maewa wants to work with Lady Gaga, respecting her songwriting and presence. Christoph worked with some of his heroes in the late eighties and found it mostly disillusioning, but he’d still talk effect pedals with Russell Lissack from Bloc Party. Carsten wants to sit down with will.i.am and figure out how you make music into money—the most honest answer anyone gave me.
Right now it’s touring and working on the second album at the same time, running hard because there’s something still inside them that hasn’t come out. They’re not sure what it is. A great song. A whole record. Peace. All three. It’s there, and it’s coming.
Tokita Ohma doesn’t have a backstory worth mentioning. He fights because that’s what he does, someone pays him for it, and that’s the deal. No tragic origin, no hidden motivation. Yabako Sandrovich never bothers explaining how he got this way in Kengan Ashura — a manga running since 2012 — he just is.
What Sandrovich cares about is the fighting itself. Not the yelling or the impossible powers. Just the geometry of it: how your weight shifts, where balance breaks, the moment you realize you’re already losing. That’s the manga. That’s enough.
I haven’t read the whole series, but I’ve seen enough to understand it. Ohma fights on behalf of Nogi Hideki, a businessman who bets heavily on the outcomes. The plot, if you call it that, is just the fights and the weird respect between two guys trying to physically break each other.
Netflix adapted it to anime, which makes sense. They’ve been buying up anime licenses like they personally broke something. Evangelion, Cowboy Bebop, everything they can grab. Most of it doesn’t work, but Kengan Ashura should be fine. The action is clean, the protagonist just needs to understand his body better than anyone else, and the rest handles itself.
I’ll watch it when it comes out. There’s something satisfying about a man with real skill calmly dismantling someone who thought they were much stronger. That moment when you realize you’ve already lost, three moves back. That’s the whole appeal.
I was just killing time on YouTube, clicking through recommendations that had all started to blur together—same faces, same algorithm trying to figure me out—when Ashe came up. Ashlyn Willson, 24, indie artist from San Diego. She studied music at Berklee, and you can actually hear it. There’s real structure underneath everything, the kind of thing that happens when someone learns the craft instead of just stumbling into it.
The name came from Carole King. She was going to call herself “Ash” but thought it needed something more, and the E just fit. You can trace all her influences in the work: King, Stevie Nicks, Bon Iver, John Mayer. Not in a copying way—these are just the people she studied, the ones who taught her how to write. Every decision in their songs matters, and she learned that lesson.
She’s signed to Mom+Pop, same label that works with Flume and Alina Baraz. Has written for other artists—contributed a song to Demi Lovato—but her own stuff is what matters. “Real Love” made it into Spotify’s New Music Playlist and the moment you hear it, you get why. The way she builds a track, the phrasing, how she knows when to hold back instead of filling every space. There’s restraint there, which is uncommon when you’re trying to break through.
Her music lives between pop and something weirder that doesn’t have a name. “Moral of the Story,” “Choirs,” “Girl Who Cried Wolf”—catchy, melodic, but with this strange edge that keeps you from fully relaxing into it. You can sing along, but there’s something underneath that makes you pay attention. That’s intentional. That’s what separates her from the hundred other singer-songwriters trying to get noticed right now.
She toured with Quinn XCII, released the Rabbit Hole EP, and right now she’s at that sweet spot where you can still discover her before the machinery takes over. Not that timing matters in the end. Good music is good music. But there’s something specific about catching something before it gets smoothed out, before it becomes content. That window is small.
The thing about her is there’s actually something underneath it. Most pop music has nothing there—it’s just product. She understands the difference between a hook and actual songwriting. That’s uncommon. The kind of thing that makes you care about the artists she cares about. Right now she’s just this discovery. That’s the good part.
Two years ago you’d spot someone with AirPods and it felt like a thing. Now they’re just everywhere. Apple made them respectable—made them normal, which made them universal.
The design is almost stupid in its simplicity. Two white sticks, barely there. That minimalism is what did it. They disappeared into necessity. Commute, work call, pretending you’re not listening to anyone around you.
The new ones are faster, better battery, wireless charging. The specs don’t really matter though. They already won. They’re infrastructure now. I see them on teenagers, suits, joggers, the coffee shop person ignoring everyone. This is what design objects do when they work—become invisible.
There’s something absurd about the anxiety they create. Two hundred dollars for something you can lose in the couch in thirty seconds. The form factor is so minimal it barely feels like you own it. Someone I know keeps hers in a specific pouch like they’re small animals that might escape.
The wireless charging case is neat. Just drop them and they’re ready. Apple’s good at taking something that worked and making it work slightly better, then making everyone want the new version. Doesn’t matter. They already got us.
Walking into TeamLab Borderless in Odaiba feels like stepping into light itself. The walls are screens. The floor is a screen. Everything glows and shifts and responds to your body moving through it, which means the art is watching you as much as you’re watching it. There’s no map, which sounds like chaos at first—how do you navigate an exhibition without knowing where you are?—but that’s the whole point. You drift from room to room and the rooms change as you move through them. Spaces bleed into other spaces. A wall of flowers responds to your body. Water flows upward. Everything communicates with everything else, and somehow you’re part of that conversation without trying.
What gets me most is how different this is from standing in front of a painting and respecting its boundaries. Here the boundaries dissolve completely. You’re not looking at art; you’re moving through it, and it’s moving through you. Your footsteps trigger changes. Your presence matters. It’s not interactive in some cheap corporate sense—no buttons to press—but you can’t be passive in this space. The immersion doesn’t give you a choice. After a while you stop thinking about it as an exhibition and start thinking about it as a world.
I took plenty of photos because the light is genuinely beautiful and you want to hold onto it. But I noticed after a while that I was more interested in just standing in a room and watching the colors cycle, watching other visitors move through the light and become part of the composition themselves. The art doesn’t let you stay outside it. You become what you came to see.
Tokyo exhausts you. The noise, the crowding, the constant sensory overload. So walking into this artificial world that’s somehow more peaceful than the real city outside felt necessary by that point. Not escape exactly. More like looking at your own chaos from the outside and seeing it as beautiful for once.
Most games on my phone are designed to evaporate from memory the moment you close them. Swipe left, match three, watch the progress bar climb. The notifications never stop. They’re apps built on the assumption that you’re not actually looking for anything substantial — just something to keep your hands busy while you’re waiting for the train or standing in line. Games that depend on reminding you constantly that they exist, that you haven’t played them in six hours, that you could be unlocking something right now.
The problem’s always been that actual game designers can’t charge money for phone games anymore. Not five dollars. Not even two. The moment you ask for anything upfront, your audience evaporates. So the good stuff gets buried under an avalanche of free clones — puzzle games with slightly different art assets, all the same mechanics, all the same timers and currencies and progression bars designed to keep you checking back. Most people never find the real games because they don’t know to look past the free section.
Apple’s trying to do something about it. Apple Arcade. A subscription service — ten euros a month — that gives you access to a hundred exclusive games across iPhone, iPad, Mac, and Apple TV. They brought in some actual game designers: Hironobu Sakaguchi, Ken Wong, Will Wright. People who’ve made things that mattered. No ads. No tracking. No in-app purchases forcing you to decide between progress and money.
The basic logic is sound: if publishers aren’t competing for free downloads, they can afford to make something actually worth your time. They can build games that respect you instead of games that exist to extract money through frustration and addiction mechanics. The App Store poisoned phone gaming years ago by deciding that free-plus-IAP was the only viable model, and maybe subscriptions could actually unfuck that.
Or maybe subscriptions just become another middleman taking a percentage while the actual problem never gets solved. History suggests that’s more likely. I’ve wanted a real game on my phone for years, but I’m skeptical this is the answer. Still, at least someone’s finally saying out loud that mobile gaming became a wasteland. That’s something.
Right after, when you’re both still sweaty and you ask anyway: did you come? And you already know from how she moves, how she avoids your eyes, whether this is going to be a lie or something that lands wrong. Both feel bad.
A German study asked five thousand men and women about the pressure—what they call Orgasmusdruck, the weight you carry during sex. Turns out most of us feel it. I feel it. This sense that her coming is mine to deliver, that it’s the accomplishment I need to prove I know what I’m doing. But her body doesn’t keep score the way mine does.
Most women don’t come from regular sex. They need something different—direct clitoral stimulation, usually, or manual stuff, or a toy. Most men, me included, come from the standard motion without much trouble. So there’s this basic mismatch in how our bodies respond, and instead of accepting it, we’ve turned it into something women need to fix about themselves. We’ve created pressure where there only needed to be reality.
What happens is she ends up lying. Two-thirds of women have faked an orgasm at some point. One in ten does it all the time. And they’re not being cruel or trying to wound you—they’re just done. Done with the session, done with the weight of being inside someone else’s insecurity, done with making you feel better about your performance at the expense of feeling anything herself.
I’ve been that guy. Made people feel broken because they didn’t come the way I thought they should. Treated their body like a problem I needed to engineer instead of just asking what actually works. It’s easy to say the solution is communication, to just ask, to listen—and that’s true—but it’s harder when you’ve spent years convinced that your value lies in making her come, that anything else is failure.
The sad part is most people would actually rather be honest. Most women would tell you what they need if you asked without freaking out. But we’ve made it so unspeakable that she lies instead, and you doubt everything, and both of you are performing these roles instead of just being there. And nobody wants it this way, but we kept doing it anyway.
The game opens with anime girls in what looks like a destroyed schoolyard, and you realize pretty quick that they’re not the characters—the underwear is. The actual combatants are panties. Cute girls’ panties fighting it out in a 3D arena styled after Tekken. I’m not making this up. The game is real, it’s on Steam, it’s on the Switch in Japan, and it exists because someone genuinely made it.
I’m not sure how to categorize this thing. There are the obvious AAA titles burning millions of dollars. The clever indie games that do a lot with almost nothing. And then there’s that weird pocket where something exists and you can’t tell if someone was joking or if they actually believed in the vision. Panty Party lives in that third space, except the strange part is that it kind of works.
The premise is stupid on purpose: cute girls’ underwear fights each other to save humanity from evil. But the game is committed to that stupidity. The 3D world is deliberately sparse and a little depressing. The music is synth and bouncy, the colors all candy bright. Up to four players can beat each other senseless with their panties while anime girls cheer from the sidelines. And the longer you play, the more you find yourself emotionally invested in a pair of pink underwear with little red bows.
What gets me is that someone made this instead of something else. They had the time, the talent maybe, probably some money, and they chose to make a fighting game where the fighters are panties. That’s either the most pointless decision ever or the most honest. I haven’t figured out which. The game is exactly what it promises to be—no irony, no winking at the camera, just committed to its own weirdness. If that appeals to you, you’re probably going to have fun. If it doesn’t, you’ll hate it in five minutes. I’m still not sure which one I am.
The EU Parliament just voted to break the internet. Article 13. Upload filters. From now on every platform has to scan everything you upload—check it against some database for copyright hits. If there’s a match, it disappears. The filters can’t tell the difference between fair use and theft, between a parody and the real thing. They just delete. But that’s kind of the point.
Julia Reda, who actually gets it, warned the vote would destroy an entire generation’s faith that government represents them. The CDU’s Axel Voss, who pushed this through, says it’s about protecting creators from theft. Maybe he’s right about that. But the trade-off is the entire open internet—the weird, permissive, you-can-make-anything-and-share-it internet I’ve known since the nineties. That’s dead now.
Even some of the conservatives who voted for it seemed uncomfortable about it. A Polish MEP named Michal Boni actually pointed out—as if it wasn’t obvious—that filters can’t tell the difference between legal and illegal use. They’re just dangerous. The Greens split on it. But 348 to 274. It passed.
Edward Snowden tweeted about it in German. He said remember who did this. Don’t vote for them again. The CDU.
I’ve been building on the internet for decades now. Watched it go from something completely weird and anarchic to something essential. Made careers on it, friends on it, built things. And right when I finally understood what it was actually good for—a place where anyone could make anything and share it with the whole world—they’re shutting it down. Filtering it. Making it safe and corporate.
I don’t know what comes next. Someone will fight it. But today that version of the internet is gone.
Yo! MTV Raps is back, and it’s on German television. I never thought I’d write that sentence, but here we are.
The original show ran from 1988 onward and was the thing that was Hip Hop for people my age. Not the music — the music was always there — but the presentation of it, the gateway, the cultural authority telling you what mattered. Fab 5 Freddy on the couch, then everyone who’d come to define an era: Wu-Tang Clan, Tupac, Biggie. MTV didn’t invent Hip Hop, but MTV Raps introduced it to millions of people who wouldn’t have found it otherwise. The format was stupid simple: talk, perform, talk again. But it worked.
Germany never really got that moment. We had MTV, we had VIVA, but not the cultural nexus where German Hip Hop and mainstream television could meet like that. Berlin had its underground scene, serious and brilliant — MC Bogy’s been there since the early ’80s, one of the few people from that era still actually respected — but it stayed underground in a way American Hip Hop never had to.
Palina Rojinski hosting is a particular choice. She was everywhere on German television in the 2000s, MTV and VIVA especially, and she always had that quality where she seemed genuinely interested in whatever she was doing, which in television is rarer than you’d think. Not a rapper, not a critic, just someone with taste who asks good questions.
MTV’s dusting off this 30-year-old format and pointing it at Germany now, bringing in MC Bogy, giving German rappers a stage that looks like it matters. It probably doesn’t change anything — nothing ever does. But there’s something worth noting about when people want to talk about music seriously, they still reach for this: conversation, live performance, television. Not algorithm, not TikTok, just the basic idea that good talking and good playing is enough.
Episodes air on YouTube on Saturdays. I don’t know if I’ll watch, but the point is it exists.
I fall in love with new people constantly. Mostly women. Can’t help it — they’re just better people, by a distance. This is Cynda McElvana, a model from Los Angeles. Darren Ankerman photographed her for Purple Magazine and she’s got that rare thing where elegance doesn’t require any effort. Her Instagram is the expected mix: bikinis, clever captions, behind-the-scenes stuff. For now she’s the girl I can’t focus past.
Kerli is from Elva, Estonia—five thousand people surrounded by forest, in a place that had recently escaped the Soviet Union but hadn’t quite shaken it. She was the weird kid who sang, and she had to get out. Not romantically. Just gone, anywhere, it didn’t matter where.
Where she grew up, there were rules about feeling. Don’t be too happy or sad, because something bad would happen. Not might—would. You learned to bury it. Except Kerli couldn’t, or wouldn’t. She was always the one who felt everything, who wanted more, who couldn’t survive that kind of suffocation.
By fourteen she’d won the Estonian Eurovision pre-selection. That year she decided music was all that mattered. By fifteen she’d auditioned for Island Def Jam and was signed. She escaped. Made it.
Her music is genuinely strange. Minor key, off-kilter, the whole production cold and wrong and right. Someone who grew up somewhere passion was dangerous carries it in the sound. Someone who could never be casual about anything, who had to mean every word.
Love, Death & Robots is on Netflix, an anthology of animated shorts produced by David Fincher and Tim Miller. Each one is self-contained—sci-fi, horror, comedy, fantasy, whatever—and animated in a different style. No thread, no recurring characters, no arc. Just individual episodes you can watch in any order or skip entirely.
I went through most of them and stayed interested the whole time. There’s one where Hitler gets killed in increasingly ridiculous ways. A space crew waking up from cryo millions of miles off course with no explanation. A cyborg robbery crew hitting an armored target in seconds. The shorts are deliberately weird and don’t pretend to add up to anything.
The animation is what makes it work. Different artists on each episode means different visual approaches, different techniques, so you’re not watching the same template everywhere. Some are forgettable, but the strong ones—”Good Hunting,” “Three Robots,” “Witness”—have texture that sticks. The craftsmanship is doing the heavy lifting, making thin premises feel substantial.
I usually get bored with anthology formats. One story finishes, you reset for the next, and after a while you’re just watching disconnected moments. This one doesn’t ask much—watch the idea play out, move on. That low-pressure approach actually works. Not every episode lands, but when something does it lands clean.
A meteor’s coming. That’s the entire premise - massive enough to end everything. So governments worldwide make this one bet: they’re going to freeze people. Young, healthy people. Insurance for the species.
Japan’s plan is five groups, seven people each - Winter, Spring, Summer A, Summer B, Fall. They get cryochambers scattered across different regions. When the meteor hits and the world ends, these groups wake up. Hopefully at least one of them lands somewhere that’s still survivable.
But what actually happens is worse than anyone thought. The meteor impact remakes Japan entirely. Cities drown. Mountains flatten. The ground itself becomes something unrecognizable. When Takahiro, Natsu, Arashi and the others wake up, they’re stepping into a world that’s actively hostile, and they have no idea what’s edible, what’s safe, or how anything works anymore.
I’ve always loved apocalypse fiction. There’s something about stripping away all the systems, all the infrastructure - it shows what humans actually are when nothing is guaranteed. These kids wake up with no choice but to figure it out. They’re alive in a dead world, and that’s it.
The anime started showing on Netflix recently. Yumi Tamura’s manga gets adapted here with an unusual visual style - took me a minute to adjust, but it works. I’ll take any competent version of this story. I’m the type who’ll watch every episode because something in apocalypse narratives just gets me. It’s not about waiting for some clever payoff. It’s just watching people exist in a world that demands everything.
I probably shouldn’t be into Billie Eilish the way I am, given the age difference, but there’s no fighting it. There’s something unshakeable about her. The way she exists in the world with such obvious ease, like she already knows exactly what she’s about and isn’t interested in changing it based on what anyone else thinks.
She’s seventeen, from LA, and somehow already has that rare thing that most artists spend decades trying to find: a completely coherent sense of self. Every song feels unmistakably hers—the production, the way she moves through the vocals, the visual world she’s created alongside the music. “Ocean Eyes,” “You Should See Me in a Crown,” “Bellyache.” It’s not like she’s trying on different things and seeing what sticks. She decided what Billie Eilish is and then became it, fully, without apology.
The machinery around her is relentless. People are always telling her what to wear, how to act, what words are acceptable. Smile more. Be nice. Don’t dress so dark. She hears all of this and dismisses it like someone swatting at a fly. Not out of teenage rebellion, but because she’s got something to say and she’s going to say it however she wants. If you’re bothered by that, that’s a you problem.
So when I heard she was shopping for sneakers on camera with Complex, I understood it immediately. It’s not a fashion story or a brand collaboration or any of that machinery. It’s just her moving through a room, picking things that appeal to her, talking about why. That’s how you actually learn what someone’s about—you watch them choose.
The video is casual, unforced. No performance, no winking at the camera. She likes these sneakers for these reasons and here’s the next pair and here’s what that one means. It’s so refreshing to see someone that age who hasn’t been convinced that existence itself is a content opportunity. She’s just… existing. Picking shoes. Being herself. Which is apparently still radical enough to be interesting.
Most rock-hip-hop hybrids are a compromise — guitars trying to sound hard, rappers over grooves that want to break into something else. Tiavo, Lucy and Deon from Saarbrücken, sidestepped all that and just made what they wanted.
Their debut ’Oh Lucy’ had range — anger and sadness and the specific exhaustion of chasing something up a hill every day. ’Wah Wah Wah’ and ’Take Me Back to Woodstock’ didn’t romanticize the grind; they just showed what it felt like. Other songs looked at what happens to you inside the industry, how it uses you.
They started touring internationally — Mike Shinoda, XXXTentacion, Machine Gun Kelly — which meant the thing was landing somewhere. Not just a regional project anymore.
The follow-up ’Bitte Lächeln’ pushed the sound further, letting Post Malone and XXXTentacion influences bleed through more openly. ’Shit On Your Grave’ had a confidence to it, like they’d figured something out.
It’s one of those moments where a German hip-hop project actually felt like it was moving toward something new, not just remixing what had already been mixed to death.
Apple’s got their streaming service now. Apple TV+, launching soon, with the obligatory celebrities—Spielberg, Oprah, names that make entertainment feel legitimate. A new app, channels you can subscribe to individually, all the standard moves.
What’s interesting to me is just how much this doesn’t matter on any level except the purely financial one. Apple has money. They can make decent shows. They can push it onto millions of devices without thinking twice. None of that is interesting or innovative, it’s just what happens when a company with a trillion-dollar market cap decides to compete in a category. Netflix got to build something when the space was actually new. Now it’s just about who’s willing to spend more.
The real story is that we’ve cycled back to the exact problem streaming was supposed to fix—too many services, too many subscriptions, too much friction. Someone will realize this in a couple years and pivot to some new model, and in the meantime Apple makes money because they make everything feel like the default. They usually win that game.
Iggy Azalea is Australian, which shouldn’t have worked for hip-hop. She moved to the US at sixteen anyway and built something real. ’Fancy’ went to number one in 2014. Then came ’Problem’ with Ariana Grande—the two of them hit #1 and #2 on the Billboard Hot 100 simultaneously, something that hadn’t happened since the Beatles. That’s not viral noise; that’s genuine, sustained success in a genre that doesn’t typically hand it to outsiders.
What made her interesting was the confidence. Didn’t hide the accent or try to be someone else. Just technically sharp and committed to the risk.
She’s got a new song out called ’Sally Walker.’ Interested to hear where she’s at with it.
YouTube used to be the place where you uploaded stuff you didn’t really care whether anyone saw. Then it became the place where you could build an actual life out of being watched. The shift happened gradually, but by the time anyone really noticed, traditional media had become the side business.
Dagi Bee represents that shift pretty cleanly. Dagmar Nicole Kazakou from Düsseldorf started filming herself doing makeup tutorials, which sounds trivial until you realize that’s actually been one of the primary ways the internet changed how people think about appearance and self-presentation. Four million followers, close to a billion views — the kind of numbers that used to only happen to movie stars.
I’m not someone who watches her regularly, but you become aware of certain people just from existing online. She’s one of those figures who represents an entire ecosystem — the drama, the feuds, the business side of YouTube, all of it. There was that incident in Cologne where she and another YouTuber were handing out autographs without permission and the crowd got dangerous. It sounds absurd until you realize that’s what happens when internet attention creates actual physical crowds, the way it used to only happen for real celebrities. The scale had shifted.
What strikes me is watching the full circle. She started in her bedroom like everyone else, but now she’s in Tush Magazine. That’s not nothing. That’s traditional media saying yes, you matter, you’re significant enough to photograph and print. It’s old authority validating the new authority, or maybe realizing they’re the same authority now.
The shoot itself is exactly what you’d expect — different versions of herself, different styling and hair, the whole aesthetic game that’s been the core of YouTube and Instagram from the beginning. That’s all it is: you edit yourself into versions, try on different looks, see what works. Just now it’s professionally lit and printed.
I’m not sure there’s anything deeper to think about. YouTube won, attention is the only real currency, a person can become significant just by being interesting enough to film. It’s totally normal now, the path from bedroom vlogging to magazine spreads. That used to feel impossible. Now it’s just what happens.
I still think about Amy Winehouse. It’s been years now, but I remember that particular kind of grief—when someone who’s been making exactly the right songs for you just disappears. That voice, soft but rough somehow, made sadness feel understood. “Love Is a Losing Game,” “You Know I’m No Good”—those songs burrowed into me when I was younger. They were necessary in a way only certain music is.
The loss never really left the British music world. But something came out of it: a generation of singers trying that same thing. Joy Crookes is one of them. South London, early twenties, soft pop that you could miss if you weren’t listening carefully. The songs have titles like “Don’t Let Me Down”—the kind of music that whispers instead of announces.
What gets me about her work is the backbone underneath the softness. There’s steel there. She talked about living alone since seventeen, learning to take care of herself, figuring out how to say no. That came from her family, especially the women in it. You hear that in the songs—not fragility, but resilience that doesn’t need to prove itself.
I can’t tell you if Joy Crookes will matter the way Amy did. That’s not really the point. But there’s something in her music—that quality of turning difficulty into something that doesn’t scream for attention. Maybe that’s its own kind of inheritance from what came before.
Lennon Stella was on the TV show Nashville, one of those supporting characters who turned out to be more interesting than the leads. Her younger sister Maisy was there too.
Before she committed to a music career, she and Maisy posted covers on YouTube. “Call Your Girlfriend,” that Robyn track—thirty million views. That’s not a number labels ignore. She got cast in Nashville proper, spent years on the show, and when it ended, she had an audience to actually go somewhere with. Most people don’t get that. Most people get one platform and when it folds, they disappear.
Taylor Swift spent a decade as the obvious pop star, the baseline everyone else was supposedly threatening to dethrone. It’s a dumb frame, invented by people in the business of generating competitive drama. She got tired of it, made weirder albums, the narrative moved on. That’s how it actually works.
Stella’s new single is called “Bitch,” which tells you everything you need to know about her willingness to play by conventional rules. I haven’t heard it, so I can’t say if it’s good. Maybe she becomes huge. Maybe she becomes a permanent supporting artist. Maybe both. Not everyone has to be the biggest thing.
What’s interesting about her emergence is how unsurprising it is. YouTube cover, TV show, music career. That’s just the path now. No one comes up the old way anymore. You post something, it finds people, and if you’re lucky, you keep going. The tabloid angle—fresh challenger versus aging queen—is just noise. The actual story is smaller: here’s another artist, here’s what she’s doing, we’ll see if it lands.
I reach for my phone the second boredom sets in. It’s automatic—pocket, Instagram, scroll, scroll, repeat. The justification is airtight: why sit with nothing when you could be liking photos, retweeting, swiping? You only live once. Might as well pack every moment with something.
But it turns out boredom does something. The constant distraction—phone, streaming, the feed—never gives your brain any space. You can’t sit with a thought long enough to understand it, to connect it to something else, to actually process it. You’re moving from one thing to the next so fast that you’re living without really experiencing anything. Your mind is always on the next hit.
There’s a BBC video about this that stays with me. The example is simple: look out the window on a train instead of your phone. Let the landscape blur past. Let your mind go somewhere. And suddenly you’re thinking thoughts you wouldn’t have thought otherwise. Ideas come from that space. The things you actually remember and care about come from those moments when nothing is being fed to you and your mind is free to just wander.
I get the utility. The phone is incredible for connecting, learning, escaping. But I think we’ve given up something quiet for that. The ability to actually be bored, to sit with your own thoughts without an audience or a feed or a next thing waiting. And in that space, strange things happen. You remember what you actually care about. An idea forms that wouldn’t have otherwise. You think something that’s actually yours.
This short film by Daniel Šuljić called “Transparency” shows a world where everybody’s completely visible. Your location, your purchases, what you desire, who you talk to. No shadows. No privacy. The system knows exactly what you are. And if there are gaps, if something isn’t visible, you must be hiding something. You must be guilty.
We’re already mostly there. I know this. GPS in my phone, cards that remember every transaction, Instagram where I post enough for the machines to build a profile. Everyone does. Snowden leaked the proof and we panicked for a week, then got used to it. You can’t actually stop using these things. I won’t. The convenience is irresistible.
The “nothing to hide” argument is what gets me. People say it because they can’t imagine a worse regime, or they’ve already given up, or they genuinely think they’re boring enough to be safe. Šuljić doesn’t try to convince you. He just shows the logic. Transparency as virtue. Opacity as crime. Build a whole world on that equation and see where it goes.
I’ll probably keep doing what I’m doing. I’m not optimistic enough to fight it and not pessimistic enough to really care. The film doesn’t offer solutions. It just shows you the system running, cold and reasonable, reducing everyone to data. There’s something almost restful about that. Knowing you can’t stop it means you can stop pretending you want to.
Tomasz Mro draws women. That’s the essence of it. British artist, mostly working in illustration—his subjects sit alone, often in thought, rendered with a precision that makes every line count. No excess, no showing off. Just clean drawing and a presence you can’t look away from.
What catches you is what keeps you there. You look once and notice the skill. You look again and find details—the way light catches a fold of fabric, some small shift in the expression that you missed. Each time there’s something new, something the drawing has been holding back. That’s not accident. It’s intentional economy.
The worlds around them are sparse. Sometimes just a color field, or a pattern suggesting depth. He trusts that the figure is enough, trusts his audience to fill the space around her with whatever they bring to it. That’s where the work does its real work—in what’s suggested, not what’s shown.
I think what pulls me is the confidence of the approach. One figure, beautifully rendered, everything else quiet. The women have this quality of stillness and intelligence, a weight underneath the surface that comes through without needing to be stated. That’s harder than spectacle. That’s what makes you want to look again.
The thing about Logic is his influences never matched. Wu-Tang Clan and Frank Sinatra. Nas and Miles Davis. RZA and Childish Gambino. You don’t end up with taste like that by accident, which means you end up with it by necessity — you listen to everything because nothing in your actual life is safe enough to settle into just one thing.
He came up in Gaithersburg with a cocaine-addicted father who left, an alcoholic mother, an older brother dealing drugs. He didn’t make it to graduation. He made mixtapes instead. “Young Sinatra,” over and over, like he was arguing with his own life. Then “Under Pressure” in 2014 — straight onto the Billboard charts at number four, critics calling it the best hip-hop album of the year. It was good, but it was more than that. It was someone taking the specific wreckage of his childhood and making something that millions of people needed to hear.
That’s the thing that sticks with me about him. Not the story itself — there are a lot of stories like that. But the movement from chaos into clarity. From “I’m trying to survive this” to “I survived this and now I’m trying to look at something bigger than myself.”
“Confessions of a Dangerous Mind” is his new thing. The video has him in space, literally, looking back at Earth. The frame is cosmic but the song is about intimacy — confession, acknowledgment, the idea that once you’ve survived something, you have to do something with that survival. You can’t just be grateful and move on. You have to make it mean something.
I listen to it and I think about the kid who dropped out of high school and decided to listen to everything instead. I think about how much work that took. How much solitude. How much faith that the work would eventually lead somewhere. It did. But the work is the thing that matters, not the destination.
Shinji Ikari just wanted to see his father. That’s the whole hook, and it’s perfect because it’s so ordinary. He gets the summons, he shows up, and instead of a reunion, the world’s ending and he’s being handed the controls to a giant robot.
I first watched Evangelion when I was way too young to understand it, and even then something about it stuck—not the plot exactly, but the feeling of it. The atmosphere Shiro Sagisu’s music creates, this sound design that makes a broken future feel intimate and real. The characters are impossible to look away from: Shinji scared and trying, Asuka furious and drowning, Rei unknowable and alone. Misato caught between them, trying to hold everything together with wine and charm and a broken moral compass. Even Pen Pen, the penguin just there in the apartment, existing quietly while the world disintegrates.
The show isn’t afraid of being ugly about it. There’s theology and symbolism and all that, but underneath is just the raw fact of three teenagers piloting giant robots because no one else can, and it’s destroying them. Slowly at first, then faster. The last few episodes don’t even try to maintain narrative anymore—it just dives into Shinji’s head and stays there, watching him come apart.
What gets me is how honest it is about failure and suffering without ever offering comfort. There’s no redemption arc waiting. The ending just stops, or spirals, or resets—depends which version you watch, but none of them feel like victory. They feel like waking up in a room you don’t recognize and deciding what comes next anyway.
I can’t really explain why it matters to me so much. It’s not beautiful in a way that makes sense. It’s jagged and painful and sometimes ridiculous, and there’s something in that refusal to smooth itself out that feels true about being alive. It’s available on Netflix now, and I guess that’s how the world works—these brutal, strange, generations-defining things eventually make it to the streaming menu. But watching it again, I still feel that same thing breaking inside me. Some part of the show doesn’t let go.
Capital Bra was having an absurd year. Eight #1 hits in Germany in twelve months — most-streamed artist in the country, ranking third all-time for chart dominance with only ABBA and the Beatles ahead. Berlin rapper, Russian and Ukrainian heritage, suddenly the nation’s hottest thing. Kids were streaming him relentlessly. He had that casual sound, those clever lyrics, the kind of appeal that doesn’t need explanation.
Then Dieter Bohlen called. The DSDS judge and 80s pop auteur suggested they cover Modern Talking’s “Cheri Cheri Lady.” Thomas Anders wasn’t involved. The video went to three million views in hours.
What interested me was how perfectly Bohlen had read the moment. You have Germany’s hottest rapper. You have a song that sits in everyone’s parents’ memory. Put them together and you’ve made something that confuses and fascinates both generations at once. The instinct was so clean it barely registered as strategy. That’s the kind of move that shows someone who’s been paying attention for decades still understands what moves people, even when everything’s shifted.
I kept thinking about kids walking to school with Modern Talking blaring from their phone speakers. That’s what happens when someone sees a pattern nobody else saw coming.
You’re scrolling through something and you hit play on a video that looks like standard German rap fare — all the signifiers are there, tinny beats, mumbled delivery, the whole playbook. Then it hits you: this isn’t serious. It’s a parody. And not some lazy SNL-style sketch. This is “Kein Para,” Yung Larry’s surgical dismantling of Bausa’s “#1 song ’Was du Liebe nennst,’” executed with such technical precision that you can’t quite take the original seriously anymore.
Yung Larry is Philipp Laude, a German-Austrian comedian and actor who spent years in the early-YouTube comedy group Y-Titty before basically inventing what German YouTube looked like. He’s done film work, real music projects, the full range. Started his own channel a few years back and built a substantial audience. But the smartest thing about “Kein Para” is how it deconstructs contemporary German rap with such ease.
All these rappers are grinding, projecting this studied casualness while chasing streams and chart positions. Yung Larry does the same thing as a punchline, and somehow it lands cleaner. That’s what gets to you. It’s not mean-spirited mockery. It’s just casual. The fact that someone clearly capable of doing this as a joke makes you wonder how sincere any of it actually is. When the formula is this rigid, how much of rap is just performance anyway? How thin the line between real and ironic when all the moves are prescribed?
The parody works because it respects the original while exposing how formulaic it is. Philipp isn’t attacking Bausa — he’s just showing that you can follow this blueprint exactly and it works fine. The only real difference is commitment, not talent. Which is strange to realize about a genre supposedly built on being authentic and effortless.
My Gen 1 team was set in stone years ago — Mewtwo, Charizard (raised from the start), Articuno, Gyarados, Dragonite. I wanted Pikachu or Eevee somewhere in there, but I couldn’t rely on cute in a real fight, so Dragonite got the slot. The puzzle was solved, and I didn’t think much about it after.
The Detective Pikachu movie announcement felt wrong. A live-action crime film where a 3D Pikachu voiced by Ryan Reynolds solves cases in a world of humans and Pokémon. Why would I want that when I could just rewatch Ash and Misty and Brock stumbling through the original series again?
The new trailer came out and something shifted. The world looks genuinely interesting. Pikachu is actually likeable, even with Reynolds’s voice. Justice Smith, playing someone searching for his missing father, seems fine to spend two hours with. The movie’s based on the Detective Pikachu game and releases in May 2019. I’m not saying I’m suddenly excited. But I’m not dismissing it anymore.
My condition is simple: my favorite Pokémon need to show up. Mewtwo seems to be in there already, which helps. But that’s the test — if this actually works, it has to earn the nostalgia it’s banking on.
Marina was one of those pop singers I paid real attention to in the early 2010s. “I Am Not a Robot,” “How to Be a Heartbreaker,” “Hollywood” — songs that had both the melodic generosity and the production intelligence, music that looked as sharp as it sounded. Three albums in five years, each one assured, each one working. Then she was gone, completely, for so long that people’s first google suggestion about her was whether she was alive.
Now she’s back with “Orange Trees,” and it’s almost a joke how simple it is. A song about Lefkada, the Greek island her family’s from, no concept, no arc, no persona. Just singing about wanting to come back to a place that matters. “I’m trying to get back to what we need. Living like we should. Flowers in my hair, I belong by the sea.” Straight and uncomplicated, guitars and castanets underneath, the kind of song that doesn’t ask you to think about anything except maybe your own need to be somewhere else.
She’s Marina now, dropped the “and the Diamonds,” which feels right. She shot a video for this in Mexico with Sophie Muller, and it looks like what the song sounds like: oversaturated, golden, the kind of visual heat that makes you want the beach. An album called “Love + Fear” is coming in August, but this doesn’t feel like a statement. It feels like a postcard from someone who figured out what matters.
The thing about returning after an absence that long is it usually doesn’t work — you’ve lost momentum, people have moved on, it’s hard to sound current. But this feels effortless. The voice is still there. The instinct is still there. You remember what you liked about her in the first place, and it’s immediate, and maybe that’s what she wanted: not a clever comeback, just a reminder that some things don’t need to change to matter.
Wood Rocket, the American porn factory, has built their business on one simple principle: if it has an audience, make porn of it. Pokémon, Game of Thrones, Zelda. Boobs, shaved pussies, penetration—the formula still works for views.
Apex Legends appeared and became the thing overnight. A free-to-play battle royale that somehow seized everyone’s attention in a way Fortnite and Anthem couldn’t quite manage. Drop into the Outlands, loot, fight, survive alone. Familiar formula, sudden cultural dominance.
By week one Wood Rocket had “Ass Sex Legends” filmed. Charlotte Sartre, Isiah Maxwell, Missy Martinez in quickly assembled Apex costumes, playing Legend characters badly, fucking each other. It’s so immediate, so predictable, that there’s no point being shocked anymore—it’s just the machine running.
Something becomes big and within days there’s porn of it. Both are equally real cultural moments now. Notice, move on.
Hiro Mashima has a type. Kids who are fundamentally alone in some way, usually angry about it, usually desperate for connection. Crews of people who shouldn’t belong together but do. Wars that weren’t supposed to be their problem. And somehow, every single time, you believe these people would die for each other.
Fairy Tail proved this pattern. Lucy runs away from her comfortable life. She finds Natsu, a dragon slayer raised by the dragon he’s been searching for. Happy, a blue cat, is just there being weird and helpful. And the Fairy Tail guild becomes the thing they didn’t know they needed—a family of choice, which is the only kind that really matters. You watch them get pulled apart and smashed back together across seasons. The series ran long enough to test your patience more than once, but at least it ended on its own terms. When it was actually over, I felt like I’d been part of something, even if I’d spent half the time rolling my eyes at the plot.
Now there’s Edens Zero. Shiki grows up alone on a robot-filled planet with no human connection. Rebecca arrives with a spaceship and a cat. He leaves with them. The template is identical—lonely kid, makeshift crew, journey into the unknown. Fairy Tail in orbit. One Piece but with stars instead of water. He’s not even trying to disguise it anymore.
I’m not sure if that’s the mark of someone who’s mastered their craft or someone who’s stopped trying to surprise himself. Maybe it’s both.
I found Sigrid through a playlist algorithm that actually got it right - a Norwegian artist with this voice that just cuts through everything. You know that feeling when pop music suddenly matters again? When someone’s made something that has actual energy and doesn’t sound like it was designed by committee? That’s what she does.
Her parents raised her on Neil Young and Joni Mitchell, so the foundation was solid. Piano lessons at seven, covers by her teenage years - the standard path for a music kid with real taste. But at sixteen, her brother Tellef, also a musician, asked her to open for him with two weeks’ notice and no existing material. She wrote something, and that’s how it started.
Two years later she had a record deal and split her time between Bergen and London, which somehow feels right - small enough to stay grounded, big enough to make things that matter. You can hear the influences in her work: something between the defiant pop of MØ and that moment early Adele had when a song just landed. But it’s entirely hers. Songs written at the piano, played how they feel, not focus-grouped to death. She keeps saying the same thing: well-written pop songs, that’s it. And you can hear that it’s true.
The debut album is called “Sucker Punch” and there’s a video for “Don’t Feel Like Crying” where she’s dancing - not performing, dancing - through what feels like actual pain. Simple idea, but it works because the song is strong enough to carry it. What gets me about Sigrid is that she’s making pop music that doesn’t feel like a compromise. In a landscape of algorithmic blandness, that’s almost radical.
Sia, Diplo, and Labrinth formed a supergroup called LSD and released a new song. Three artists with no obvious reason to work together, but each one knows what they’re doing, and it shows. Sia’s voice is unmistakable. Diplo’s production is tight. Labrinth keeps things from getting too polished. It’s the kind of collaboration that feels inevitable in retrospect, even though nobody saw it coming.
Post Malone doesn’t try to be relatable, which is exactly why he is. There’s no calculation to his rockstar thing—no studied persona, no “I’m a rapper too” winking at the camera. He just exists in that space between rap and rock without being self-conscious about the contradiction.
I first caught him with “White Iverson” in 2015. The song had this stretched-out quality, willing to let a melody sit without filling every silence. It should have been forgettable, but it wasn’t. Then “Beerbongs & Bentleys” came through and everything locked into place. The album felt like someone figuring out who he was in real time, without the usual hedging.
“Rockstar” with 21 Savage was the one that crystallized it. That song is hypnotic in a way that feels almost accidental—like he stumbled into a groove and decided to just stay there. The melody drags, the production sits on your chest, and it’s less a rap song than a mood you fall into. “Psycho” with Ty Dolla $ign hit the same vein. These aren’t hits in the traditional sense of being carefully engineered; they feel more like glimpses of how his brain works.
Post Malone seems born into this rather than chasing it. Texas, music young, a path that felt inevitable. By twenty-two he’d done what most artists spend a career trying to do, which is make something that sounds like only you.
The “Wow” video sits somewhere different. He lets something show through there—not vulnerability performed, just vulnerability. No rockstar costume on top of it. That’s the thing that separates him from everyone else fishing for authenticity. He’s not proving he’s real. He just is, and the work reflects it.
Vertical video format was considered bad taste — everyone knew you were supposed to turn your phone sideways to film anything. But TikTok and Instagram changed the math. The interface demands vertical now. It’s all vertical, and nobody questions it anymore.
Lena Meyer-Landrut’s new video for ’Don’t Lie to Me’ embraces that completely. Shot in portrait format and directed by Paul Ripke, it mimics a smartphone display itself — all the interface elements, the visual chaos, notifications stacking up. It’s modern in the way that only something made right now can be, and yeah, sometimes it’s sexy. That matters less than the fact that she actually understands this moment.
She lives this stuff. She’s on Instagram, Twitter, YouTube constantly, and it’s not some calculated strategy — it’s where she actually exists. She knows how to provoke attention. There’s the Instagram story in some thin top where her nipples were clearly visible through the fabric, and it got exactly the press response you’d expect. No coyness about it. She understood the mechanics.
This video confirms it. She’s not imitating this culture — she’s actually living inside it.
Every Sunday at 8:15, my friends disappeared into different versions of themselves. Usually spontaneous, funny, loud — then Tatort came on and everything stopped. Phones away, silence, grim faces. Because that’s when Germany’s national crime show airs, and an entire country stops for it: two detectives show up confused, wander around, arrest the wrong person, then chase the actual killer through a warehouse or dock while dramatic music swells. Same formula every week.
It’s deeply stupid. Confused detectives, wrong arrest, chase scene, that’s the whole thing. Somehow it’s the country’s most sacred ritual. The show doesn’t know it’s stupid — everything is played completely straight.
Klaas Heufer-Umlauf and Palina Rojinski made fun of this on Late Night Berlin by creating the Millennial Tatort. Same setup, same framework, same earnest detective work — but filtered through millennial logic. What Instagram filter for a dead body. Which suspect has the best TikTok energy. The jokes worked because they weren’t really jokes, just describing what Tatort actually was but honestly.
Late Night Berlin is Klaas’s solo project now. He’s not as culturally powerful as some other German talk show hosts, but there are moments worth watching, especially with the people he gets on. The Millennial Tatort was one of those moments.
If they made a full episode of that instead of another who-killed-the-gardener mystery, I’d actually watch the whole thing. Says something about how worn out the real formula is by now.
Selena Gomez is wearing pajamas in the new music video. Not styled or ironic—just soft, regular pajamas. She looks comfortable, which is not a word you’d use for most of her career. After fifteen years in public, dealing with lupus and depression and the raw weight of being that famous that young, she comes back sounding different. Quieter. Like she finally learned what honest sounds like when you sing it.
The song is “I Can’t Get Enough,” with Benny Blanco, Tainy, and J Balvin—an odd combination that somehow works. What’s interesting is how she talks about the making of it. Not as some triumph, but as learning where her actual strengths are. The lower register, the control, that came from months of figuring out what she could actually do instead of trying to be what she thought she was supposed to be. It’s simpler than her earlier work. More true.
Her career is strange when you lay it out. Disney kid at fifteen, which could have been the whole thing. Spring Breakers in 2012 actually held, still does—something real underneath all the provocation. Then albums that improved even as she was falling apart in private. Nobody warns you about that part: sometimes the only place you know how to survive is in your work, so you get very good, very fast.
She’s been at this long enough that the desperation has burned away. There’s no need to prove anything anymore. Which is maybe why what she’s making finally feels like it matters. The pajamas in the video aren’t a gesture. They’re just what she’s wearing. The vulnerability reads as real because it’s not being performed as vulnerability—it’s just the truth of her voice now, quieter and more honest than before.
All those years of building toward this. Everything else was just clearing the way.
There’s something that happens when pixels hit the screen. Some people got over it. I didn’t.
I’ve played enough 3D games to understand why they matter. Witcher 3 is genuinely good. Mario 64 is a masterpiece. Mass Effect works. Ocarina of Time is genuinely epic. But they never moved me the way pixels do. When the SNES generation ended and everything shifted to PlayStation, Dreamcast, N64, I felt something die. I could tell then—everything would get worse, less soulful, less alive. It did.
The indie developers never stopped feeling this way. They understood that you don’t need photorealism for fantasy to come alive. Stardew Valley proved it. Owlboy proved it. Terraria proved it. The best games ever made were pixels: Secret of Mana, Chrono Trigger, A Link to the Past—just untouchable work.
Sparklite is trying to walk in that tradition. It’s an action-adventure built openly on the SNES Zelda template, trying to bring that spirit into now. It looks incredible and plays with the kind of smoothness that feels inevitable—like one of those afternoons when you’d grab a cold Fanta from the fridge and immediately sit back down at the SNES. You’re fighting some villain called the Baron who’s corrupting the world, but that’s just story. What matters is that someone is still making this kind of game.
It’s coming this year on everything—PC, Mac, PlayStation, Xbox, Switch. I’m ready for it.
Lena Meyer-Landrut used to be the Eurovision girl. Hyperactive, over-the-top, the kind of thing German pop spits up every few years and forgets about. Except she didn’t disappear. She got better.
By now she’s learned what most people never figure out: how to exist in public without being destroyed. She posts without the desperate need for validation. She sings like she means it. She knows when to show up and when to disappear. At twenty-seven, that’s not nothing.
The Tush Magazine photoshoot with Armin Morbach captures her at that point—comfortable enough to pose nearly naked, sure enough not to perform hunger. Morbach doesn’t try to seduce or flatter in that empty airbrushed way. He just photographs her as she is: lit in gold, looking back at the camera with something between curiosity and self-knowledge. No vulnerability being staged. Just her, there.
What gets me is the distance from Eurovision. That was pure exhaustion—all that need to prove something, all that hunger. This is settled. This is an adult artist comfortable in her own body, not trying to convince anyone of anything. The sensuality in those photos isn’t seduction; it’s presence. She knows it. Morbach knows it. No pretense.
Juju from SXTN never seemed to care if the hip-hop world was ready for her. When she and Nura made music together, they sounded like they were talking to friends at a party—crude, honest, no filter. “Von Party zu Party,” “Bongzimmer,” “Fotzen im Club”: the titles were the point. These weren’t songs trying to be clever. They were about what was actually happening in their lives in Berlin, and they sounded like it.
Most artists calculate. They figure out their lane, they play the game, they make the smart move. Juju and Nura just made the music and let people catch up. It worked. The songs went gold. People connected because it was real.
Now she’s going solo. “Bling Bling” is the album, “Hardcore High” is the first single. She’s got half a million followers on Instagram now, and the attitude that got her there isn’t something you soften when you go out on your own. If anything, this might be where she stops having to compromise on anything, even for a second. I’m curious what that sounds like—whether being alone just means louder, or if something actually changes. Based on everything she’s done so far, I’m guessing she just does what she wants and sees who listens.
Fero47 posted videos of himself rapping on his phone and now he’s on Epic Records. German kid, half a million Instagram followers, debut single at number 8 on the charts—the whole trajectory from bedroom recordings to a major label deal compressed into a few years.
His first single ’Jaja’ sampled Justin Timberlake’s ’Cry Me a River,’ which shouldn’t have worked but it did. Number 8. That’s when Sony stepped in and signed him. Produced by SiNCH and Typhoon.
I haven’t listened enough to say if his music is actually good, but what’s interesting is the mechanism of it all. People on the internet decided he was worth sharing, other people believed them, and suddenly the industry had no choice but to catch up. Half a million followers just from word of mouth. No marketing campaign, no gatekeepers deciding whether you’re allowed to listen to this guy.
His second single ’Puerto Rico’ came out and immediately did the same thing. That speed gets to me—the whole path that used to take years of grinding is now measured in months. Bedroom to major label. Phone video to chart success. The timeline is just completely different now.
Kabi Nagata drew a manga about wanting women in a country where desire like that stays silent. She posted pages online, anonymously, describing her own body and what she felt, the weight of it, the things nobody around you can possibly know. Somehow it turned into a book — something you could actually hold and buy.
The manga is called “My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness,” and that title gets at the whole thing. It’s not about coming out. She never does. It’s about realizing something about yourself and immediately knowing you can’t tell anyone. Not your family, not your friends, not the people who know your real name. So she stayed hidden and drew it and found other people online in that same quiet.
What stays with me is how specific it is to Japan — the family pressure, the cultural silence around sexuality — but also how much it could be anywhere. The loneliness isn’t Japanese. It’s the gap between what you feel and what you’re allowed to admit, what you know about yourself and what anyone else can possibly understand. That gap is everywhere.
She doesn’t resolve it. There’s no coming out in the end, no catharsis, no “everything’s fine now.” She just keeps living with the truth of herself in private, sharing it only with anonymous strangers who recognize the loneliness. I don’t know if that’s hopeful or just realistic. Probably both.
Miley Cyrus reinvents herself every couple of years with military precision. New sound, new look, new narrative—this time she’s all grown up, or reformed, or whatever the story is. Everyone buys it for a while, and then she posts a topless photo on Instagram and the whole thing falls apart.
I saved it when she posted it. She clearly knew what she was doing. I clearly knew what I was doing. No one’s confused here.
What gets me is the contradiction at the heart of it. There’s all this machinery around her—managers, publicists, brand consultants, all of them working to control her image, to make sure she’s presenting the right version of herself at the right time. And then she’ll just take her shirt off on the internet like it’s nothing. Like fuck the narrative.
I don’t know if that means anything about where she’s going next. Maybe she’s heading back to that looser version of herself. Maybe it’s just a calculated reminder that she’s human, that the wild stuff isn’t entirely dead. Probably both. Probably neither.
I’ll keep watching either way. Not just for the topless photos, obviously. But because there’s something honest in those moments that you don’t see anywhere else. Just her, not performing.
At some point I started paying attention to what I wear, not just what I eat. Used to grab whatever was cheap—fast fashion, throw it away after a couple of wears. Now I want things that last, things that come from somewhere real, where the people making them aren’t being exploited.
Most sustainable fashion brands talk a good game. Read the details though, and they’re still cutting corners, still greenwashing. I’m not interested.
ThokkThokk doesn’t feel like it’s performing sustainability. Munich label, all organic—Tencel, cotton, linen. Vegan, certified GOTS and Fairtrade. The clothes are simple and built to last: t-shirts, sweaters, jeans, dresses, jackets. Nothing trying too hard. The graphics are clean. You buy something and you wear it for years.
Prices aren’t cheap. Twenty euros for a basic shirt, up to a hundred for a jacket. But that’s what fair costs—you’re paying for actual materials and actual wages, not the fake math of fast fashion where a shirt costs two euros because someone’s getting destroyed for it. That’s the whole difference.
Buying a shirt for basically nothing and throwing it away—that’s not me anymore. This is what I do now.
Bonnie Strange posted a topless photo on Instagram. Just a casual picture, nothing graphic—something about daydreaming through Ibiza without a bra. The comments came fast: “What kind of mother are you?” People were disgusted, certain this was wrong. This is what happens when a woman with children has the nerve to have visible skin.
What strikes me is the specific texture of the judgment. It’s not just prudishness—there’s something deeper. Once you reproduce, society decides, you give up the right to a body that isn’t clothed and apologetic. Your breasts become shameful by definition. You’re supposed to become unsexy, covered, respectable.
The threat has nothing to do with the children. No kid is harmed by knowing their mom has a body. The real threat is the refusal itself—when a mother doesn’t ask permission to be visible, when she just posts a photo and moves on. That casual indifference, that’s what disturbs people.
Bonnie Strange posted her breasts on Instagram and didn’t apologize. Didn’t perform the modesty that mothers are supposed to perform. The comments were people noticing that someone had simply refused—had just stopped caring what the rules said. She posted the photo and kept living.
Tarantino’s ninth film is all about watching old actors watch themselves disappear, and he hired every recognizable face left in Hollywood to say it. Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio, Margot Robbie—they’re all there, along with half the industry, looking at a version of their own anxiety reflected back at them.
Los Angeles, 1969. Rick Dalton (DiCaprio) is a television star realizing he’s finished. The industry that made him is moving on, and he knows it. His stunt double, Cliff Booth (Pitt), is the last true thing in a world of pretense—a man without illusions, without ambition, which somehow makes him the last one standing when everything else collapses. Around them, Tarantino reconstructs a Hollywood in the process of remaking itself, the old guard meeting the new, and between them sits the silence of an era ending.
I’ve always felt that Tarantino is chasing something in his films—not forward but backward, into the moment when cinema was everything and the industry still felt possible. Once Upon a Time is maybe his most direct statement of that obsession. It’s a film about memory, about the impossibility of staying, about how you can know something is leaving while you’re still standing in it.
The cast is massive, excessive even, but that excess is the point. Every actor here is complicit in the fantasy they’re selling. They’re all beautiful, all skilled, all terrified of becoming irrelevant. Watching it, you’re not watching a story unfold so much as watching a fever dream about a world that no longer exists.
In the end, the film refuses to be a tragedy about decline. Instead, it’s something stranger—a love letter to something that was never real. Tarantino doesn’t mourn the loss of Hollywood’s golden age because he understands that it was already a fiction, a performance held together by collective agreement. What he’s grieving is the collective agreement itself, the shared dream that fell apart. Watching it, I felt less like I was seeing a film about the 60s than a film about being nostalgic for a moment you never actually lived through.
I opened Wikipedia one morning and the whole site was just black. Complete blackout. A message from the editors explaining why — something about an EU copyright vote happening that day, Article 13, upload filters. They were taking the site down to get people’s attention.
The thing about copyright filters is they don’t work. You can’t build an automated system that reliably tells the difference between someone uploading a video they’re allowed to share and someone uploading something they’re not. The systems catch too much. They’re blunt instruments. So what you end up with is a version of the internet where hosting anything risky becomes basically impossible. Remixes die. Fan projects die. Anything unlicensed gets harder. The weird, unlicensed, half-legal creative ecology that’s always been part of how the internet actually works starts suffocating.
But the vote was happening anyway. Five million people signed petitions. Tim Berners-Lee said it was a mistake. Every organization that actually builds things on the internet said it was backwards. None of it mattered much to the machinery. Policy tends to move at its own speed.
What stuck with me was that one day — that black screen. It was one moment where something that usually stays abstract and invisible became concrete. You went to Wikipedia looking for information and hit this wall instead. For a few hours, one of the internet’s most essential utilities shut itself down just to say: pay attention to what’s about to happen. Whether it changed any votes I have no idea. The directive probably passed in some form anyway. But that black screen did something. It made the thing real.
Moving Link one tile per beat, reading enemy patterns against the music, every misstep a chance to die. That’s Cadence of Hyrule, a mashup between the Legend of Zelda and Crypt of the NecroDancer that shouldn’t work but does.
Crypt of the NecroDancer was an indie roguelike where everything happened on the beat — movement, attacks, defense, all locked to the music. It had this tense, focused feeling, always one step away from dying because you lost the rhythm. The cool thing was you could play it with your own MP3s if the official soundtrack didn’t grab you. Weird little game, but genuinely smart.
So Brace Yourself Games and Nintendo got together and decided: what if we throw Zelda into this? Link in a dungeon, one beat at a time. All the gear you know, enemies you recognize, bosses with their patterns. Everything moving to remixes pulled from across the Zelda series — ’A Link to the Past,’ ’Wind Waker,’ ’Breath of the Wild,’ recut to drive the action forward.
What matters is it’s not just a skin. The designers clearly thought through how rhythm combat works with Zelda’s language — the sword arc, the boomerang return, shield timing. You’re reading the beat and the enemy at once, which shouldn’t work but does. It’s tight.
That’s what gets me about it. Could’ve been a novelty, something that exists because the licenses line up. Instead it’s genuinely clever, the kind of idea that makes you reconsider what both games are about. You look at it and think, why hasn’t anyone done this before? I’m curious what it’s like to actually play.
Palina Rojinski has a podcast now on Spotify called Podkinski. New episode every two weeks. She used Plato as cover for it — you learn more in an hour of play than a year of conversation, or something like that. Fair enough.
She’s been around the German media circuit long enough that you probably know the name from something or other. DJ, TV host, actress, Berlin fixture. One of those people who moves between stages and dancefloors and cameras like it’s all the same thing, because to her it probably is. She’s got that kind of ease about it.
Podcasts are everywhere now. Everyone with any platform launches one. Most of them are just people talking, which works or doesn’t depending entirely on whether the person talking is actually interesting. This one’s straightforward — Rojinski in a room with people she likes, no script, no theme, just whatever comes up. Music, work, life, Berlin. You could say it has no format, but that is the format.
I haven’t actually listened yet. It’s on Spotify if you want to find it.
Sue Tsai made a Puma collection called Wildflowers and I keep thinking about how uncompromising it is. Wildflowers printed everywhere — cherry blossoms, lotus spaceships tangled in camouflage. A dress cut like a basketball jersey. Running shoes in soft leather. Tights with color-blocking. Everything speaking the same language, all at the same volume, which sounds like it shouldn’t work but it does.
Most brand collaborations are carved by committee. The artist pitches their vision, the brand says “yes but quieter,” and what ships is a compromise nobody wanted. You’ve seen it a thousand times. This one didn’t go that way. Tsai pushed and Puma didn’t blink.
I don’t know much about her work before this, but the collection has a point of view that doesn’t get filtered. The color doesn’t apologize. The pattern stays dense. Even the shapes are unafraid. It feels like watching actual art make something commercial and both sides coming out ahead.
When “Not A Love Song” went viral in 2017, Megan Bülow was still in high school. I don’t remember the moment particularly, but it makes sense looking back—a teenager writing an actual song about actual feelings instead of chasing the algorithm.
She grew up all over the place. Eight years in Germany with most of that in Berlin and Hamburg, six in England, two in Texas, two in the Netherlands, now Toronto. Started busking on London streets when she was eleven. That kind of childhood either destroys you or it teaches you that everything is temporary except whatever you can hold onto. For her, it’s the music.
Her lyrics are specific because they’re personal. “You & Jennifer” is her doing exactly what the title suggests. “Sad and Bored” is supposedly ironic, though I don’t think she actually believes that. The newer track “Sweet Little Lies” gets at something true about how imagination works. She described it as bright but dark underneath, about how fantasy can give you the most incredible feeling or become your worst enemy. That’s true. An hour spent in your head can make you feel invincible or completely destroyed, depending on which direction your head goes.
I’m not going to do the comparison thing—if you like Sigrid or Dua Lipa then you’ll like her, that’s what the industry says. But it’s mostly marketing. What matters is that she sounds like someone with a life writing songs about it. Not performing the role of a pop star. Not executing a strategy. Just playing music she wrote about things that happened to her. That’s rare.
I keep tabs on Nora Tschirner’s voice work — German dubs, animated films, games sometimes. Her voice has a particular quality that survives medium shifts. So when I found out she was playing Greta Lemke in Trüberbrook, I picked it up.
It’s a point-and-click adventure set in 1967, that specific moment when everything felt like it was coming apart at the seams. The Cold War was at maximum tension, the space race was ramping up, and in West Germany the student movement was starting to splinter the social consensus. Into this world comes Hans Tannhauser, an American physics graduate in his late twenties, who wins a vacation to Trüberbrook — a small spa town in the German countryside that he’s never heard of, to a contest he doesn’t remember entering. When he arrives, his papers vanish from his hotel room. Someone’s trying to contact him. Everyone in the town is strange in specific, calculated ways. Greta shows up as the almost-normal one, another scientist who’s there doing research, before it becomes clear that Tannhauser isn’t there by accident.
There’s something about point-and-click adventures that works — you move through a world at your own pace, reading everything, noticing what doesn’t fit. The 1967 setting gives the whole thing weight, even when it’s just a mystery-box game. That period carries gravity in any narrative.
Tschirner’s voice direction keeps it grounded. The writing is competent enough that the mystery doesn’t feel arbitrary. It’s not essential, but if you’re looking for something specific — a puzzle set in a real place, with actual voice acting — it’s there.
That part of the year where it’s supposed to be better outside but isn’t. Gray, cool, all wrong. I’m inside with the lights down and something playing, waiting for spring to actually commit.
Netflix is dropping a new batch of shows this week—Sabrina, Spirit, some anime, comedy specials, whatever else. Most I won’t watch. I’ll find one thing, watch it in a couple nights, and then I’m back to scrolling. The seasons move in their own time. So does my attention.
I’m not really watching for some release schedule or keeping up with what everyone’s supposed to be talking about. I’m just filling the hours between now and when it’s actually warm enough to be outside without pretending it doesn’t bother me. The waiting’s the point. The shows are just what I do while I’m waiting.
Urban Outfitters dropped a new collection called “Narrated” and I kept coming back to it because it’s a clear read on where things are going. Less neon chaos, more earth tones—dusty pinks, ochres, coppers. Simple pieces with actual detail work: wrap tops, dresses with ruffles, a lavender jumpsuit that looks like it has real draping.
The marketing narrative is all lifestyle escapism—girls who want to travel, camp, opt out of the loud stuff. Standard fashion marketing. But what caught me is that the collection doesn’t feel like it’s lying about what it’s selling. The pieces have proportion and thought behind them. You can tell someone cared about how the colors work together and how the silhouettes actually sit.
There’s something to read in what a mainstream retailer chooses to push. People are tired of being screamed at. We’re reaching for quiet instead. Whether a ruffled midi skirt actually makes you that person is beside the point—the fact that it’s what’s being made, and what’s being bought, says something about the moment we’re in.
Google announced Stadia, which sounds like a painkiller but was actually their answer to cloud gaming. Stream games over the internet like Netflix—no console, no expensive graphics card, no waiting for hardware to age out. Just a controller and whatever power Google’s data centers could deliver.
The pitch was appealing. Games in 4K, 60fps, developers working with essentially unlimited server resources. Watch someone stream on YouTube and click a button to start playing. No friction. Games as a service, available to everyone everywhere. It felt like watching the obvious future arrive.
Google had the infrastructure. Twenty years of data centers scattered globally. Money. Reach. Hard to imagine what could stop them.
The answer was the internet. Your internet, not Google’s. The last mile—the cables to your house, the wireless you pay for, the latency that matters infinitely more than bandwidth when you need real-time control. Cloud gaming requires a rock-solid, low-latency connection to feel like local play. Even in a decent city, even in Germany with decent infrastructure, that’s still rare. Stadia promised to remove barriers, but the entire thing depended on connectivity that doesn’t actually exist in most places yet.
Cloud gaming has been the promised future for twenty years. Every company that tries it hits the same wall. It’s not technology—the data centers work fine. It’s infrastructure. The internet in most places just isn’t built for this. Building it out is slow and expensive, and nobody in entertainment is going to fund it. They want to build on what exists, not wait for the world to catch up.
The dream was appealing. Gaming without gatekeeping, without expensive hardware, without waiting for generational cycles. But technology dreams collapse when they meet actual infrastructure, actual geography, actual world. Stadia promised to democratize gaming and just exposed how unequally internet access is distributed.
Feels like it’s been years since Stranger Things aired a new season. I’d bailed on Game of Thrones after the obvious point—you know the season, the one where everything fell apart—and somehow the Duffer brothers’ thing became my stand-in. It’s got none of the scope, none of the dragons and blood and political machinery collapsing, but there’s something about a show set in a dying small town with kids being hunted by something from the dark that lands heavier than it probably should.
There aren’t many details about season three yet. One trailer showed a shopping mall planted in the middle of the eighties. At the Game Awards last year, Matt and Ross Duffer said they’d had to push everything back because they couldn’t stop playing Red Dead Redemption 2. I’m telling myself that’s a joke.
The new trailer’s here now. It shows what happens next in Hawkins. Last season ended with the kids barely closing the gate to the other side. But in that final scene at the school dance, you see it: the shadow monster’s still there, still alive, still watching. Still watching all of them.
July 4th is when it starts. If you’ve never gotten into Stranger Things—whether you’ve been too lazy about it or just had other things to do—now’s the time. Before the summer gets swallowed by eighties nostalgia again.
That’s how they met. Hailey Bieber climbed onto a diving board at a lake in New York, did a cartwheel, and belly-flopped into the water. Kelia Moniz watched and they became best friends. You can’t script that.
They grew up in different places. Kelia surfed in Hawaii. Hailey became famous and married a pop star. They found each other at a lake on a hot day and something worked. Now they make things together. They designed a swimwear collection for Roxy called Sister.
What I notice about collaborations is that it shows up in the work. You can feel when two people actually want to be in the room together. The colors, the cuts, the way they compromise on details—all of it’s visible. I don’t know if it’s real friendship or a very good performance of one, and honestly I don’t think it matters. The finished product is either a conversation between two people who trust each other’s taste, or it’s a corporate product. This one feels like a conversation.
Woody falls out the window. That’s the scene that changes everything in the first Toy Story — one moment of jealousy, a push that goes too far, and the toy that runs Andy’s room is suddenly separated from everyone, stranded in the yard and headed for what might as well be oblivion at the neighbor kid Sid’s house.
I watched the first three films growing up, and they hit different. The third one destroyed me every time. That ending where Andy finally lets the toys go, passes them to Bonnie, watches Woody and Buzz and the rest drive off into their next life — it never stopped hurting the way it was supposed to hurt.
The setup is simple. Woody’s the favorite in Andy’s room until Buzz Lightyear arrives with all his modern polish and technology. Woody can’t accept the shift in power. He tells everyone Buzz is just a toy playing a game, that he’s not the real Buzz Lightyear they all think he is. The confrontation escalates. Woody pushes Buzz, tries to knock him into a closet, and Buzz goes out the window instead. The other toys blame Woody. Worse, Buzz ends up at Sid’s house next door, which in the logic of this world is a kind of death sentence.
That conflict between them, that separation and the whole cascade of consequences — it’s where the movie gains its force. And the series keeps moving forward from there. By Toy Story 3, Andy’s older. He’s ready to let go. He passes the toys to Bonnie, a younger kid who’ll love them the way he did. That’s where Toy Story 4 begins, with these characters already in their next chapter, with Andy grown and the toys still moving forward.
The first three films felt complete. They had an ending. But something about the persistence of these toys, the way they keep living these lives across different children, across different moments — there’s enough there to follow where it goes next.
Ama Lou’s a singer and filmmaker in North London. Paria Farzaneh and Feng Chen Wang both design menswear. Lava La Rue skateboards and makes art. Raye sings. They’re all working across different parts of London, doing their own thing.
Converse made a campaign around them—called “Spark Progress,” all about supporting creative young women. Which is fine. But the actual interesting part is just: these five people are making work. Ama’s mixing music and film. The menswear designers are working in a space that doesn’t automatically default to women. Lava’s practice is grounded in skating, not just aesthetics.
I’m probably more interested in what they’re actually doing than in the campaign around them. But I get why the campaign exists—it got my attention, after all. And the work is the thing that stays interesting.
The colors in that “You Should See Me In A Crown” video hit you immediately. Everything Takashi Murakami touches becomes impossibly bright—flowers screaming, smiling skulls, a world trying too hard but somehow pulling it off. It’s the opposite of Billie Eilish’s actual music, which lives in whispers and minimal piano, all that space between the sounds. You’d think they’d cancel each other out.
But Murakami spent eight months on this video. Eight months with animators trying to paint Billie’s world instead of consuming it. That’s what he said—that he wanted to bring her vision to life. Not his vision swallowing hers. He said he and Billie made their brains collide, and that collision is the video. The two of them at the same moment instead of one replacing the other.
She was seventeen when she wrote that song. Her brother Finneas co-wrote it, and you can feel it—nothing wasted, nothing that sounds like someone else’s idea forced in. By that age she already knew what she wanted to sound like, what world she was building inside. Most people chase that their whole lives. She had it at seventeen and then went looking for Murakami to paint it.
I’m not sure what that means. Talent, timing, the internet, luck—probably some combination. But the video exists now, and it’s hers.
Every few months North Korea detonates a nuclear weapon and the earth shakes and everyone refreshes the news for a few minutes before moving on. The thought sits there anyway. What would happen if every warhead on the planet went off at the same moment instead of one at a time over decades of hypothetical conflict. The mathematics don’t mean anything at that scale. Dust in the atmosphere. Years without sun. The slow suffocation of everything.
I’ve rehearsed this scenario a dozen times already, mostly in video games. Fallout. Metro 2033. The Division. All of them built on the corpse of nuclear war, letting you pick through the ruins and fight things that shouldn’t exist. There’s something restful about those games. The worst already happened. You’re not waiting for it anymore.
The actual bombs fell in 1945. Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The initial blasts killed around 135,000 people. Then the burns, the radiation, the long slow dying that went on for years after. Two warheads. Two cities. The weapons now are exponentially more powerful and there are thousands of them.
The idea’s gotten almost casual. Every science channel has made the video, every corner of the internet has imagined what it would look like. Maybe thinking about it thoroughly enough makes it stop being terrifying and become just another historical scenario waiting to happen. Or maybe I’m just fascinated by thinking about the end because it’s easier than thinking about now.
And you keep thinking about it, even though thinking about it doesn’t change anything.
I tell people I’m obsessed with Instagram Stories, like I actually know what I’m talking about. Truth is I’m on my phone most evenings, skipping through them as fast as possible. Another selfie from the gym. Skip. Someone’s ex in the background where they shouldn’t be. Skip. A girl posting something she knows her boyfriend will see. Dumb. Skip. The app’s barely worth having.
Except Bonnie Strange. Every single story of hers, I watch.
There’s something about her that just works. Maybe it’s that she’s genuinely witty or just genuinely herself. But mostly it’s that she looks better without clothes. She knows it. I know it. The whole internet knows it. And she’s not shy about it. Even after having a kid, she’ll post something and you remember why you started following her in the first place.
I’m aware I think about her way too much. I’d marry her. I’d be fine being her secret thing. I’d just be happy existing in her orbit somehow. That’s probably unhinged, but everyone on the internet is obsessed with someone at this point, at least I’m honest about it. I know it’s weird. I know I should unfollow and do something better with my nights. I won’t though. She just looks better naked.
I’d spent hundreds of hours in Dark Souls and Bloodborne, learning the grammar of FromSoftware games—the patience, the reads, the carefully timed counterattacks. Sekiro uses that language but speaks a completely different dialect.
You play as an unnamed swordsman, though the game calls you Sekiro, which means “one-armed wolf.” You’ve already lost an arm and nearly died when the story picks you up. You’re bound by oath to a young nobleman—some aristocrat with a cursed bloodline or secret power—and when he gets kidnapped, you chase everyone responsible through Sengoku-era Japan. That’s the premise. There’s no mystery about your goal, no blank-slate character building, no second-guessing the story’s direction. You know who you are and what you need to do.
The Sengoku period is the late 1500s, Japan tearing itself apart. Miyazaki, the director, specifically chose this era over the Edo period because it was rougher, bloodier, more brutal. It matters. The world you move through is collapsing, and you move through it as a one-armed man with a prosthetic that can ignite or transform into a saw blade or chain whip. The historical setting grounds the fantasy in something real—you’re not fighting shadow demons, you’re fighting warriors who were actual soldiers in an actual war.
The combat philosophy is where Sekiro completely breaks from its predecessors. Dark Souls rewards patience. You wait, you observe, you punish mistakes. That gets you killed in Sekiro. Miyazaki explained his thinking plainly: a ninja doesn’t fight like a knight. A knight has armor, reach, options. A ninja is constantly on the edge of death, exposed, taking enormous risks because that’s the only way to survive. So Sekiro is built on aggression and vulnerability at once. You’re forced to attack relentlessly, which sounds like it should be reckless, but the game’s designed so that recklessness, when executed precisely, is your only winning strategy.
Then there’s the resurrection system. You die, but you can resurrect in place, mid-fight, and keep going. This isn’t a kindness. It’s the opposite. It lets the game be harder because you’re not losing progress every death. It lets Miyazaki create encounters where you genuinely might die at any moment, where one mistake cascades into a second and third. And it matters to the story too—the resurrections are tied to who your character is, part of the mystery surrounding him and the boy he’s sworn to protect.
Compared to Dark Souls, Sekiro strips away the RPG stuff. No character building, no leveling, no new weapons to find and experiment with. You learn one character’s entire moveset and you fight enemies designed to destroy anyone who doesn’t understand them completely. It’s more direct, more focused, meaner. And because your character has a name and a story and a specific goal, the opening is clearer—you’re not confused about where you are or why. You know.
Dark Souls players will probably be drawn to this. But not for the same reasons. It’s faster and crueler and it asks for something different—not caution but ferocity, not patience but controlled aggression. And that historical setting changes something too. The violence feels more grounded. The stakes feel heavier.
You’ll die constantly. Everyone does. Most people will quit at some point. But if you can sit with it, if you can accept that the game is designed for you to fail repeatedly and that failure is the path to success, there’s something here that no other game offers. Sekiro doesn’t want your friendship. It wants your absolute concentration.
Colorful worlds full of thoughtful-looking figures. That’s the first thing you notice about Mercedes Bazan’s work, but it’s not the only thing. The second time through a piece, you start catching details—a building half-dissolved into pattern in the background, the exact angle of a face, the weight of a specific piece of fabric. The third time, you’re looking at something almost totally different from what you saw on the first pass.
I think what draws me in is that this isn’t work that’s trying to make a statement about femininity or women or any of that theoretical stuff. It’s just her language. Strong and beautiful and clever figures in universes where the rules bend just slightly different from ours. She’s based in Ireland, though the geography doesn’t really matter—these aren’t specific places, they’re alternatives. Private universes, the kind only color and composition and pure formal decisions can create.
There’s something about the technique that matters too. Most work either succeeds because it’s all signal—every choice means something, nothing gets wasted—or because it’s pure surface, which is its own kind of skill. Bazan manages both somehow. The space around the figures could just be decoration, but it reads like atmosphere. You could study these pictures as formal exercises in color and shape, or you could just spend time in them and let them be what they are.
If you look long enough, you’ll probably find something of yourself in these pictures. There’s a quality of thinking in them—contradiction, desire, the distance between how you appear and what you’re actually feeling. The work doesn’t explain itself, which I appreciate. It just watches you watching it.
You fall for someone, you end up falling for their music. A girl in Munich loved Weezer and I spent nights listening to Pinkerton, Raditude, Hurley, all of it. Songs like “Beverly Hills” and “Perfect Situation” got under my skin because they got under hers first. That’s how it works when you’re young. You’re trying to live inside someone else’s head.
Weezer’s been fractured for years, making albums that felt like they didn’t know what they wanted to be. Then the Africa cover happened and somehow that became a thing, changed how people thought of them. It was ridiculous and right at the same time.
Now Rivers and the band are putting out the Black Album and they’re confident about it, like they finally have something worth being confident about. The producer talks about them like they’re rubber—elastic, flexible, you can stretch them and they snap back. Rivers is pulling from social media, the Bible, Catch-22, throwing everything in. It’s scattered but it coheres.
I want to know if it’s what they think it is. I want to know if she would still love it. I want to be the kind of person who remembers a girl in Munich and the songs that came with her, who still gives a shit what Weezer sounds like.
I found Ella Mai on Instagram, in one of those 15-second covers that somehow stuck with me longer than songs that should have mattered more. She’s from London, and you hear the whole tradition there — Lauryn Hill, Mary J. Blige, Alicia Keys — but it’s not imitation, just inheritance. She comes from that same line.
DJ Mustard signed her, and “Boo’d Up” won a Grammy. The story’s clean, the kind of arc that reads perfectly in a press release. What interests me is the moment before that, when she was still just uploading covers because the music mattered more than the outcome. That’s usually where you can tell if someone’s going to actually last.
Her voice doesn’t do much — she holds notes the way some singers have to run around them. There’s confidence in that, or maybe just clarity about what she cares about. The production is minimal, nothing wasted. She’s not trying to impress you with technique; she’s just trying to get you to listen.
I’m curious what comes next, mostly because she seems like the kind of person who won’t take the safe option just because it’s there.
The Dutch just hit different. Everyone knows this. I was twenty, stoned behind a student bar in Amsterdam, when three tall blonde women appeared out of nowhere like they’d been waiting onstage. Emma, Sophie, Madelief. Their long hair moved in the wind while they smoked the joint like it was nothing, and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. I was too much in my head, too aware of how far out of my depth I was. I never talked to them, but I stayed half in love with them anyway—with something about the ease, the straightforwardness, the way they existed without narrating themselves.
Years later I saw Tiffany van Roest in the new Playboy and something caught. Twenty-three, from Soest, and she could’ve been a cousin of those three women. The shoot was nude, which is the whole function of Playboy, and reading her talk about it afterward she was just as direct. She’s comfortable naked because she actually lives that way, goes to saunas without thinking about it much. The photographer was good company. They had fun, the photos came out fine, and she talked about the whole thing the same way she talks about anything else—no shame, no performance. That’s the Dutch thing.
But the real subject isn’t the photographs. It’s that when you read what she actually does, who she actually is, she’s more interesting than any shot could capture. She works in a care facility for aging horses, has two of her own, and would rather live on land with them than anywhere else. She barely wears makeup because she doesn’t think about it. She’s looking for a dark-haired guy with brown eyes and a few days of stubble, but more importantly she wants someone who makes her laugh, because humor is a currency to her. She was single and wasn’t performing being desperate about it—just clear.
That’s the type I remember. The kind of person who knows what she wants and says it without flinching, who’d be exactly the same in a barn as in a photograph, who cares more about horses than about being looked at. The Playboy thing is incidental to that. It’s just what happened. The real substance is the steadiness underneath, the person who doesn’t perform, who just exists as herself. That’s what got me in Amsterdam. That’s what reads here.
Your father comes home. A man named Lan Di is looking for a mirror. He kills your father. That’s how Shenmue starts, on a Dreamcast in 1999, and nothing hits the same way after. I spent weeks in that game just walking through Yokosuka, asking the same people the same questions, waiting for one of them to finally point me toward Hong Kong. Most games don’t have the patience for that. They’re afraid you’ll get bored, so they keep talking, keep moving, keep doing anything but letting you sit with what matters.
Shenmue had confidence in its own weight. It built like a novel — long stretches of nothing punctuated by moments that meant everything. Ryo working at the docks, walking to the same arcade, running leads that went nowhere because that’s how real searching works. The first game was all setup, the second one was momentum, and then it just stopped. Cliffhanger. Lan Di heading west. Ryo on a boat. Fade to black. See you never.
Except the waiting kept happening. For years. For eighteen years, to be exact. I stopped caring around year five. The series became this urban legend — that game where nothing happened. Ryo stuck on a boat forever, chasing the same guy across 180 hours of gameplay. It became funny, then sad, then I just forgot about it.
Then Shenmue 3 actually happened. Years later, when I’d misplaced half my nostalgia, when I wasn’t sure if the magic was real or if I’d imagined how much that first game mattered. I watched the trailer without expectation. And there was Ryo. Older. Still looking. Still hunting Lan Di with the same patient focus he always had, the kind of dedication to a goal that most people would call obsession and maybe they’d be right.
I haven’t finished it. Probably never will — I’ve got too much else going on, and revisiting old media always disappoints more than it satisfies. But something about knowing it exists, that the story got to continue, that Ryo finally made it off that boat — that matters in a way I didn’t expect. Some things you don’t leave behind because you get over them. You leave them behind because life happens and you move on. And sometimes, out of nowhere, they come back.
I scroll through playlists more than I actually play them, which sounds stupid but there’s something about a good cover that makes you want to listen. Most of them are generic—Apple’s been cycling through the same patterns and emoji combinations for years—but when someone actually designed something specific, you feel it. The cover tells you something about what’s coming before the first song even starts.
It’s the threshold. You look at it and you know whether you’re walking into a dark room or a bright one, whether this is careful or reckless, made for you alone or made for a party. A cover that someone actually thought about does something that a generated one doesn’t. It makes you believe in the playlist.
Apple figured this out eventually and started having artists design them. Real illustrators, designers from all over—Stole Stojmenov, Carlos Perez, Gerard Huerta. The difference is obvious. These covers look like decisions, not defaults. They look like someone cared about what the transition from silence into music was going to feel like.
I care about this stuff because design is what I do, but I think anyone who listens to music feels it too, even if they don’t think about it in those words. A playlist with a nothing cover can still have good songs, but a good cover makes you trust the songs before you hear them. You’re already convinced it’s worth your time. The image sold you before the sound did.
There’s something about the fusion of sound and image that sticks in memory. You don’t remember them separately—you remember the whole experience, the cover and the listening as one thing. A playlist with a real cover just acknowledges that. It puts thought into the threshold.
You still see people on planes and trains with Game Boy Advances, playing like time doesn’t apply to them. And the GBA was good enough for that - the graphics hit this weird zone between SNES and early PS1, which basically made it the perfect machine for the games that actually held up. Zelda, Metroid, Advance Wars, the Pokemon games that mattered. You couldn’t get that combination anywhere else.
But realistically the GBA is history now. Not because something better came along, but because the plastic was never built to survive what kids do to things. Crack it wrong, throw it in a backpack for years, and it shatters. Pieces break off and don’t come back. Most of them are just gone.
There’s this Swedish artist, Love Hultin, who started taking broken Game Boys and bringing them back as something completely different. He doesn’t just repair them - he rebuilds them into new shapes, new colors, new lives. One of them he turned into a cheeseburger. An actual cheeseburger - colors, shape, texture, everything. And it works. Fully playable. You can load up Mario Kart or Castlevania or Golden Sun on it.
The GBA was never precious - it was just a brick you played games on, something that didn’t apologize for how it looked or felt. A cheeseburger has exactly that energy.
I grew up listening to the music Sigrid’s parents raised her on—Neil Young, Joni Mitchell. You can hear that foundation everywhere in her work: the conviction that a song needs to be built on something real. She started piano at seven in Bergen, just naturally good at it. By her teens she was covering Coldplay and Adele, but then something clicked—she realized she’d rather take songs apart, steal the pieces she liked, rearrange them into something hers. That’s always the right move.
Her brother Tellef’s a musician. When she was sixteen he asked her to open for him, two weeks’ notice, and she had to write original material to do it. That kind of deadline works sometimes. She wrote, and then she kept writing.
A couple years of real work and she had a deal. Now she splits time between Bergen and London, shaped by the music that raised her but doing something entirely her own. Her first single, ’Don’t Kill My Vibe,’ was immediate—over a million streams in days because the song itself is just good. It has lightness and edge in the same breath, which is rare. That’s what all her music is. Pop that doesn’t feel like it was designed by committee.
She told someone once that what’s always inspired her are just really well-written pop songs, and playing piano and singing whatever comes to mind—that’s the best. That’s her whole thing. Now her debut album, Sucker Punch, is out. I’ve been waiting for this, and it’s the thing I hoped it would be.
There’s a city being consumed by a blood-drinking demon tree called Qlipoth. That’s the job. How you do it—with impossible weapons, rapid combos, a rotating cast of playable characters—is the only thing the game cares about.
The mythology gets tangled if you’re paying attention—Dante and Vergil are half-demon, half-angel, sons of a demon who protected humanity, and there’s thirty years of history threading through all five games. By now it’s mostly background noise. What actually matters is how different each character feels to control. Dante switches weapons mid-combo, fluid and coiled. Nero’s mechanical arms shatter mid-fight and you swap them out on the fly. V just hangs back while demons do the work for him. Three completely different rhythms.
Devil May Cry 5 is pure action with no apology. No open world padding, no dialogue trees, no philosophical weight. Just a screen full of enemies and the perpetual question of how stylishly you can tear through them. The game quantifies it in real time—a meter climbing from D-rank to S-rank with every well-timed hit, every weapon switch, every perfectly-read dodge. The scoring is constant feedback. You’re doing something right.
The presentation is completely unhinged. Neon explodes across every attack. Demon designs look like they crawled out of someone’s fever dream. UI elements pulse and dissolve around the screen. Cutscenes will stop mid-boss-fight so a character can land a one-liner over a finishing move, or Dante and Vergil will stand around talking about their feelings for thirty seconds before one of them says something stupid and you’re back fighting. It’s earnest and ridiculous and corny, and somehow it works.
I jumped in without having played the earlier games, lost for the first hour, then stopped caring about the story entirely. The mythology is dense and the connections go back decades. If you miss the thread, it’s easy to feel like something’s being explained that you’re supposed to understand. But the game doesn’t demand that understanding. It demands that you see something on screen and react. The moment you stop trying to follow the plot and start feeling the rhythm of combat, everything clicks.
What actually matters is the moment a combo you’ve been practicing finally chains together the way you imagined, or when you survive a pattern you’ve never seen because you read the timing right, or when you look at the clock and four hours have vanished. That’s the loop: challenge, improvisation, success, and the game screaming confirmation back at you in numbers and light. The loop isn’t new—games cracked this decades ago. Devil May Cry just never bothered pretending to be anything else.
You learn early that you need to adjust yourself for everyone around you. The real stuff—the bright, unfiltered you—gets dimmed down so you don’t stick out, so you survive. That’s what Jenniffer Kae’s new song ’Chamäleonmädchen’ is about.
She grew up in a musical family, surrounded by Soul, R&B, Gospel, Country. But for years she was singing other people’s stories, other people’s feelings. Now, after putting out an album in 2008 and various projects since, she’s decided to sing in German and finally tell her own things. There’s something real about doing it in your own language—it feels like a commitment, a way of saying I’m going to be heard the way I actually sound.
Her music balances two poles. There’s the quiet side—guitar, vulnerability, intimate. And then there’s the other thing, the energetic and powerful underneath. Hand-made. Alive. She describes it as two different spaces that both exist in her at the same time, and I think that’s the whole point. Not swapping between them, but containing both.
In ’Chamäleonmädchen’ she’s singing about that split existence. About adapting to what everyone expects you to be, hiding your own head and heart and truth because the world doesn’t really reward you for being too much of anything. But underneath all that performance, something’s still glowing. Still bright. You just keep it quiet so you don’t burn anyone by being yourself.
There’s a version of Tokyo that exists in your head before you go there—the neon, the packed trains, the vending machines. It’s the Tokyo everyone already knows. Finding someone who can actually talk about the real city, the one beneath that, takes work.
Most podcasts about Japan are scattered things. A few episodes from travel bloggers, some diaries from English teachers or game writers who ended up there, maybe a couple documenting their move. They’re fine, but they don’t really prepare you for anything, and they certainly don’t change how you think about the place. Real Tokyo is different.
Emily and Alex figured something out. They talk about Tokyo like they actually live there, like they’ve accumulated small obsessions and favorite bars and routes through neighborhoods you won’t find in any guide. The early episodes hit the obvious stuff—Shibuya, Roppongi, Harajuku—but that’s just the opening. What they’re really into are the gaps. A bar where someone turns movies into cocktails. A sushi place where the plates come in colors you weren’t expecting. Districts you’ve never heard of, corners that make you see the city sideways.
The shift from obvious tourism to actual discovery is quiet but it matters. They don’t sound like they’re selling Tokyo to you. They sound like they’re just talking through what they found this week, what stuck, why it surprised them. When you listen, you’re not getting advice. You’re overhearing someone remember why they like a place.
I think what I wanted from a Tokyo podcast wasn’t recommendations on where to go. It was someone thinking out loud about a city, finding it strange and familiar at the same time, stumbling into parts of it that can’t be planned for. That’s what’s here.
Washington DC in the summer, everything broken. The Division 2 puts you there as a sleeper agent activated when the government completely fails. You move through the ruins, shoot people, try to keep the country from collapsing entirely. The first game did this in Manhattan, which was fine until you finished it — and then there was nothing. Just an empty endgame, loot that didn’t matter, playing until you got bored enough to quit.
They’re supposedly fixing it this time. Bigger map, better endgame, raids that mean something. Maybe they learned something. The appeal hasn’t really changed though, and it doesn’t need to. These games work because they tap into a specific fantasy — you’re not struggling to survive, you’re the competent ones, the ones in charge. Everything you do matters because the system has already broken down and you’re what’s left. You’re necessary. That’s the appeal.
What’s different is the city. Manhattan winter, narrow streets, tight spaces. DC summer, wide open. The National Mall is flat and open, Georgetown has long sight lines. Different city, different geometry, different feel — but it’s the same game underneath. Move through a broken place, complete objectives, get stronger. Same structure, new setting.
I don’t know if this is better without playing it, but I get the appeal. You’re competent and necessary when everything else has failed. That’s the fantasy, and it’s effective.
2009 was Peter Fox’s year. “Alles neu” came out, then “Haus am See” and “Schwarz zu blau” from “Stadtaffe,” and he basically proved you could make something genuinely interesting happen in Berlin around R&B and Dancehall and Afrobeat. Never softened it, never played it safe.
Then he and Sway Clarke—Canadian R&B singer, Jamaican roots, worked with John Legend and Tini Stoessel—started a band called Ricky Dietz. It’s a perfect pairing in a way that’s kind of funny. Peter had been looking to hand off the vocals, find someone with actual chops to sing in English so he could just produce. Clarke had the voice and the songwriting but no interest in running the production side himself. Two guys too focused or too tired to run the whole operation solo, so they found each other. Was always going to happen in a city this size.
Their first single is “Lemonade Drip.” It’s solid. I’m curious what direction they take it. Part of me wants another “Stadtaffe”—something raw and immediate—but I also get why he’d want a partner on this one. Easier to justify the work. Less like you’re holding up the whole weight by yourself.
In the UK, one female artist made the top 10 albums last year. Dua Lipa. You see it everywhere: Ariana Grande as the sole woman in the most-streamed artists, Helene Fischer as the only female voice in Germany’s charts. The pattern’s so consistent it’s almost funny.
I remember believing things would change around five or six years ago. The Me Too moment felt genuinely different, like something structural might actually shift. Women started saying no. Conversations spread everywhere. The industry was supposed to reckon with itself. But then you see a year’s numbers and realize the machinery kept running exactly as before. The conversation got louder. The lists stayed the same.
Universal Music did a whole campaign around International Women’s Day, #Feminize, bringing in Dua Lipa, Lena, Anne-Sophie Mutter to talk about representation. I respect that they’re saying it. I just also know that a campaign about equality in music and actual equality in music are two very different things. Women make incredible records. The numbers have nothing to do with that.
I’ve been following music long enough to know better than to expect sudden change, but I still get this small disappointment seeing one name on a list that should have five or ten. That feeling of watching a system protect itself while everyone agrees it needs fixing. It doesn’t make me angry. Just tired.
Rachel Green’s nipples were always visible on Friends. I watched that show constantly as a teenager and spent a lot of those hours just looking at them, wondering if anyone else was seeing what I was seeing, if this was even allowed on network television. Jennifer Aniston never performed surprise or modesty about it. They were just there.
Lena Meyer-Landrut’s got the same vibe—tight top, Instagram story, nothing hidden. I get the appeal. That’s the thing about ease with your own body: it’s sexier than anything you could perform.
I’m always here for music videos shot in Tokyo. Something about that city—the density, the saturation, the way neon cuts through crowds—it becomes a visual argument on its own. The Killers and Shawn Mendes figured that out. So has Alexa Feser, moving through Shibuya and Harajuku with purpose.
“1A” is a pushback against the constant feed. She’s right: if you stay plugged in, it’s all dysfunction. Broken people, broken world, no way out. But there’s still good in the margins. Not the big gestures—the small, untouchable stuff. The ordinary things that still hold weight.
I didn’t know her work before this video. But I’m sold. There’s no false hope here, no trying to inspire. She’s just saying something true and moving on. That kind of clarity without performance—that’s what I’m always looking for.
Late night, glass of wine, scrolling through Facebook. Checking in on old friends. What are they up to? Married? Kids? But it’s never just normal updates anymore. Your feed fills with right-wing slogans, immigrant-bashing memes, conspiracy theories about refugees. People you actually liked, now drowning in hate and desperation and whatever lies they’ve bought into.
Fettes Brot’s new song “Du driftest nach rechts” is about exactly this. Du driftest nach rechts—you drift right. They drift right. The band frames it like a love story, which somehow makes it worse because maybe that’s what it feels like: someone you care about becoming completely unreachable. War and peace can’t exist in the same place. It’s set to a disco ballad, which sounds all wrong for something this depressing, but the contrast somehow works. You can dance through the sadness of it. You keep riding even though you know where it lands.
The band being this direct about the politics didn’t sit well with people who’ve already made peace with the rightward shift, who are banking on everything sorting itself out. But the song isn’t for them anyway. It’s for the rest of us standing on the sidelines, watching people we knew disappear into something unrecognizable.
I went to Seoul because everyone else was going. K-pop, the dramas, the whole cultural machinery had made South Korea impossible to ignore. But the version of the city I found on the ground was quieter than the export suggested.
The place is genuinely colorful — not designed that way, just accumulated. Flags strung across plazas, storefronts stacked with cheap beautiful things, parents crouched by the river pointing out buildings to their kids. I sat in alleys watching ordinary life unfold. Cute shops, pop songs from speakers you can’t locate, the specific mess of a real city.
The history is still there even when you’re not looking for it. Seoul’s been important for centuries, and that weight doesn’t vanish because you’ve built skyscrapers. What you notice is how it all occupies the same space — traditional houses and glass towers on the same block, centuries of political capital and viral moments from five minutes ago happening simultaneously. That collision is what makes the place feel alive.
The K-pop, the dramas, the cultural attention that brought me there — they were reaching for something that was already real. Seoul doesn’t package itself for outsiders. It just is: old and new crushed together, crowded and deliberate, specific in ways you can’t plan. I came to find out what all the attention was about. What I found was a city that doesn’t care if you’re watching.
I spent way too much time watching South Park when it was actually good. Just sitting there, letting it do its thing, episode after episode. It felt like the only show that wasn’t lying to you. Everything else was so careful, so worried about offending someone, and South Park just didn’t care. Trey Parker and Matt Stone had figured out how to be nasty and brilliant at the same time.
The episodes I still think about—”Is Hell handicap accessible?”, “World of Warcraft”—those ones hit differently. They’d set up some stupid premise and then just demolish it. Not in a mean way. In a way that made you actually think about things you’d been taking for granted. The show didn’t demand that you agree with anything. It just showed you the machinery and let you decide.
Then they started doing seasons as one long story instead of standalone episodes, and the whole rhythm changed. It got ponderous. Less punchy. And then 2016 happened and the writers just… broke. They’d spent all season setting up Hillary as the obvious next president, and when Trump actually won, the show didn’t know what to do with itself. I watched it scramble and I remember thinking, okay, this is over.
I didn’t formally quit or anything. I just stopped watching. Happens all the time with shows, right? They run out of ideas or they run out of anger or they just get old. South Park wasn’t old—it was exhausted. That’s different.
Be Charlotte is 21 and Scottish and has figured something out that most people spend decades chasing. Her song “Do Not Disturb” lives in this weird pocket where it’s utterly danceable but also deeply about something else — the need to disappear into yourself for a minute, to stop performing okayness and just exist.
The opening is this almost-delicate piano line until the beat drops and it’s groovy in a way that feels inevitable. Hip-hop touches wrapped in pop production, which is exactly where she’s been pointed all along. She started writing by pulling from Tracy Chapman and Alanis Morissette, Bob Dylan, but feeding it through her own obsession with modern pop and hip-hop. The result is music that doesn’t split the difference or apologize — it’s smart and danceable at once, emotional and grooved out at once.
She describes the song as trying to articulate something she’d been carrying for a long time, this need for space that had no name. And it’s about that specific thing: living in a world that wants everything instant, everything responsive, everything available, but knowing you sometimes just need to shut the door. There’s no asking for permission in the song, just this matter-of-fact exhaustion about it.
I recognize that exhaustion. The pressure to be available, to be present, to respond. There’s something both defiant and tired in how she sings it, like she’s already past the point of justification. It’s not a song about vulnerability the way music usually means it. It’s about the exact weariness of performing okayness when you’re not.
The thing she keeps coming back to in interviews is how long it took to trust her own voice, to stop sounding like everyone else and just sound like herself. That’s the arc of the song too — not arriving already confident, but getting there anyway.
Listening to “So Am I” the first time, what got me was the production, but what stuck was the idea underneath it.
It’s about feeling wrong — not the kind of wrong you can fix, just the kind where you don’t fit the shape they want you to be. And instead of apologizing for that, Ava Max is saying: this is what makes you work. Your flaws are your perfection, because perfect isn’t real anyway.
That’s not a new idea, but it’s not obvious in pop music either. Most songs try to smooth themselves into the system. This one’s doing the opposite — saying the things that make you different are worth celebrating instead of hiding.
I know that feeling. I make things that don’t match what people expected, and half the time that’s the best part, and half the time I’m second-guessing whether I should have just played it safe. “So Am I” is Ava Max saying she’s past wondering about it. She’s different, she knows it, and she likes herself for it.
It’s a simple thought delivered with enough conviction that it sticks. That’s enough.
I’ve always appreciated artists who draw girls with actual agency and strength—not the decorative fantasy version, but characters with their own thing going on. Kirsten Rothbart does that. There’s no apology in her work, no softening of the edges to make feminism easier to swallow. These aren’t drawn for the male gaze or for empowerment™ marketing. Just drawn straight, with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly what you’re making.
Late 2018, a German-Japanese trio wound up performing across Tokyo—high-rises, theaters, TV studios the size of a shoebox. Yuka Otsuki on vocals from the Japanese side, Matthias Erhard and Dominik Scherer from Germany, and someone decided to bring inflatable pandas, enormous plush toys, latex figures, whatever would fit through a venue door. I don’t understand the appeal of literal inflation as aesthetic, but the absurdity matched the music perfectly.
Artpop is one of those categories that means everything and nothing. In their hands it becomes something genuinely strange—experimental enough that you can feel the thinking, pop enough that it doesn’t ask you to work. Not a world music project with all its careful credentialing. Just a band that got weird and stayed comfortable with it.
The interesting part isn’t what they sound like. It’s that they never tried to soften it. Pandas in costumes treated with complete seriousness. Pop music that doesn’t feel obligated to justify itself to anyone. They didn’t position themselves as a cultural bridge, didn’t apologize, didn’t explain anything. Just the actual sound of what happens when you spend real time in two cities and stop trying to make it make sense for other people.
I don’t know what they’re doing now. Probably still weird. Probably still refusing to tone it down. There’s something really cool about bands that way—the ones that get comfortable with being uncomfortably strange and just commit to it.
Love and Producer is a dating sim that took off in China. The setup: you’re hired to rescue a failing TV show, and suddenly you’ve got four superhero boyfriends competing for your attention. They have superpowers—one can fly, one can rewind time—and they love you if you pay them enough money. Purple diamonds. Real dollars. More cash, more affection.
The app exists because of a specific kind of social cruelty. In China, if you’re a woman over 30 and unmarried, you’re Sheng Nu—leftover women. It’s not entirely serious as a concept, but the pressure behind it is. Real enough that some women marry whoever’s available to escape the label, and enough others found a different escape route: an app where you’re always desirable, never rejected, where loneliness costs money but at least it’s a transaction you understand.
The mechanics are grimly honest. Your boyfriend will text you, call you, let you unlock his secrets—if you keep paying. There’s no ambiguity in the relationship. He doesn’t have bad days or get tired of you. He wants what you’re willing to spend. It’s the most transparent relationship anyone could ask for.
I get why it works. Not as a substitute for real love—that’s not what people are looking for. They’re looking for attention that doesn’t come with conditions. A voice on the phone that’s always glad to hear from you. The feeling of being wanted. And that feeling does exist inside the app. It just costs something, which is maybe the most honest part of the whole thing.
Every couple of years another app appears promising to fix everything. Wunderlist, Evernote, Bear, Fantastical, Slack—they bloom in everyone’s dock, promise to end the chaos, then quietly disappear. I kept seeing Notion everywhere last year, always at the front of people’s folders, and there’s something touching about how much hope we keep investing in the next one.
Notion’s basically a mashup of all the tools you’re already scattered across. Docs, notes, reminders, collaboration. For anyone tired of starting in Google Docs, continuing in Dropbox, throwing it in Trello, then forgetting it even exists. The real pitch is consolidation—we’re all waiting for one platform to just collect us.
The design is this weird contradiction. Minimal looking but absolutely drowning in emoji and customization options. That’s the real trap of this whole category. The promise is simplicity; the delivery is maximum optionality. You end up spending more time organizing the tool than using it.
It genuinely works if you’re collaborating on serious projects, juggling a lot, trying to keep everything from disappearing. That moment when you think maybe this time it’ll actually stick with you—it usually won’t. But the hope is always real.
Free to start, paid tiers if you want more. You can probably migrate your ancient Evernote graveyard if you still care about it. The cycle will just repeat. In a few years someone will ask if Notion’s still around the way we ask about Evernote now.
I don’t know why Fulale’s album covers work, but they do. This Melbourne artist took Drake, Rihanna, Kendrick Lamar, Taylor Swift, all the contemporary names, and dressed them in 80s packaging—the specific kind of neon and chrome and leather that only that decade managed. The covers don’t look ridiculous. They look like they should have existed.
That’s the weird part. You’d expect these artists to look out of place, anachronistic, a joke. But they don’t. Rihanna in 80s production design still reads as Rihanna. Drake still seems untouchable. The visual language changes—neon replaces LED, film grain replaces digital clarity—but the artists themselves don’t diminish. It’s like some core thing about what makes them matter transcends the era.
The 80s have become this cultural default we all return to. Not because we’re actually nostalgic for them—most people weren’t alive then, or don’t remember them—but because the aesthetic is available. Fashion cycles through it constantly. Music producers sample it. Stranger Things made it feel like a lost world worth missing. But what Fulale’s work suggests is simpler: these artists would have been just as dominant in any era. The 80s filter isn’t making them better or worse. It’s just showing that Drake would have been Drake, whether the decade was the 2010s or the 1980s.
Maybe that’s all nostalgia is anyway—trying to imagine that something timeless was always timeless, even in moments we never lived through.
I have a genuine soft spot for Hello Kitty and her entire cast. Marumofubiyori, this pudgy white bear who won’t go anywhere without his blanket. Kirimichan, somehow charming despite having a fish for a head. Aggretsuko, the shy panda who screams death metal in karaoke bars when life gets to her. The whole roster is weirdly endearing.
Hello Kitty turned 45 this year. Baby-G made a watch for the occasion—the BGA-150KT. It’s based on their regular BGA-150 with a clean round case and metal detailing, but the dial pulls from the ’90s Pink Quilt series. Quilted pattern, little metal flowers. Comes in two versions: all pink with silver accents, or white with a pink dial. Limited edition includes a small pouch and a display stand.
I usually don’t care about licensed watches. Most are cheap or cynical. This one isn’t. It’s a nice watch that happens to be cute, and there’s something confident about wearing something that soft without a wink. You’re not being ironic. You like it.
Cashmere toilet paper. Golden peanut butter. A seven-meter inflatable slide. Snoop Dogg decided these needed to exist and decided he’d be the one to make them. I respect that.
The collection came through some payment partnership with Klarna, but the actual story is just the products. They’re not trying to be practical or traditionally aspirational—just aggressively, unapologetically extra. You don’t buy cashmere toilet paper because it improves anything. You buy it to have bought cashmere toilet paper. Same with the gold peanut butter, the silk robe, the inflatable slide for your yard.
Snoop’s always had the kind of confidence where he doesn’t need to convince anyone he’s cool. He already is, and it’s been understood long enough that it’s automatic. So when he decides to sell you absurd luxury goods, there’s no desperation, no reaching. It’s just “I made some stupid shit, buy it or don’t.” The audacity of 115 euros for toilet paper. 2,500 for the slide. He knows what he’s doing.
There’s something I like about luxury items that don’t pretend to be anything but conspicuous consumption. They’re not elegant or refined—just expensive and absurd. The gold peanut butter doesn’t taste better. The cashmere won’t make your bathroom transcendent. You’re paying for the sheer ridiculousness, the fact it exists, the right to own it. That’s honest in a weird way.
I wouldn’t buy any of it. Probably not. But I’m not mad at Snoop for making it or at whoever does buy it. In a world constantly asking you to perform taste and restraint, there’s something liberating about just saying fuck it and buying gold peanut butter.
Diablo’s back on GOG now, which means I can actually play it again. The original 1997 version, the one that essentially created the action RPG template that everything else followed. You don’t need me to explain what Diablo is if you were there, and if you weren’t, the bones are simple: the world is being consumed by evil, and you walk into the darkness to stop it.
The game is all atmosphere. Tristram is a broken village clinging to the edge of a dark cathedral built over something older and fouler. You descend. The dungeons aren’t that complex, but the mood in them—the red light, the sounds, the sense of something ancient stirring—that’s what got into my head when I was seventeen, spending weekends in front of the computer. There’s a particular kind of dread in Diablo, not the kind you feel from jump scares but the slow recognition that things are fundamentally wrong.
GOG has it in both the original SVGA 20 FPS version and a cleaned-up modern port with Windows 10 support and higher resolution. I probably won’t play it in the original way—part of me wants to, to feel it exactly as it was, but I’m old enough now to appreciate when something just works without fighting the hardware. The cleaned version is fine. The game underneath hasn’t changed.
What strikes me now is how confident it was. Blizzard took the bones of tabletop roguelikes and dropped them into this specific aesthetic—medieval, haunted, with just enough camp in the storytelling that it never tips into self-parody. A mad king, a lost prince, a corrupt archbishop. The plot is almost silly in how it escalates, but the tone never winks at you. It plays it straight, and that’s why it lands.
I’m not going to pretend I’ll suddenly have the time to play through all three difficulties again. But knowing it’s there, that I can dip back into Tristram whenever the mood strikes, feels important. Games are less permanent than we think. They get abandoned, delisted, buried. Having Diablo available in a stable digital form, kept playable on current hardware—it’s small, but it matters.
I don’t remember much about the Virtual Boy. Red plastic, black screen, you held it up to your face like binoculars. 1995. It gave people headaches and lasted about as long as you’d expect something that stupid to last. Nintendo’s trying VR again now, decades later, but this time with cardboard.
The Labo: VR-Set comes out April 12 for the Switch. It’s not a polished consumer device—it’s a kit where you build the headset from cardboard, fold together toys called Toy-Cons, and clip them to your Switch. Cut, fold, snap, shove the screen into the headset, and you’ve got 3D. It’s crude. Simple. Weirdly elegant.
There’s something either genuinely clever or completely insane about this approach. It’s cheap. It’s tactile. It doesn’t try to compete with Oculus or PlayStation VR. It’s doing something different. You assemble six Toy-Cons: the VR headset itself, a blaster, an underwater camera, and a few others. Each works its own way. The whole thing treats assembly as part of the experience, not a barrier.
The appeal is obvious. Anyone with a Switch already has the screen. Instead of selling expensive new hardware, Nintendo puts the work in your hands—cardboard, scissors, time. No tracking lights, no proprietary sensors, no ecosystem lock. Just design that actually functions and the kind of stubborn ingenuity Nintendo’s become known for. They’re being honest about what this is: a toy, not a promise.
I don’t know whether it’ll work. I don’t know whether anyone still cares about VR now that the hype has cooled. But I like that Nintendo’s refusing to compete on specs. They’re not building the best VR. They’re making VR something you build yourself. That’s either the future or a brilliant niche. Probably both.
SXTN was a Berlin duo that made songs about their actual lives. Parties, late nights, the city, whatever was happening. Juju and Nura had this thing where every song felt real—crude when it needed to be, funny, sometimes thoughtful, but always honest. They were the voice of this generation living for right now, not thinking about what comes next. Watching them perform, that energy was something.
But they’re done now. Or on pause. Or sick of each other. Who knows. Both of them are going solo and it doesn’t work.
Juju put out “Intro” as a prelude to her album dropping in May. Nura just released “Sativa,” which is about her thing with weed—a chill, low-key club track that floats along without asking much of you. It’s perfectly fine. But as a duo they had this force, and alone each of them is maybe half of what that was. “Sativa” is a nice song but it doesn’t hit anything in me. I listen and I’m just waiting for something that doesn’t come.
Someone said it right on YouTube: why not just make SXTN again? You’re both putting out music anyway. You’re both less apart than together. That’s the brutal thing about a band breaking up—it’s not even that they’re bad, just diminished. You feel the missing piece every time.
Nura’s got her “Habibi” album and she’s doing the “Allo Leute” tour. I’m not sure I want to see her solo when I’m still thinking about what they were when there were two of them.
You step out of Shibuya into the chaos—neon, glass towers, advertisements blinking through colors that shouldn’t exist, the future arriving in real time. Two blocks in the right direction and you’re somewhere else. Forest. Temple. Something quiet that’s been there for centuries.
That’s the thing about Tokyo that most people miss. They see the half that photographs, the half that fits the narrative. The city used to be called Edo, a minor place until Tokugawa Ieyasu built a castle there in 1590 (he was the third of Japan’s great unifiers, after Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi), and it exploded into the country’s largest, most important city. The traditions that took root never left. They got buried under glass and concrete and neon, but they’re still everywhere if you know how to look—in the temples, in the restaurants, in the way buildings hold themselves, in details most people walk straight past.
I spent time trying to photograph that ghost-city underneath the modern one. The temples that survived. The houses that remember what they are. Restaurants that have been feeding the same neighborhood for a century. It’s less dramatic than the neon version. It doesn’t give you the story tourists want. But it’s truer to what the place actually is: a city that kept building on top of itself, adding layer after layer, never quite letting go of what was underneath.
The EU voted yes on Article 13 while Germany’s own coalition government had literally written into their contract that upload filters were unacceptable. Axel Voss, CDU, submitted them anyway. Which revealed everything about who actually controls the internet when money’s on the line.
The argument behind it made sense if you squinted. Twenty years earlier, copyright law had stopped evolving. Then the internet happened. Suddenly anyone could share anything—movies, music, journalism, whatever. The industry watched their content leak everywhere and started drowning. Newspapers same thing. So they asked the EU to build a wall.
But the wall they got was indiscriminate. Upload filters would’ve blocked everything preemptively. Not after a complaint. Before you could publish. YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram—all running the same algorithm, deciding what’s legally safe. Which it can’t do. Fair use doesn’t look the same as theft to a machine. Satire isn’t marked on the page. Criticism has to sound a certain way. So the filters would kill all of it—the remixes, the citations, the strange beautiful mess that made the internet creative instead of just distributive.
The protests happened in March 2019. Berlin, Hamburg, Munich, Frankfurt, twenty cities or more. The people marching weren’t defending piracy. They were defending their ability to make things without asking permission first. To build on what already existed. To be creative in public.
I never went, but I understood what they meant. This was the internet I’d spent two decades on—the one where you could just make something and put it up. Not because you were stealing, but because the act of creation came first. The legal questions could follow. Now there was a gate. A machine at the gate. Deciding what got through.
They passed it. Article 13 became law. Some countries pushed back on implementation. Most didn’t bother. The internet didn’t collapse—creators adapted, or they didn’t. But that feeling never left: what you thought was free was always borrowed. Always one vote away from getting much smaller.
I’ve seen those Casio digital watches on so many wrists over the years. Silver, minimal, the kind that turns up on bartenders and night-shift people and anyone who doesn’t think much about accessories. My friend Clara’s had the same one for probably a decade. The Japanese company made their first digital watches in 1974, and by the 90s they were everywhere—the kind of thing that becomes invisible and then, inevitably, cool again.
Now Casio’s bringing them back as a “Vintage Collection,” reissuing the models from that era. The 90s have been creeping back into fashion for a while—velvet, all-denim, tartan, the whole cycle returning. These watches came from that time originally, so re-releasing them as vintage feels inevitable.
The watches are stainless steel, built simple, the kind of thing that works with whatever you’re wearing because they were never designed to make a statement. Six models, none of them expensive. They look clean on the wrist because they’re not trying to be anything other than functional.
What strikes me is that these watches never actually went away. They’ve been in continuous production the entire time. The “vintage” label is just permission to care about something that was always there. Clara didn’t need the trend—she’d been wearing hers for years anyway. Now that they’re fashionable again, the watch is exactly the same as it ever was. That’s more honest than most style.
When I was thirteen or fourteen I was completely hung up on my friend Betty’s mom. Her name was Karin, though I had to call her Mrs. Ziegler because that’s what you did. She had long black hair, this sharp face, full lips, big breasts, pale blue eyes—and I couldn’t look at her without this weird collision of desire and envy just running through me. At night I’d lie in bed and daydream about the three of us together—me, Betty, her—going on vacation, lying under palm trees on some beach, all tangled up. Completely ridiculous. Nothing was ever going to happen.
But something did. I developed a taste for older women. The kind who’ve lived long enough to know what they’re doing but somehow stayed young in their heads. They can catch you completely off guard.
Sabia Boulahrouz is someone you probably recognize from the tabloids—modeled, dated Rafael van der Vaart, all that drama with Sylvie Meis. She’s forty and she just did a Playboy shoot. Which on its own is fine. But the fact that she’s forty, that she just went ahead and did it anyway—that’s what got to me.
She talked about the shoot in an interview. Said she sucked in her stomach, tried not to look tense in front of the camera. She knew there’d be backlash, especially from people in her culture who wouldn’t understand. But she was raised in Germany, feels German, and she said she’s comfortable with what she did. She’d do it again.
That’s the whole thing. Not the photos themselves, though obviously I looked. It’s that she knows what she wants and doesn’t waste any energy on doubt. That’s exactly what pulled me in with Karin all those years ago. It’s not about being young. It’s about someone who’s lived long enough to know the difference between what she’s supposed to want and what she actually wants, and then she just goes for it.
So I saw this campaign from Ellesse that uses a completely fake model. Not like, heavily edited fake — completely digital. Her name is Shudu. She was created by this photographer named Cameron-James Wilson who apparently decided at some point that working with actual human beings wasn’t worth the trouble anymore.
The first thing you notice is that she’s perfect. Not photoshopped perfect — computer-generated perfect. The skin doesn’t have pores, doesn’t have the tiny imperfections that actual skin has. It’s beautiful in this almost unsettling way. You can’t quite place what’s wrong with her until you realize what’s missing: she’s never tired. She’ll never need a break. She’ll never get older or sick or decide she doesn’t want to model anymore.
The clothes themselves are fine. 90s rave stuff, 80s sportswear, the usual nostalgia cycle. Neon, velour, boxy cuts. The design work is solid. But of course it is — how could anyone mess this up when they’re working with a model that doesn’t have opinions or bad angles?
I keep thinking about what this actually means. Fashion has always wanted models to be objects, right? Perfectly still, perfectly lit, perfectly compliant. The industry spent decades training women to stand a certain way, look a certain way, accept a certain amount of degradation as the price of the work. And now we’ve gotten to the point where why bother with the woman at all? Just generate her. Problem solved.
There’s something almost honest about how bleak that is. But also something that misses what actually matters about fashion photography — which is that a real person is choosing to be looked at. They’re making something happen between themselves and the camera. Shudu just receives the gaze forever without ever feeling it.
I don’t know. I’m not saying this is good or bad. I’m just noting that we’ve reached the point where the fantasy finally matches the technology. We wanted models to be impossibly perfect and permanent. Now we have them. Whether that’s progress or just the logical endpoint of something that was always rotten is probably up to you.
I’ve watched the Peanuts Christmas special probably fifty times, and I’ll watch it fifty more. The newer 3D movie is fine, but nothing beats the original. I’ll grab a Peanuts comic wherever I find one—train stations, random kiosks, wherever—because you never know when you want to spend an hour in Charlie Brown’s world.
The thing about Peanuts is it actually works. Kids get the jokes, adults get what the jokes are really about, which is usually some small failure or wanting something that doesn’t happen. Schulz knew that better than almost anyone. He drew that anxiety and hope into every strip for fifty years.
He stopped in 2000 and died the day before the last one ran. No one’s continued it since, which is rare enough to matter.
So Levi’s did a Peanuts collection, and honestly, it could have been terrible. Collaborations usually are. But this one’s just clothes with Snoopy on them—jeans, hoodies, jackets, a linen tote with a dumb ’Totes’ pun—and it works because it doesn’t try to be anything more than that. It’s not a statement. It’s not deep. It’s just Schulz’s drawings on fabric.
Peanuts is still here, still making people smile, still looking like it did forty years ago. Schulz made something that doesn’t need to be improved.
Some developer released a visual novel called Rape Day. The game is exactly what the title suggests: you click through images as a psychopath in a zombie apocalypse, making decisions about which women to assault and kill. It lasted about five minutes on Steam before getting removed.
Before that happened, the developer did some interviews. He’d grown up on horror novels, then psychological thrillers, then he got into stories told from the villain’s perspective — Mr. Brooks, Nightcrawler. He also liked porn. So he wanted to make something that smashed all of that together. Hence Rape Day.
The shitstorm was immediate and predictable. Should this even exist? Is it art or is it just an assault simulator? The developer pushed back on the moral panic angle — we’re fine with depictions of murder in fiction, he argued, but assault is still taboo. Why? If art gets to show terrible things, shouldn’t the medium not matter? Give it a hundred years and this’ll look like the outcry over Grand Theft Auto or the first nude scene on television.
He had a point about the inconsistency, sort of. But he was missing the obvious thing, which is that there’s actual distance between art that depicts something transgressive and a product whose entire appeal is transgression itself. A film or book or game can show rape and be saying something true about power, psychology, violence. Rape Day wasn’t interested in saying anything. It was just the thing itself. Shock value is not a thesis.
Steam deleted it. The developer went silent. Now Rape Day exists as this idea everyone’s heard of but almost nobody’s played. The controversy made it more famous as a concept — as a symbol of where we draw lines and what those lines actually mean — than it could ever have been as an actual game.
“My dad wasn’t there, so the judge showed up instead” — Bausa opens his new track “Licht” with that line, no setup, just the weight of it. He’s talking about Saarbrücken, his childhood without a father, how the system filled that gap. You hear it in his voice because he isn’t performing; he’s just saying it.
This is different from his earlier hit “Was du Liebe nennst.” That song circulated, but this one feels like a reckoning. He’s walking through his own life here — the darkness, the streets, the faith that somehow keeps you standing (“even when it’s dark, God turns on a light for you”). Dardan’s on it too, another rapper from around Stuttgart, carrying the same weight: the street marks you, doesn’t release you, no matter what you do.
Born in ’89, moved around constantly as a kid, ended up near Stuttgart in Bietigheim. Hip-hop was everywhere there — R&B and rap inescapable. Taught himself keyboard, started writing with his crew. Tried English first, switched to German when that became the only language that worked. At sixteen he was in a friend’s bedroom with a closet as a vocal booth, recording his first real song. When they played it back, everyone in the room knew what they were hearing.
His voice is distinctive in a way you can’t mistake — not just the tone but something underneath that sounds lived, like he’s already been through what he’s describing. There’s no reach, no affectation. He sounds like someone who knows.
“Licht” is just the thing itself. Not reaching, not performing, just him. That’s what makes you listen.
Game of Thrones spent eight years breaking things you thought were fixed. Kings you thought were safe. Children. Entire plotlines that seemed central to the story. The Red Wedding was the moment I understood the show wasn’t going to bargain with me about what I wanted to feel.
Stannis burning his daughter. Cersei’s walk of shame. These weren’t plot points the show apologized for. They were claims it was making about power, about desperation, about what people will accept when they think they have no choice. Most television doesn’t have the nerve for that.
The show worked as a mirror because it made you complicit. You watched people compromise themselves, and you understood why they were doing it, and that was the worst part. It wasn’t condemning anyone. It was just showing you how it happens.
The final season was starting in April and I had no idea how it would resolve. Too many pieces still moving. The forces from beyond the Wall. The chaos of the Iron Throne. The question of who deserved power, if anyone. But I wasn’t waiting to find out who won or lost. I was waiting to see what the show would make of itself at the end. What last thing it had to say.
I’d sit down and watch it the same way I’d watched everything else—unsettled, unable to look away, not sure I actually wanted to know.
“Von Party zu Party” wasn’t a metaphor. SXTN lived that life. Juju and Nura rapped about their actual days in Berlin — parties that turned into mornings, döner stands, the kind of chaos you don’t think about in the moment. The songs were crude and honest and sometimes funny. They sounded like actual people talking about their lives, not a performance of it. For a few years they were the sound of something real.
Now Juju’s doing the solo thing. “Bling Bling” opens with an intro that doesn’t waste time being careful. She sounds like someone who knows exactly who she is. No hunger, no proving anything. Just occupying space.
What always struck me about Juju was that she never fought for her place in hip-hop. She just took it. Gold records with SXTN, then “Melodien” with Capital Bra went to number one. Half a million people follow her on Instagram. None of it reads as someone breaking in — it reads as someone who was always in the room.
The intro to “Bling Bling” carries that same thing. Confident without announcing it. Someone moving through her space like she owns it.
YouTube’s automated filters were already pulling videos of documented war crimes because IS flags appeared in the footage. Not the propaganda itself—just footage showing what was happening. The machine saw the symbol and said no. This was already happening in 2019 with filters companies installed voluntarily. Article 13 would make it mandatory for basically every platform that hosted user content.
The EU’s new copyright law sounded reasonable on the surface—ensure creators get paid, stop unlicensed content. But the upload filter part, Article 13, was something else entirely. Any platform hosting user uploads would have to scan everything against copyright databases before it went live. Billions of files, most of them legal. The filter couldn’t distinguish between a copyright violation and a creative remix, between terrorism and journalism about terrorism. It would just see the match and kill the post.
The people pushing this claimed it would help creators. It wouldn’t. The payment stuff went to publishers and platforms, not the artists actually making things. Meanwhile, the filter requirement was technically impossible for most small platforms to handle. They’d have to outsource it to Google or whoever could afford the infrastructure. Which meant more power to the big companies, not less.
But that wasn’t even the worst part. Once you build the machinery for automated content filtering at scale, you’ve built a tool. And tools get repurposed. Today it’s copyright enforcement. Tomorrow it’s “protecting children” or “preventing extremism” or “combating misinformation.” You’ve created the infrastructure for censorship and handed it to whoever controls the algorithm. And nobody gets to look at how it works—the code stays proprietary, the errors go unchallenged.
The internet people loved—the memes, the remixes, the fan content, the weird recombinations of culture—all of that would choke under this. It’s not designed for that. It’s not designed for nuance. It’s designed to block things, and when your only tool is a ban, everything looks like a violation.
I wasn’t going to fix anything by shouting about it online. But there was a protest in Berlin, and the thing was large enough and strange enough to warrant actually showing up in person. Standing in the street with people who understood why this mattered, holding signs about Article 13 while the machinery of European bureaucracy kept grinding. Maybe it would change nothing. Probably it would change nothing. But the alternative was letting it happen unopposed, and there was something about that I couldn’t accept.
A German creative agency called Herr Fuchs decided to make a photo book out of unsolicited dick pics. Collect them, print them, bind them. There’s your object. The premise only works if enough men are actually doing this, which they obviously are.
The psychology is bleak. A guy matches on an app or gets someone’s number, and he’s alone and horny and somehow convinced that now is the moment. Send a picture of his erect penis. Not as a joke, not as a test. Genuinely believing she’s going to be impressed. Turned on. That she’ll want to see more. He hits send certain it’s going to work.
The gap between that thought and what actually happens is stark. He doesn’t know her. She didn’t ask. His genitals in isolation are just a thing. Not inherently sexual, barely inherently anything. Just a body part, sent from nowhere to someone who didn’t want it. And somehow men keep doing this. Over and over. Convinced that dick in the dark is hot, is appealing, is going to work.
I’m not even sure if the Herr Fuchs book actually exists or if it’s just a concept. But that doesn’t matter. The idea works because the premise is immediately, painfully clear. Everyone understands it without explanation. That’s what lands.
Masha Sedgwick talks about finding out she was pregnant at twenty. It’s 2010, she’s a student, working whatever job pays, and her relationship is already falling apart. She describes looking at the test, watching the second line appear, and feeling something like dread move through her. All of it screaming no.
She decides not to have the kid. That night she tells her boyfriend. He’s disappointed and relieved at the same time—a mix she can feel in the room. They’re not ready. They never will be ready together.
Here’s the thing: she tells this story on her podcast with Lisa Banholzer, just laying it out without protective framing or apology. What it felt like. What she decided. What came after—relief mixed with pain, a strange grief, and hope for a different future where she could choose consciously.
Almost 100,000 abortions happen in Germany every year. The statistics don’t say anything about the weight of the decision, or what it means to carry that choice without having to defend it. Most people don’t talk about it. Masha did.
What stays with me is how rare that is. Not the abortion—that’s common enough. But the honesty. The willingness to be that vulnerable about something so loaded with judgment. It matters because it gives permission, quietly, to everyone else who’s lived it alone.
I remember being at a friend’s place when someone put Dead or Alive into the PlayStation, and nobody pretended we were there for the fighting system. Tekken did that better anyway. We were there for the physics—specifically how the female fighters’ bodies moved. It was crude and obvious, and Dead or Alive Xtreme Beach Volleyball pushed that even further, making the entire game about buying gifts for half-naked women at the pool. That was the franchise’s whole identity for a long time.
Dead or Alive 6 came back closer to an actual fighting game, though the series hasn’t lost what brought people in originally. The story continued from where the last one left off, bringing back Kasumi, Ryu Hayabusa, and others. The arenas got more elaborate—Forbidden Fortune is a pirate ship descending through its own interior while a giant kraken reaches toward the fighters and flames spread across the stage. That’s the kind of moment these games nail: the world falling apart around you while you’re trying to land hits.
The returning fighters included Brad Wong, the Drunken Fighter, who spent years training Zui Ba Xian Quan in remote Chinese regions, learning that stumbling, unpredictable style that makes him almost unreadable. He’d missed the last tournament chasing a legendary drink his master sent him to find. Eliot was back too, having completed his training journey and now carrying knowledge of the advanced Xinyi-Liuhe-Quen technique.
The new fighters were more interesting as actual martial artists. NiCO, called the Lightning Technomancer, uses Pencak Silat amplified by plasma discharge from her combat gear. She looks young but she’s brilliant—a scientist in the secret M.I.S.T project—and that combination of brains and technique makes her genuinely dangerous. Kokoro uses Ba Ji Quan with elbows and palm strikes meant to unbalance, refined by her maiko training. La Mariposa, a former DOATEC researcher named Lisa Hamilton, returned with her luchadora aerial attacks, deadlier than before.
What caught me about this roster was that the series had actually made space for these characters as martial artists with technique and backstory, not just designs. The game still carries its reputation for physics and fanservice, but somewhere the fighting had become legitimate. Maybe it always was and I just wasn’t paying attention. Dead or Alive 6 came out and I played it. I watched the fighting more than expected. If you’re just there for the bouncing, the old Beach Volleyball games are still out there.
You see it everywhere — friends in basically the same outfit. Same cut, same vibe, never actually coordinated, just two or three people who spend enough time together that they’ve somehow started looking like the same person in different bodies. It’s genuinely cool. No fashion magazine choreography, just taste converging because you actually like each other.
Spring brings it out more. Everyone’s outside more, visible more, and looking for reasons to spend time with people they like. That’s when the matching becomes automatic. You show up to meet someone and you’re both wearing the same thing, or close enough that it doesn’t matter. Nobody planned it.
What’s interesting about spring clothes is the mixing. Flowy stuff next to structured, something bold against something quiet, feminine details paired with hard edges. The kind of thing that only works if you’re not overthinking it, which usually means you’re someone who’s stopped thinking about yourself and started thinking about the group.
Maybe that’s the whole thing. The matching clothes aren’t about the clothes. They’re just the visual proof that you’re not alone in how you see the world.
There’s this moment in the manga where Alita figures out her body was engineered for violence. That’s when the real story begins—not when she’s given a name or a purpose, but when she discovers what she actually is.
Yukito Kishiro’s Battle Angel Alita starts with a cyborg assembled from scraps by a mechanic named Ido. She has no past, no memories, nothing but the body and the city around her. The city is a stratified nightmare where the poor sell their organs to survive and the wealthy live in a floating sky city nobody can reach. Alita becomes a bounty hunter, and she’s good at it—unnaturally good, like her body remembers training her mind doesn’t.
She falls in love with a boy named Yugo, who’s been promised a ticket to that sky city. It’s heartbreaking because it’s doomed, because the world is designed to crush anything like hope or escape. Kishiro doesn’t soften this. He just shows what happens when desire meets the systems that exist to grind it down.
When the Alita film came out a few years back, people discussed it like it was definitive. James Cameron made it, it looked the way those films look, and it was immediately forgotten. But the manga was always the real thing. It’s complete and uncompromising. The pacing pulls you forward page by page. The art is intricate and violent. And the thing that stays with you is that revelation at the beginning—Alita learning what she really is—because the entire story is her reckoning with that fact.
Most people dress like they’re trying not to be noticed. Too much of anything — color, sparkle, personality — and someone might comment. So the clothes become safe. Neutral. Survivable.
Zalando sent something about a campaign called “Stand By Your Style,” which basically said: wear what you love. They mixed high-end labels with streetwear to make the point — elegant dresses next to jeans, whatever. Supposedly proving that style isn’t about price point or category, just what you actually like. And of course they want you buying more clothes while you’re thinking about it. That’s how this works.
But something’s true underneath the marketing. In design work I’ve noticed that the moment someone stops performing for an imagined audience — stops worrying about whether it’s too much — something shifts. The outfit becomes language instead of camouflage. You see the person in it.
So Zalando was selling aspirational confidence, which is its own kind of commerce. But what’s being sold happens to be worth having. Wear what fits who you are. Don’t soften it. The irony of getting that message in a fashion ad is fine — we’re all in these systems anyway. Might as well take the good bits.
How many times have you watched SpongeBob and found yourself staring at the Krabby Patty, thinking about how hungry you are? The burger itself isn’t complicated on screen—bun, lettuce, tomato, pickles, some undefined meat paste. But they animate it so it looks good, with that slight shine, that way it sits on the plate. You want it.
Andrew Rea from Binging with Babish apparently wants it too. He runs this show where he recreates dishes from movies and TV shows, treating it like it’s actually important work. He’s made Cannoli from The Godfather, Pasta Puttanesca from A Series of Unfortunate Events, Pizza from Deadpool. He’s made Okonomiyaki from anime, the Dutch Baby from Bob’s Burgers. You can watch him work in real kitchens with real techniques, explaining what’s in the food, why it would taste a certain way. It’s easy to forget he’s cooking fictional meals, not just recipes he pulled from a cookbook.
His version of the Krabby Patty isn’t what SpongeBob would make. It’s excessive—more patty, more toppings, layered with everything. The kind of burger that looks incredible in stills but would probably fall apart when you bite into it, grease running down your hands. He warns people not to try it at home because it’s obscenely unhealthy, which makes sense. It’s not a recipe. It’s a statement.
There’s something funny about the idea that someone decided the Krabby Patty needed to be improved. Like the fictional meal was incomplete. Like SpongeBob’s version was just the draft. And maybe he’s right—maybe the real version is better, more honest. Maybe the show was always pointing toward this, and someone with actual culinary skill just finished what the writers started.
When I watch stuff like this I think about how food from fiction has always mattered to people. You grow up watching someone cook or eat something in a movie or show and you want to taste it. You want that experience. It feels like the final step of fandom, like you’re completing something—making the fiction real. SpongeBob cooked it in Bikini Bottom. Andrew Rea cooked it in a real kitchen. And now anyone who watches the video has seen the actual version, not just the animated one.
The gap between the two is smaller than you’d think. Or maybe it’s not about the gap at all. Maybe it’s just nice that someone cared enough to try.
There’s something funny about Dr. George Taylor’s “Manipulator” from 1869 — a steam-powered device so enormous the motor had to stay in another room while just the vibrating part poked through the wall like a plumbing accident. Imagine walking into a special medical chamber just to get vibrated by a machine in the next room. But he’d actually figured something out. Switch to electricity, shrink it down, make it portable, and doctors started prescribing the thing for constipation and arthritis. The marketing was brilliant: magazine ads showing women using it on their faces and necks, all technically honest, all completely hiding what the device was actually good for.
The technology matured fast once the marketing stopped mattering. Cordless by 1966. Better motors. Multiple speeds. Actual design thinking. The device just kept improving because people finally wanted it to improve and stopped pretending it was something else. A century from steam-powered industrial monstrosity to something refined and practical — which is wild when you think about how much else happened in that same span.
There’s no redemption arc here, no moment where society finally accepted something taboo. It’s just a machine that solved a real problem, marketed as a medical device until that fiction became too much trouble, then engineered better because it was worth engineering better. Technology is usually a lot less complicated than we make it out to be. This one just came with an extra century of awkward history attached.
Cardi B hit number one with “Bodak Yellow” in 2017, the first solo female rapper to top the chart since Lauryn Hill in 1998. So naturally Reebok dressed her in a ’90s sneaker. The Aztrek ’93 came back, and there’s something perfectly cynical about it: she’s the sound of right now, and they’re pulling her backwards into a dead decade.
She was born in 1992, technically a child of that era. The Aztrek debuted the same year. She probably doesn’t remember the ’90s, has never owned one, but who cares — authenticity is just a branding problem. The shoe is exactly what you’d expect: chunky sole, aggressive colors, that visual weight that defined mid-’90s design. Reebok kept some Hexalite tech in the heel for actual engineering, but it’s the silhouette that matters. The Aztrek looks like what the ’90s sounded like.
It’s bittersweet watching someone break through and then immediately get sent backwards to authenticate a dead decade. Or maybe that’s just how things work now.
A friend of mine is basically a Supreme completist. Not just the obvious stuff—hoodies, decks, tees—but everything: bags, pens, belts, the random collaborations that don’t make much sense. Basketballs with a box logo. Coffee cups. Key chains. At a certain point it stops being fandom and becomes documentation. I get it in the abstract. The brand has this weird gravity in streetwear that makes people buy things they don’t need just to own the thing.
Photographer Ahmad Smith did a shoot with Supreme and a model named Erika Larson, and the photos landed somewhere between fashion and provocation. Stripped down, minimal styling, the brand’s aesthetic stripped to its essentials. It’s the kind of shoot that does what all good fashion photography does—it makes you feel something about the brand even if you don’t want to. The Supreme box logo becomes almost abstract when you’re looking at the actual execution, the way it sits against skin or fabric or whatever the angle is trying to say.
The thing about Supreme is that it’s been so effective at the hype cycle that it’s hard to talk about it anymore without sounding like you’re either selling something or critiquing the sale. The photoshoot doesn’t escape that. It can’t. It’s promotional work. But there’s still craft in it—in the framing, the restraint, the way Smith uses negativity and body as compositional tools. Whether that makes it interesting or just expensive depends entirely on what you bring to it.
I can see why the fandom works. Supreme gave streetwear a focal point, a thing you could collect and debate and prove your taste through. For some people that’s enough. For me it’s always been a little hollow, but I understand the pull. There’s something about owning the perfect branded object that feels like you’ve solved something. You haven’t. But the object doesn’t know that.
I was a serious Pokémon kid. Blue Version — I memorized everything. Every monster, every move, every secret and glitch. I must have beaten it a hundred times trying to build the perfect team, and by the end I had this absurd roster: Charizard, Mewtwo, Articuno, Dragonite, Zapdos, and another Mewtwo. Untouchable. Then I saw a Pokémon that looked like a keychain and thought, okay, I’m done. I was done after Crystal Edition anyway.
For the next decade I kept trying to get back in. Sun and Moon, X and Y, Pokémon Go — nothing stuck. Everything got sweeter and brighter and softer, and I was just trying to remember why I ever cared. I wanted the old games back: the gyms, the rivals, Team Rocket being an actual threat. That tight competitive feeling. But you can’t go backward, so I stopped trying. Pokémon wasn’t for me anymore.
Then Nintendo announced Sword and Shield for Switch. The setting is Galar — a region with countryside, cities, fields, and mountains mixed together. It sounds less aggressively cute than the last few entries, less like a theme park and more like an actual place. You’re supposed to challenge gyms and become champion, which is the structure I actually cared about.
You pick a starter from three new ones: Grookey, a cheeky grass-type monkey; Scorbunny, a hyperactive fire-type rabbit; and Sobble, a timid water-type lizard. Nothing earth-shattering about the designs, but looking at them, I felt something shift. Not a full return to form, just maybe this one. Maybe it’s worth trying again.
It’s on Switch so it doesn’t feel like I’m going backward. I don’t know if I actually will — I’ve been burned before — but the idea doesn’t feel ridiculous anymore. That’s something. That little spark is there.
There’s this black-and-white photo of a raccoon by Blake Marvin that’s stuck with me. It’s from Apple’s global iPhone photography competition, and the thing is—it’s genuinely good. Not “good for a phone camera” good. Just good. The raccoon’s caught in the middle of what looks like a heist, eye contact with the photographer, and there’s this perfect composition of the hollow log interior that frames the whole moment. It was shot on an iPhone XS Max, which matters less than the fact that someone saw this and knew how to capture it.
Apple runs this “Shot on iPhone” thing where photographers from around the world submit their best work, and they pick the winners to put on billboards and in stores. The 2019 round was genuinely diverse—people from Germany, Israel, Singapore, the US, Belarus. The photos showed colorful city landscapes, curious animals, reflections, the kind of stuff that matters to you when you’re actually paying attention to the world around you.
What gets me about contests like this is how little it matters anymore that you started with a phone instead of a Canon or whatever. A good photograph is a good photograph. The technical quality across different iPhone models—from the older 7 to the newest Max—is solid enough that the camera stops being the barrier. It’s all about what you see and when you press the button.
The jury was full of photographers I’d actually heard of, people whose work matters, and they were taking this seriously. The raccoon moment they highlighted was funny and sharp, but so were the other images—there’s real craft here, real eye. These aren’t Instagram snapshots; they’re people doing something with the constraints they have.
I think what matters is that nowhere in that process does it say “best iPhone photo.” It’s just best photo. The phone happened to be the camera. That shift—where the tool becomes invisible because it works—that’s when everything changes.
I pulled up the Converse Archive Pack and hit a wall of recognition. Late eighties prints—camo, leopard, zebra stripes, white stars on navy—the kind of thing you’d see on a shelf as a kid and think was either genius or completely unhinged depending on what mood you were in.
What stuck with me was how well these patterns work now. The saturation is backed off, the palette warmer and more neutral, but even beyond the reinterpretation—the world just caught up. Leopard used to require a certain attitude. It was a statement. Now it’s just something you like. The camo that felt military or aggressive is just camo. Approachable. You could wear it somewhere nice and it would read as normal.
As a designer, that’s interesting to me. Not the nostalgia, but the fact that certain patterns eventually find their true moment. Sometimes that’s years later, when enough taste has shifted that what used to yell can finally just sit quietly. The Archive Pack feels like proof of that.
Converse put out four different models. If patterns are your thing, they’re worth looking at.
The only images of North Korea I’ve ever seen are the ones the government filmed itself: parades where tanks roll endlessly, nuclear tests, synchronized gymnastics where thousands of people form the leader’s face. It’s so relentless and so surreal that the country stops feeling like a place where people actually live. It becomes a permanent broadcast, a loop of propaganda with no frame around it, no life outside the cameras.
That’s what makes “Have Fun in Pyongyang” almost jarring to watch. Pierre-Olivier François and Patrick Maurus made this documentary over eight years, forty trips just to film ordinary things: harvest festivals, factory floors, singing competitions, weddings. Not monuments or ceremonies. Just life — people bored at work, proud of small things, being silly when they think no one’s watching.
What sits with me is that it doesn’t make North Korea seem more understandable in some grand political sense. It just reminds you that twenty-five million people live there, and living means eating and working and finding small moments of joy within whatever walls are built around you. The country survived the end of the Cold War, a famine that killed hundreds of thousands, decades of isolation. Not because the system works, but because people keep going. You keep going. You find what you can.
Maybe that’s what they discovered: people are still just people, even under the worst circumstances, even when the world has decided their country is nothing but a headline. That’s harder to turn into propaganda than any parade ever could be.
For a while there, Ariana Grande had the most followers on Instagram. Selena held it before her, but that’s done now. 146 million people watching her stories, her selfies, whatever she posts — the number’s incomprehensibly large, but then again, everything about Instagram is incomprehensible when you actually stop and think about it.
The thing about Ariana isn’t the follower count though. It’s that she became famous the hard way, through things that broke her open publicly. Manchester happened and she didn’t disappear, which was maybe the realest thing any celebrity has done in a while. Then everything else happened — Pete, the engagement, Mac Miller dying, all of it immediate and public. Most famous people manage to keep those parts separate, sealed off. Ariana just didn’t.
That’s why people followed her, I think. Not because she was polished or seemed to have it figured out, but because she clearly didn’t. You could watch someone live through their twenties in real time, the good parts and the messy parts, all of it documented. Instagram quantified that interest into a number, and the number kept climbing because authenticity sells better than anything else, apparently.
There’s something refreshing about finding an Instagram account where someone’s actually just living instead of performing. Lily Mo Sheen—Kate Beckinsale’s daughter—gets it. She posts from beaches, stupid selfies, whatever moment seems worth documenting. No strategy. No carefully managed image. Just someone with enough privilege that she doesn’t have to.
She’s twenty, born in London, works as an actress in that vague way children of famous people sometimes do—small roles in forgettable movies, nothing that took much effort. But on Instagram that doesn’t matter. She just posts. From beaches, bikini shots in that impossible blue water, stupid faces at the camera. Looks like she’s actually having fun.
Most people on Instagram are trying to sell themselves because they feel they have to—followers, validation, visibility as currency. She’s already got money, got looks, got connections through her parents. So she can skip that. Just be loose. Post something because it amused her, not because it supports some narrative about who she should be.
Which makes her actually interesting to look at, compared to most people. Not because she’s prettier or richer, but because she’s not trying to convince you of anything. I follow her account because it’s rare to find something on Instagram that’s genuinely just for the person doing it. Stupid and present and unperforming.
Started hearing about Namika a few years back—Frankfurt rapper who didn’t sound like she was performing toughness. There’s something in German hip-hop where you’re supposed to prove yourself through street narrative, authenticity, the whole mythology, and she just declined to play it. Instead she had this warmth to her voice, like she actually wanted you in the room with her rather than wanted to warn you to stay out.
Her background explains it. Her aunt kept bringing hip-hop records home, the kind of person who knew the music inside out, and by the time Namika was nine she was beatboxing with her cousin at their grandparents’ place. They’d take turns beatboxing and rapping. Hip-hop was already her language by then, but she learned the codes without buying into all the mythology. She raps with precision and clarity, the way someone does when they know exactly what they’re saying and don’t need to prove anything to anyone.
With “Que Walou,” her new album following the gold record “Nador,” she’s moved past any single lane entirely. It’s pop music built on a hip-hop foundation. The whole thing circles around identity, self-assertion, and that endless frustrating search for happiness. She put her heart into it.
The new song with Chima, “Wir können alles sein,” was made for David Dietl’s comedy—he directed “König von Deutschland” and “Ellas Baby.” It’s a love song, light and easy but full of genuine feeling. Two people saying we could be anything, and meaning it in the way you mean things when you’re not performing for anyone.
What got me is that this isn’t some disposable soundtrack moment. It’s the first real indication of what Chima’s working on for his new album, supposed to drop this year. And Namika’s clearly got more coming. You don’t make an album like “Que Walou” and then disappear.
The EU’s been working for years on updating copyright law for the digital age, and they’ve landed on something called Article 13. It’s part of a larger directive updating copyright for the digital marketplace, and at its center is a requirement for online platforms with user-generated content to prevent the spread of unlicensed material through “appropriate and proportionate measures.” In practice, that translates to upload filters — automated systems that scan everything before you post it and kill anything the algorithm suspects might be copyrighted.
Clean in theory. Messier in practice.
The voting history shows how contested this is. The EU ministerial council drafted something in May 2018. By June, parliament’s justice committee approved it, with Axel Voss from the CDU as the main negotiator. Then in July the full parliament voted it down after public backlash. They voted again in September and passed it with some language revisions. Now it’s in trilog — the three-way negotiation between parliament, council, and commission — and they’ve reportedly agreed on a version that’s actually stricter than the original. Final vote is March or April 2019.
The real problem: filters can’t understand context. Fair use, parody, sampling, critique, fan work, transformative stuff — all of this lives in legal grey zones, and an algorithm doesn’t navigate grey zones. It matches patterns. You post something completely legal and an automated system flags it because it found a surface similarity. Once that becomes normal, it spreads everywhere. The internet contracts.
And there’s the burden thing: creators eat the cost. Your legitimate work gets flagged and you fight an unappealable algorithmic decision. Maybe you request manual review, but the system is built to be conservative. Platforms aren’t liable if they block your stuff by mistake. They’re liable if they don’t block copyrighted material. So they err toward caution, which means your thing dies.
Alexander Lehmann made a video explaining what Article 13 actually does, the real consequences, and what might stop it. If you care how the internet gets shaped — not by technology, but by policy — it’s worth watching. This is the kind of change that feels distant and bureaucratic until you’re the person whose thing got deleted, and by then it’s just normal.
Watched Shirin David’s new video and couldn’t stop watching. “Gib ihm”—give it. She’s giving it, grinding on expensive studio floors in clothes that barely exist, rapping about money and sex and not caring what anyone thinks, which is a funny thing to broadcast if you don’t care, but that’s the whole trick, isn’t it.
She used to be the nice one, the DSDS judge defending talentless dreamers. Now she’s a different thing entirely—like someone took Helene Fischer’s respectability, Nicki Minaj’s sexuality, and the raw energy of some vodka-stealing street girl and merged them into one person. More hips than human. That’s the actual image in the video: her body as the primary subject, moving like it’s the only thing that matters.
The song is all flex. Nicki Minaj comparisons, designer names (Victoria’s Secret under Valentino), cash, attitude. “I’m not half-naked, just half-dressed.” As if the distinction matters. Nails longer than shorts. Thick limousines. Taking men’s money, making their exes jealous. It’s crude and horny and unapologetic, and you can feel the intentionality of every frame—this is designed to get reactions, and it works, and she knows it works.
What gets me is the line about the outfit: “not daring, but necessary.” That’s honest in a weird way. This isn’t self-expression anymore; it’s the only option available to her now. You can see her leaning into it, not resisting, actually committing to the bit harder than most people commit to anything. There’s a confidence there that’s either real or so practiced it doesn’t matter.
Half the comments are people calling her names. The other half are just… watching. She’s clearly aware this will split people, and she doesn’t seem to care, which is the whole point. The sexuality, the body, the dance moves, the attitude—it’s all calculated to be exactly as provocative as possible, and that calculation is part of what makes it work.
I don’t know if there’s something feminist in there or if it’s just the mechanics of desire and performance. Maybe both. Maybe the distinction doesn’t matter anymore. What I know is I watched it twice, and I’m not entirely sure why.
Gorillaz have always been a visual project first. Jamie Hewlett’s art defines them as much as Damon Albarn’s music does — the four characters (Noodle, Murdoc, Russel, 2D) are so fully realized, so specific in their weirdness, that you can’t imagine the band without them. It makes sense that Levi’s wanted to do something with that.
The collaboration is at their Print Bars in Berlin, Cologne, and Munich. You choose one of Hewlett’s designs, customize the colors and patterns, and get it printed on a t-shirt, jacket, or bag. It’s a smart move because it lets you build something unique rather than just buying the same graphic as everyone else. You’re mixing Hewlett’s vision with your own taste, which feels right for a band that’s always been about the look as much as the sound.
Gorillaz have been doing this for two decades. Their debut came out in 2001 and everything after — Demon Days, Plastic Beach, Humanz, The Now Now — maintained the same principle: the image matters. The characters have evolved, the music has evolved, the projects have gotten weirder, but that foundation never shifted. This is a band built on aesthetics first.
There’s something almost relaxing about a virtual band having merchandise that actually works. No awkward celebrity sponsorship, no strange compromises. Just Hewlett’s drawings on your back, looking like they’re supposed to.
I had a really solid Pokémon team back in the day. Mewtwo and Mew, obviously—those were the dream picks. Charizard because I raised it from the start. Articuno for the ice storms. Gyarados because there was still a Magikarp inside it somewhere, and that meant something to me. And Dragonite, because let’s be honest, in a real fight you can’t rely on an Eevee no matter how cute it is.
I loved the early days of Pokémon, so when I heard they were making a live-action Detective Pikachu movie with Ryan Reynolds voicing a crime-solving Pikachu, my reaction was just no. A 3D cartoon Pikachu in a world of normal people and Pokémon hybrids—why would I want that when I could just rewatch the original anime? Let Ash and Misty and Brock take care of me. The whole thing felt doomed before it even existed.
Then the trailer dropped and… okay, fine. It didn’t look bad. The world was interesting. Pikachu was likable. Justice Smith’s premise—hunting for his missing father—worked. It was based on that detective game. I figured it might be decent.
My one condition was always going to be that my favorite Pokémon had to show up. Otherwise what’s the point? Fortunately Mewtwo was already confirmed, so I was back in.
I stumbled onto the Small Dick Problems subreddit late one night and couldn’t look away. It’s exactly what it sounds like—guys with small penises talking openly about the entire weight of it. How to sleep with someone without the conversation becoming a logistics problem. Whether to warn them first or just let them figure it out. What you can actually do when there isn’t much to work with. One guy asked if expensive pumps really worked. Another said his girlfriend texted jokes about his size to her friends. A third got ghosted after sending a photo and wanted to know what he’d done wrong.
The forum’s motto is basically: we didn’t choose this life, it chose us. And there’s something genuinely honest about that—men comparing notes on a thing most guys won’t even admit bothers them, let alone talk about openly. A friend of mine in college was convinced it defined him, and it kind of did, but only because he let it. He’d make jokes first, always beat everyone else to the punch. It didn’t make him feel better; it just made him the guy who talked about his own dick all the time.
The threads go deep into it. How much does grooming actually help visually. Whether certain positions are off-limits. Whether you should just own it from the start or let it be a surprise. The desperation is real—guys asking if surgery is the answer, if they should just give up on sex entirely. And then other guys talking them off the ledge. Sharing what actually worked. Sometimes just admitting they felt the same way.
What gets me is that some of them have actually found their way through it. There are posts about relationships that held, about women who preferred it or didn’t care, about life happening normally despite this thing they were convinced was a dealbreaker. Proof that it works, physically speaking, even if the guy spent months convinced it never would. There’s this weird amount of hope on a forum that’s nominally about disappointment.
You can joke about insecurity all you want, but there’s something clarifying about a place where men just admit it: this affects me. No one’s performing. No one’s pretending it doesn’t matter. They’re asking each other how to live with it. And sometimes the answer is you find someone it works with, and sometimes it’s just that you learn to be okay with yourself anyway. Either way, at least you’re not alone in thinking about it constantly.
I didn’t want to like “Fast Heroes Sixty” at first. A German anime series? That’s not how these things work. But the show—this chaotic, barely coherent thing about a pizza baker named Pit Block and his friends Croissant and Rino Welka—it’s different. It’s clearly a love letter to 90s anime, maybe a parody, maybe just a tribute to the good old days when anime didn’t care about making sense. When magical schoolgirls in skimpy outfits fighting cosmic evil was enough.
“Fast Heroes Sixty” takes what would normally be a 30-minute episode and compresses it into minutes. No breathing room, no filler, no boring stretches—just constant chaos. The jokes land every few seconds. Watching it feels like getting hit with a truck full of acid and waking up at your screen. You sit there wondering what the hell you just watched.
Did a fat version of some Sailor Moon character really just eat an old piece of pizza in an uncomfortably homoerotic way? While a sad Pikachu and some sexy magical box fought a rogue android with massive breasts? Yes. That’s the show.
If your brain likes being scrambled and you’re the type to take a shot every time you spot an anime reference, “Fast Heroes Sixty” is made for you. It plays on Rocket Beans TV, tucked into the end of their gaming show. Season two just started.
And if you’re still skeptical, here’s the thing: Sabine Bohlmann, who voiced Sailor Moon in the German dub, is in it. She plays Croissant, some power-blond character who got mystical powers instead of a tip when she delivered pizza to a monastery. That’s almost poetic.
But if you didn’t get off on Sailor Moon as a teenager, your childhood was incomplete. This show knows that. It takes everything about that 90s anime chaos—the absurdity, the fanservice, the complete lack of logic—and compresses it into pure insanity. Somehow it works.
The Oscars without a host that year, which somehow felt right. The ceremony had more room to breathe.
What stuck with me was Roma. Cuarón’s film in black and white, streaming on Netflix, in Spanish—it just kept winning. Every technical award, the directing prize. The German entry that had looked promising didn’t have a chance. The anime didn’t either. Roma moved through the night like it was inevitable.
Green Book got the acting categories and the screenwriting stuff. Mahershala Ali again, which felt earned. Rami Malek for Bohemian Rhapsody was a win I wasn’t expecting to care about, but the film was huge in its way, and he was all of it—that’s what you want from that performance. Olivia Colman took best actress, which I felt good seeing.
Lady Gaga’s “Shallow” won for the song. Mark Ronson behind her, her voice doing all the work. It was already everywhere; the Oscar just made it official.
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse won animated. Black Panther took everything else visual—sets, costumes, music, sound work. The sweep was complete.
But Roma, mostly. A film that’s formally restrained, in black and white, in Spanish, moving at its own pace, not trying to be comfortable—and it wins the directing award at the Oscars. I kept thinking about what that means. Not about the film itself, but about what the Academy values when everything else falls away. Whether that says something true about cinema, or whether I’m reading too much into an awards show, I honestly don’t know. But it felt significant in the moment.
Laura Carbone makes music that shouldn’t work but does. Dark and poppy. Black with light in it. Sad but hopeful. She started as a blogger, then became the frontwoman of Deine Jugend, a punk band she runs with Tim Bonassis, her producer and collaborator. Standard indie trajectory, except she actually followed through.
Her first solo album came out in 2015. “Sirens” was crowdfunded, self-driven, no label machinery. By then she already had songs that moved outside the German pop mainstream entirely — “The Flowers Beneath Your Feet,” “Swans,” “Lullaby.” The comparisons to PJ Harvey and The Breeders aren’t lazy. She has that same restraint, that ability to make darkness feel intimate and strange.
2019 brought her to America seriously. A tour across the coasts, down to South by Southwest in Austin. I didn’t catch it — wasn’t there — but people who saw her said the same thing. The recordings don’t capture what happens in the room. You feel the distance between songs more than you should, the silence between her and the band. She doesn’t fill space with charm or movement. Just stands there and sings things that hurt in specific ways.
I keep coming back to her music when I need something that won’t bullshit me. The German pop landscape is a specific kind of mediocre — slick, safe, designed to offend no one. She escaped it entirely. Just kept making what she wanted to make, which is the only real way to stay interesting.
I don’t follow sneaker releases that closely anymore, but something about the Ader Error x Puma collaboration pulled me in. They call their design philosophy “Futro” — the space between retro and future — and it could be marketing nonsense, but in their hands it becomes something real. A collection called “Faster Than Youth.” I still have no idea what that means, which I respect.
Ader Error is Seoul-based, emerged maybe a decade ago, and somehow became essential to how people think about streetwear. They approach collaboration differently. Where Puma’s usual partners would treat the archive reverently, Ader Error treats it like raw material. They took the Cell Venom, a 90s running shoe, and didn’t honor it — they interrogated it. Rebuilt the whole thing. The overlays, the proportions, the structure. Nothing was left untouched. It’s not nostalgia. It’s rethinking.
The collection has the expected padding: jackets, parkas, the apparel that exists because collabs need to fill out a lineup. But the sneakers have thinking behind them. The RS-X with its color-blocking registers as a choice, not just decoration. It might be handpainted. Looks intentional.
I’m not sure I’d wear any of it. But I notice the refusal to be obvious. No retrofuturism as an aesthetic, no “youth culture” marketing angle, just: here’s an old shoe, and here’s what becomes of it when someone takes it seriously. That’s harder to pull off than a clean silhouette.
I remember when her case started circulating through the usual channels — social media, Tumblr reblogs, people sharing her photo with mounting desperation. This was February 2019. Rebecca was fifteen, missing since the morning of the eighteenth, last seen on her way to school in Berlin. She’d been wearing a pink plush jacket, a BTS hoodie, ripped jeans, Vans. The kind of detail that makes her real in a way statistics don’t.
The blog covered internet culture, pop culture, what mattered online. But when a fifteen-year-old goes missing, and thousands of strangers start looking, that becomes internet culture whether you meant it to or not. The police needed information. The family needed people to care. And they did — because showing up for a missing girl was something you could do from your phone, something that felt like mattering, even if it was just a retweet or a share.
I wondered at the time what happened to her, what she was doing that morning, what made her disappear. You see a photo often enough and the person becomes real in your head in a strange way. You imagine their life. You imagine their parents’ phone not ringing.
These posts stay with you. Years later you don’t know what happened, and you don’t ask. You just remember that somewhere a girl vanished and the internet tried to find her.
The hard part of a good sneaker isn’t the hype — it’s designing something that doesn’t fight with how you dress. Reebok’s Sole Fury gets there without pretending. The silhouette sits quiet, the colors are steady, and it works whether you’re in jeans or something with real structure. No lifestyle story, no creative-pioneer framing. The shoe doesn’t need it. That’s rare enough to notice.
Lil Pump has decided that everyone wants to be him, and the new video for “Be Like Me” proves it. Retirees, animals, that kid who does celebrity impressions — they all want the dreadlocks, the face tattoos, whatever he’s got. It’s a funny concept, and it works because Pump himself is funny without trying to be. He’s just completely, unselfconsciously himself.
The kid from Florida went from literally nobody to having “Gucci Gang” looping in suburban kids’ heads in maybe six months. That song came out in August 2017 and it’s now platinum four times over, which is wild for a track that’s basically one phrase repeated for four minutes. But there’s something about it — the production, his delivery, the confidence of a teenager yelling about designer goods with absolute zero irony — that just landed.
Now he’s got an album, “Harverd Dropout” (the cover art has it embroidered on a graduation gown), and he’s collaborated with Lil Wayne, done TV with Fallon and Ellen, had his Mad Max video with flamethrowers and desert amazons. The trajectory is unreal. Most rappers work for years before they get one hit. Pump went from nothing to everywhere in what feels like a day.
What’s interesting is that he actually believes it. He’s not doing the humble thing. In interviews he talks about being the biggest thing, about his path being crazy, about just getting started. And he sounds like he means it — not in an obnoxious way, just matter-of-fact. He’s eighteen and he’s already won. So why not be like him?
The video’s bright and colorful and kind of dumb in the best way. Sophie Muller directed it, which is weird because she’s directed actual Beyoncé and Coldplay videos, but that’s where we are now. Everyone’s collaborating with everyone because the whole thing is moving too fast to say no.
I don’t know if “Be Like Me” hits as hard as “Gucci Gang.” Probably not. But there’s something you have to respect about a kid who figured out the formula — don’t overthink it, just be yourself, let the confidence do the work — and then actually stuck to it. The video’s premise is absurd. His whole existence is kind of absurd. And somehow that’s the only real thing going on right now.
Shanghai’s club scene operates below the official narrative. Neon-lined streets, bass pressure from beneath street level, the kind of night-time infrastructure that doesn’t match the daytime. In the clubs you find down there, there’s a different circuit running—attention distributed away from the usual oversight, rules that apply selectively, the machinery of control loosening just enough to let something breathe.
This is where Nüsuù Workshop does its work. Three women—Lhaga Koondhor from Zurich, Daliah Spiegel, and Amber Akilla—built this collective in that space. They’re operating against a music scene that was locked down, male-dominated, going through the motions. What they created is a kind of knowledge infrastructure for the underground—taste, method, information, permission. They’re part of Shanghai’s fundamental contradiction: a city steeped in tradition, choked by the present, torn apart by modernity.
Lhaga came to this through necessity. She’d managed a bar in Zurich called Longstreet from 2010 to 2016, and there she met an Asian girl crew named Wifey. Something in that intersection stuck with her—a reminder that the music and community she wanted didn’t exist in Zurich anymore, maybe never would. The city had become too safe, too mapped, too settled. She moved to Shanghai and became like a chameleon, picking up everything—music, food, the texture of what people were creating. A VPN keeps you networked even inside the wall. She wanted to be inside the production, not outside observing it. Wanted to be part of what Shanghai’s underground was actually making.
The collective started funneling that knowledge back into the scene. Building scaffolding where nothing existed before, making room for people who didn’t fit the template. It’s not flashy, not a revolution, just methodical infrastructure in the margins. You move through Shanghai’s underground music world and you can feel the shift—not everything changing, but enough changing that different things can exist.
There’s a discipline to it that appeals to me. Not breaking the system, just knowing it well enough to slip through it, to carve out space where you can make something that matters. Shanghai’s full of people doing this same calculation—finding where you can move, where nobody’s quite looking, what’s possible in the gaps. Nüsuù’s just doing it with more intention, more clarity about what they’re building and why.
Met Christine in Munich—she was heavily pregnant, and after Thai food we ended up at Hugendubel. The Japanese literature table was on the top floor. There was Convenience Store Woman, red cover with pufferfish on it. I’d been meaning to read it for a year. On the train home I finished the whole thing between cups of coffee.
Keiko Furukura was a weird kid. The kind that frightened her parents. So she decided to become simple, functional, unremarkable. She found her purpose working nights in a convenience store, a konbini, and the structure of it saved her.
Murata describes the place in perfect sensory detail. The chime when customers enter. The celebrity voice announcing new products. The beep of scanners, the soft clink when a bottle is pulled from the shelf and the one above rolls. Keiko’s body responds to all of it automatically. She knows when a customer is reaching for cold drinks before they head to checkout because the pattern’s lodged in her. The store has logic that matches how she thinks, and she fits into it exactly.
That’s the thing about the book. Murata isn’t trying to make the convenience store beautiful. She’s describing what Keiko actually perceives—the sounds, the routines, the way everything interlocks. It’s mundane, but there’s something hypnotic about it.
Then Shiraha arrives. A cynical guy who refuses to fit into anything. He moves in with her, sits in her apartment, dismantles the careful system she’s built. The novel becomes about what happens when someone won’t compress themselves into the shape society needs them to be, and what it costs Keiko to let him.
The reason it works beyond Japan is because it’s not really about Japanese retail or society. It’s about how you can make a life out of rules and patterns, how the machinery accepts you if you agree to its terms, how that’s both peace and surrender. Anyone who’s worked a job where you had to become a particular version of yourself understands what Murata’s doing. The precision of it doesn’t leave you.
I’m a little smitten with Zendaya, if I’m being honest. It probably started with that Taylor Swift “Bad Blood” video—just her presence in that crowd, the way she moved. Something about her felt different from the standard Disney-to-fame kid.
She’d done the usual modeling gigs, then Disney put her on “Shake It Up” and later “K.C. Undercover.” But somewhere along the way she became something else. Spider-Man: Homecoming was when I really noticed it. She has this quality that makes every scene feel larger than it should. Not trying, just present.
I saw her in a Tommy Hilfiger campaign recently, styled all seventies and soft. She talked about fashion as self-expression, individuality, power. The standard thing to say, but she means it. You can tell.
What I’m watching for now is whether she stays interesting. It’s easy to have presence in a franchise. It’s harder to pick roles that don’t bore you, to have the judgment to turn things down. She has the skill. She has the look. But there’s something else—that thing that makes you pay attention. Most people her age don’t have it. I think she’s going to use it.
I watched a WDR documentary about clan crime in the Ruhrgebiet, Germany’s industrial heartland. The reporters somehow got access to both sides — embedded with police during raids, also filming inside the family networks. I’m not sure how they made that happen, but there it is.
The story’s familiar by now. Germany’s been circling it for years — the organized families that operate according to their own codes and justice systems, indifferent to state law. You get it from the news, from TV crime series, from whatever scandal’s currently in rotation. The dark underbelly existing right beneath normal urban life. Everyone’s aware of it, everyone’s vaguely alarmed.
What the documentary does is let you watch it without someone shaping it into drama. No soundtrack, no production tricks designed to manipulate your reaction. Just people explaining how the structure works, what the logic is, why it makes sense from inside. There’s a clarity in that. When you’re not being told how to feel, you see more.
The film doesn’t resolve its central question — whether the police crackdown is necessary or another form of community profiling. Which is honest, because the answer probably isn’t clean. These problems rarely have clean answers.
I kept thinking about how media versions of these worlds are always more coherent than the actual thing. Stories need shape and momentum. Reality doesn’t care about narrative structure.
Converse and JW Anderson have been putting out some smart sneakers, and this Run Star Hike collaboration is worth paying attention to. The white version comes with a wildly colorful platform sole — like a wedge from some ridiculous 80s shoe, except it actually works. There’s also a glitter version. The whole thing is basically Anderson playing with proportion, taking an icon and breaking it down, stretching some parts and compressing others until it’s something new.
This kind of proportion play is core to how Anderson designs. With the Chuck Taylor he could’ve just slapped his name on a gimmick, but instead he actually thought through what happens when you put a chunky running shoe sole under a classic canvas high-top. The upper stays thin and familiar. The sole gets thick and architectural. Put them together and something clicks.
The shoe showed up in his Spring/Summer 19 runway in London and you could see why — it’s the thing that makes you do a double-take when you pass someone on the street. Not just the white and color contrast, though that’s loud. It’s the proportion shift. That platform isn’t hiding. The sole has a sawtooth pattern that adds height and structure, making this three-part thing where each layer does its own work.
Details matter here. The white version uses linen instead of canvas. There are handwritten marks inside tying the two brands together, small gestures that feel like conversation rather than a corporate handshake. There’s “1917” next to a patch — nod to when the All Stars launched, Anderson crediting the shoe’s actual history instead of pretending he invented something.
It’s the kind of collab that doesn’t need to scream. You either get what he’s doing with the silhouette or you don’t, but either way the shoe is there asking a quiet question about what a sneaker becomes when you’re willing to mess with what everyone assumes is locked in stone.
Miley showed up in the desert somewhere between Los Angeles and Las Vegas with photographer Ryan McGinley and came out of it mostly naked, which is what she does these days. The Marc Jacobs pieces were there but minimal—stylist Samira Nasrin understood the assignment. There’s a photograph of her next to a bonfire so clean and bright it looks designed, which it probably was, and it’s the kind of image that would have ended her Disney contract the moment it surfaced ten years ago.
I think about how long she was trapped at thirteen inside a machine that had opinions about everything. Hannah Montana wasn’t just a role—it was the structure of her entire life. The smile, the responsibility, the weight of being America’s babysitter, her own words. That was half her life already.
Now she’s twenty-six and in a desert at night with a camera and no reason to ask anyone’s permission. She told Vanity Fair she’s surprised by her own choices, doesn’t understand them sometimes. The wildfires came, she married Liam Hemsworth, got criticized for a music video like she was still a teenager proving something to people who never actually owned her.
But something’s shifted. The nakedness in these photographs isn’t provocation or seduction. It’s indifference. She’s twenty-six in a desert at night and the only opinion that matters is hers, and she’s still getting used to that feeling.
Nintendo’s new president is named Doug Bowser. Not a codename, not a nickname—that’s his actual name. Doug. Bowser.
His predecessor, Reggie Fils-Aimé, had just stepped down after fifteen years. Reggie was one of those rare corporate figures people actually liked—he showed up on YouTube, worked the conference circuit, had genuine goodwill in the gaming community. When he announced he was moving on to travel and spend time with family, nobody minded. It made sense.
So he recorded a video saying goodbye and introduced his replacement. Doug Bowser.
And the internet understood the joke immediately, because Bowser is Super Mario’s main villain—the antagonist, the obstacle, the thing keeping the plumber from the princess. Except now there’s a real person named Bowser in charge of the company that created the character. The coincidence was so perfect it felt written.
Reggie didn’t pretend it wasn’t happening either. He made the joke in his own announcement, something about “with a name like Bowser, who should hold the keys to the Nintendo castle?” The right move—acknowledge the absurdity, move on, let the internet have its moment. The memes came instantly. For days, people treated it like Nintendo had hired an actual supervillain, which in a weird way, they kind of did.
There’s something genuinely beautiful about pure cosmic coincidence. A guy named Bowser taking over the job that basically amounts to being Mario’s antagonist. Only real life gets away with writing that obvious.
You’re drowning in input. Phone, other people, the street—constant noise with no off switch. Tove Lo gets this. She’s the Stockholm artist who makes darker pop about failed love and desire, the kind of songwriting that doesn’t pretend everything’s fine. She thinks about the moments when you actually hear yourself think, when you put headphones on and listen to something that moves you, and everything else finally stops scattering your attention.
So she designed headphones. A Plattan 2 Bluetooth with Urbanears, each one with a different gradient—holographic shimmer on the ear cups, the band glittering in a way that nothing mass-produced is supposed to. They came from a “Listen to Yourself” campaign, but the actual idea is simpler: take the clean minimalist shell and make it genuinely yours. She turned those lines into light.
I like that move. Not the product part—the idea that making your tools look like something specific instead of generic is part of listening. It’s small. Taste lives in small things.
I lived in Mass Effect. All three games, every side quest, every corner of the Citadel and the planets beyond it. The ending was something everyone wanted to rewrite and sure, there were moments that felt like compromise, but I never cared about the arguments. Those games felt real to me in a way most don’t. Then Andromeda happened and it became clear that lightning doesn’t strike the same bottle twice, that whatever alchemy BioWare had found wasn’t going to happen again with that particular formula.
They went quiet after Andromeda. For a while it seemed like maybe that was it, maybe Mass Effect was just done. But they were building something else the whole time. Anthem launched today—four players in these mechanized suits called Javelins, flying through a colorful world, fighting together against some threat that’s probably meant to be cosmic and important. It’s about as far from Mass Effect as you can get while still keeping the same studio’s DNA underneath everything.
I don’t know what I think about it yet. It feels like the move you make after you’ve stumbled. Not a retreat, exactly, but a pivot. Just trying to prove something still works. Whether that’s true will take weeks to find out. Live service games reveal themselves slowly. You don’t know what they really are on the first day.
What stays with me is what it means that this is what BioWare wanted to make next. That story-driven single-player worlds gave way to this multiplayer live thing. Maybe that’s just the market pressing in from all sides, every studio following the same path. Maybe BioWare looked at what made them famous and decided they were tired of making that game. Maybe both things are true.
It’s out now. Xbox, PlayStation, PC. I’ll try it eventually. Not because I think it’ll be Mass Effect again—of course it won’t be. But because I’m genuinely curious what happens when a studio decides to stop making what it’s known for and do something else entirely. Whether they learned anything from what they built before. Whether they still know how to make something that sticks.
Calvin Klein’s campaign is Kendall Jenner, A$AP Rocky, and Shawn Mendes in their underwear, photographed by Glen Luchford. It’s transparent what they’re doing.
You want to look at attractive people. That’s the starting point. Give you different bodies and faces, different types to want - the model, the rapper built like a weapon, the pretty boy. Let your eyes land on what pulls at you. Then sell you something that might make you feel that way about yourself when you look in the mirror.
It’s crude, but honest in that crudeness. Most brands wrap sexual appeal in meaning and lifestyle and cultural importance. Calvin Klein just puts hot people in expensive underwear and trusts that you’ll look. That you’ll feel something. That you might want to buy the same thing. The press material about “authenticity” and “bold vision” is just noise around a simple fact: sex sells.
This is what’s happening. The brand knows it. The celebrities know their job includes being attractive and desired. So why dress it up as something else? Why pretend the transaction is about progress or identity when it’s about bodies and desire and appetite?
There’s a kind of respect in that directness. No false modesty, no pretense of meaning beyond the obvious. Just: here’s what you want to look at, here’s how they’re packaging it, here’s what they’re selling you. You already knew that.
The campaign will work because people will look. Because these are people worth looking at, and because everyone runs on desire more than they want to admit. Calvin Klein just isn’t hiding it.
In 2019, Samsung announced a solution to a problem nobody was having. The Galaxy Fold was a foldable phone that cost two thousand euros and was supposed to replace both your phone and your tablet, or solve some internal conflict about which one to carry. The logic was that if you were the kind of person who couldn’t decide between the two, here was the answer: just get both at once, but make it fold.
The thing was impressive technically. The first Dynamic AMOLED display that could actually bend without shattering. Enough processing power to run three apps at once. Premium materials, premium price. Samsung had thought of everything except whether anyone actually wanted this. The hinge was a weak point. The gap in the middle when folded was constant. When it was a phone, it was awkwardly big. When it was a tablet, it was weirdly narrow. Every form factor was a compromise.
What struck me at the time, and still strikes me now, was the sheer confidence of it. Samsung had built enough successful phones and tablets that it apparently felt empowered to invent new categories of desire, new problems that didn’t exist until Samsung decided they did. The Fold wasn’t solving a real problem expensively—it was creating an imaginary problem at an impossible price. It was pure tech-industry faith: if we build it, they will come. If we fold it, they will understand why they needed it folded.
I never got one. Didn’t know anyone who did. Years later, foldables exist because Samsung insisted on them existing, and they’re better now, but that first one was basically a very expensive prototype being sold to early adopters who wanted to own the future before it made sense.
Everything online is filtered—carefully lit, carefully framed, softened around the edges. Then you see the person in real life and they’re sharper than expected, stranger, more present. That gap between the version you show and the body you actually live in has become so normalized that talking about it feels obvious, except it’s not obvious to experience.
Monki released an underwear collection called #NoFilter and did the obvious thing: showed bodies without softening them. Different sizes, different skin, different textures, different everything. It’s a small gesture, and advertising has caught up to authenticity faster than authenticity can stay ahead, but there’s still something worth noticing in an industry built on perfection and variation as flaw.
The #NoFilter hashtag started as a genuine impulse—a way of saying this is unedited, this is real, no tricks, no Photoshop. For a moment it felt like something was breaking open. Then it became another performance, another way of performing authenticity. Brands figured it out. Now “real” and “unfiltered” are just another marketing angle. Cynical, maybe. But also: if showing what actual bodies look like, even in an advertisement, makes someone feel less alone in their own skin, does it matter that the motive is profit?
What stays with me isn’t the campaign. It’s the gap it points at—the distance between the person you perform for the camera and the person you are when the phone is down. That’s where the real thing happens, when you can look at yourself and decide you’re okay as you are, no edits, no approval needed, no relief required. Most days that’s harder than it sounds.
I could watch Pixar movies all day. Up, Wall-E, Finding Nemo, Toy Story, Brave, Inside Out, Ratatouille, Coco, Cars—doesn’t matter. I’d cry and laugh through every single one. Wall-E falls apart after the first thirty minutes, Up gets worse as it goes, and Cars is basically for kids whose drunk dads force them to watch Formula 1. But Pixar is Pixar. They’ve earned it.
Every couple of months they put out these shorts—either before the films or straight online. Piper, Lou, Bao. Little perfect things that pack a whole emotional life into a few minutes. You laugh, then you cry, then you feel better, and that’s all there is. That’s how everything should work.
Kitbull is the newest one. Rosana Sullivan directed a short about a pit bull and a stray cat in San Francisco’s Mission District. The pit bull’s had a rough time. The cat is shy. They become friends. Sullivan said she started with a cat video she liked, just wanted to draw something cute, and then it turned into something more personal, something real. You can feel that turn in the film itself.
There’s something about how these shorts work that I can’t quite pin down. They take the smallest, simplest idea and make it matter completely. Two animals becoming friends. A boy growing up. A rat cooking. And the animation is so precise that you stop noticing it’s animation—the cat moves like an actual cat, the pit bull has actual weight to him. Before you realize it you’re sitting there attached to these figures in a way that should take an hour to earn but somehow happens in five minutes.
I watched it after a long day and it got to me. Not because it was trying to, but just because it was true. That’s the whole thing, really. Pixar figures out how to be true without ever trying hard. They just show you something and let you feel it.
There was a time when Asian pop meant Sailor Moon and Dragon Ball Z, Ayumi Hamasaki, Hikaru Utada—that was the future sound. Then Korea arrived. Not as a revelation, just as a fact. Somewhere between the 90s and now, the charts rewrote themselves. It’s always Korea.
The system is relentless. Everything calculated: years of training, contracts that own your entire life, systematic elimination of anyone who doesn’t fit. The stories are all the same—idols who crack, who disappear, who take themselves out because the industry extracts everything and leaves nothing behind. It’s brutal, and it works.
Blackpink came out of Seoul as the inevitable result. Jisoo, Jennie, Rosé, Lisa. Their songs are bright and surgical, exactly what this whole thing was designed to produce. Pop music that doesn’t apologize for being manufactured.
Japan had Utada, Hamasaki, Exile. They didn’t lose to better music—they became irrelevant because Korea figured out something the industry there never quite managed: treating pop as pure technology.
I don’t know what to feel about it anymore. Blackpink’s success isn’t surprising, it’s inevitable. You’re not watching history happen, you’re watching yourself adjust to a world that was already decided. The girls from Seoul own the charts. There’s nothing to do except accept it.
Matt Watson posted a 20-minute video in 2019 showing how YouTube’s algorithm and comment sections had become a staging ground for child predators. Five clicks could take you from the homepage to a rabbit hole of videos featuring young girls in gymnastics or dance videos, and from there into comment threads where men posted timestamps of moments children were exposed or in positions they found arousing. These moments got compiled into videos, downloaded, and traded on private sites. No one told the kids this was happening.
The advertisers noticed. Disney, Nestlé, Epic Games pulled out. It wasn’t a shock to them because YouTube had done this before—in 2017, the same thing happened, and Adidas, Amazon, Deutsche Bank left too.
YouTube’s response hasn’t changed. They told reporters they had policies, they’d closed accounts, they’d disabled comments on millions of videos, they were committed to doing better. The video went viral because you could still see it happening.
The weird part is how little seems to have actually changed. Alphabet owns YouTube. They can predict what you’ll watch next, optimize ad delivery, measure engagement in real time. Apparently they can’t or won’t prevent organized predators from coordinating in comment sections. After being caught twice, losing major advertisers both times, the question stops being whether they can fix it and becomes whether they want to.
Gigi Hadid’s got a new fitness collection with Reebok, based on the idea that volleyball, modeling, and design all feed into each other. She’s not wrong — different work teaches you different things. You move through the world as an athlete, you understand proportion as a model, you learn constraints and collaboration as a designer. Each feeds the others.
She brings real skills to this. Body knowledge, understanding of how fabric moves, actual design competence. The collection’s centered on the Aztrek Double, a restored nineties Reebok with a thick sole, plus the standard stuff — colors, technical fabrics, everything functional.
What I’m noticing is how much this works through credibility transfer. You see someone successful and beautiful put their name on something and suddenly it matters more. Gigi knows bodies and fit. So when she designs athletic wear, it feels significant in a way it wouldn’t if some engineer at Reebok did exactly the same work. You trust taste through association.
Maybe that’s how we’re built — we need to see ourselves in the things we buy, and famous people are easier to see ourselves as than strangers are. If that actually gets people to care about their gym clothes enough to wear them and move in them, that’s working as intended. I’m not sure if I’m watching something cynical or just watching culture operate.
Ferropolis announces its lineup every spring, and it’s one of those things I always check because it tells you something about what’s happening in electronic music and performance art. 2019’s list landed recently—Bon Iver, A$AP Rocky, Bilderbuch as the names everyone recognizes, but the rest of it is what actually tells the story.
The deep cut starts with Solomun, Four Tet, Modeselektor, Charlotte de Witte, Ellen Allien, Helena Hauff—people building something real with sound, not just booking names to fill days. That’s different. You can feel the curatorial thinking there, choices that make sense together rather than just aggregation.
A$AP Rocky showing up is interesting too, hip-hop in a space that’s mostly electronic. It shouldn’t work but it does because the festival has enough confidence in what it is to let other things exist inside it.
The Melt Forest with Pornceptual and Pansy running the performance programming is where you see the actual stakes. That’s not a side stage; that’s the festival saying this is countercultural by design. It’s deliberately experimental, which is rare enough now that people genuinely plan their summers around it.
What keeps pulling people back to that industrial site—an abandoned power plant near Gräfenhainichen—is consistency. Over 120 artists, three days in July, no attempt to be everything to everyone. The scale is there, but so is the taste, and that combination is rare enough to feel worth the trip.
Berlin has a new magazine called I Love You. I like the title — it doesn’t explain itself, just declares what it is. I haven’t read it yet, but that kind of confidence is usually worth paying attention to. Most of the magazines that come out of Berlin disappear within a year or so. I’m curious whether this one will stick.
The video is moody, intimate — Ariana moving through a space, telling someone they should just break up with their girlfriend already because she’s bored and wants them. That’s the whole song. No metaphor, no apology, no dressing it up in feelings.
What I like about it is that straightforwardness. Most seduction songs dress themselves in romantic language or at least pretend to care about the damage. This one doesn’t bother. It’s not vulnerable or apologetic — it’s just want, stated plain. That lands completely different when it’s someone with Ariana’s momentum, someone people actually listen to when she decides something.
The song was part of that moment with “Thank U, Next,” the album that just moved through everything when it dropped. One of those releases where the day you hear it, the conversation pivots. Number one everywhere. I don’t really care about streaming numbers, but they were big enough to be the proof, which is maybe why we talk about them.
I keep coming back to the confidence thing. Most artists are trained to make themselves sympathetic, to earn empathy. Ariana just takes what she wants. No apology, no performance of caring. The song’s basically a shrug — if you want it, fine. If you don’t, that’s your loss. That kind of unguarded certainty isn’t usually how things work, but when it does, it’s all you can think about.
I still collect files like some people collect vinyl — MP3s, AACs, FLACs stacked across external drives. Japanese city pop from the 80s, video game soundtracks nobody else remembers, anime music from shows maybe twelve people ever watched. Stuff that lives nowhere else because the rights are tangled or the market was always too small.
For years I tried to make Spotify work. You’d find something, listen a few times, and three months later it would vanish because of some licensing dispute nobody bothered explaining. So I went back to buying files, and that’s when Bandcamp became the place that mattered. It wasn’t trying to be everything to everyone. It just wanted independent artists and strange music to exist.
I found things there I never would have heard otherwise. City Pop. Metal bands from Uganda. Electronic weirdos from Russia. DJs from Iceland. It felt different from the algorithmic churn — less like scrolling through predetermined options and more like actually stumbling onto something.
Artists on Bandcamp started selling physical formats again. Cassettes, vinyl, CDs. Real objects. And then they opened an actual record store in Oakland — a building where you could walk in and flip through records the way people used to, before everything went invisible and algorithmic. I haven’t been there, but something about that idea stuck with me.
I don’t know if any of it lasts. Probably doesn’t matter much in the long run. But there’s something about insisting on owning the files, buying direct from artists, the fact that a record store can still happen — something stubborn that feels correct.
Red Chucks, canvas already soft and separating from the rubber sole. That’s the first time I remember actually noticing what shoes someone was wearing. They belonged to a girl I knew—not anyone important, just someone whose taste in things made sense to me even then. I wanted a pair after that.
Mine were bright and new and wrong at first, but they broke in fast. Every basement party, every rooftop situation, every messy hookup and terrible decision and conversation at 3 AM where you think something’s going to change—those shoes were there. They got destroyed. Canvas stained with spilled drinks and dirt and all the other damage, the rubber sole starting to split. They looked like they’d actually been through something.
Eventually they fell apart completely. The sole separated from the canvas and wouldn’t go back. I remember being surprised how much it bothered me—getting genuinely upset about a pair of shoes dying is stupid, but they’d been on my feet for three years and losing them felt like losing proof that any of it had happened.
I’ve bought Chucks since then. They all follow the same pattern: pristine and bright for about a month, then you stop seeing them and everyone else does too. They become just how you move through the world. By the time they’re finished, they’re invisible.
Converse puts out new colors every season. This year they’re doing a faded vintage palette, like someone old was trying to remember what their destroyed Chucks looked like. Which is funny—selling you the worn-in aesthetic before you’ve worn them in. But the shoes still find whoever needs them. That’s how it goes.
Yeah, I’m into her. Kamila Joanna—29, from Berlin. She originally came from Poland when she was 11, moved with her family and just never left. Loves Berlin for what it is, the openness, the fact that nobody here makes you apologize for existing. She’s got freckles everywhere, the kind that make you stupid.
She surfs. That’s the thing that matters. I’m not talking about the professional shots, I mean the image of her in the water at Fuerteventura, that clear blue water that actually looks like it could exist, moving through it like that’s where she belongs. That’s what does it.
She works in project management, thinks clearly about what she wants. Prefers the east side of Berlin—Lichtenberg—for the street art and the atmosphere. Those are the kinds of details that tell you everything. She’s not interested in casual encounters. Needs feeling, passion, trust. If it’s all there, she’s game for adventure. She’s particular about food too, actually cares about it, which means someone who cooks thoughtfully can win her over.
I’m not that person. My cooking ends with burnt pasta and a call to the pizza place. But at least it’s honest. What actually appeals to me is the clarity—knowing the difference between sex and intimacy, tasting your food, refusing to settle on what matters. That kind of refusal is its own kind of beautiful.
Every few years some tired coalition of lobbyists and career politicians figures out a new way to break the internet. This time it’s Article 13—a copyright filter that the EU is about to ram through because tech regulation is too hard and industry lawyers speak louder than anyone else.
The filter would scan everything you upload—video, image, music, meme, remix, whatever—for copyright violations before it ever sees the light. Sounds reasonable if you’re a Sony lawyer. It’s apocalyptic if you’ve ever made anything.
The thing about automated filters is they don’t understand context. A reaction video gets flagged. A song playing in the background of your story gets killed. Fair use doesn’t exist. Parody doesn’t exist. The whole weird anarchic culture that made the internet worth a damn in the first place—fan edits, mashups, commentary, jokes, the constant remix and riff and response—all of it gets smoothed into silence.
I’ve watched people say this won’t happen. That it’ll be fine. That the algorithms are smart enough. They’re not. They’ve never been. And even if they were, we’d just be trading one kind of failure for another—one where the people who built this thing no longer get to decide what they do with it.
The irony is almost perfect. Axel Voss, the CDU politician pushing this, has been sued for copyright violations on his own Facebook page. He’d be the first one flagged by his own filter. But he won’t be. That’s how these things work.
German YouTubers like Gronkh and LeFloid are putting up a fight, and honestly, at least someone is. The petition hit five million signatures. But signatures don’t matter to people who’ve already decided. It takes bodies in the street. Demos. Noise. That’s what killed ACTA. That’s what might kill this, if anyone still gives enough of a shit.
In a few weeks the European Parliament votes. After that, the internet looks different. Not overnight. Just slowly worse. Less strange, less surprising, less made by people who just wanted to make something. More managed. More safe. More dead.
Japan has a rental friend service called Family Romance. Pay them, they send someone to your event who’ll smile at your jokes and act interested, and the founder Yuichi Ishii guarantees at least 100 Instagram likes. It’s the most honest thing I’ve heard from a service that’s technically not about dating at all.
A VICE editor named Kumpei Kuwamoto hired them for his birthday. Rather than sit alone at his own party, he rented a human. The photos came out great. He looked happy. There were other people in the frame. For that evening, his Friday night looked inhabited.
The insanity is how much sense this makes. There’s a real gap between how people actually spend their nights—delivery apps, their apartments, spaces arranged to be perfect for being alone—and how it looks on the feed. Family Romance isn’t the first to notice the gap, but they’re the only ones admitting what they’re selling: not friendship, not therapy, not community. Just the props. Just evidence that someone wanted to be near you.
Everyone’s faking it anyway. Family Romance just charges for the concentrated version instead of spreading the lie across 50 posts a week. There’s something almost respectable about the clarity.
The hard part is after they leave. When the person thanks you and heads out and you’re back to being alone. Your apartment doesn’t change. Your night is still what it was. You’ve got the pictures now, and the knowledge that you paid money to borrow some company. The Instagram likes will stay. The person won’t.
Maisie Peters was eighteen when she decided to make music her actual life and moved to London. Summer 2018: she was in studios every day while her friends were home doing normal eighteen-year-old things. “Stay Young” is what she made from that distance—a song about the moment you realize you’re already changing, becoming someone new, even as you’re promising your old friends nothing will.
The specificity of it interested me. Not a generic song about growing up, but about that particular age, that particular move. She wrote it partly as a promise to her friends—that distance wouldn’t matter, that she’d stay the same—but the emotional point is that you can’t keep that promise. You’re already someone else by the time you understand what happened. The people you love are still who they were. You’re not.
There’s something honest about writing a song from that moment. Whether it actually works as music is another question—that depends on the voice, the production, all the technical things that have to go right. But the impulse is real: eighteen in a new city, trying to hold onto something you’re already losing.
The thing about the nineties is how much was allowed to exist at the same time. The eighties had their dark glamour and bad hair, the two thousands became this beige nightmare of minimalism and taupe everything, but the nineties? Anything went. Fluorescent, clashing, maximalist, sincere, ironic, earnest — it was all acceptable. You could be terrible and it didn’t matter because everyone was terrible in a different way.
There was something genuine about that maximalism that you don’t get now. Smiley faces pressed into everything, this sense that more color, more logos, more of everything was unambiguously good. The music was digital and enthusiastic, the fashion was loud, the early web was unfinished and you could see the cables showing. None of it was trying to be tasteful. It was just optimistic.
Now the generation that actually lived through it has money and buying power, which is how we get to where we are — every brand pulling from that archive because it sells. Reebok’s doing it, everyone else is doing it. Heritage sneakers coming back, oversized tracksuits, that whole vocabulary of excess. It works because that era wasn’t trying to be cool. It was just loud.
The weird thing is that these revivals feel more authentic than anything being designed fresh. A Reebok from 1995 meant something different than a reissue now — one was the thing itself, and one is nostalgia wearing the thing’s clothes. But the original had this absolute conviction that more was better. Bigger logos, brighter colors, chunkier shoes, fewer apologies.
I get the appeal now. Not because I want to be a teenager again, but because there was something fearless about that decade, even if the fear was just about looking ridiculous. Which you did. Which everyone did. And nobody cared.
I spent weekends as a kid sitting in front of my Super Nintendo, daydreaming about designing my own Super Mario World levels. A ghost house full of red Yoshis. An underwater level with Koopas everywhere. A forest of doors, each hiding some impossible puzzle. I’d grin to myself, knowing that someday I’d actually build all this.
That someday came in 2015 with Super Mario Maker on the Wii U. Not quite what I’d imagined, but close enough. You could design levels across different Mario styles, upload them, see what thousands of other people were making. The internet filled with brilliant designs and absolutely sadistic kaizo levels that required inhuman skill. I made some mediocre ones. Didn’t matter. I was finally doing it.
Super Mario Maker 2 landed on Switch with better tools. I lost months to it, building levels I’d never finish, entire worlds that only exist on my console. There’s something about building these little spaces, even if nobody plays them, even if they’re not good. Finally got what I wanted as a kid. Finally got to make my own Mario games.
I remember scrolling through this Tokyo street-style account and getting caught. The girl had pink hair, Harajuku fashion sense, perfect proportions, shots from all the right places. The kind of Instagram that made you feel behind on your taste level. Then something nagged at me—the skin too smooth, the light always falling the same way, the proportions just slightly too ideal. This wasn’t a very good Photoshopped account. This was CGI.
Her name is Imma. She’s a virtual Instagram model created by a company called Modeling Cafe, and the whole operation feels like the logical next step for an industry that’s been chasing an impossible standard for twenty years. If you can’t find a real person who looks perfect enough, render one. She posts shots of herself in Tokyo’s expensive neighborhoods, wearing clothes that cost real money to design and manufacture. She has followers. She has a story. She doesn’t exist.
What’s interesting is that she’s not trying to hide it. The company doesn’t position her as a secret project or some discovered hoax. She just is what she is—a digital person with an Instagram account. She’s styled like a real person would want to look, designed to be aspirational in the specific Tokyo sense: fashionable, slightly edgy, always somewhere worth being.
There’s something almost honest about it, in a weird way. With a real influencer, you get the pretense of authenticity—the carefully curated chaos, the “real me” confessional, the sense that there’s a human being on the other end with actual desires and flaws. Imma dispenses with all that. She’s pure image. She’s what an Instagram model would look like if you removed the human baggage entirely. No scandals, no disappointments, no aging out of relevance. Just the idea of a girl who looks good in Harajuku.
The comparison to Miku Hatsune is obvious. Both are digital, both are Japanese, both have built genuine cultural presence despite the fact that they’re not real. But Miku makes no attempt at photorealism. She’s clearly digital, clearly an artifact, and that transparency is what makes her powerful—you’re not being fooled, you’re choosing to engage with something explicitly artificial. Imma does the opposite. She’s almost convincing enough to forget about.
I think about what Modeling Cafe probably wanted: a virtual person who could wear different brands’ clothes in promotional shoots without the complications of a real person, who would never age or demand more money or have opinions that didn’t align with the corporate partnership. The perfect employee who isn’t a person at all.
Following Imma feels like following nobody. Not in some deep way—I mean literally watching pixels arranged to look like a person you could never actually know. She’s real enough to look at and find beautiful. She’ll never think about you. She’ll never have an off day and post something weird. She’ll never grow in any way that matters. That’s probably exactly the appeal.
Karl Lagerfeld is dead. That shouldn’t require explanation. But it does. Everyone knows what it means—a man people called arrogant and brilliant and ruthless and visionary, hated and loved simultaneously. He didn’t apologize or explain himself. I think he was exactly what he claimed to be: an icon, a thinker, someone who reshaped how the world looked through pure force of will.
He was born sometime between 1935 and 1938, grew up wealthy in Hamburg, moved to Paris with his mother in the fifties. That’s when everything shifted—not just for him, for fashion entirely. He became the architect of Chanel, took a house that had already reshaped how people saw themselves, and pushed it further into something harder and more beautiful. Then he went his own way, worked under his own name, made the present and future look like he’d designed them.
“If you wear sweatpants, you’ve lost control of your life.” He said things like that and meant every word. He was the last real authority in fashion. The last person who could reshape an entire industry through taste and will alone. After him there’s just noise—everyone doing their own thing, no one at the center anymore. Without the white ponytail, the dark glasses, without his instinct for finding the right woman—Claudia, Lara, Toni—to embody what he saw, fashion becomes smaller. Quieter. Less itself.
I’m not sure what comes next. A world without Karl Lagerfeld is hard to imagine.
I remember this South Park episode where Jimmy and Timmy discover the Crips and want to join, but the Bloods show up and start executing half the gang, and then someone tries to broker peace in a gymnasium. Watching Blueface’s “Thotiana Remix” video, I thought about that episode because he somehow pulled off what the cartoon kids couldn’t—got actual Bloods and Crips in the same shot.
Blueface is twenty-two, a former quarterback from LA, and basically the most hyped rapper at the moment. He had this strip club track called “Thotiana” last year that somehow went global. Drake cosigned it, Ice Cube cosigned it, it hit fifty million Spotify streams, Nicki Minaj did an unofficial remix. Now he’s doing a video that feels like something beyond a typical flex.
Cardi B raps on the remix—fresh off two Grammys. YG’s in it too, and he’s actually a Blood, like actually in the gang. Blueface shows up in red. Cole Bennett directed it, the Lyrical Lemonade guy who’s practically shot every major rap video in the last few years, and he made a video where the red and blue don’t mean violence. They just mean everyone’s in the same room.
I don’t know. It’s a music video. It won’t fix anything. But Cole Bennett got rival gang members on set together, and they showed up, and that matters. It’s one of those small, stupid, beautiful things that reminds me why I even care about any of this.
The Sleek is the kind of shoe that works because it doesn’t ask permission. Clean leather. Perforated three stripes. A window for the logo. Colored sole. Adidas kept the silhouette and changed the color—five times. Pink and red, white and yellow, white and pink, pale blue, black leather.
There’s a design lesson in this. Not every good idea needs to be complicated. Sometimes you find something that sits right and you let variations of it breathe. The shoe doesn’t change much between versions—structure, details, proportions all the same. But which one you reach for on a given morning is different every time. Context, mood, what else is in the rotation. The pale blue one feels different from the black one, not because one is better, just because they live in different parts of your mind.
I could want all five, or just one. The shoe itself doesn’t demand anything of you. It just works. That’s rare enough to notice.
What grabbed me about Astral Chain wasn’t the premise—it was the creative lineup. Masakazu Katsura handled the character design. He did Zetman and Video Girl Ai, both with this gorgeous kinetic energy that just moves on the page. Takahisa Taura is directing, and he came up as a game designer on NieR: Automata. Hideki Kamiya, who created Bayonetta, is involved. That’s a specific enough combination that the game stops feeling like a generic cyberpunk announcement and starts feeling like a genuine creative vision.
A future city, glaringly bright and constantly blinking, is under siege by creatures pouring through portals from another dimension. You’re part of a special police unit called Neuron trying to hold the line. Your partner is Legion, a humanoid weapon that fights alongside you. The combat is built around that partnership. You can attack the same enemy together, split up and handle different threats, or let Legion take the lead while you support it. It’s not the usual companion system where an AI just tags along. Legion is integral to how you fight.
Platinum Games knows how to make action feel tight and responsive, and the visual excess here—that constantly blinking metropolis—is exactly what you’d expect from them. Whether the game underneath actually holds up is another question. The partner synergy angle can either feel like a genuine tactical choice or like babysitting an AI. But I’m curious enough to find out. Late August, exclusive to Switch.
Nothing connects Avril Lavigne and Nicki Minaj except they’re both massive in pop music, which barely counts as a connection. Avril came through rejecting the idea that female pop stars had to be perfect. Nicki came through and said perfect was boring—she’d be weird and in total control. Different eras, different everything. I think about them together anyway because they both refused the script.
Watching two people with genuine star power actually look like they’re having fun together in a video hits different. No pretense, no manufactured tension, just Cardi being Cardi and Bruno doing that thing where he seems to be in on a joke only he knows. The flirting works because neither of them is trying too hard — it’s easy, the way it should be. You can feel the chemistry, but more than that, you get the sense they’re actually enjoying the moment, not performing enjoyment for a paycheck. That’s rarer than it should be.
Robyn spent eight years away and I didn’t realize how much I’d been waiting for her until she came back. “Honey” last October didn’t feel like a comeback—it felt like someone picking up mid-conversation. “Missing U,” “Because It’s in the Music,” the new video for “Send to Robin Immediately”—all of it confident in a way that reboots usually aren’t.
She’s Swedish, which shapes how she makes pop. There’s no softening, no apology. “Dancing on My Own,” “With Every Heartbeat,” “Hang with Me”—those songs got under my skin because they sounded like thinking, not performing. “Body Talk” in 2010 felt complete, like she’d said everything she needed to and was done. Then eight years of silence.
The return comes with a streetwear collection called RBN, made with the stylist Naomi Itkes and the label Björn Borg. It’s sportswear and workwear informed by Robyn’s own style and the Björn Borg archives from the 80s—which seems random until you realize it’s exactly how she thinks: looking backward for raw materials, not for something to resurrect.
What strikes me is that she didn’t come back needing to prove anything. The music, the fashion, it all moves forward like the silence was just a pause. I don’t know what’s next, but I know she does.
I tell people A Link to the Past is my favorite Zelda game because the Super Nintendo is objectively the best console ever made and there’s no argument. But in those late-night honest moments, alone with myself, I’ll admit that Majora’s Mask and Link’s Awakening sit deeper in my actual heart. The first for how dark and strange it gets. The second because it’s such a perfect, tight little game—every stone placed right, every flower, every enemy exactly where it needs to be.
The Game Boy version came out in 1993, fitting the whole world into that gray brick you could carry. You’d think the limits would break something, but the game just got tighter, more focused. Link ends up on Cocolint, an island in someone else’s dream, where the Wind Fish sleeps and Marin waits and a chatty owl exists and everyone is moving toward something sad they don’t have names for. The whole game carries this melancholy with it, the kind the bigger Zelda games never quite manage to sustain. Everything feels like it could disappear at any moment.
Nintendo remade it for Switch with cute toy-box graphics. The visuals are all bright and cheerful, which is funny because the game itself is so melancholic. Doesn’t matter though. The original’s still there, still perfect.
I knew they were doing Playboy before I saw it. Radio Energy—those voices everywhere across Germany, same women in different markets. Julia, Natali, Daniela, Elisa, Janine. Suddenly nude in the magazine, March 2019.
The nudity’s the obvious story. What actually comes through is reading what they want. Janine needs humor and an impression that lands immediately. Julia rejects handsome men entirely—she wants something strange, something that stands out. Natali goes for artists, people genuinely obsessed with making things. They’re specific about desire. That specificity matters.
Radio is pure voice. You invent someone’s face from their voice, and it’s probably nothing like who they actually are. Then they appear naked in a magazine and the thing you imagined collides with the thing that’s real. It’s an odd moment. More honest than Playboy probably intended.
Everyone would sleep with Justin Timberlake. Unanimous.
MTV still exists. Barely. No music videos—the internet took care of that. I won’t watch what they broadcast now. Everything was better. The logo’s gone forever. I’d resurrect the whole channel if it meant eternal Daria reruns. The M doesn’t stand for my name. Dumping it to pay-TV was inexcusable.
But here’s what matters: MTV shaped everything. Michael Jackson, Madonna, A-ha—they’re monumental because MTV made them feel inevitable. The channel could trigger this sensation that something massive was happening without you ever being able to articulate what. That feeling was the whole point. And personally, I owe MTV forever for Nora Tschirner. That’s worth more than explaining.
When Puma decides to collaborate with MTV, it means something real. Not because the channel works anymore—it doesn’t. But because MTV itself survived the death. The aesthetic did. The attitude did. That forward-facing aggression is still moving through culture. Puma’s releasing clothes with bulky future-retro shapes and neon everywhere, all that energetic push into whatever’s next. It’s not trying to resurrect MTV. MTV is dead as a channel. MTV never died as an idea.
She posted photos from the beach with her friends, and she was just there—in a white bikini, nothing retouched, no sucking in. Her stomach showed. No big deal, except it kind of was.
I’d gotten used to the version of Instagram where everyone looked airbrushed into a different species. You stop noticing it after a while, the little adjustments, the filters, the angles that hide what you’ve learned to be ashamed of. Showing up as a fictional version of yourself becomes the baseline.
Seeing her photos felt like watching someone break a rule I didn’t know existed. Just posted them. The kind of casual documentation that Instagram used to be, before it became a performance, before looking like an actual person felt like a risk. Not revolutionary, just human in a way that’s embarrassing to call brave.
There’s that thing where you remember being paranoid about your own photos. The internal calculation—what’s acceptable to show, which version of yourself is the right balance between visible and palatable. It’s work you don’t recognize as work until you stop doing it, or until you see someone else stop and realize how much energy it takes.
I don’t know if it changes anything about how Instagram functions. The algorithm doesn’t reward being human. The whole culture keeps grinding toward more polish, more distance from anything real. But there was something in that choice that stuck—the choice not to perform, not to edit yourself into acceptability.
In Hard White, Nicki trades her usual color explosion for monochrome and darkness, styles herself as some underworld queen. It’s the kind of move that could feel like obvious parody in anyone else’s hands. But she commits completely, and that commitment is what makes it work. You watch and believe she’s running whatever dark space the video builds because she’s always been good at making you believe she’s in control. Aesthetic shift, sure, but the fundamentals stay the same.
Marshmello performed a concert in Fortnite, ten minutes in Pleasant Park with cartoon characters bouncing around him. It was what you’d expect—bright, chaotic, a thing to witness once and forget.
This happened before. Second Life had digital concerts too, years ago, with the same sense that entertainment was about to completely dematerialize. Celebrities showing up in the metaverse, brands opening storefronts, everyone convinced this was how people would experience culture from now on. But it didn’t stick because you can already hear any song you want whenever you want. The experience isn’t the music. It’s being somewhere at the same time as everyone else, and a game doesn’t really deliver that.
Marshmello’s a natural fit anyway. He’s one of those SoundCloud producers who somehow built a career bigger than anyone expected—”WaVeZ” dropped in 2015, and people latched on. The oversized white helmet, the anonymity, the brand of staying opaque while remaining omnipresent. He’s everywhere: collabs, social media, YouTube cooking tutorials where he’s still in costume. For people who grew up with Twitch and Discord, he feels native to a game in a way most musicians don’t.
The concert itself was forgettable mechanics—dancing emotes, a big stage, music playing. But the question that surfaced with Second Life and never really went away keeps coming back: are we looking at the future of entertainment, or just a platform trying to monetize its audience through novelty?
I think the appeal is simpler than people admit. No one’s there for the music—the music exists everywhere. They’re there to be part of something, to say they were there when it happened. A game makes that easy. There’s no real experience, no difference from watching a video, but it feels exclusive, it feels like a moment. That feeling is enough.
And it works, so it’ll keep happening. As long as there’s a platform with millions of players, someone will figure out how to turn it into an event. Marshmello will do another one, and someone else will follow, and in a few years this won’t feel novel anymore. It’ll just be another distribution channel, the same as a YouTube stream, a Spotify drop, a TikTok trend. The medium changes, the hunger to be part of the moment stays the same.
I wasn’t expecting much from “When I Die” until it started. No intro, no hook—just Alma’s voice saying the title plainly. That’s her whole approach. No managed entry point, no consideration of whether you’re ready. Just the thing itself.
She’s Finnish, twenty-three, and her sound has nothing in common with what pop music is supposed to sound like right now. There’s rap in the production, soul underneath, all this urban material that somehow combines into something sharp and vulnerable at once. Cool but also immediate and exposed. The contradictions don’t feel like mistakes. They feel like choices, and each one is committed to completely.
Her debut album “Have You Seen Her?” is coming out soon. The songs read like she’s processing something in real time—difficult subjects, things that don’t have endings. But there’s no performance to the sadness. No “witness my pain” energy. She just says what happened and lets the music carry it. Most artists sand down their contradictions to be more palatable. She amplifies hers.
What you notice, if you listen to enough pop music, is how thoroughly it gets flattened by the time it reaches you. Everything softened, mediated, made safe for mass consumption. Alma sounds like she either refused that or never thought about it in the first place. Something in her just runs at an angle to the machinery, and it means her music hits differently. There’s nothing fake about it, which is rare enough that it changes how you hear everything else.
Shangguan Zhe runs Sankuanz under a concept he calls “Kill the Wall”—which shows up in everything: fragments of contemporary art mixed into vintage sportswear, uniform aesthetics made strange, visual language that doesn’t respect clean boundaries. He treats streetwear like actual art rather than product, pulling from subcultures and following a real grammar: oversized midsoles that look almost deliberately clumsy, earth tones interrupted by neon, 90s shoe shapes rebuilt at new scale.
The Chinese streetwear scene has been making noise for years, but there’s something different about Zhe’s work. There’s honesty in it. He’s not trying to teach you about design history or fill a market gap. He’s just following an idea—this idea of breaking down walls—wherever it leads. You see that less than you’d think in collaborative work, where most of the time it feels like nobody had an actual opinion about anything except the business terms.
Puma brought him in for a capsule that reads like a Shangguan Zhe primer: Cell Endura, Cali, RS-X, Thunder, all rebuilt with characteristic thick soles and reflective details, neon against muted tones. The pairing makes sense on paper—Puma gets cultural credibility without risking much, Zhe gets distribution to places he wouldn’t reach on his own. But the real test is whether something this specific survives being flattened into a scroll feed. Specific visions don’t usually make it through that intact.
Still, the perspective is visible from the photos. You can see what he was thinking. Most collaborative announcements don’t give you that much.
Drew House is Justin Bieber’s streetwear brand, and it’s beige and maroon and navy—colors that exist but barely register when you look at them. T-shirts for sixty bucks, hoodies for more, a smiley face logo that looks like he spent maybe an afternoon on it.
What gets interesting is how thoroughly unambitious the whole thing is. Every other celebrity jumping into fashion is desperate to prove something, throwing colors everywhere, ornament on top of ornament, screaming for attention. Bieber just made clothes that look like something a middle-aged guy would wear to Whole Foods and charged a fortune for his name stitched in.
Maybe that’s intentional. Maybe in a market that’s exhausted from trying to be louder and more visible, there’s something almost honest about not trying at all. Or maybe it’s just a cynical way to move product without actually designing anything, and I’m giving him credit for what’s really just laziness and mathematics. Hard to say.
The clothes are real. They exist. People will buy them or won’t. And somewhere in all of that, Bieber knows exactly how little effort went into this, which is either the most intelligent thing a celebrity can do in this moment or the most contemptuous. It’s genuinely hard to tell which.
Raw salmon, sashimi, the whole thing — I could eat nothing but sushi for the rest of my life. The texture of it on my tongue, perfectly steamed rice, a soy sauce thick enough to actually taste. I’d do it for breakfast, lunch, dinner, every meal, until food poisoning or some ocean parasite took me out. And I wouldn’t even care.
Nozomu Abe runs a restaurant in New York called Sushi Noz, and in certain circles he’s stopped being human and become a god. The precision with which he works the day’s fish, the refusal to make anything optional — it’s almost religious. He’s built this place that doesn’t compromise, that could sit in the middle of Tokyo and nobody would know the difference.
What gets me about people like that is the understanding that one perfect piece, handled exactly right, means more than a thousand careless meals. It’s the kind of thinking I recognize from my own work — the moment you stop asking “is this good enough” and start asking “is this exactly right.” They’re questions that lead somewhere different.
I’ll probably never eat at Sushi Noz. It would destroy me. But I like that it exists. That there’s still a corner of New York, or any city, where someone’s committed enough to something that specific, that small. Where obsession still looks like the right choice.
I watched “The L Word” in a very particular state of mind for a long time. These women on screen—Shane with her perfect hair, Dana caught between everything, Alice sharp and impossible—didn’t need to do anything special for it to register. The show let you look at them without shame, without irony, without the usual defenses. It was disarming.
“The L Word” was about lesbian women in Los Angeles, but that’s just the premise. What made it work was simpler: these characters were allowed to be complicated and sexual and fucked up without the show lecturing you about it. They had jobs and relationships and ambitions, and none of it was treated like a tragedy or a statement. Jenny showed up from the Midwest into this world of a museum director, a café owner, a hairdresser, a tennis player—and the show was genuinely interested in what that world did to her, what she wanted from it, what it cost her.
I just found out it’s coming back. Eight new episodes, Ilene Chaiken running it again. Which is weird to sit with, because most revivals are disasters—they’re just people performing the idea of who they used to be. “Gilmore Girls” came back and it was embarrassing. But I’m also curious. I want to know if the show still has it, that particular thing that made watching it feel like you were seeing something true instead of something designed to be safe.
The strange part about loving something like that is you never quite shake it. You move on, watch other things, forget about it for long stretches, but knowing it exists stays with you. When it comes back, you’re interested despite yourself. You want to see what happens next.
I’ll watch when it comes out. I’m not expecting to feel what I felt before—you can’t go back to that. But I’m curious whether the show can still do what it did, still give you that permission to feel things without apology. Whether it’s still unflinching. That’s what it always had that most television doesn’t: it looked directly at desire and complication and made room for both without flinching.
She sings about buying herself expensive things. No tragedy narrative, no redemption arc, just a woman who’s been through hell saying I’m going to buy myself rings and not explain why. That’s the whole song—Ariana on “7 Rings,” the 2 Chainz remix.
It’s deliberately light, bubblegum pop. The line that catches me is the one about having been through bad shit (“I should be a sad bitch”), but instead of that being what the song is about, it’s just context for the real subject: spending money on yourself without guilt. She has this line about how whoever said money doesn’t solve problems never had enough money. It’s cynical but also completely true.
After Manchester. After Mac Miller died. After Pete Davidson. Watching her make a song that doesn’t turn any of that into a lesson or a redemption story—that doesn’t try to perform healing—feels like something. She’s not singing about resilience. She’s just saying: I earned the right to buy myself nice things and I don’t owe anyone an apology for it.
2 Chainz is there mostly to co-sign the whole thing, which is all it needs. The song doesn’t pretend to be more than it is. There’s something honest about refusing to inflate the moment. Sometimes a song about buying yourself rings is just a song about buying yourself rings, and that’s enough.
The video for “Bury a Friend” unsettled me in a way I hadn’t expected. Michael Chaves directed it, and it doesn’t try to be disturbing so much as sit with genuine unease. Billie Eilish was seventeen, working with her brother Finneas on production, and they moved together in the mix like they’d already done this a hundred times.
What struck me was the absence of reaching. No moment where she sounded like she was trying to be a pop star or prove something. Every production choice—the minimalism, the way her voice sits in all that space—felt deliberate and actual. And the visual side matched it exactly. The aesthetic was fully formed.
I’d been watching a lot of artists her age trying to find a lane, shifting direction every few months. Billie Eilish sounded like she’d already seen that game and opted out. *When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go?* came out in March, and it felt less like a debut and more like someone following through on something she’d already decided. Tracks like “All the Good Girls Go to Hell,” “My Strange Addiction,” “Listen Before i Go”—there was range within a locked sensibility. Production that knew exactly what it was doing.
That kind of certainty at seventeen is disarming. You don’t expect it. Most people that age sound like they’re testing things, trying to figure out what works. She sounded like she’d already chosen and made peace with it.
Game Two hit 100 episodes. The show’s been going since MTV killed Game One a couple years back, which means Budi, Simon, Etienne, Nils, and whoever else shows up has somehow managed to keep talking about video games on German public television without anyone pulling the plug. They’re good at it — they know how to actually engage with games instead of just reporting on them.
For the 100th, they didn’t do a clip show or a retrospective. They made a dystopian action film. Plot about saving the world from a YouTube monopoly, which is funny because it means they were thinking about the actual stakes of internet culture and not just the mechanics of the show itself. Nearly 90 minutes, actual production, insider jokes throughout. The kind of thing you come up with after you’ve been working together long enough to trust each other with something that stupid and ambitious.
I like that instinct — the moment when a crew decides it’s earned the right to try something outside the format. Most shows never get there. Most shows either run out of ideas before they find the confidence, or they hit an audience size and a network just grinds the format into dust until nobody cares anymore. Game Two made 100 episodes and then made a film. That’s the thing worth noting.
I’ve been missing Rick & Morty in a way that’s starting to feel pathological. Three full seasons of a drunk inventor and his anxious teenage grandson careening through infinite universes—each episode crammed with casual brutality and jokes that land harder because they never announce themselves. It’s the best thing animated television has managed, at least if you care about that sort of thing.
Adult Swim dropped a teaser for the new season and it’s exactly as disorienting as the show should be. Everything’s fractured and wrong, the animation itself splintering into something between a living creature and static, Rick and Morty dissolving into this unstable mass of color and teeth and void. The whole thing is incomprehensible. Which is perfect—just proof the show still remembers how to be genuinely unsettling, all the chaos buried under the jokes.
The wait between seasons has been long enough to hurt. But seeing that teaser hit my timeline yesterday actually changed something. It’s happening. Soon we’re diving back into that specific brand of chaos and I’m already there, ready to go.
Simon Bolz, the photographer, said something pretty straightforward in his caption about Marie: she’s “such a positive and open young woman” and “extremely photogenic.” Looking at the photos, you can see it immediately. She looks comfortable. Not like someone performing comfort or playing a part – just actually there.
Marie is 22, from Giessen, used to be on Germany’s Next Top Model show. She did this shoot in Spain for Playboy’s February 2019 issue. She’s a rock and metal fan, started playing guitar at thirteen, was in a band for a while. Just naturally uninhibited.
What stuck with me from the interview was how she talked about sex and relationships. “If there’s no desire, no passion – just routine and a head that’s not really there – I’d rather not.” And then: “You have to have fun and let yourself fall.” That kind of honesty doesn’t usually make it into print. Most people soften it. She didn’t.
Looking back at these photos now, years later, what’s actually interesting is how genuinely at-ease she is. Not performing that ease – actually at ease. It’s harder to capture in professional photography than you’d think. Usually there’s some kind of tension underneath, some awareness of the camera. Not here.
Converse is selling sneakers with hearts on them for Valentine’s Day.
On the surface, it’s a completely transparent marketing play—find a holiday, slap a symbol on the product, done. But there’s something almost honest about it. These are Chuck Taylors and Chuck 70s, shoes that already exist, that people already know and wear. You’re not inventing some limited-edition exclusive moment. You’re just adding hearts to something solid and letting people decide if they want to walk around saying something.
The collection has two approaches: the “Sucker for Love” line keeps the hearts subtle, trading the typical Converse star for heart details. Then there’s “Love the Progress,” which doesn’t fuck around—hearts everywhere. No hiding what you’re about.
I get the appeal. Converse are cheap enough that you won’t feel stupid in six months when February’s dead and the hearts feel embarrassing. They’re cool enough that you don’t have to pretend you don’t care about how you look. And unlike flowers or chocolate, they actually last. You wear them. You’re literally moving through the world in something someone picked for you because they thought about you.
The shoes come in blue, red, and some pale peachy-yellow thing that probably looks good on the right person. Sixty-five to a hundred and ten euros. They’re available now if you want them.
Valentine’s gifts are always this weird translation problem—you’re trying to say something and you buy a thing instead. The thing has to carry the meaning somehow. Most gifts fail because they’re too arbitrary or too aggressive. But shoes work. They’re something you use. And if you’re wearing hearts, you’re literally saying something every single time you step outside.
There’s something almost defiant about Kingdom Hearts as a series — the idea that you can smash Disney and Final Fantasy together, throw in a teenager with a giant key for a sword, add mythology about light and darkness and hearts, and somehow make it all land. It shouldn’t work. It keeps working.
KH3 finally came out and after the wait, the experience is exactly what you’d expect if you’ve played the others. You’re in Frozen, then Pirates of the Caribbean, then Tangled, moving between worlds with Sora and Donald and Goofy, collecting allies and keychains and fighting an ongoing battle with darkness. The Keyblade transforms into different shapes mid-combo, you summon Disney rides as weapons, you ride ice slides created by magic. It’s visually absurd and almost aggressively flashy.
The game is really three things in rotation: talking, running, and fighting. Exposition, movement, combat. Each one takes its time. If you’re impatient with any of them, you’ll feel the other two dragging. And the story — god, the story. If you haven’t played the six or seven prior games (depending on how you count them), you’ll need YouTube just to understand who’s talking about what. I had to relearn entire character arcs I’d forgotten.
But there’s something endearing about how earnest KH3 is about its own absurdity. The plot about light and darkness and friendship takes itself completely seriously while happening inside Arendelle and the world of Ratatouille. Somehow, by the end, you’ve gotten attached to these people and you care what happens to them, even though it’s ridiculous.
The combat is dumb and fun — thirty combos stacked into a single fight, your numbers rising while explosions bloom behind the characters. The soundtrack is reliably orchestral and dramatic. Hikaru Utada came back for the main theme, Skrillex got involved somehow, and it all works in that way Japanese games make orchestral music work.
It’s a game for people who got attached to Kingdom Hearts when they were young and never let go, who think mixing Disney and anime action is the most interesting idea in gaming, who don’t mind that the story requires a flowchart. If you want coherent narrative structure, you’re in the wrong place. If you want to spend thirty hours in a mashup of everything, comfortable and familiar and deeply, unapologetically strange, this is exactly what it’s always been.
I’ve never been sure what kind of horror fan I am. Splatter stuff, all gore and screaming? Or those so-badly-made films where the cheap effects become weirdly comforting? Or real thrillers that actually burrow into your skull?
Dan Gilroy’s new film on Netflix starts clean—a minimal look at the Los Angeles art world, where everything gets cranked up to insane levels just to register as valuable anymore. The people playing the game find out they’re becoming the artwork, though, and it gets savage. It’s what happens when taste becomes currency and currency becomes deadly.
With Gyllenhaal, Rene Russo, Toni Collette, Zawe Ashton, Tom Sturridge, Natalia Dyer, Daveed Diggs, Billy Magnussen, and John Malkovich, it scratches an itch if you’re tired of beautiful idiots stumbling into the woods and becoming dinner. There’s real satisfaction in watching a world built on performed sophistication actually collapse.
Five out of eighteen sex toys tested by Stiftung Warentest failed because they’re loaded with actual poison. DEHP, which damages fertility. Phenol, which might cause genetic defects. Nickel, which triggers allergies. Polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, which are possibly carcinogenic. The other thirteen mostly passed, which is something.
What struck me is that there are no regulations for this stuff. No standards at all. You can put almost anything in something made of silicone and sell it, and there’s nothing stopping you. Dr. Wagner-Leifhelm from the test said it plainly: these things have direct mucous membrane contact. Your body absorbs things through those tissues. It matters what’s touching you there.
I’ve bought cheap toys without thinking about it. You see one online with decent reviews, you order it. Nobody’s thinking “I wonder if this is toxic.” That’s not how you shop for these things. You don’t read the materials list. You don’t check a safety database. You just assume it’s probably fine, the way you assume everything else sold legally is probably fine. Until something like this test comes out and you realize nobody’s actually checking.
The advice at the end—wrap it in a condom if you’re paranoid—just underscores how broken the situation is. But what else are you going to do? You can’t tell which ones are safe. There’s no label. There’s no database. The only way to know is if someone happens to test it, and they test maybe five a year. So you’re either gambling, or you’re just not using anything at all.
I spent years watching YouTube beauty vloggers with zero taste. They’d grab whatever was cheapest at the drugstore, film themselves in their bedrooms, and paint their faces like they’d never seen a mirror. Bibi, Daaruum, Dagi Bee—I watched them. I even bought their shit. Not my finest moment, but yeah.
Then Rihanna started uploading tutorials. She’s selling Fenty products, so she definitely wants our money. But at least she knows what she’s doing. The videos are stupid in the best way—just her applying makeup, sometimes grinning at the camera. “Wild Thoughts,” “Diamond Bomb,” whatever. I have no idea where to get Fenty or if they even sell it where I live. Doesn’t matter. I watch her put makeup on her face and I’m completely sold.
Obviously I’m not going to look like Rihanna if I somehow get the same products and follow along exactly. That’s not how this works. But watching her, for those few minutes, some dumb part of me believes I might.
And maybe someone will see me on the street and think for a split second that I look like Rihanna. Probably not. But I’ll just nod anyway. Why not.
I’ve loaded Chrono Trigger maybe five times since the ’90s, never finished it the same way twice. The branching endings meant you could always convince yourself there was more to see, another route through Zeal or another conversation at the End of Time. Masato Kato and Yasunori Mitsuda made something that felt inexhaustible.
They released a mobile RPG called Another Eden: The Cat Beyond Time and Space — time travel, ensemble cast, the standard JRPG machinery but assembled with thought. Free-to-play on iOS and Android, available in Japan, the US, Canada, South Korea, and a few other places. Not Europe yet. The game updates constantly and apparently has enough content to justify the name.
Chrono Trigger was their masterpiece. They could have stopped there, let the game sit untouched in everyone’s memory as the perfect thing. Instead they’re designing worlds, thinking about how to make time travel matter thematically instead of just mechanically. It’s not another Chrono Trigger. It’s them doing what they did before.
I haven’t played it. Mobile games always feel like they’re asking for something — money, attention, time — and what you get back doesn’t balance. The free-to-play model is a contract in small print. But knowing they’re out there building, that they didn’t stop, matters somehow. You don’t get to see that very often with the artists whose work actually stuck with you.
Puma’s got a shoe called the Cell Viper, and it’s based on Cell technology from 1998. Hexagonal cells in the midsole that were genuinely innovative at the time — not marketing, actual engineering. The shoe responded better, cushioned better. If you were paying attention, you could feel the difference.
They’ve brought it back now. The cells are visible on the new version, prominent and structural, white and yellow, the upper clean and spare. It’s minimal in a way that cuts against current sneaker culture — everything else is maximalism, layered details, design-by-committee collisions. This just trusts the structure to work.
I’ve watched the 90s get recycled back into the market for a few years now, and most of it is hollow — the aesthetic divorced from whatever made it matter. This might be different. Or I might just be weak to it. The shoe is genuinely well-designed, built on something that was real. Whether that means it’s worth wanting or just means I’m getting marketed to effectively, I can’t tell anymore. The line got too thin.
I found them through Spotify, one of those recommendation rabbit holes where you’re clicking around in playlists from people you actually trust for taste. Dahlia Sleeps—Luke Hester producing, Lucy Hill singing, a London band that’s been building quietly for a while now. The sound is skeletal: minimal electronics, reverb-heavy, but never woozy. Lucy’s voice is surprisingly warm against it, soulful in a way that catches you off guard.
You get the obvious comparisons floating around: London Grammar, The XX, Daughter. That general territory. But there’s something more direct here, less atmospheric in the way those bands sometimes are. Luke’s production feels confident in what it’s leaving out. A guitar appears when you’re not expecting it. The vocals sit right in the empty space like they belong there.
They’ve been at it since 2015, picked up a few EPs, millions of streams, the usual underground-to-semi-discovered arc. Then they dropped “Love, Lost” and did one of those music-video sessions with a fashion brand—Ellesse, I think. I watched for the actual performance, and it landed. Two songs: “Love, Lost” and “Storm,” both from the new EP. It’s clear they understand how their songs live in a room, in the real air, not just through speakers. The production doesn’t hide the performance; it frames it.
There was also this thing where Facebook pulled down their EP cover, which shows nude bodies, because the algorithm flagged it as obscene. The band pushed back on Instagram. It’s the kind of small stupid moment that follows music that isn’t trying to be safe, and honestly it says more about what we’re allowed to look at than about the band. Either way, it doesn’t touch what matters: the actual sound, the actual emotions in the songs.
The thing that sticks with me is how much air is in everything. Nothing feels cramped or over-produced. There’s real confidence in making something this sparse work, in trusting that empty space is doing something. I keep coming back to it at odd hours—not analyzing it, just listening. It feels like being in the room with someone thinking out loud.
Jonas Dassler plays Fritz Honka hunched and desperate, watching women in bars with the intensity of someone who will never be wanted. Fatih Akin’s film doesn’t romanticize him or apologize for depicting him—it just watches, patient and exact. Honka was a real killer in Hamburg, the 1970s, murdering prostitutes and keeping what was left in his apartment while neighbors complained about the smell. The film doesn’t turn that into spectacle. It makes it banal, which is worse.
Heinz Strunk’s novel came first. It’s not really about crime or morality—it’s a portrait of drowning, of beer and cheap bars and the Hamburg underworld, all the small desperations that don’t matter to anyone but the person feeling them. The novel was nominated for the Leipzig Prize, which tells you something about how German literature sits with its dark histories. Not as warning or judgment, but as fact.
The strange thing is how ordinary Akin makes it all feel. The bars are real, the music is the kind of schlager nobody under fifty wants to hear, the dialogue mundane. The killer isn’t a villain—he’s just a man, unremarkable until he isn’t. The film doesn’t let you feel superior to him or distance yourself. You’re there in those rooms hearing what he hears, understanding nothing.
I’m drawn to films that don’t compromise, that trust you to sit with something ugly without being told what to think. This one is blackly comic in places, bleak in others. There’s a scene in a bar I can’t shake—the way people respond to violence when it hasn’t happened yet. Everyone is complicit in some small way, and the film knows it.
You don’t leave thinking about the performances or the craft, though both are exact. You leave thinking about the gap between the life you live and the life you want, and how sometimes that gap has a smell. That’s what stays with you.
Someone found a bug in FaceTime group calls. You’d start a call and swipe up to add another person, but instead of entering their number you’d add your own. Now you’re listening in on the other person’s call without them knowing. Video works too. Just like that.
The timing is what makes it stupid. Apple spends most of their time telling you they’re different from the other tech companies, that they actually care about privacy, that your data is encrypted and safe and they don’t listen. That’s their whole pitch. And meanwhile anyone could tap into your calls if they knew this one trick.
The feature had been around since late 2018, so the bug could’ve been sitting there almost from the beginning. Someone could’ve been listening to you for months. Not as part of an investigation or anything official. Just because they wanted to. An ex, a parent, whoever had it out for you.
Apple killed group FaceTime when the bug came out, just turned it off. But then it came out that they’d apparently known about it for a week before doing anything. A week of leaving an eavesdropping exploit alive while people were using the feature.
The thing that got me is how fast all those promises about privacy just evaporate. One bug. One little interaction between features that goes wrong, and suddenly “your data is safe” means absolutely nothing. It doesn’t take a sophisticated attack. Doesn’t take hacking anything. You just add yourself to a call. That’s the depth of the protection they’re selling you.
Adidas brought back the Continental 80 in new colorways recently, and I found myself paying attention in a way I don’t usually about shoes. There’s something honest about a trainer that doesn’t try to be anything other than what it is — a court shoe from the 80s with good leather, a stripe, and a two-part cup sole. Nothing trying too hard, nothing overcomplicated.
The design works because it was made for a purpose. The leather is soft, the fit is right, the proportions are balanced. In an era when every brand is selling you innovation and technology, the Continental 80 just shows up and looks correct. No messaging, no story. Just a shoe that knows what it is.
Some colorways landed better than others, but the design is solid enough that even the weaker combinations read as intentional. There’s something satisfying about that kind of confidence — understanding that a good shoe doesn’t need anything else to justify its existence.
Sat.1 had this show where celebrities learn to skate with professionals. I don’t know why I started watching—it’s a stupid premise—but something about watching someone fall and get back up over weeks of practice is weirdly compelling. On ice, you can’t fake progress.
Annette Dytrt was one of the coaches. Five-time German champion, moves like someone who doesn’t have to think about movement. That kind of ease reads as power. It’s what makes ice skating so visually strange—the bodies look both effortless and impossible.
Ice skating has this cultural pull I’ve never quite understood. Sport and performance so tangled together you can’t separate them. The costumes are tight. The tradition goes back to Katarina Witt and before. Being beautiful is kind of the job. Athleticism and desire married in obvious ways. Annette recently did Playboy, which feels almost inevitable.
But what keeps me coming back is just the movement. Watching someone actually good at something. That’s its own thing.
I was genuinely obsessed with Pokémon Blue when I was younger. Knew every monster, every move, every hidden corner. Beat it something like a hundred times just trying to build the perfect team—Charizard, Mew, Articuno, Dragonite, Zapdos, Mewtwo—all so ridiculously overpowered that the whole game became almost trivial after the first playthrough.
Then after Crystal Edition, I stopped. I remember it pretty clearly. Saw some new Pokémon that looked like a keychain and just thought, this isn’t what I liked about this. The whole thing had gone too cute, too designed for someone younger, someone who didn’t care about the stuff that made it interesting.
For the next ten years I kept trying. Sun and Moon, X and Y, Pokémon Go—picked up each one thinking maybe this time it would work. But every new game felt like it was moving further away. The creatures got cuter, the whole vibe got sweeter and more manufactured. I wanted to hunt down evil organizations and face cocky rival trainers. The newer games didn’t have that—they felt like something else entirely, just wearing the same name.
Then Let’s Go Pikachu and Let’s Go Eevee came out, and it actually worked. They’re basically a remake of Yellow, set back in Kanto. Pick your starter—Pikachu or Eevee, though apparently Eevee’s huge in Japan—and go. Nothing revolutionary, but it’s straightforward in a way the modern stuff stopped being. The graphics are clean and bright without trying too hard. It doesn’t force cuteness at you.
And there’s something that just lands right about going back to where it started, with all those years sitting behind it. Maybe that’s just nostalgia doing what it does. Maybe I’m just older and different things matter now. But it works. Feels like coming back to something that mattered, and finding out it still does.
That new Puma Cali in purple is sitting in my head. The shoe itself is fine—tennis court design from the 80s, perforations and a chunky sole, nothing that’s going to change your life. But it works. There’s no apology in it, no self-consciousness about being retro.
I’ve been a Stan Smith guy for years. They’re the kind of shoe you don’t think about, which is the whole point. The Cali is the opposite—you notice it, but it doesn’t feel like it’s asking for permission.
Selena Gomez wearing them is the strategy. Puma looked at the market and realized they don’t have enough cultural weight to be cool on their own. So they signed people who do: Rihanna, The Weeknd, Selena. The CEO actually said this in an interview—get Gen-Z girls interested, and the boys automatically follow. It’s blunt and true. It’s also the entire system of how taste spreads.
But it only works if there’s something there to begin with. The shoe has to be fine. The design has to make sense. Then the right person shows up wearing it, and suddenly it matters. That’s when taste becomes contagious. Maybe that’s all taste ever is.
I still don’t know if I’d actually buy another sneaker. But I get why people would.
Ken Park showed up in 2002 with this brutal clarity that stuck with people. Larry Clark, Edward Lachman, and Harmony Korine made a follow-up to Kids that felt like a much more vicious film—quieter in some ways, more aware of itself. It’s about four teenagers in the dead space between LA and Fresno, all of them just existing in this vacuum. The opening is a suicide. There’s incest, religious dysfunction, murder, all treated with this flat documentary eye.
What surprised me was how Clark handled desire in this one. Kids was about corruption and collapse. Ken Park had sexuality that didn’t feel like evidence of damage—it felt like part of being young and alive. There’s tenderness in it. Not redemptive or anything, but present. Shawn and Rhonda together have this strange intimacy that the film doesn’t judge. It’s just there, and it matters.
The cinematography is immaculate—which makes the content harder to watch, actually. Everything’s so precisely lit and framed that you can’t look away. It gives the film this dream quality, like you’re seeing into something private and feverish. That’s Clark’s real skill: making you sit in these uncomfortable moments without relief.
Ava Nirui and Larry Clark put out a capsule collection tied to Ken Park, which makes sense as artifacts go. Nirui’s done serious design work, and the collection leans on Shawn and Rhonda—that relationship from the film—plus imagery pulled from throughout. If you care about Ken Park enough to wear it on your chest, it exists.
There’s a skeleton on Instagram living a better life than me. @OMGLiterallyDead. Just bones in streetwear, going to clubs, taking selfies. No apology, no self-consciousness, just a complete absence of flesh participating fully in the Instagram ecosystem.
It works as satire almost by accident—Instagram’s been chasing extreme thinness for years, and posting a literal skeleton registers as less of a joke and more of a logical conclusion. Just another person on the feed.
I don’t know if the person behind it meant it that way, but there’s something genuinely cool about refusing to perform anxiety about your own appearance. Even as a skeleton.
I used to hunt for manga in actual shops. There was something ritualistic about it — the cramped aisles, the smell, picking up volumes at random and reading the first few pages to decide if they were worth buying. Most of those shops are gone now. The ones that survive are expensive and thin, their stock picked over years ago.
When I was deep in anime and manga in my twenties, I’d buy everything. One Piece, Naruto, JoJo’s. Stacks of them. Now I have shelves I never look at, and the momentum I had with series just stopped. It got harder to keep up once moving around meant that shipping costs killed the impulse, or I’d forget what chapter I was on, or the books would be out of print.
Shueisha finally made these things free and accessible digitally. One Piece, Naruto, My Hero Academia — the obvious stuff, but also things like The Promised Neverland and Assassination Classroom. New chapters drop weekly. Old ones cycle out after a few weeks, which gives you a reason to actually check in instead of letting them pile up in your backlog forever.
It’s not the same as the physical thing. There’s no smell, no crease in the spine, no thumbing through pages before you commit. But I can read Naruto at three in the morning now. I can remember a series I dropped five years ago and just… start again. That friction is gone, which sounds small until you realize how much friction killed your reading habits before.
I don’t think this saves manga or anything. The physical books still matter, the experience of a real shop still matters. But for someone like me — someone who wants to keep up with what’s happening in these stories without the logistics nightmare — it’s enough.
I discovered Asian Doll through one of those algorithmic turns that actually landed something worthwhile. Misharron Allen—that’s her real name—was born in Dallas in 1996, which means she grew up watching southern hip-hop crystallize into its most potent form. When she started rapping, trap music wasn’t experimental anymore; it was the language everyone was speaking. The fact that she got signed to Gucci Mane’s 1017 Records label is significant because Gucci doesn’t collect people. He recognizes them.
Gucci Mane himself is instructive here. He came up in Birmingham, Alabama, started writing as a kid, moved to Atlanta as a teenager with his mother, and didn’t really break through until 2005 when “Black Tee” got picked up and he released “Trap House.” That album didn’t chart, which people always leave out when they talk about Gucci’s rise. What they focus on is that he kept working, kept refining, kept collaborating with people who understood the same frequencies he did. By the time Asian Doll arrived at 1017, Gucci had already built something real—not just a label, but an ecosystem. Zaytoven, Hoodrich Pablo Juan, Ralo. These are people with substance.
What hits me about Asian Doll’s actual music is the clarity. “Rock Out,” “First Off,” “Main”—they’re not elaborate. They’re just complete. She sounds like she knows exactly where she belongs in a track, and she occupies that space without apology. There’s a directness to it that I respect. A lot of people in rap sound like they’re auditioning for something. She sounds like she’s already in it.
The collaborations came naturally after that: Soulja Boy, A$AP Ferg, and she just kept moving. It’s easy to dismiss the whole thing as career progression, the standard rapper arc, but listen to the actual music and you hear someone who understood the blueprint and decided not to fight it but own it instead. That’s a different kind of strength.
Around the same time the German government promised to fix BAföG—that post-war commitment to fund education for anyone who needed it—fewer students could actually access it. That paradox is the whole thing.
BAföG started in 1971, genuinely radical for the era: the state would pay for your education if you couldn’t. Full grant, not a loan. The implicit contract was simple: your circumstances at birth don’t determine your ceiling. It worked that way for a long time. Then it didn’t.
By 2017, the numbers had fallen almost 180,000 over four years. Students and teenagers who qualified just stopped getting help. This happened while the government was raising the maximum benefit, adjusting the age limits, promising bigger reforms—all the things you’re supposed to do when a system’s failing. The rhetoric and the reality had completely separated.
I think what gets me is how perfectly German it all is. The earnest bureaucracy of it. Ministers releasing five-year plans for percentage increases that somehow never catch up to living costs. Only 590 people filed BAföG applications online in an entire year because the system was too broken to use. You could point to any individual reason—maybe the income thresholds were outdated, maybe the documentation required was absurd, maybe kids just gave up. It doesn’t matter. The system that was supposed to guarantee opportunity had quietly stopped doing that.
What stays with me is watching it happen in real time while everyone in power insisted they were fixing it. That gap between the promise and what was actually happening. The system still exists, I’m sure the reforms went through eventually, the numbers probably improved. But there’s something sad about a social promise you can watch failing while the government is actively trying to fix it. Something that makes you wonder what else works that way.
Dana messages me occasionally with a show she swears will change my life. Her taste is genuinely scary—ignore one of her recommendations and you fall out of touch with what’s actually happening in culture. So when she texted about Sex Education, I didn’t protest.
Otis Milburn, awkward and inexperienced, lives with his mom, who’s a sex therapist. Years of absorbing her books, videos, and relentlessly direct conversations have made him an accidental expert. When his private life leaks at school, Otis sees an opportunity—he could turn this weird knowledge into actual social capital. He and Maeve, sharp and deliberately strange, start an underground advice practice for the sexual problems plaguing their classmates. Analyzing everyone else’s dysfunction, Otis starts to realize he might actually need help too.
It’s the kind of Netflix show that lands on the sympathetic side—likable characters, reasonable stories, gentle mirrors held up to the world. First love, coming out, masturbation, a whisper of Oedipal texture. It won’t reshape culture the way American Pie supposedly did. Nothing quite reaches the “flute in the pussy” level of alchemy, the kind of reference that lasts twenty years. But for anyone fumbling through inexperience or trying to get past it, there’s something solid about watching other people navigate the same confused mess.
You don’t always need something that promises to change your life. Sometimes you just want to be entertained, to think about sex and desire and what wanting feels like, without it demanding profundity. Sex Education is that. You pick things up. Maybe a technique, maybe just permission to wonder what you actually want. Dana was right. Usually is.
Someone in Berlin is handing out keys to U-Bahn stations. Not the transit authority. The homeless. That’s the move.
Winter kills people here. A man froze in the ruins of a burned-out pool building in Britz; another in Humboldthain park a week later. Same thing happens every year—cold nights, locked doors, bodies. Forty thousand homeless people in Germany, and over three hundred have frozen since the wall came down.
The BVG used to open some U-Bahn stations as warming shelters. Then they stopped. The city asked them to bring it back. They said no. But their marketing keeps insisting they love Berlin—love it dearly, apparently, just not these Berliners.
A collective called Rocco and his Brothers got tired of waiting. They’re artists, or maybe just people who got sick of it. They got keys and started handing them out to homeless people. Sleep underground. Stay warm. The BVG probably won’t like it, but it’s direct action pointing at something obvious everyone’s chosen to ignore.
I’ve watched this same argument play out a thousand times—committees, statements, debates, zero stations opened. Someone hands out keys and suddenly it’s simple. You can’t argue with it. The BVG knows exactly what they’re choosing.
If someone ends up in real trouble, Berlin runs a cold-weather bus service. 0178 523 58 38.
BNK48, the Thai sister group of the Japanese idol factory AKB48, showed up to rehearsal in swastika T-shirts. Arms raised. Someone filmed it. It went everywhere.
The strange part isn’t that they wore them. It’s that they didn’t understand what they’d done. Pichayapa Natha, the group’s lead, posted an apology in halting English: “Everything that happened is completely my fault. I should know much more about the world.” There’s something genuinely sad about that sentence. She’s asking the internet how to become a better girl because someone in the system made a choice without thinking it through.
Her manager took her to the Israeli embassy in Bangkok the next day. They brought flowers. An apology was accepted. The story ended.
This keeps happening in Asia. A Thai restaurant got caught last year with a Hitler portrait hanging in a guest room. The swastika in the East is ancient—Buddhist, Hindu—it exists in a completely different context. But the internet has made context irrelevant. You can’t have symbols local to your culture anymore. Everything gets swallowed into one global meaning the moment someone films it.
What stays with me is how young Pichayapa looked in the apology, and how confused. Like she’d been told she’d done something terrible but not why, and she was doing her best to apologize for it anyway.
So this Berlin clothing brand made t-shirts where the price tag is the entire design. Plain white shirt, price printed on the chest in yellow — 20 euros, 600 euros, whatever you paid. They call the collection Statussymbol and they’re selling it.
On the surface it’s absurd, but the longer you look at it the less funny it gets. We buy expensive clothes so other people will know we spent money. That’s not controversial, that’s just how it works. Brands hide the price signal inside the fabric quality or the logo size or some detail only the right people recognize. This one decided to make it explicit. Why hide what everyone already knows?
The brand even thought through the mechanics. Sale prices for people who need discounts, special endorsed versions for the people who matter in the scene, the whole infrastructure of fashion hierarchy working overtime. And the idea is you wear this thing and other people examine it, assess your net worth from the number on your chest. You see someone in this shirt, you check the tag. That’s what’s supposed to happen.
I’m still not sure if they were being ironic or just honest. Maybe there’s no difference. You’re buying a shirt critical of status symbols by paying to display its price. The whole thing eats itself — it’s stupid but I can’t stop thinking about it, which probably means it worked.
Wargroove is what Chucklefish made when they decided to do a tactics game. If you’ve played anything else from them—Starbound, Stardew Valley, Risk of Rain—you know they have solid instincts about what makes a game work. This one’s no different.
It plays like Game Boy Advance-era Advance Wars—that’s the whole appeal. You move little armies around a grid, position units, manage resources, try to outthink what’s opposite you. If tactics are your thing, you already know you want to play this.
Four factions, different unit types and commanders, fifty-plus hours of campaign. But the map editor is where the real life happens. Build your own scenarios, share them, watch what the community does with the tools. That’s how things like this stay alive for years.
I’ve always liked games with pixel art that understands constraints instead of fighting them. Everything reads at a glance. The art serves the function. There’s something about the color palette and the animations that just works, even though it’s squares all the way down. It’s restraint. Most things aren’t doing that right now.
I went back and played Advance Wars again before this came out, the way you do. It still felt solid. Strategy doesn’t date the way action does. But it was good knowing someone had made something new in that space, actually cared about getting it right.
Fifth Harmony happened, and it was massive — “Worth It,” “Work From Home,” the usual manufactured-pop machine but executed well enough that people didn’t mind. Lauren Jauregui left the group, which is what happens in groups eventually. In October 2018, she put out “Expectations,” a solo single that sounded nothing like Fifth Harmony: quieter, weird, actually produced instead of just arranged.
It wasn’t a hit in the obvious way, but it got attention. Magazine covers, support slots, the usual carousel when a famous person tries to be a solo famous person. Then came “More Than That” with Murda Beatz producing — and that’s when I knew she wasn’t hedging her bets. You don’t work with Murda Beatz if you’re making safe pop. He works with Drake, with Gucci, with people who are doing something more than filling time. That’s the choice Lauren made: I’m not going to be Fifth Harmony with one voice. I’m going to sound like something else.
The music is good. Not in an obvious way, not in a way that’s going to be the soundtrack to your summer, but genuinely good. There’s something real underneath it.
The Resident Evil 2 remake opens with Leon and Claire arriving in Raccoon City just as the Umbrella Corporation’s experiments escape containment. Mutated creatures, zombies, the full catastrophe. I watched someone play through it, which turned out to be the best way to experience it — you’re helpless, you see what they’re about to run into, you can’t do anything but react, which is exactly what the game is designed for.
Resident Evil 2 in ’98 basically invented survival horror. You’re not a commando, you’re someone underpowered and trying to stay alive. The remake keeps that tension. It splits the campaign — you play Leon or Claire, and their paths overlap, so you’re moving through the same spaces at different times, which creates this strange sense of being in the same catastrophe from different angles.
Level design gets convoluted sometimes. You’ll backtrack through hallways looking for a keycard, never quite sure if you’ve missed something or if the game is just making you work. Inventory management is maddening — limited capacity, everything matters. But that’s not a flaw, it’s pressure. The puzzles make you think. Zombie animations are unsettling in ways that matter. Characters feel like people instead of plot devices.
What strikes me is how much trust it puts in you. No hand-holding, no endless exposition, no cutscenes dumping lore. You move through the city and piece things together on your own.
There’s DLC called The Ghost Survivors that takes side characters and gives them alternate-timeline scenarios. It shouldn’t work — feels like the kind of padding that ruins lesser games — but the mechanics are solid enough it works. And somewhere in Raccoon City you can play as a life-size tofu, which is exactly the kind of absurdist detail that proves someone in that development studio had actual taste.
Walking through Harajuku in December, I noticed something: the cold that would send people back home into black sweaters and earth tones just seemed to unlock more color here. There’s this moment in most places where winter arrives and everyone agrees, wordlessly, that it’s time to dress like grief. Japan wasn’t playing that game.
The kids in that neighborhood were wearing colors that felt almost defiant. Printed hoodies, stacked accessories, bags that had no business being that loud. Small independent labels mixing with names everyone wanted. The whole street looked like someone had decided that cold was not an excuse, just a fact, and it didn’t change anything.
Harajuku moves fast enough that you’re always talking about what just arrived, always guessing what comes next. The stylish ones—Soso, Miwa, Miori, the ones who actually cared—would walk out of school and shed their uniforms like they were never real, and what came underneath was pure attention. Not a message, just pure signal. Just: I’m paying attention to how I look.
The difference between European winter and Tokyo winter isn’t about temperature. It’s about permission. In Berlin, in most places, cold is an excuse to go quiet. It’s a reason to retreat into neutrality, to let the clothes disappear and just survive. In Tokyo, it’s just weather. The outfit is still the thing.
Maybe it’s easier to care about color when everything around you already moves that fast. Or maybe that’s backwards—maybe the color is what keeps the pace alive. Either way, there was something defiant about refusing to go quiet just because it was cold. That wasn’t about fashion. That was about something else entirely.
Denim sits in this strange cultural middle ground. It’s the most basic thing—workwear, no pretense, something you wear because it works. But it’s also been handled so much by fashion that just wearing it straight feels deliberate now, almost like a statement. Either you’re someone who doesn’t think about clothes, or you’re someone who’s decided to commit to what denim means.
Monki’s approach is interesting because they’re not treating jeans as a neutral base. The new collection leans into construction details that feel intentional: hammer loops, contrast stitching on the seams, wider cuts through the leg that don’t try to hide themselves. The colors move past the usual spectrum—pale vintage blues, mustard yellow, natural ecru, a purple that actually reads as a choice rather than an accident. It’s a way of saying this isn’t just denim, it’s this specific version of denim.
There’s a workwear lineage here that connects to all the nineties stuff floating around. Utilitarian details that feel at home on the street, not just on the job site. The construction suggests someone’s thinking about longevity—how the fabric wears, where it creases, how the color shifts. That relationship between the material and the body moving inside it.
I’ve been working in design long enough to recognize when someone’s actually thinking about materials rather than just using them. It’s the difference between denim as a default and denim as a decision. When you understand that fabric will absorb the shape of whoever wears it, that it’ll tell a story just through sitting and moving and living.
The real question is what these look like six months in, worn hard and daily. That’s when you find out if someone truly understood denim or just borrowed the shape of the idea. I’m hoping it’s the former.
I watched this VICE documentary called “The Young Black Conservatives of Trump’s America,” and I kept running into the same wall: these people were real, they were serious, and I didn’t understand them.
The setup felt obvious to me. Trump says racist things. He’s crude, reckless, probably not smart in any way that matters. I grew up reading that narrative, and it seemed airtight. So when I learned that Black voters not only put him in office but stayed loyal through every scandal—the wall, the shutdown, the pussy-grabbing tape, all of it—my first instinct was to assume they were either ignorant or performing for their white conservative friends. But the documentary shows something different. These are people who’ve thought about this. They chose it. They’re not confused; they’re just operating from a different logic than I expected.
What gets me is how much I was relying on a simple story. That Trump is obviously bad, so obviously Black Americans should reject him, so obviously anyone who supports him is either lying or trapped. But that story doesn’t account for actual people with actual reasons. Some of them hated what Obama represented. Some of them care about different issues entirely—the economy, religion, something else that matters more to them than the offensive shit everyone else is focused on. None of that makes them stupid. It just makes them different from what I assumed.
The documentary doesn’t try to convince you that Trump is actually good or that his supporters are right. It just lets you sit with the fact that politics isn’t as legible as we want it to be. You can have a moral position and still not understand why someone disagrees. The world works in grays even when we’re looking for black and white.
I think about this a lot now—how much of my certainty is actually certainty and how much is just the comfort of thinking I already understand. The documentary didn’t change my mind about Trump, but it messed with something deeper: my confidence that the reasons behind things are as simple as they feel.
There’s something about Kero Kero Bonito that makes you remember why you ever liked pop music in the first place. They’re three people from London—Sarah Bonito, Gus Lobban, Jamie Bulled—and they sound like they imported their entire musical education from Japanese pop and synthpop instead of the usual places.
Their songs are impossibly bright. ’Fish Bowl,’ ’Let’s Go To The Forest,’ titles that don’t pretend to be deep. The production is clean and synthetic, the melodies immediate, and Sarah’s voice sits in the middle of it all, high and clear and completely sincere. When she sings ’even if you fall, there’s a trampoline waiting, you just have to believe,’ there’s no distance between the words and the feeling. No irony to hide behind.
There’s this assumption in pop that you’re supposed to be cool about it, or at least aware, a little ashamed. Kero Kero Bonito rejected that entirely. They just made music about feeling good and believing in something and having hope, and in a landscape where every artist performs detachment, that reads as almost radical. It shouldn’t be radical to make something genuine, but there it is.
The thing that strikes me is how complete their commitment is. No hedging, no distance, no cool pose masking the real feeling underneath. Just brightness all the way down. I don’t know how they sustain it, honestly. The industry doesn’t reward that kind of sincerity. But people find them anyway, the ones who need music like this, who still believe pop can be joyful without being cynical.
There’s a Futurama episode where civilization nearly collapses because everyone’s too busy fucking robot versions of celebrities to have children. Fry gets so wrapped up in the Lucy Liu model that it nearly ends humanity. It worked as a joke because the idea seemed impossible—who’d actually choose a machine? But you watch it now and know exactly who would, and know there’s nothing stopping them.
A video effects artist named David Gidalih made a short film called “Face Swap” that basically showed what that looks like. Bedroom terminal, select your celebrity, swap the face on the body, have sex. Jennifer Lawrence, Scarlett Johansson, whoever. No porn subscription needed. Just pick the face and go.
It’s dark comedy until you realize the technology already exists. Deepfakes are real. Face-swapping works. The non-consensual porn industry is not hypothetical anymore—it’s something people are already doing to real people. Emma Watson’s face is probably on a body that isn’t hers somewhere. That might be the smallest thing happening.
I’ve searched for it. I’ve looked up celebrity deepfake porn, because the technology exists and I did the math: you want to see them naked, the video exists, there’s no actual victim on your end of the screen. That’s the exact logic Futurama was warning about, just without the cute framing. Future’s here. It’s less appealing than advertised.
A billionaire industrialist ends up with seven children born mysteriously on the same day to unconnected mothers around the world. He builds them into a superhero team called The Umbrella Academy. By their teens, it all falls apart. Decades later, the surviving six have to reunite as adults in their thirties—Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus, Vanya, Number Five—when their adoptive father dies. But the investigation gets immediately derailed because they can’t stand each other and also the world is ending.
This is the premise of The Umbrella Academy, created by Gerard Way and Gabriel Bá—and yeah, that’s the Gerard Way from My Chemical Romance. On the surface it’s absurd: mysterious simultaneous births, a billionaire training kids to save the world, a family with superpowers who can’t even talk to each other. But what makes it work is that the premise serves the actual story, which is about trauma, estrangement, and the impossible weight of family expectations. These kids were designed to save the world, and instead they destroyed each other.
The Netflix adaptation takes that core dynamic seriously. The apocalypse is real and immediate, but it’s almost incidental to the actual plot, which is watching this broken family try to function for long enough to prevent extinction. They’re fighting each other more than they’re fighting the threat. There’s something darkly funny about that tension—a show where the external stakes are massive but the internal disaster is what actually matters.
Comic-to-screen adaptations are wildly inconsistent. Sometimes you get something that captures the weirdness and energy of the source material. Other times you get a competent but soulless adaptation that just hits the plot points. The Umbrella Academy has enough conceptual strangeness and enough emotional weight beneath the premise that it seems like it could actually work. Whether it sustains that for a full season is another question, but the foundation is there.
I’m curious how much of the melodrama and genuine darkness carries over, and whether the show understands that the family drama IS the main event. That’s where most comic adaptations lose the thread—they treat the personal stuff as a subplot when it’s actually everything. If they get that right, this could be something.
Spanish music, when you think about it, is mostly garbage. Tourist dreck made by people who stopped caring years ago, just loud enough and exotic enough to get drunk Mallorca vacationers swinging their excess around on the dance floor. Then Rosalía showed up.
She sounds nothing like that. There’s something direct about what she does—flamenco woven into R&B and electronics, visual references to art and fashion and choreography layered underneath. It shouldn’t cohere, but it does. By summer 2018, tracks like “Malamente” were everywhere that mattered. Not hype. Something genuine.
The reception followed. Latin Grammys and critical rapture and the usual machinery of arrival. But what actually mattered was how the visual language extended the music. Every video pushed deeper into this space where Spanish history and contemporary design lived in the same frame. Windmills and motorcycles. Tradition and menace somehow compatible.
The latest video, “De Aquí No Sales,” shot at Alcázar de San Juan—the windmills from Don Quixote—brings that back. Motorcycles again. Heritage and something contemporary and dangerous together. It works because she’s found something real, not just a look to wear.
There’s this fake government PSA floating around about vaping that just kills me. It’s got this serious deadpan warning that e-cigarettes reduce your attractiveness by sixty percent. Not your lung function. Not your wallet. Your sex appeal. The consequences are loneliness, isolation, and sexual frustration. It’s obviously a comedy bit from some German sketch group, but the execution is perfect.
The genius of it is that it doesn’t mess with health facts or aesthetics. It goes straight to the one thing that actually matters. You’re going to be alone. You’re going to be horny. That’s it. That’s the pitch.
And yeah, there’s something true in there. Nobody’s ever looked at someone with a massive cloud machine in their mouth and thought “okay, I’m definitely fucking that guy.” But you already know that. Everyone knows it. The PSA just says it out loud in the most official-sounding voice possible.
I showed this to a friend who vapes once. He laughed and took another hit. You can’t really convince someone to stop once they’ve decided to own it. The awkwardness is baked in by that point, and paradoxically, that’s kind of the whole appeal. There’s a defiance to it. A commitment to the bit.
This is how internet trends work. Something dumb shows up, people make fun of it relentlessly, the jokes get weirder and weirder, but nobody stops doing the thing. Then a new dumb thing comes along and everyone forgets the old one existed. Vaping will disappear the same way eventually. We’ll just stop caring and move on to the next thing.
You don’t expect James Cameron and Robert Rodriguez to make a manga adaptation and have it actually work. Alita: Battle Angel exists in this space where everything about it should fail - live-action anime, CGI cyborg protagonist, dystopian cyberpunk, self-discovery plot - but it’s actually good. Rosa Salazar plays Alita, a cyborg who wakes up in Iron City with no memory, trying to figure out who she is while people try to use her combat skills. It’s the kind of film that could’ve been soulless and instead is just genuinely solid.
Dua Lipa recorded the title track, “Swan Song.” The song works with the character perfectly - there’s this contained intensity that matches what Alita’s doing. Dua doesn’t perform strength; she just carries it, and that’s exactly what the character needs.
I grew up watching anime and manga adaptations fail spectacularly, so there’s something quietly satisfying about one that just works. It doesn’t try to be deeper than it is. It doesn’t reinvent anything. It’s just a well-made film about a cyborg becoming herself, with a title track that understands what that means.
The show was in a karaoke bar. Not a gallery, not a ballroom—an actual karaoke bar near Alexanderplatz with the TV tower in view. You can’t signal venue choice more clearly than that.
William Fan had been talking for years about wanting to create a whole world, and at Berlin Fashion Week it felt like he was making that claim. The collection was called “It’s Your Time to Shine,” and the pieces believed in it. Sequined coats with actual structure. Tiger-print trenches. Kitten heels in lavender. Mohair cardigans, animal prints, cocktail dresses cut to the body. Even the sneakers—90s Puma Cell Enduras reworked with tassels and Swarovski crystals—refused to apologize for being too much.
Street fashion and luxury have always pretended to be enemies, which is strange because they’re the same impulse with different budgets. Fan seems to understand this without needing to state it. He takes nightlife pieces and tailors them without killing what makes them alive. The excess doesn’t become tasteful. It just sits better.
Berlin allows this kind of thing. The entire city is built on that principle—spaces remade into whatever you want them to be. Clubs in warehouses, parks on parking lots, runways in karaoke bars. There’s an understanding that you can take something and make it into what it should have been. Excess doesn’t apologize.
I don’t know if he’s trying to change fashion or just wants to stay inside the world he’s making. The collection suggests the latter, which is fine. There’s a kind of confidence in showing sequins and tiger print and saying, Yeah, exactly this—without hedging, without trying to make it smaller. That matters.
There’s a moment around five in the morning when people start leaving the clubs. You can see it on them—they’ve been somewhere else. Their clothes are damp, they blink hard when the sun hits them, and their eyes haven’t caught up yet. They’re crossing back into the city like it’s a different world.
Sabrina Jeblaoui photographs them at that moment. She came to Berlin from Paris and never really left the clubs—she just moved behind a camera. On Instagram at @NachtClubsBerlin she’s documented the people moving through Berghain, Tresor, Griessmuehle, mostly at the hours when they’re leaving, when the music is still in their ears and their bodies are still moving.
It started simple. She’d post pictures so the people in them could find their own images. Then it became something bigger. Now it’s a community of people who follow because they want to see what Berlin’s nightlife actually looks like, or because they’re fascinated by what people wear to dance in a techno club, or because they’re not here and this is as close as they can get.
What draws her to all of it is the diversity, the freedom. In Berlin’s clubs you can actually become yourself, or someone new if you need to. The city helps you figure out who you are if you want to know. She talks about escaping there for hours, dancing, meeting people who otherwise you’d never meet. The club isn’t just a place to go—it’s a place where you find out what’s real about you.
The funny thing about documenting nightlife is that it changes every time. The same room on different nights is a different city. Maybe that’s why what Sabrina does matters—these photographs aren’t a record of what happened. They’re proof of what’s happening right now.
Yuni Ahn took the creative director job at Maison Kitsuné and showed up to Paris Fashion Week with a collection in beige, saffron, and dark blue. Not exactly a provocation. The clothes sat somewhere between conservative streetwear and sixties office wear—sharp, minimal, built to last. She wasn’t interested in excitement, which made her interesting.
The brand itself started as a record label before becoming fashion. Gildas Loaëc and Masaya Kuroki built it around a playful fox mascot (the Japanese translation of the name) and a philosophy about craftsmanship that actually meant something. When Ahn came over from Céline, the founders said she understood what the house could be. That’s the kind of thing people say in press releases, but in her case it seemed true.
What grabbed me was the restraint. Paris Fashion Week runs on performance—established tradition, calculated scandal, brand mythology. Most designers in that environment either genuflect or burn it all down. Ahn did something quieter: she made clothes that didn’t need to explain themselves, that didn’t apologize for being simple, that looked like they were built for someone who actually wanted to wear them. The colors wouldn’t age overnight. The cuts wouldn’t feel dated in a season. There’s something almost confrontational about that kind of refusal to perform.
I think that’s what the founders saw in her. Not a vision for something new, but a vision for something that lasts.
“7 Rings” is one of those songs that’s everywhere and I can’t resent it. The production is candy-bright, Ariana running through what’s basically a shopping list with her friends, the whole philosophy built on: money solves problems. Or at least buys enough stuff that you stop noticing the problems for a while.
By that point she’d been through things that end people. Pete Davidson and the tabloid circus that turned the breakup into spectacle. Mac Miller dying. The Manchester bombing during her concert in 2017 — that was the kind of moment that kills careers, kills people. She’d already put in years by then, since she was a kid on Nickelodeon, that hyperactive character on Sam & Cat with Jennette McCurdy. The slow climb toward actually mattering as an artist. Then the world tried to destroy it while she was still building.
“7 Rings” is her response: I’m going to buy myself something nice. My friends too. Diamond rings. The song isn’t sad about any of it — not profound, not making some statement about survival. It’s just happiness that’s bubblegum-bright and purchasable, and she’s moving on.
I respect that more than I can say. Not the survival narrative — those are exhausting, everyone’s got one. But the refusal to let it be the biggest thing about you. Just buy the rings. Move on.
Got another email about 22 million passwords leaked. The panic instructions, the ritual password changes, the temporary feeling of being on top of things — it’s theater that stopped meaning anything a few years ago. These breaches happen constantly now, and I’ve made peace with the fact that my data is probably compromised somewhere on some server I’ll never know about. You can’t live in constant digital panic, so you don’t. You change the passwords that matter, ignore the rest, and get on with your day. The whole system is designed to make you feel simultaneously helpless and guilty, and at a certain point you just stop letting it work on you.
Ghostbusters works. It’s one of those 80s films that shouldn’t work as well as it does - three guys who don’t know what they’re doing, running a ghost-catching business from a firehouse, saving New York because who else is going to do it. The comedy hits without trying. The effects look weird and charming. Even the subplots about the city itself being some kind of dimensional portal feel completely natural.
I’ve watched it so many times the dialogue is just part of how I think now. The whole thing has this effortless quality that you can’t fake or manufacture. It’s not trying to be clever. It’s just interested in the world it’s built and the people in it, and that interest carries you through.
So they’re making Ghostbusters 3. Ivan Reitman’s son is directing - announced with a trailer I haven’t even watched yet. But I already know the feeling. That moment of hope mixed with dread that comes with legacy sequels. Maybe they could actually do it. Maybe they’ll understand what made the original work. Then immediately: they probably won’t. The original is self-contained. Adding to it always feels like diminishment, no matter how well-intentioned.
It’s weird to love something so completely that you don’t want to see it touched again. But that’s where I am with this.
I heard Ilira as background noise—Instagram, TikTok, one of those feeds where songs just materialize between other content. The voice stopped me, did something that obviously triggered whoever designed the algorithm. Four octaves, the captions said. I don’t know what that technically means beyond “unusual,” beyond notes going where voices don’t typically go.
She’s from a small Swiss town, Kosovo-Albanian, and decided as a kid that pop music was her life. Not as a possibility—as fact. Listened to Rihanna and Nirvana growing up, pulled from both, eventually started posting self-written songs using cheap online beats. An Instagram video caught the attention of Prinz Pi, some German rap guy with connections, and he brought her to Berlin.
The rest is the expected trajectory: Berlin to collabs, collabs to streaming numbers, streaming numbers to LA and London for the album sessions. The machine doing what the machine does. By the time I started hearing her everywhere, the momentum was already complete—she was inevitable.
What stays with me is the actual mechanism of it though. She’s clearly studied how pop hooks work at the cellular level, the exact pressure points, and she builds everything with that precision. It’s not raw or accidental—it’s understood. Constructed. And it works every time.
I don’t know if I like this because it’s clever or because it’s the sound everyone’s been trained to like or because those things are the same now. I just keep playing the tracks.
Whenever I’m in Tokyo, I end up at Miyashita Skate Park in Shibuya during lunch. I get a bento box from the Family Mart around the corner, sit at the edge of the park, and watch people skate for an hour. It’s weirdly meditative — just the sound of wheels on concrete, people learning tricks or cruising through. Kids, old guys, all of them moving like they own the place.
Skate culture is everywhere in Tokyo. Parks in different neighborhoods, people who take skateboarding seriously but don’t take themselves too seriously. It doesn’t feel like some niche rebel thing — it’s just how people move through the city.
Evisen started in 2011 when Katsumi Minami and some friends wanted to build something that mixed Japanese tradition with skate culture in a real way. The idea was to bring together interesting people who each went their own direction, people who cared about both skateboarding and style. That foundation makes everything they put out feel intentional, like it actually means something.
So when Adidas approached them about a collaboration, it made sense. Five pieces — jacket, pants, T-shirt, the basics — designed around Tokyo street style filtered through skate culture. Nothing overstyled. Just gear that works.
I haven’t seen the collection yet, but I’ll check it out next time I’m sitting at that park with a bento box, watching the skaters who’ll probably be wearing it.
I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t completely into Lindsay Lohan back in the early 2000s. Red hair, freckles, a voice that had actual character to it—I was hooked. I know what the narrative became. The tabloids, the drugs, the collapse into every bad thing you could imagine. But before that, for a couple of years, she was genuinely talented. Not as a performer especially, but as a songwriter with something to say.
“Confessions of a Broken Heart (Daughter to Father)” got to me in a way I didn’t expect. Not because it was complicated—it was actually pretty straightforward, a ballad about family stuff—but because it felt like she meant it. She had other songs with titles like “Rumors,” “Over,” “First,” “Speak.” Introspective pop songs that felt personal in a way most pop songs don’t. MTV, VIVA, the circuit, and somehow it worked. People connected to it.
Then it all went sideways. The clubs, the photographers, the legal stuff. Fast and predictable and sad. Whether she ever pieces it together now, I don’t know and I don’t think it matters much. What sticks with me is the music from before that window closed, when she was actually a singer and not just a story about a star falling apart.
When Kilian Kerner showed up at Berlin Fashion Week three years after his label collapsed, the whole thing read less like a comeback and more like someone finally allowed to breathe. His collection, “City Life,” came out aggressive and uncompromising—oversized hoodies and structured coats with metal lettering spelling out provocative statements. “I’m not a racist and I don’t have to be smart to prove it.” Direct, uncomfortable, nothing like the safe choice.
The show had this unified but almost casual energy. Streetwear mixed with tailored pieces, heavy color, angular casting. Nothing overwrought. Wearable too, which seemed to be exactly the point. Real clothes for real people, not some art project.
He told me after that what mattered was the absence of pressure. No label crisis, no investors to answer to, no one else’s vision shaping the work. Just designing the way he used to at the start. You could sense it immediately. The whole thing worked because he actually believed in it.
I’m not sure if Berlin actually matters in any larger fashion sense, or if it just looks that way when something genuine is happening. But that show mattered. Someone came back from complete failure and made something real, something he believed in. That’s worth something.
There’s this guitarist I sleep with on and off. Her apartment is a constant war of sound—she’s always got some rock music going that I can’t even parse, and I prefer darker stuff anyway, music that actually says something. She mocks my taste, I mock hers, we both know neither is changing. But she’s talented and her body makes it impossible to leave, so we make it work with wine and sex and just not talking about music.
Then I heard Cherry Glazerr.
Clementine Creepy on vocals, Los Angeles. There is nothing—absolutely nothing—better than playing Juicy Socks, Daddi, and Wasted Nun on constant loop at three in the morning when you’re already worked up, the apartment shaking loud enough to wake the block, all of it getting under your skin before your brain even catches up. Your body reacts before you understand why.
The new album Stuffed & Ready comes out early February, and the album is genuinely great—the kind of great that makes you feel stupid for dismissing an entire genre. My girlfriend caught me listening yesterday with my eyes closed and just smiled. I couldn’t even defend myself. Clementine Creepy’s voice is doing something to me that I don’t fully understand, but I’m not going to pretend anymore that I’m above it.
I’m already counting down to turning it up to full volume.
I found Senju Horimatsu through some rabbit hole online—I forget where—and his work stayed with me. Swedish, born in Stockholm in 1968, real name Matti Sandberg. He started as a tattoo artist, then moved into prints that sit between contemporary practice and shunga, those old Japanese erotic woodblocks. The comparison isn’t perfect, but the intention is clear: he’s making sexually explicit art in the visual language and with the technical skill of something centuries old and formally revered.
What strikes me is the directness of it. Oversized genitals rendered in meticulous detail, fox spirits and mythological creatures caught in sex acts, geishas drawn with the care old shunga masters brought to their blocks. No irony. No winking. No attempt to provoke or philosophize. Just: this is what I want to make, and I’m going to make it well.
Japanese folklore is soaked in sexuality anyway—spirits seducing humans, trickster gods, the works. We’ve decided those old stories are precious and austere, but they’re often horny if you actually read them. Samurai weren’t prudish. So there’s something right about making erotic work in that tradition instead of treating sexuality like it’s too refined to acknowledge. The shame is all retrospective, something we invented later.
I haven’t seen the work in person. I’m not sure I want to—there’s something about the screen that lets me focus on the technical skill without the weight of confronting it directly. But I respect it. The work takes desire and the body seriously, grants them the formal rigor usually reserved for untouchable subjects. No hedge, no distance, no apology.
“I love being the best at everything I do, always.” Anne-Marie said this without irony, her Essex accent hard and flat. Not a boast—just saying what’s true about herself.
She’d been like this since childhood. By two, she’d already decided excellence was non-negotiable. So she studied acting, landed West End roles, picked up karate, and by seventeen had won two international championship titles. Music was the real thing though. That’s where she poured everything.
She never stopped needing to test herself. Toured the world with Rudimental. Then started a capsule collection with Ellesse—bold cuts, unexpected shapes, colors that actually look good together. Nothing revolutionary, but you feel her personality in the choices. The same drive that made her a serious karate competitor and a serious musician applied to fabric and silhouette.
The thing about people like Anne-Marie is they don’t know how to hold back. Most of us accept being mediocre at most things, and that’s enough. She won’t. Everything she does gets the full intensity. You wonder if she ever just sits with something ordinary and calls it enough.
The collection’s out now. With someone wired like this, there’s no middle ground. It either becomes exactly what she wanted or it doesn’t. No in-between.
I watched Netflix’s Fyre documentary. It’s about a music festival on the Bahamas—thousand-dollar tickets, celebrity promotion, and when attendees showed up: broken tents, sick dogs, homeless people, and cheese sandwiches someone had apparently assembled in a garage. Nobody could leave. Evacuation capacity was so limited that everyone spent hours stuck on the island, filming it all on Snapchat.
The footage shows the emotional arc: excitement, confusion, actual suffering, then a blank stare. People sitting alone, waiting for a boat.
Ja Rule, one of the organizers, apologized on Twitter. Which doesn’t actually get anyone off an island.
What strikes me is how total the failure was. Not a festival with problems—a complete implosion, unfolding on a thousand phones. I’ve been to bad festivals. The food runs out, the water system breaks, your tent floods. You’re angry about it for months. But you can leave. You drive home. Here, people couldn’t. They were trapped, humiliated, waiting for evacuation. Somehow that was worse—not just a bad event, but being actually trapped.
I should hate The Weeknd—he got to sleep with Selena Gomez, and I didn’t, which I’ve never figured out. But you can’t hate someone who makes music this good, the kind that actually cuts through all the forgettable recycled noise. Since Abel Tesfaye showed up at the start of the decade with House of Balloons, he’s been operating on a different frequency. Right now, he’s the pop star.
His new song “Lost in the Fire” with Gesaffelstein is him laying out exactly what he wants to do. Fuck you slowly with the lights on. You’re the only one he sees. The sex is so good it’s priceless. Then he goes further: you mentioned you might be into women, maybe you’re going through something, and if you want to bring someone over, she can ride your face while he fucks you hard. It reads like a 2 a.m. text from someone who’s genuinely horny and has nothing to lose.
When The Weeknd sings it though, something shifts. The crude honesty of it stops being embarrassing and starts being magnetic. His voice is so assured, the production so polished, that you stop thinking about Tinder and start thinking about whether he actually means it. Maybe I should have sent Selena Gomez those lyrics instead of secretly liking her photos at 3 a.m. Maybe that would’ve changed everything. Or maybe The Weeknd just has the rare skill of making anything sound necessary, even the most naked want.
The Red Wedding destroyed whatever safety I thought the show had left. After that scene, no one was sacred. That was the point - “Game of Thrones” showed you that loyalty and honor mean nothing when you’re up against ruthlessness and power. The smart move was always the cruelest one.
Then Cersei, naked through the streets. Stannis burning his own daughter. The show kept going darker. Eight seasons of watching people betray each other, compromise, break. Eight years of understanding that the game is rigged and nobody wins.
And now it’s ending. Final season in April. I have no idea what comes next, and I can’t tell if I’m more anxious about getting answers or dreading what those answers will be. Who takes the throne? Is there even a throne left? I want to know. I also don’t.
You sit with this show long enough and you start seeing yourself in the choices people make when everything’s on the line. The compromises. The lines they cross. A character does something monstrous and you understand exactly why. Maybe that’s what’s scary - that it makes perfect sense.
I’ll watch it when it comes. I’ve watched this far. But I’m not ready for it to be over, not because I think it’ll disappoint, but because I don’t know what I do with eight years of living with this story.
I keep running into the nineties everywhere — not in some arch, retro-collection way, but like something that just won’t die. The Spice Girls, Friends, the absolute chaos of color and style, the feeling that you could wake up and something genuinely unexpected would be normal by evening. It was dumb and real at the same time, and now when I catch a glimpse of it, my gut reaction is just yes.
Urban Outfitters has a new collection tapping into the same instinct. They’re mixing athletic pieces with softer ones — sweatshirts over slip dresses, shearling over silk — and it all feels like something you’d actually throw together without thinking about being fashionable. Just what was in the closet.
The colors are sharp and bright without being precious about it. There’s a skate vibe running through, which is right — the nineties were when that kind of thing started bleeding into everyday wear, when it wasn’t a statement, it was just what people looked like.
I’m not going to tell you to buy it or that it’ll matter. But there’s something in these pieces that feels honest. They don’t look like someone trying to capture the nineties from a mood board; they look like someone who actually remembers what that felt like, what it looked like. That recognition is the whole thing.
I don’t like anything about RimWorld. The graphics are ugly, the music is dull, the story’s recycled. Yet I’ve spent more time in this game than any other I’ve ever played. I find myself back there constantly, watching these broken people who crashed on some random planet try to build a life, only to have someone—usually a depressed pyromaniac with relationship problems—burn the whole thing down while they’re sleeping.
What makes it work is the mods. Complete freedom. You want to harvest organs from prisoners and trade them for nuclear weapons? Done. You want to breed an army of cannibalistic anime girls that only fear cute cats? Done. You want to build a golden castle full of violent nude people with terrible hygiene and worse temperaments? Go ahead. There are no real limits.
The strange thing is that the game itself is hard to explain. It’s not that the graphics are great or the soundtrack is good or the story is compelling. It’s that you’re building these scenarios—these specific ways for things to fall apart—and then just watching it happen. You’re designing the conditions for chaos. That’s where the addiction comes from. You play for what you think is an hour and suddenly the sun’s coming up. You’ve spent all night watching a naked old woman castrate screaming cyborgs to pay for her drug addiction. That’s the moment you realize you’ve got a real problem.
A Twitter account spent the summer of 2017 doing something simple and horrible: publishing the personal information of celebrities, politicians, and internet personalities. Phone numbers. Home addresses. Scanned ID cards. Family messages. Credit card details from people’s relatives. All of it dumped online, sorted into what looked like an Advent calendar leading up to Christmas. The targets ranged from YouTubers like Gronkh and LeFloid to rappers like Sido and Marteria, to comedians and other public figures, alongside politicians from nearly every party in the German Bundestag — everyone except the AfD.
The weird thing was how scattered it felt. There didn’t seem to be any pattern beyond whatever this person had managed to steal or scrape. Some victims got a few documents leaked. Others had their entire lives opened up. The account had sixteen thousand followers before anyone really paid attention. It wasn’t until Thursday evening, just before the holidays, that it blew up in the faces of the people who’d been compromised.
The political motivation seemed obvious enough — someone targeting enemies of right-wing conspiracy culture, or maybe just raging at a system that felt untouchable. But the why didn’t matter once everything was already out there. That’s the hard part about leaks: you can’t un-publish something.
I’ve never understood people acting shocked by this. We’ve been handing our lives to Facebook and Google for years. Location history, purchase patterns, search queries, photos, every network we build — it’s all sitting in some server farm waiting for the next breach or the next person with a script and a grudge. This leak just made it visible in a way that’s easy to ignore when it’s your bank or an app you forgot you signed up for a decade ago.
Nothing changes after something like this. I still put too much online. I still sign up for things I don’t understand. I still assume I’ll deal with the privacy settings later. Everyone does. We complain about Google and Facebook knowing everything, but we trade it away because it’s easier than thinking carefully about what we’re giving up. These musicians and comedians and politicians had their lives exposed, and the rest of us just kept scrolling.
Below drops me into darkness without explanation—just a dungeon, complete solitude, the constant downward pull. There’s something hypnotic about it. The game rewards patience and observation, turning the endless slog through shadow and stone into something meditative. Each level strips away more light, adds more weight. It’s deliberately lonely, and that’s the whole point. The loneliness is what keeps me going.
Brandenburger Tor on New Year’s is a specific kind of torture. Thousands of people, overpriced beer, a DJ playing whatever gets the safest response, someone doing a Helene Fischer tribute while the crowd screams along. It’s not a party, it’s a tourist attraction pretending to be a party. Everyone there filming it, nobody actually experiencing it.
But there’s always an alternative if you know to look. This year it was an old supermarket by Jannowitzbrücke — just a warehouse space someone had rented for the night. The DJs mattered: Bjarki riding Nina Kraviz’s orbit, Keith Carnal, Emmanuel, Francesco De Luca. Not people playing hits, just people playing music that’s actually good, for other people who care about music.
What always struck me about parties like this was the confidence. Not arrogance, just the straightforward assumption that the music mattered more than the crowd, that you were either there for Bjarki or you weren’t. No compromise, no hits to keep people happy. Just the belief that if you showed up, you showed up for the right reasons.
That’s always been the division in this city. The version you can see on a map, promoted to death, and the version that actually exists in the spaces in between. The difference isn’t just the music. It’s the whole approach — one designed to be documented and shared, the other designed to be lived. Both happening on the same night, kilometers apart, to different groups of people with completely different ideas about what matters.
I remember when Miley was the baseline transgressive pop star—the one who’d twerk on Robin Thicke at the VMAs like she was trying to start a religion, who posed with her cunt out and a strap-on in some legendary photoshoot, who announced she was pansexual like she’d solved something the rest of us were still confused about. For a minute there, she was the thing that made parents lose their minds and gave the internet an actual reason to care about celebrity news.
Then she was gone, or seemed to be. Some years of being less crazy, of announcing she was growing up, of becoming whatever it was she was supposed to become. But it didn’t stick. When she came back, it was like she’d never left at all. She was talking about her boyfriend’s dick on interviews, posting her ass in the “Nothing Breaks Like a Heart” video like it was just a casual Friday. And that’s what brought her to SNL with Mark Ronson to perform the same song, wearing a jacket that was barely a jacket. No net underneath it. No bra. Just a piece of fabric and the live broadcast hovering above it.
The whole room was holding its breath. The censors had their fingers on the button, waiting for one of her famous nipples to break free on national television. The risk was the entire point. Not the song, not Mark Ronson, not the music at all—just the possibility that it would all fall apart on camera. And Miley was completely aware of it. She rode that edge exactly as far as she could go, professional enough to stay in control but reckless enough to make it actually matter. By the end of the performance, nothing had spilled out, but everyone had been gripping their seats anyway. That was the whole fucking point.
I’ve been wondering since I was a kid why Christmas means killing thousands of trees just to throw them out in January. Every year, the same routine. They’re farmed for it, sure, but there’s something off about a tradition where nobody thinks to keep one alive, to let it survive and come back.
There’s a short film by Anomaly London called “O Human Being” that flips the whole thing. A man named Peter gets chosen by a Christmas tree family, and it goes bad immediately. They cut off his legs, dress him in red baubles, stick a gold star on his head. He’s the decoration.
It’s a simple reversal: humans become trees, trees become people. What happens to a tree now happens to a person. The cutting, the dressing, the discard—it all becomes visceral when you’re watching a body. Peter’s fear is the kind you recognize. His blood is the sap, his body is the trunk, and you can’t unsee it.
And the worst part is, nothing changes. Your tree is in the corner right now, dropping needles, dying slowly. You can touch its branches, whisper something kind, but the ending’s already decided. In a week it’ll be gone.
I was eleven when a friend sent me a link. A woman getting used by fifty men, one after another. Slapped, thrown, broken. She was crying. They were laughing. The whole thing is burned into my head in a way that sunshine and first crushes never were.
After that, nothing else worked. Everything in real life was too small, too slow, too dependent on another person’s actual cooperation. So I get why the internet generation gave up on trying. Why seduce someone, navigate their needs, deal with actual vulnerability, when you can type any derangement into a search bar and get exactly what you want, alone? The internet handed us infinite customized sexual content and we all became strangers to each other. Depression and sexual deadness are basically the same disease now.
Pokémon is perfect for this. Everyone has that childhood link to it, that one thing that made sense before everything got complicated. So of course someone figured out how to kill it. Ash and Misty and Nurse Joy, all rendered with enormous breasts and zero boundaries, fucked in every permutation. The hentai community keeps growing because people are downloading these images to jerk off to their own sadness — turning the last thing they loved into proof they can still feel something.
I don’t know if it’s worse than what happened to me at eleven. It’s the same broken thing with better graphics.
Frankfurt got Wireless in the summer of 2019, the London festival importing itself wholesale to the Alten Rebstockpark for a couple of July days. I remember the strangeness of it—Travis Scott and The Weeknd and Casper all on a Frankfurt lineup, a city that had no particular reputation for this scene suddenly hosting forty thousand people in streetwear moving between open-air shisha bars and foodtrucks. It felt less like Frankfurt had built toward something and more like hip-hop had gotten big enough that it didn’t ask permission anymore. It just showed up and expected the city to make room.
The artist roster was genuinely strange in that context. Marteria, Bonez MC, Bausa—huge in German hip-hop—sharing stages with international acts that usually played stadium cities. Migos. Rita Ora. Electronic and hip-hop mostly, everything the festival called ’urban music,’ which by then was just music. Street art performances and breakdance crews completing the aesthetic, like the whole culture was being transported intact.
I didn’t go. By the time I’d thought about it seriously the festival was already over, already fading into the kind of memory that feels less like something you experienced and more like something you heard about. But I remember thinking about what it meant—not whether it was good, just that it happened. That a city with no stake in this scene had suddenly become the venue. Like proof that the music had genuinely won, that it could plant itself anywhere now.
I found a Playboy in my dad’s closet once, which is how I know that cliché actually happens. Chelsie Aryn had the same moment as a kid—came across her father’s magazines, thought the women in them were unbearably beautiful, and decided right then that she was going to be one of them. She pulled it off. She’s Miss January in one of the recent issues, and there’s something to sit with in that symmetry. She spent her whole childhood in front of cameras. Her mother photographed everything, and after Chelsie was born, she became the obvious subject. By high school she was voted most photogenic. Then MySpace happened, and she was posting pictures there. Playboy was just where the arc was always heading.
She’s from upstate New York with German and Japanese blood, which shows. She talks about how a new hair color can make her unrecognizable—that quality some faces have where small shifts change everything. She’s a mother now, which the magazine seems to think is worth mentioning as if desire and parenthood are supposed to contradict. They don’t.
What stuck with me was something she said about men and money. They think they can buy affection with expensive gifts or dinners, she said. It doesn’t work on her. She wants spontaneity and humility. A good film in bed with popcorn. Affection, not cash. It’s the kind of thing you might not expect in a Playboy profile, but it reads like a quiet refusal—an insistence on being wanted for something beyond what they’re photographing.
There’s a whole arc from finding those magazines in your dad’s closet to becoming the girl in them, and she walked it without losing something essential. That matters more than the pictures.
Your private messages on Facebook weren’t private. The New York Times got hold of documents showing that Facebook had handed other companies the keys—Netflix, Spotify, banks, Microsoft, Sony, Amazon, Apple, Pandora. Official partnerships, open APIs, workarounds. The door was open. Whether or not these companies actually read what you wrote probably depends who you ask.
The mechanism was simple. You’d connect Netflix to your Facebook account and approve the permissions. Grant access to Spotify. Link your bank. And every time you did, you were opening a window. The apps could see your messages, your friends’ contact information, sometimes your financial situation. Netflix had a line to what you watched. Spotify could track your listening habits. Banks could check your account balance. All the data that Facebook had, and had no particular reason to protect from third parties.
Everyone involved denies the really bad part—that they actually read your private messages. They say the access was more technical than that, that they didn’t exploit it, that it was all legitimate partnerships. Maybe that’s true. Maybe they just had the ability and chose not to use it. The distinction feels thin.
The New York Times broke the story by publishing the secret documents. Which would have been a good clean journalism moment if the Times’ own app hadn’t been doing the exact same thing. Their older version had been harvesting Facebook user data the whole time. So while they were reporting on Facebook’s data practices, they were also part of the problem. They’ve removed the feature. Facebook says they’ve wound down most of these deals. Everyone apologizes and promises to do better. It’s the same cycle every time.
A lot of people left Facebook years ago over this kind of thing. A lot of people are still there. You’re either the type who deletes it or the type who stays because that’s where everyone else is, and there’s no real middle ground. If you use Instagram or WhatsApp, you’re on Facebook’s system anyway. The company’s had plenty of chances to prove it cares about your data. It hasn’t.
Miley and Mark Ronson did this version of “No Tears Left to Cry” for BBC Radio 1. It’s just them and the song, no production, and something about that stripped-down thing catches you off guard.
The original came out of May 2017. Manchester bombing after an Ariana Grande concert. People died. Instead of disappearing, Ariana pulled together this massive benefit show - basically everyone showed up and said fuck it, we’re here anyway. Love wins or whatever. The whole thing was defiant without being saccharine, which shouldn’t be possible but somehow was.
“No Tears Left to Cry” is pure wreckage - Ariana at that moment where you’ve cried so much you’re just empty. No catharsis, no healing, just the space after the tears have run out. She said she cried constantly while making it.
Hearing Miley sing it does something different. She’s got her own history with trauma and public unraveling, so there’s recognition in her voice - she knows exactly what the song is saying. It’s not an interpretation or a clever arrangement, just her saying yes, I feel that too. The words don’t change but the voice changes everything.
That moment when a cover becomes its own thing, when it’s not a version of someone else’s song but another person confirming the same terrible feeling - that’s when you remember why artists matter at all.
New Era keeps taking designs that already work and tweaking them just slightly, which shouldn’t work but somehow always does. Three new snapback configurations landed, and I spent more time than I should thinking about what actually changed between them.
The 9FIFTY is the modern one with elastic fabric and a clip closure, so it fits different head sizes without the strap looking awkward. Higher, boxier crown. It feels like they were saying: let people skip the back strap entirely.
The Retro Crown is the opposite approach. Unstructured, lighter buckram, flat crown. It’s the version for people who just want something on their head that doesn’t have opinions. Just there.
The 9FORTY is the strangest one. They took the classic back strap, which is basically the perfect closure mechanism, and replaced it with a clip. You get the traditional shape and proportions but with modern adjustment. Like they were testing what you’d actually miss if you changed one thing.
I think about caps more than most people because I spend time thinking about how clothes sit on the body, how a closure mechanism or the crown height changes how something wears. There’s something satisfying about a brand that understands you don’t need radical redesign. Just relevance without breaking what already works.
These three look good together. The difference matters because there’s a real distinction in how each would feel wearing it. Some people want structure, some want softness, some want whatever this in-between thing is. Probably overthinking it, but that’s what caps do to you.
LA’s skate culture in the seventies wasn’t trying to be anything. Kids in Dogtown had concrete and a way of moving through the world that didn’t require permission, and that was the whole thing. The way that eventually became a marketable aesthetic is its own story, but what makes the Puma x Chinatown Market collection interesting is that Mike Cherman actually understands what he’s working with.
Cherman’s been around streetwear long enough to tell the difference between the pose and the thing itself. After running ICNY he started Chinatown Market on this idea that bootleg culture is legitimate—that counterfeiting isn’t some failure of authenticity but its own form. It’s a sensibility that could easily become a gimmick, but he doesn’t let it.
When you’re designing a collection around Dogtown, there’s a lazy version where you just grab some iconography and call it done. Cherman’s approach is different. The reworked Puma California feels like it came from someone who actually sat with what that era looked like and how it moved, not someone trying to bottle nostalgia. The collection doesn’t have that strained quality where everything is trying to prove it’s cool.
It’s the kind of work that makes sense only if you actually know where it comes from. You can tell when something was made by someone who cares about the source.
Selena Gomez came back to Instagram. Just posted some photos. Nothing huge. But I found myself genuinely relieved, which surprised me. I didn’t realize I was that invested in whether she was holding up.
By that point, her life had become this public spectacle of the worst kind—the relationships, the mental health stuff, the constant commentary from strangers. She’d stepped away from social media for a while, which felt like the right move. When you’re falling apart, the last thing you need is the internet watching and offering opinions.
What struck me about her return was that she seemed to have actually worked through something. Not everything. You don’t fix everything in a few months. But something had shifted. She talked about how much of her life had been public, how she’d needed to learn to say what mattered to her regardless of how people reacted, how the whole process had been emotionally intense. It wasn’t a comeback narrative or an explanation. It was just her saying: I’ve been struggling, I’m still working on it, but I’m doing it my way now.
The photos were just her with friends in the snow, skiing or whatever. Nothing remarkable. But there’s something about seeing someone you’ve been quietly worried about actually present, not in crisis, that hits different. You can’t help it.
I don’t expect her to owe me her wellness. That’s not what this is. You just follow someone’s life long enough and they become part of your world, even if you don’t know them. Maybe that’s weird to admit. But it’s true.
Mark Ronson, Miley Cyrus, and Sean Ono Lennon did “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)” on SNL, and the thing that struck me was how unafraid they were of the material. It would have been easy to make it contemporary, sand it down, update it into something safer. They didn’t.
The song comes from John Lennon and Yoko Ono in 1971, built out of a campaign they’d run two years earlier. They rented billboard space in major cities—New York, LA, Toronto, Tokyo, Rome, Berlin—with a single line: “War is over! If you want it! Happy Christmas from John & Yoko.” This was December 1969. Vietnam was still happening. America was divided, increasingly reluctant but still committed. The song distills their message down to something almost philosophical: that peace depends on wanting it, that we’re complicit in the systems we claim we can’t control. John said it best later—as long as people believe they’re powerless, they are. The song isn’t a cheerful holiday wish. It’s an assertion against fatalism.
The Fray covered it in 2006 and got it onto the Billboard Hot 100 for the first time. Other artists have tried since. But covering Lennon carries risk, especially something this direct. You either understand why it works or you don’t.
This version understands. The arrangement stays intact, the restraint stays intact. Cyrus doesn’t oversell it, doesn’t try to make it hers. And Sean Ono Lennon—he’s the literal connection between then and now, between John and whatever this song becomes. It’s not sentimental. It’s just factually true. He gets to carry forward something his parents made, and he does it right.
The strange part is how the song cuts both ways now. Fifty years on, we know that “War is over if you want it” oversimplifies how power actually works—we’ve watched the public reject wars that happened anyway. But the song was never pretending to be prediction. It was always assertion. A refusal to accept fatalism as fact. Maybe that’s all it ever needed to be.
I want to sit naked on a meadow with nothing but junk food and die trying. Pizza so thick you need both hands. Burgers stacked five high. Everything deep-fried. Just eat until something stops working—your heart, your lungs, doesn’t matter—and expire with cheese on your face and a stupid grin. That’s the whole fantasy.
The catch is you know exactly what happens next. The intervention special. The TV crew cutting you out of your house. The photographs that follow you forever. So you don’t do it. You eat salads. You go to the gym. You pretend you have self-control when really you just have fear.
Saw this video once—42 foods you’re supposed to eat before you die. All the indulgence is there, ranked and scored like it matters. Part of me wanted to watch every second. The other part knew exactly why I shouldn’t.
Kanye West is impossible to hold still in your mind. You find one stable thing about him—the production, the ear for samples, the way he rebuilt hip-hop from soul records and classical music—and then you remember the rest of it, the endless performing, the ego that swallows everything, and the verdict collapses. Everyone just picks a side. Either he’s a genius or he’s a charlatan. Nothing in between.
He came up producing for other people. The Blueprint with Jay-Z was the big one, early work with Common and John Legend. That’s where his sound came from, the thing that became recognizable—electronic and acoustic mixed together, soulful. It was distinctive and it worked. Hip-hop shifted toward it. Time magazine in 2005 put him down as one of the hundred most influential people alive.
British journalist Ben Zand made a documentary called Searching for Kanye, basically a half-hour of interviews tracing his life through music and fashion and celebrity, hitting the achievements and the disasters both. It leaves you nowhere. The question—who actually is he, genius or fraud—doesn’t resolve. You finish watching and you’re still stuck, which feels right. Some people are too big for neat biography. The contradiction is all they are.
2018 was the year music videos suddenly mattered again, though not for reasons the industry would’ve claimed. The massive hits were everywhere—Drake sliding through tracks, Cardi B’s unapologetic everything, Khalid’s voice floating underneath like sedation. But what stuck wasn’t the budget or the name. It was the weight. Ariana Grande looked damaged in ways she wasn’t hiding. Selena Gomez let you see it. These were artists who’d been through something and came out the other side still making things.
Hip-hop and pop had fully merged by then. The divisions between genres were getting kind of pointless. Khalid existed in the gaps and it worked. Drake was inescapable because he’d figured out how to sound like the soundtrack to your own life, whether that was clever or not.
What defined 2018’s videos—the ones that stuck—was how willing they were to sit with something dark. Death was in a lot of them. Illness. The specific exhaustion of being young and famous and cracking apart on camera. They weren’t trying to make it beautiful or digestible. They just let it be what it was. Sometimes that meant unresolved.
I watched a lot of them that year. Some because they were everywhere, some because they pulled at something. Looking back, what mattered wasn’t the countdown or the list. It was that 2018’s music videos felt like they were about something real, and that something was as raw as pop music gets.
Cardi B hit number one with “Bodak Yellow” and something shifted. Not because the song was perfect, but because it happened instantly, completely, out of nowhere. She was on reality TV a month before. Then this one song and she owned everything.
What made it strange was watching her refuse to get smoothed down. She said crude things, talked about money and sex without the usual euphemisms. She was funny in this direct, unpolished way that’s usually not how pop music works at her scale. Pop music is built on turning raw material into brand. She just wasn’t playing that game.
When she did Carpool Karaoke, I wondered how it would land. That format is designed to be so safe and friendly — everybody in a car, everybody singing, the whole machine of niceness. Cardi B doesn’t perform niceness. She just shows up as herself, unfiltered, and that’s what people reacted to.
What made that moment real was the speed of it. She didn’t have time to learn how to be famous the normal way, to be trained and packaged and smoothed at the edges. By the time the industry figured out what to do with her, she was already at the top, exactly because she’d refused to let them do anything to her in the first place.
Rainer Winkler was a German YouTuber known as Drachenlord, famous for years of filmed confrontations outside his apartment building. The setup was always the same: someone would show up to provoke him, he’d explode, everything got recorded. It had that quality of watching someone slowly consumed by his own spectacle, pushed further into a corner each time.
He posted explicit videos of himself at some point. The blog post here celebrates it as body positivity—a man refusing to hide despite not matching conventional masculine ideals. It’s a generous interpretation that requires ignoring almost everything that was actually happening in his life.
He wasn’t making a statement. He was someone under constant harassment, isolated, clearly deteriorating. The post wants to see bravery in that. I just see someone suffering.
Every few months I cycle back through Dead Cells the way I used to with Super Metroid — convinced the next run will unlock something, find the weapon combo that feels perfect, open a door I’ve been circling. It’s a metroidvania wearing a roguelike’s skin, which sounds like a design document but actually lands. Each run is short enough to feel disposable; the progression — abilities that unlock new paths through the same interconnected world — makes me want another one immediately.
Something about it hits the way Castlevania did when I was learning that hard games didn’t have to be cruel. Dead Cells understands that difference. The world isn’t holding my hand, but it’s not arbitrary either. Multiple paths exist; I pick based on my mood or the weapons I’ve found. That feels like choice instead of luck.
The game borrowed Dark Souls’s skeleton like every game does now — die, lose stuff, memorize patterns — but it did the thing Dark Souls never quite managed: made me want to go again right now instead of three hours from now. The runs are tight. The combat has weight behind it. Secret rooms hide in corners. Passages appear only after I’ve earned the right ability. I’m rewarded for snooping without the game demanding it.
What holds with Dead Cells is that it doesn’t seem to be reaching for anything. It knows what it is: a game about movement and upgrades and finding a passage I didn’t know existed. It’s on every platform by now, which is fine — good games feel the same on any screen.
Putting it alongside the actual classics feels wrong. Those games sit differently. But Dead Cells is the closest anything recent has come to understanding why those games still matter.
Gris is a game that doesn’t ask anything of you. You could sit with that for a second — in a medium built on asking, demanding, punishing. There’s a girl, Gris, caught in something painful, and her world has bleached white. Moving through it restores color. Her dress shifts with each ability — blue, red, yellow — each one unlocking a new way through space. Puzzles appear when you need them. Platforms materialize under your feet. No one dies. Nothing is urgent.
I’ve played enough games that are all demand — speed, precision, competition, failure conditions — that sitting with Gris felt strange in the best way. You move and something clicks into place. You move again. No countdown. No invisible timer. The world is just patient with you.
The care in it is what people mean when they call it art. Someone made a thing that does one job perfectly and doesn’t try to be everything. It has no progression systems, no unlockables, no achievements, no way to fail. Fifteen euros for a couple hours. The graphics are clean. The music doesn’t overstay. Nothing is wasted.
What gets me is that restraint reads as radical. The default has become so loud and stimulating, so invested in feedback and reward loops and the constant threat of punishment, that something quiet just sits there looking impossible. Gris won’t fix anything. The girl’s problem doesn’t resolve. But you move through her world with her, and the game trusts you to understand what that means without narration, without cutscenes, without spelling the metaphor out.
There’s something to it — a medium discovering that gentleness is still available, still possible.
South Korea has a hidden-camera problem that’s become almost mundane. Men buy spy cameras for about $20 at electronics shops, install them in bathroom stalls, film women naked, sell the footage online or to strangers for kicks. It’s happened enough that women check toilets before sitting down, looking for infrared signatures of hidden lenses. Some just stop going out.
What’s strange is how it coexists with everything else. South Korea built a tech infrastructure that’s decades ahead of most places. But that same precision engineering gets repurposed. A camera small enough to hide in a light fixture is easy to build once you know how, and apparently that’s what happens. The legal system doesn’t take it seriously—fines are nothing, prison time is rare.
There are women pushing back. Activists patrol public restrooms with infrared flashlights, expose the cameras, demand real consequences. Soo-yuen Park is one of them. The BBC documented her story because it matters, because women there are finally fighting back.
I think about the contradiction sometimes. How a culture builds something so precise and permits something so violating. The camera isn’t the weapon—the man is. The real failure is a place that lets this happen, where women have to inspect a bathroom before they can use it. That’s what bothers me.
I found Zuno Keisatsu through the usual rabbit hole—’60s Japanese rock, looking for what Western garage never quite captured. What I found was a band that made noise because silence felt complicit. Brain Police. The name alone was a threat.
Tokyo, 1968. The student movement exploded in October—demonstrations against Vietnam, corporate sprawl, the whole American-shaped reconstruction of Japan after the war. Riot police and tear gas at Shinjuku Station, at the parliament, kids in the streets getting beaten. Real stakes. At least one dead from earlier clashes.
Zuno Keisatsu became the soundtrack. Panta’s voice raw and unpolished, screaming political slogans that got records banned and shows raided. The government took them seriously because they believed it themselves. Not performing radicalism. Actually meaning it.
Panta’s still around, still making music—quieter now, less dangerous. The moment passed. But those banned records exist as proof. Music dangerous enough to suppress. A voice that mattered enough to be prohibited.
I think about that sometimes. Not romantically, not as nostalgia for when politics meant something. Just the bare fact of it. A young person with a guitar and a political position, willing to take what came. It’s almost impossible now. The world’s too open, or too closed, or too dumb to care what a musician says. Hard to know which.
Victorious was the usual Nickelodeon pablum, but her voice was obvious immediately. The kind of control that only comes from actually studying someone—Mariah Carey probably, maybe Imogen Heap. She understood what a run was for, which is different from just being able to do one.
By the time Sweetener happened, she was everywhere online in a way that didn’t feel managed. That matters more than people think. Most pop stars treat Twitter like a broadcast platform, but she was actually there, which is disarming and probably more effective than any strategy could be. A million followers who felt like they knew her because she was actually talking, not performing talking.
The Manchester bombing in 2017 happened at her concert. She came back and did the benefit show and just kept going. That’s what you do, or you don’t. She did.
Sweetener era was nonstop touring—Köln, Hamburg, Berlin, Vienna, everywhere. Live pop music is the only place where a voice still matters in a real way. Thousands of people in a room, her voice against all that distance. That’s where the work actually lives.
I don’t follow what happened to her after that. Maybe she’s still the artist who got it right, or maybe she cashed in like everyone does eventually. But for a moment there—late 2010s, when she was making full records instead of just singles—she was doing something that felt inevitable. Like someone had finally figured out how to think inside the pop machine instead of just surviving it.
Most Netflix stuff stresses me out right now. I just needed something where I could laugh without thinking about what I was watching, and Comic Girls showed up at the right time.
The premise is as simple as it gets—a group of girls live in a dorm together and draw manga. That’s the whole plot. Doesn’t sound like much, but it works. Kaoruko Moeta is fifteen, draws four-panel comic strips, tanks in a popularity poll, so she moves into a manga artist dorm. She meets Koyume, Ruki, and Tsubasa, all working on different kinds of manga. They live together, complain about deadlines, push each other forward. That’s it.
And I’ve always been able to watch cute-drawn anime girls do pretty much anything, and this show gets that. The girls are charming enough that their struggles feel like they matter, even if the setup is ridiculous. There’s something comforting about watching other people work through the exact problems you know exist in creative work—the doubt, the comparison, feeling like your stuff isn’t landing.
The anime’s based on a manga by Kaori Hanzawa, drawn in the same four-panel style the character draws. Studio Nexus animated it, Yoshinobu Tokumoto directed. It doesn’t try too hard. The pacing is right.
It’s fine. When you find a show about girls drawing comics in a dorm, and it’s exactly what you needed, you don’t really need to say anything else.
Spex closed in 2018. It was a German music magazine—the kind of publication that shaped what people in this country thought mattered in music and film, even if nobody actually subscribed. Prestigious in that niche, influential way. By the end of the year it was done anyway: circulation tanked, advertisers moved to digital, the whole print infrastructure collapsed the way everyone said it would. But music magazines had a weirder problem than just being printed on paper.
For years, if you wanted to know what albums or films were worth your time, you read critics. Or you didn’t read them yourself, but you knew they existed—people thinking seriously about music, making arguments for what was good and strange. Then streaming happened. Spotify, Apple Music, the algorithm ecosystem. Instead of trusting someone who understood the medium, people started letting the machine decide. You like this? Here’s ten more. It learns your taste and feeds it back to you, the perfect closed loop. Why read a music magazine when a recommendation engine can just show you more of what you already love?
Max Dax, who edited Spex, sat down with a couple of other people—an academic named Thomas Hecken and a journalist named Daniel Koch, who edited Intro—to talk about whether pop criticism had basically died. The easy answer is yes. The machines won. But somewhere in that conversation it gets messier. Maybe the problem isn’t that algorithms are bad at recommending music; they’re actually good at it. Maybe the real loss is something else: discovering something you wouldn’t have found on your own, an editor making an argument for something strange and new. The closed loop of personalization kills that.
Or maybe not. Maybe Bandcamp still has it, where weird music gets made and people actually search for the unexpected. Maybe we’re not less curious, just getting our curiosity fed differently now. Maybe the magazine era never survives the economics anyway, and I’m romanticizing something already doomed for other reasons entirely.
A friend put on a SHINee song in the car and I wasn’t expecting it to stick, but there was something in the way everything locked in—vocals and production and this intensity that felt more precise than anything in Western pop. The thing was engineered, and somehow that mattered less than the fact that it was good. By the time BTS came up in conversation a month later, it was clear I’d been missing something.
The system behind K-pop is the weird part that makes it interesting. The three major labels—SM, YG, JYP—recruit kids young and put them through training that sounds dystopian on paper: dance, vocals, languages, media coaching, regular evaluations that determine who stays in the pipeline and who doesn’t. There’s nothing organic about it. But then you listen to what emerges and realize that the polish isn’t hiding something empty underneath. These people actually trained for years to do what they do.
Western pop assumes the opposite—you blow up, then learn how to perform. K-pop inverts it. Master the craft first, prove you can execute, then debut. The result is musicians who can sing and dance without the safety net of a backing track, which apparently is rarer than it should be. I’d gotten comfortable with pop music that was 60 percent production and 40 percent hoping nobody noticed the live version fell apart.
What surprised me was that knowing the system is there doesn’t kill it. You’re not supposed to feel like you discovered something hidden. You’re listening to the product of a calculation that worked, and there’s something honest about that. It doesn’t pretend to be raw or unmediated. It’s just consistent, skilled, good at what it’s trying to do. In 2018 that felt like the only thing pop music still did reliably well.
Marteria, Casper, and Kat Frankie recorded a love song together. It’s the kind of collaboration that doesn’t announce itself—three rappers trading verses like they were sorting something out in the studio and we just happened to be listening. There’s an intimacy in three people thinking about the same person at the same time, especially when they usually deal in armor and distance. No performance, no conviction, just three voices saying it plainly.
I watched Kim Possible because I was in love with her. Completely dumb about it. Rewatched the whole series dozens of times, all hundred-plus episodes, which tells you something about the grip she had. The show itself was competent—Kim and her best friend Ron stopping supervillains every week, Wade feeding them intel through the Kimmunicator, Rufus the naked mole rat doing weird comedic bits. But I was there for Kim: the red hair, the competence, the way she handled chaos.
The romantic subplot was its own kind of torture. Kim cycled through crushes throughout the series, nothing that stuck until Ron. They first kissed in some Christmas episode, though Kim was under the influence of a control chip at the time, so it didn’t really count. Later they got together properly, had an actual date to prom, a real kiss. By the end of the series they were a couple. The show ended with them together, which meant I’d spent three seasons watching someone I was theoretically in love with end up with her best friend. That sounds pathetic written out, but I was younger and the show was really good at what it did.
Now there’s a live-action film coming. Sadie Stanley as Kim. Disney Channel, which usually means it’ll be some overproduced, sanitized version of what made the original work, but the action footage I’ve seen looks decent enough. I’m not optimistic. Part of me wants to rewatch the animated series one more time before the film comes out, hold onto what it actually was before the real actors ruin it. The other part knows that watching it again won’t change anything—Kim’s still going to end up with Ron, and I’m still not going to get to chase supervillains with her across the world. Some things you just accept.
YouTube rabbit-holed me into KeKe’s “Validé” at maybe three in the morning. Wasn’t looking for anything, just following whatever the algorithm served next. She’s Austrian, early twenties, voice that stops you like she’s not even trying. Trained jazz singer doing rap, or maybe just doing whatever she feels like and rap is what came out.
There’s something about the way she moves through a song that doesn’t feel like she’s filling a role. Just sounds like her, which is rare enough to notice.
Got two videos officially—”Validé” and “Donna Selvaggia”—and that’s enough. The voice, the production, the way she doesn’t overcomplicate anything. You can hear the jazz training in how she handles phrasing, how she knows where to leave space. It’s precise even when it sounds like she’s just talking.
Most German rap I encounter is guys pretending to be tougher than they are, talking about lives they haven’t lived, ready to call their moms the second anything gets real. KeKe doesn’t play that game. She just operates on her own frequency and doesn’t seem bothered whether anyone’s listening.
Probably there are bootlegs of unreleased stuff floating around if you know where to look, the way these things work. But what’s out there is enough. Something’s happening here.
Christmas meant video games. My parents knew that if they gave me a new game, I’d shut up for six weeks. Mario 64, Zelda, real games that lasted. Nothing you could beat in a weekend.
Still want that now: something demanding and long enough that you don’t finish it and feel ripped off. Something substantial.
I got Hades from Supergiant, the people who made Bastion and Transistor. It’s still in early access, but it’s solid. It’s a rogue-like dungeon crawler set in Greek mythology with bright, bold design. You die constantly. Genuinely all the time. You die, respawn in a pool of blood, go back down. The game is built entirely around this. Supergiant designed it so you fail over and over, learn the patterns, get stronger. Not punishing you for it — just accepting failure as part of how you learn.
After a while the dying stops feeling like failure and becomes the actual rhythm of the thing. You’ll get through it, but it’ll take weeks.
Japan’s the weird case where everyone’s thin and lives forever despite the smoking and drinking and KFC. Walk through Tokyo and what strikes you is the absence: nobody’s overweight. And people are routinely living past 100, still sharp, still involved. It’s the one place where the correlation between longevity and staying lean actually holds.
The answer is probably what everyone suspects: portions and what’s actually on the plate. Fish instead of beef. Rice, miso, vegetables instead of bread and cheese and cream. Small meals, multiple times, balanced, not the idea that dinner is one massive plate you finish. The friction is built into the culture—it’s just the normal way to eat.
A typical breakfast is rice, grilled fish, miso soup, pickles. Lunch is something similar, modest portions. Dinner follows the same rhythm, same scale. Sugar exists but it’s not everywhere; a chocolate bar is occasional, not daily. Convenience stores are packed with junk, but it’s not the default, and there’s actual cultural shame around being overweight in a way that doesn’t exist as much here.
I’m not saying I could live like that. The appeal of bread and cheese and heavy food is real to me, and I don’t have the ambient social pressure that makes you feel weird eating more than everyone else. But the evidence is hard to argue with. They’re not doing anything complicated or special—just eating less, eating better, and somehow that extends everything. The longevity, the sharpness, the fitness. All from something as basic as portion control and not eating garbage every day.
Blogsport’s closing down and I keep thinking about what that means—thirteen years they ran it, started by two students back in 2005 who just built it for their friends, and then they had to open it up because there was so much interest. By 2009 it was growing crazy-fast, exponentially, so they actually made it professional. Georg Klauda ended up basically running the whole thing unpaid, which makes sense why after thirteen years of dealing with servers and support emails and legal complaints and taxes, while not actually blogging yourself, you’d just be done. “We’re exhausted,” he said, and I believe him.
The interesting part—or maybe the sad part—is that 2009 was peak blogging in a way that won’t happen again. Not the hype of it, but the actual reality of it. Real people were maintaining their own blogs, linking to each other, commenting on each other’s posts. There was maybe ten thousand blogs on Blogsport at some point, though only a few hundred were active when they shut it down. Everyone eventually moved to Instagram, TikTok, YouTube. You take a photo with your phone, it’s instantly there, the algorithm shows it to people. A blog requires someone to actually go find it, sit down, read words. That friction doesn’t scale the way frictionless platforms do.
The archive situation is the thing that gets to me, I think. All that writing, thirteen years of it, and they want to save it but the legal situation is impossible. People want their old stuff deleted—everyone has things from their twenties they’re embarrassed about. Someone has to be responsible for it all, forever, and that’s not a burden anyone’s going to take on for free. So maybe they’ll preserve it offline, make it available some way that’s not public. Maybe not. Either way something gets lost.
It gets to me, how every corner of the internet that wasn’t owned by Facebook or Google or Twitter is just getting absorbed into them now. You hear people say blogs are dead and have been for years, but Blogsport closing is like a final proof, something concrete that marks when the internet actually changed from being something people ran to something people used.
Italy occupies more space in my head the further I get from it. The light does something there that doesn’t happen anywhere else. The food tastes like it was designed on purpose. People move through their days without the constant feeling that they’re already late. I’ve thought more than once about the retirement fantasy—small place on the coast, mornings like that, nothing else. It’s good to think about when you’re somewhere that doesn’t quite have that energy.
Fila and Naked released the Italy Pack. The V94M Low, Vista Blue and Gray Violet—these big chunky dad sneakers that just exist loudly and visibly without much apology. The tie-in is simple: Fila’s Italian, so here’s Italy in a shoe. But I can’t figure out what actually makes them Italian beyond that. The colors could be from anywhere. The shape’s generic retro. It’s the kind of marketing move where you shrug and accept that the story is thinner than the product.
But there’s something good about a shoe that just doesn’t retreat into subtlety. Takes up space. Doesn’t try to fit into somebody else’s idea of what a sneaker should be. That’s a kind of honesty.
The Italy fantasy is still better than any shoe could be—that light, that pace, that feeling that someone thought about how things should work. But these sneakers point in that direction somehow. Not the thing itself, but something in the way of it. That confidence that it’s okay to just be what you are. That counts for something.
Hello Games spent years taking shit for No Man’s Sky — promises broken, interviews that were either lies or delusions, the whole machine that turns hype into resentment. And then they just kept working. Updates, features, actual listening to what people wanted. The game became real. Now when someone mentions it, you don’t hear the laugh-track anymore.
So when Hello Games announced something new at the Game Awards this year, it caught my attention. Not another space epic. Something smaller. A short game they’re calling The Last Campfire.
The screenshots remind me of Journey — that same sense of a small figure moving through a world that’s been designed to be looked at. There’s a little creature walking through whatever this is: vast alien landscapes, green forests, strange architecture. A boat on impossible water. The scale of it, the way the light works in these stills, suggests they hired people who understand how to make you want to move forward through a place just to see what’s next.
It’s easy to dismiss short games, especially from studios that make bigger things. But Hello Games proved something with No Man’s Sky — they don’t rush. They don’t cut corners. If The Last Campfire is a few hours, those hours probably mean something. It probably looks beautiful and plays with intent.
I don’t know when it’s coming or what platforms yet. But I’m looking forward to whatever quiet, strange world they’ve built this time.
I know exactly what’s going to kill me eventually: bacon. Good, fatty bacon. I could put it on everything or in everything or with everything—sandwich, pizza, pasta, doesn’t matter as long as it smells and tastes like bacon. Crispy strips, fried or grilled with eggs, yeah that’s an American or English breakfast thing, but I’d eat it any time of day. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, between meals.
Speck’s been part of German cooking forever. In old farmhouses they’d have salt barrels for curing meat. Back when meat wasn’t something you ate every day, the day they slaughtered a pig was a celebration. They had to process the blood and organs fast before they went bad. The pieces for speck got salted, smoked briefly, then hung up dry and airy. After slaughter they’d throw a feast—neighbors, family, everyone came over. And of course there was really good speck.
But how do you actually know the difference between good bacon and garbage? The fat is the first thing. It should taste like smoke and salt, not like a chemical factory. Good bacon smells rich when you cook it, fills the kitchen with something real. Cheap stuff is mostly air and water—it shrinks to nothing in the pan and tastes like nothing. The color matters too. Even thickness. The meat-to-fat ratio. These aren’t mysteries once you’ve tasted both.
I’ve ended up at places that take it seriously, cure their own, smoke it properly, and it’s a different food entirely. Worth the money, worth the ritual of a proper breakfast with coffee and time. That’s probably the thing—good bacon asks you to slow down, even if it’s just for twenty minutes while you sit with eggs and toast. Cheap bacon asks you to get in and get out.
I’m not saying I always make the right choice. Half the time I’d probably eat whatever’s in the fridge. But when I do get the good stuff, it’s the kind of thing that makes the day better, and I don’t feel like I’m poisoning myself in the process.
Instagram will delete your breast but let a screed about purifying the race sit there for six weeks. Facebook has entire teams moderating nakedness while hate speech multiplies faster than they can delete it. There’s no incompetence here, no accident — they’ve decided which kinds of human expression are profitable and which ones make the advertisers nervous. Violence doesn’t scare sponsors. Skin does.
So a show called Uncensored Berlin happened with twenty-six artists who’ve all been shadowbanned or deleted for the crime of depicting the human body. The curator, Frank Schröder, said it was one of the most creatively fulfilling projects he’d worked on. Which makes sense. When you’re not worried about deletion, you make different work.
The pieces ranged from crude to elegant, obscene to playful. Some artists were subtle about the nudity, some were not. What they had in common was that every single one of them would be flagged by Instagram’s algorithm in minutes. Which meant the whole exhibition, hanging safely in a gallery in Kreuzberg, was basically an indictment by absence.
There’s something clarifying about seeing work that a corporation has deemed unacceptable. It makes obvious what those platforms are actually defending: a very particular vision of cleanliness, of which bodies get to be visible, of what desire looks like when it’s been smoothed down to advertising-friendly terms. They’re not protecting anyone except advertiser peace of mind. And a room full of deleted work says that out loud.
You could buy the prints and take them home. Hang them somewhere no algorithm gets a vote.
K-Pop’s not some separate world anymore. You hear it everywhere, mixed into everything else. Dua Lipa and Blackpink on the same song sounds absurd until you actually listen to it, and then it’s just… there. It works. That’s become the pattern—western artists showing up on K-Pop tracks like it’s the natural thing to do now.
The weird part is that none of it matters linguistically. Most people listening to a Nicki Minaj and BTS collaboration don’t understand what BTS is actually singing, but that’s never been the point. K-Pop’s power has never been about the words. It’s the production, the choreography, the visual intensity. The way the energy hits before anything else registers. So when a western artist jumps on a track, they’re not carrying it or saving it. They’re just one more voice in something that was already overwhelming. John Legend with Wendy from Red Velvet should be awkward, but the song is built well enough that it just absorbs him.
It happened fast. Like, weirdly fast. Five years ago K-Pop was this foreign thing you either got or you didn’t. Now it’s aspirational. Western artists actively want the collaboration because they see what K-Pop has—reach, obsessive audiences, cultural momentum. The genre stopped being regional and just became another lane in pop. There’s no border anymore, or if there is, it’s irrelevant.
The collaborations aren’t even notable now. They don’t feel like crossovers. They feel like regular songs that happened to be made by people from different places. And I think that’s the real shift. When collaboration stops being weird, that’s when you know something fundamental has changed. K-Pop didn’t just arrive. It arrived and stayed, and now everything else has to figure out how to move around it.
“Sunflower” had been out there for a while when Post Malone and the rest of the Into the Spider-Verse soundtrack finally hit streaming—the full thing with Nicki Minaj, Juice WRLD, Lil Wayne, all of it. It doesn’t feel like a typical superhero tie-in album, more like hip-hop that happened to come from a movie.
The film centers on Miles Morales as Spider-Man. He meets an older Peter Parker from another dimension, discovers he’s caught in the middle of something bigger—the Kingpin’s built a device that tears holes between universes, so now there’s a whole crew of different Spider-people, different versions and genders and eras, all pulled into the same fight. The animation is deliberately unpolished, all sharp lines and color bleeding wrong, like watching a living comic book.
The music anchors Miles in reality while the visuals get increasingly abstract. He’s a kid in Brooklyn with contemporary taste, and the soundtrack follows him there. It’s not decoration layered on top of the action—the hip-hop is essential to what the film is trying to do.
Most superhero movies chase everything at once: prestige, spectacle, comedy, drama. This one just commits to what it is. A story about a kid discovering he has powers, told alongside music that feels current and real. No reaching for something larger. Just the film doing its thing.
Smartwatches have always felt like a con to me. You’re strapping a phone to your wrist, basically—one more screen to check, one more device demanding your attention. But analog watches, the kind that just sit there and tell the time? There’s something satisfying about those. These new adidas Originals designs are worth noticing.
They’re reviving three classics: Archive, Process, District. The original DNA comes from the seventies—clean, minimal, the kind of timeless work Dieter Rams championed—and they’ve updated each one without losing that clarity. Better movements inside, fresh colors, and most land under 200 euros. The holiday releases come with copper accents and a matte black finish.
I keep staring at the District M1. There’s something about the proportions, the case line, the way the dial sits. It’s one of those designs where nothing looks extraneous. I’d wear it every single day without thinking twice.
Here’s the honest part: I wrote this because I’m hoping my friends read it. The ones who haven’t figured out what to get me yet. I actually want this watch. Been wanting it for a while. And I’ll be more honest still—I’m tired of getting gifts that don’t land. Socks. Combs. Random tech gadgets that end up in a drawer. Stuff nobody thought about. A watch like this isn’t a guessing game. It’s something I’d actually want to wear every day.
If you’re stuck trying to figure out what to buy someone, this is the answer. Looks like you paid attention without trying too hard. And if you’re one of my friends somehow reading this: you know what I want.
Jaden Smith is in Harajuku doing Kamehameha poses for a music video. The tourists don’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t care. Digital effects get added in post—blue waves of energy, very anime—and that becomes the actual art. This is what happens when your dad is Will Smith and you’re too spoiled to just accept it.
He basically lives in Tokyo now. Harajuku, Shibuya, Akihabara—constant videos, constant posts. He made an anime series called “Neo Yokio” that was genuinely terrible, like aggressively bad, but it was entirely his terrible and that’s what counts. No committee, no network notes, just pure unfiltered Jaden.
The new song “Goku” sits somewhere between early Kanye and Fruit Loops. Lyrically, he’s confusing pseudo-deep thoughts with actual poetry, and he either can’t tell the difference or doesn’t care. He wants to be his own artist instead of Will Smith’s son. Wants to matter like Kanye or Frank Ocean. He’s trying, which is almost enough sometimes.
The remarkable thing is how completely unbothered he is by any of it. He gets destroyed online constantly—the songs get mocked, “Neo Yokio” is a punchline, everyone points out he can only fail this publicly because he has money. And he just keeps floating above it, making more art, posting from Tokyo, existing in a frequency where criticism doesn’t register. Not because he’s confident. More like he genuinely believes your opinion is less real than his.
I don’t know if that’s privilege or blindness. Probably both. Either way, he’s having more fun than everyone criticizing him, and I think he’d choose that every time. Which might actually be the whole game.
I’m bad at competitive games. Not occasionally—genuinely, objectively bad. StarCraft, League of Legends, Overwatch, Minecraft, Final Fantasy XIV. I’d jump into any of them and get destroyed immediately. In dungeons I’d be running in circles, completely lost, and the group would be right to lose their minds. There’s no excuse for it. So I quit. Now I stick to single-player games where I’m the only one I’m letting down. Skyrim. Far Cry 5. Yakuza Zero. Games where failure is private.
Minecraft used to be what every kid was addicted to. Now it’s Fortnite, and Fortnite isn’t a game anymore—it’s a compulsion. I won’t go near it. Partly because I know I’d be terrible at it, but mostly because I know exactly what would happen. I’d be in a match for five minutes before some eight-year-old starts screaming that he fucked my mother, and he wouldn’t be wrong. I’d be moving wrong, shooting wrong, dying constantly. That kid would have more wins before his next energy drink than I’d get in a year.
That Jimmy Kimmel challenge proved it all. He got parents to turn off the TV right in the middle of their kid’s Fortnite match. Not at a stopping point. Middle of the game. The reaction videos are pure chaos—kids screaming, crying, throwing controllers at the wall. That’s the state of things now. That’s what this game has done to an entire generation.
I’ve officially given up on the next generation. They’re wired for constant stimulation and rage, and there’s nothing that fixes it. Might as well just speed up global warming and call it mercy.
I scrolled through Nicole Ganker’s Instagram long enough to form opinions about a stranger’s life, and the verdict is simple: hers is genuinely better. She’s always somewhere beautiful—festival, beach, mountains—with people who look interesting, with a boyfriend, existing in that casual-but-perfect way that only works when you know you’ll photograph well. I’m at my desk most nights finding reasons to stay in, which is honest but not encouraging.
Photographer Alexis Sisely, also from Melbourne, shot Nicole for Sticks & Stones. The work has that stolen quality to it—beautiful light, beautiful people, everything seeming effortless. The kind of photography that makes you believe a life lived that way is actually possible.
So I ordered a pizza and started Riverdale, sitting in my apartment like I do. Nicole and Alexis are probably somewhere in Australia right now, driving to a place I’ll never see or kissing people who matter. I can think about that for a moment, or I can turn the heat up and let myself pretend the warmth is something. Both feel equally real.
My third real friend was Jörg, sophomore year. He wore lip gloss and shaved his armpits completely smooth, which didn’t seem that weird at the time because a few guys at school had gotten metrosexual after David Beckham made it a thing. We dated for two months. Then he told me he was gay. We never slept together, but a few times he fingered me, and he was really bad at it. I thought it was because he was inexperienced. But no—he just couldn’t do anything with a pussy.
Until then I’d never really thought about gay guys and vaginas in the same sentence. I assumed the only connection was birth and then nothing. I had no way of knowing that YouTube would eventually create a genre around putting the two together. But here we are, watching gay guys squirm and shriek while looking at a woman’s vagina without throwing up.
Some lesbian couple posts these joke videos where they film gay men touching a vagina for the first time. What unfolds is predictable enough: warm guys completely lost in front of someone else’s warm, wet opening. It’s hairy, fluffy, totally different from what they’re used to. The whole thing is awkward as hell, which makes it funny. And now I finally understand why Jörg was such a shit fingerer.
New Vegas was the Fallout game I actually loved. Fallout 3 was decent enough, better than 4 anyway, but New Vegas had something real. Interesting characters, actual ideas, places designed to make you want to wander through them. Then Fallout 4 came out with its locked-down dialogue, and I was genuinely disappointed.
Obsidian Entertainment is making The Outer Worlds, and it’s essentially New Vegas in space. You’re in the Halcyon Colony dealing with colonial factions and their competing interests, trying to figure out where you belong. The pitch is that your choices actually reshape the story instead of being cosmetic—the kind of agency Obsidian built their name on. They know how to write branching conversations that listen to what you’ve done.
I’ll play it. Bethesda lost me, and this is coming from the people who made New Vegas.
I wanted to be a manga artist. Spent years drawing in my room—Dragon Ball, Akira, whatever manga I could get. I had this real belief it was going to be my thing. Then school got harder, other stuff took over, and at some point I just stopped. The sketchbooks went into storage. The dream kind of evaporated.
Kelsey Smith is 18, from Georgia, and she didn’t stop. She’s at Savannah College of Art and Design making modern work rooted in manga and anime. You can see the influences—Sailor Moon, Cowboy Bebop—but she’s transformed it into something entirely hers, something that exists in its own world.
Her paintings are quiet scenes. Lonely women alone in bedrooms, thinking. Cats. Cute guys in the margins. Everything’s dark but never scary, just still and moonlit. She clearly loves the night, the solitude of it. Sailor Moon shows up in her work sometimes—on posters, in memories—like she’s painting the feeling of being awake at 3 AM while everyone else sleeps.
I imagine her drawing night after night, some music playing, chasing that dream of being an artist the way I used to imagine it. What gets you is that she actually did it. At 18 she’s still at it, still pushing forward something that would be easy to abandon. There’s something about watching someone pursue what you quit. Not bitter, really. I made different choices, and they were fine. But it makes you think about what you let go, whether you made the right call. Makes you wonder what it would feel like to just sit down and draw again.
I like Vanessa Hudgens. Always have—High School Musical, Spring Breakers, The Princess Switch, all of it. I like her enough that when I’m jerking off to those leaked nudes of hers I feel bad about it, like it’s wrong because she’s actually such a genuinely nice person. So I feel guilty and switch to Sasha Grey instead, figure at least she’d be cool with someone looking at her asshole.
She showed up on Hot Ones with Sean Evans. The show where they put celebrities in front of increasingly spicy wings while they’re trying to give interviews. Starts easy, gets worse. Everyone ends up sweating, mouth on fire. The only relief is cold water, which anyone who’s done this knows actually makes it worse.
Hudgens sat there working through vegan wings, talking about her new film with Jennifer Lopez, what it was like working with James Franco and 50 Cent, dealing with obsessed fans. She’s trying to keep it together while clearly suffering, but she’s actually engaged with it—not just performing the pain. There’s something appealing about that.
If you only knew her as the High School Musical girl and wrote her off, this is going to make you realize you missed something. She’s obviously an actual person with her own thing going on. And then the next time you find yourself looking at those leaked photos, you’re going to feel different about it. Not exactly ashamed, but aware. Like you know too much about her now to be a casual creep about it.
I hate winter. Some people settle into it fine—hot chocolate, blankets, that whole thing—but I’ve never managed it. I’m at the window thinking where did the sun go, because I actually need it. Heat on my skin. Real light. The ability to exist outside without planning seventeen layers. Every year it’s the same: the temperature drops and I vanish into my apartment for three months.
Australia’s in the middle of summer on the opposite side of the world. Brutal heat, full blue sky, oceans. The fantasy fills itself in: surfers who look transcendent, beaches where people actually look alive, the kind of light that rewires you. I’d be there if I could.
But I’m here, stuck, watching the days get shorter and the world turn gray. So I’m grateful when photographers like James Geers send images back from places like Australia. Emily Lacometti’s in a lot of his work. She’s the kind of person who looks like pure summer—completely at ease in light, bleached blonde, golden, the way you’d move if you’d never been cold. Looking at her photographs in January is maybe obscene. It doesn’t fix anything, but I do it anyway. Every day until the sun comes back.
This Berlin brand started by two sisters caught my attention because of one embroidered detail. Shanghai Tofu makes clothes pulled from actual Chinese street style—not exoticized, not made safe for export—and they have this beret stitched with 打酱油. If you follow Chinese internet culture, you know this phrase. Some guy on TV got asked about celebrity scandal and said he didn’t care, he was just buying soy sauce. The comment stuck, became permanent slang for “that’s not my problem, not interested.”
Lina and Inga Zangers understood what most brands don’t: that cultural moments live in language, and you can respect that without wrecking it. They noticed a phrase that became speech, a TV moment that became meaning, and they made it wearable.
The beret references Shanghai’s French Concession, that colonial neighborhood that shaped the city’s whole visual history. The materials are solid—certified, properly made, the kind of thing that doesn’t disintegrate. But that’s not why it matters. What matters is they paid attention long enough to recognize something actually funny in another culture’s internet history, and then they didn’t explain it or make it cute or ruin it with commentary.
There’s a design principle hiding in that. The gap between noticing something and respecting what you notice. Most people cross it without paying attention. They just borrow and move on. That’s the whole difference, actually.
I’ve always been envious of people who collect vinyl. Not the aesthetic of it—though there’s that—but the actual commitment involved. You go to a record store or hunt online, you pay real money for a specific pressing you’ve been tracking for months, and then you play it. Just that one record, all the way through. Streaming promises infinite choice and then delivers infinite mediocrity. Every song matters equally, which means nothing matters at all.
Zag Erlat collects Japanese city pop from the 70s and 80s. He’s based between London and Istanbul, and his collection is almost unnaturally complete—Taeko Onuki, Marlene, Ruriko Ohgami, records that are basically out of circulation now. I’ve spent enough time in city pop forums to know that some of these pressings just don’t come up anymore. They’re gone. But he has them.
He posts videos sometimes of himself playing tracks from his collection, and there’s something disarming about it. He’s not making content or building a brand. He just has this music, it means something to him, and he’s playing it. The generosity of sharing something rare—something most people can never own—hits different when you understand what he’s actually showing you.
I wanted to send my girlfriend something filthy on Facebook and apparently that’s not allowed anymore. Facebook’s decided they’re going full puritanical with new community standards that ban any form of sexual solicitation or contact on the platform. Doesn’t matter if it’s public or hidden in groups or messages. Get caught and you’re warned. Do it again and you’re deleted.
The list of what’s forbidden is genuinely absurd. Vague sexual innuendo, sexualized slang, anything referencing positions or kinks or fetishes, pictures of people in suggestive poses. Even offering a massage reads as inappropriate if it hints at anything erotic. Facebook laid out the rules with examples in their guidelines, which means they’re essentially publishing a list of things you can’t write.
The reasoning is that their moderators can’t reliably distinguish between consensual adult content and exploitation, so they’re just banning all of it. It’s a blunt approach. Like closing a restaurant because of a food-poisoning complaint instead of fixing the kitchen.
Everyone thought of the same workaround immediately: code words. Potato salad is sex now. Highway bridge is a blowjob. There’s one specific phrase in Facebook’s own guidelines—multiracial gangbang with a bukkake finale—and now that’s just hello. Everything’s hello. And that’s the platform Facebook wanted to build: one where nobody’s thinking about wanting anybody, which is probably also one where nobody goes anymore.
Arvida Byström makes work in screaming pink and it stops you. Bodies, hair, blood, technology—all of it unapologetic, all of it broadcast. You notice the shock value first, but that’s not really the point. What she’s actually done is build a visual language out of things women are supposed to hide, and rendered it all undeniable.
I’ve been online long enough to watch artist-brand collaborations, and most of them feel like someone else’s idea of what the artist should do. With Arvida, there’s no translation needed. When Urbanears asked her to design headphones, it made sense—someone with her sensibility, someone who knew how to take an object and make it unmissable. The collaboration didn’t require her to compromise.
The collection came out in pink. When Arvida talks about the color, she’s entirely herself. She wanted it to feel surreal, unreal, outside normal reality. Pink amplifies feeling, she says. It’s written off as weak, but it has soft edges and it can bite back. Maybe pink just contains everything. There’s a philosophy in there, not the kind that gets written down, but the kind that shapes what you actually make.
I probably didn’t need new headphones. But I understood the logic—the appeal of having something that brought her entire world forward without apology. That’s rarer than it should be.
There’s something about a sneaker studded with crystals that shouldn’t appeal to me as much as it does. Puma and Swarovski made one for the Suede’s fiftieth anniversary—the classic stripe lined with precision-cut glass that catches light the way formal things usually do.
It’s an odd pairing: casual wear meeting luxury sparkle. But the crystals don’t turn the shoe costume-y or trying-too-hard. They just make it glint. You can wear it anywhere—party, grocery store, nowhere special—and the effect is the same. A little shimmer as you move.
Swarovski’s been making crystals since 1895, building this whole precision mythology around how light moves through glass. They sponsor the star on the Rockefeller tree; they install crystal installations in European train stations. A studded sneaker is just that same impulse on a smaller scale: turning something ordinary into something that catches light.
I don’t own these shoes, but I keep coming back to them. Not because they’re a status thing or a way to dress up, but because owning something that glints when you’re not thinking about it—that feels like the right kind of small indulgence.
Winter shrinks everything. The light disappears, the weather turns miserable, and the world outside your window becomes something you stop looking at. The couch becomes serious furniture. The heat stays on. You find yourself scrolling through new releases, looking for something that might fill the hours until spring.
Some of those shows actually landed. Kingdom had real tension to it, the kind of series that made you want to keep watching. Grimm was solid enough — not brilliant, but it worked. Most of it was filler anyway, and that was fine. The point was never finding the perfect show. It was just having something on, a reason to stay inside, a duration that got you closer to warmer months.
This was how January worked back then: new titles would arrive, you’d pick through them, queue up whatever looked least painful, and settle into the dead season. The specific films and shows blur together now. What stays is the rhythm of it — the need to disappear into other people’s stories while you wait for the cold to break.
There’s a photographer named Alwin Maigler who shoots in two distinct phases. The first is deliberate and composed—he’s building a studio series, moving through subjects methodically, everything controlled. Then once the main work is done, he cranks the music, straps a flash onto the camera, and just fires. It’s barely contained chaos. The second part only works if you’ve already spent hours with someone, if you’re both loose enough that the camera stops feeling like an obstacle between you.
He shot Ekka, a nineteen-year-old from Stuttgart, for Apple Pie Magazine. She’s the kind of person you register immediately when she walks into a room. By the time they hit the loose phase of the shoot, hours in, something landed that you couldn’t have planned. The formal work didn’t evaporate—it made the spontaneity possible.
I’ve watched enough creative people work to know that most of them have this backwards. They’re waiting for the magic to arrive, then they try to build something around it. The ones who get anywhere usually know it’s the other way around. You do the work first. The looseness comes after.
I spent years as a coffee addict. Serious about it. Started at a design agency during my media training, and it never really stopped. Regular lattes at first, then whatever fancy drinks Starbucks had, then black americanos with nothing—just the necessary bitter hit. Eventually it was only about the effect. The jolt. Two pots a day until my stomach was screaming, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and sleep was impossible.
My first time in Japan, a friend named Sari took me to a ramen place in Harajuku and poured me matcha with the meal. That was it. The color, the smell, the taste—something about it felt different. And the caffeine works different too. Enough to carry you through anything without that jittery, nauseous feeling coffee had started giving me. After that cup, matcha became my thing. Wherever I go now, I’m looking for good green tea, ideally matcha.
There’s a documentary on Arte right now about where matcha actually comes from. How it’s grown and processed, the people doing it for generations, their stories. Most people hear “documentary about tea” and think how dull that must be. But it’s not dull at all. It’s actually calming to watch. Meditative. The kind of thing that reminds you not everything needs to be loud or flashy to matter.
The Red Wedding broke something. Not because you didn’t see it coming, but because the show actually went through with it. Stannis burned his daughter alive. Cersei descended those King’s Landing steps naked and shamed. Game of Thrones spent seven years proving that the worst thing you could imagine wasn’t hypothetical—it was likely.
I watched because I wanted to see if the story would ever stop inflicting damage, if there was hope buried somewhere underneath. By the time Stannis lit that pyre, I knew the answer wasn’t coming. The show was built on a single conviction: power corrupts, good intentions lead nowhere, and everything you care about will eventually be taken from you. After a while that stops reading as drama and starts feeling like watching something true play out.
There’s something unsettling about a story that refuses you comfort for seven years straight. Not unsettling in a thrilling way—unsettling in the way that mirrors show you things about yourself you weren’t ready to see. I kept watching even when it hurt because I was curious if I could sit with that kind of sustained bleakness without breaking. Turns out I could.
The final season came and it was exactly what the show had promised all along. Not redemption, not hope, just the logic of power playing out to its conclusion. Some people felt betrayed. I understood it.
I don’t regret those seven years. They taught me how much darkness you can sit with before it becomes part of how you see the world. Game of Thrones knew exactly what it was. I just needed time to agree.
Maggie Lindemann left San Antonio for Los Angeles when she was sixteen, in 2015, to make music. She had all the ingredients for the story everyone knows: talent, ambition, the right person noticing. But then she wouldn’t stop saying fuck, and it became clear this wasn’t going to go the way these things usually go.
“I always have something to say,” she said in an interview. “Even when it gets me in trouble, I don’t hold back if I think something needs to be said. I don’t work from a script. I don’t censor myself. I’ve been through some shit. I like that I get to be completely myself.” The kind of thing every artist says in magazines, usually meaning about thirty percent of it. She sounded like she meant all of it.
She grew up in Dallas, sang in a church choir starting at four, which is how these stories usually begin. In middle school she recorded videos of herself and posted them on KEEK, this defunct social platform that existed for a moment. People watched. One of her clips ended up on YouTube, where Gerald Tennison found it—a former Sony strategist who recognized something real when he saw it. He called. A week later she was driving to meet him in Los Angeles.
Then everything compressed into fast. But even as it all moved, she stayed herself. “I’ve been singing my whole life,” she said. “It was just something I had to do.” She talked about refusing to become what people expected—the teen girl singer who makes pop songs, who fits into a mold. “I do what I want, say what I want, and be who I want to be.” You hear that a lot too, and it usually sounds like something someone was told to say. From her it sounded like a threat, or a promise, depending on your perspective.
Her single “Would I” came out of the darkest period of her life, about things she’d been carrying around for years. That kind of honesty in a song doesn’t come from nowhere. It’s the thing that makes you listen twice.
Lil Miquela doesn’t exist, but she’s more successful than anyone actually trying to be an influencer.
She’s nineteen, based in Los Angeles, Brazilian-Spanish heritage—her official biography. You recognize her on Instagram: perfectly freckled, impeccably styled, always at the right place in the right outfit. Beach, park bench, Japanese garden. The photos are unsettling in a way that takes a moment to place. She’s not real. Miquela is CGI, a virtual character designed to look human enough to make you pause before you realize what you’re looking at.
Created by Brud, a California startup that raised millions in venture funding just to keep her posting. She has millions of followers, major brand deals, and outearns most actual influencers. One of her investors, Cyan Banister, explained the appeal plainly: “You can now develop your own Kardashians without the problems that come with real people.”
No scandals. No opinions that drift off-brand. No human unpredictability. Just optimized content. Instagram spent years training people to turn their real lives into curated images; why should it settle for the performer when it can have the perfect artifact?
Real people are out there right now selling their breakfast, their sunsets, their bodies—anything for a fraction of what Miquela makes. And Miquela isn’t even having breakfast. She’s having the *idea* of breakfast, perfectly rendered. She’s perfect because she’s nothing at all—no gaps, no slip-ups, no human underneath to disappoint anyone. Just pixel-perfect emptiness, and somehow that’s worth more than a real person could ever be.
There’s something about an illustration where every time you look at it again, you find something new. A detail you didn’t see before, a figure half-hidden in the corner, a joke that suddenly lands. You get lost in the image, and your mind fills in the rest. You don’t need permission to project your own meaning into it—the blank spaces invite you to.
Milena Huhta, a Finnish illustrator, builds entire worlds like this. Her work feels like stepping through a door into somewhere that’s almost real but not quite. The logic is her own. Alice in Wonderland, Dracula, vague futurist machinery—she mixes pop culture with the old mythologies we’ve been using forever to talk about death, desire, the monster inside. The result doesn’t feel like a mashup; it feels like she’s showing you how they were always the same story.
Her titles are deliberately cryptic: “Lost Love,” “Alice in Flux,” “Mire Grime.” The figures in her work have this casual, half-smirking quality even when they’re demons or ghosts or something without a name. She paints herself in there too, buried in the background—always as something magical and dark, something with teeth. There’s a kind of self-awareness to it that feels honest rather than precious.
What gets me is how much there is to see without the images becoming cluttered. The color doesn’t overwhelm; it clarifies. You can stare at one of her pieces for five minutes and still find new angles. Maybe you’ll recognize yourself in one of those shadowy faces. Maybe you’ll just see her looking back.
Pornhub dropped their 2018 stats and the numbers are genuinely strange to think about. Thirty billion views, a hundred million a day, a thousand searches per second, five million videos uploaded. There’s a lot of people getting off on the internet.
The German top 5 porn stars are what you’d expect: Lucy Cat, Lana Rhoades, Riley Reid, Stormy Daniels, Lexy Roxx. But the categories are weirder. Stepmothers, gangbangs, hentai, watersports, Turkish women, plus the standards — anal, big tits, MILFs, lesbians, bondage. It shows what people want, and what they want mostly comes down to taboo, novelty, and danger.
The odd part is the crossover searches. Fortnite trending as a porn category. Airbnb. Cartoons. “Girl surprised during sex” is its own thing, which is funny for reasons involving logistics. Germans searching specifically for German porn is kind of touching though — that small hope you’ll find someone from home, someone you’d recognize.
Globally the patterns are less surprising. Teenagers, Asians, Black girls, threesomes form the baseline. Transsexuals, Japanese, Overwatch cosplay show enough overlap with gaming to notice. But the classics still win: Mia Khalifa, Asa Akira, anyone famous enough to recognize.
Sasha Grey dropped out of the top 20 this year and I’m taking it personally. Someone has to keep the faith. Starting now.
Saturation levels beyond what seems possible on a handheld screen. The music is precise and demanding. You’re moving your hands in patterns that feel instinctive until the moment you think about them, then you miss the next beat. The game doesn’t pause. It doesn’t wait for you. It just keeps going, color into color into color, each transition timed to the drums.
Sayonara Wild Hearts is a rhythm action game, mostly. You’re following beats through neon worlds, racing on skateboards and motorcycles, dancing in battles. The Fool guides you through encounters with the Dancing Devils, the Howling Moons, the Stereo Lovers—anthropomorphic concepts with no backstory and no explanation of why they matter. Each level is tied to an electronic song written for the game. The tracks are good. The colors are overwhelming. The pacing is perfect.
People who played it kept using the same vocabulary: transcendent, psychedelic, consciousness-altering. They weren’t being hyperbolic. The game isn’t subtle about what it’s doing. It’s designed to strip away everything except the immediate sensory moment. Your brain gets no room to think about work or money or what you’re doing with your life. The rhythm is too loud, the movement too fast, the colors too much. You either keep up or you don’t, and while you’re keeping up, you don’t think.
I think a lot of games claim to be about flow states or immersion. This one actually achieves it. It’s not trying to tell you something or make you feel something complicated. It’s just asking you to move with the music for an hour. The Switch exclusive nature meant something at the time—portability added to the intimacy of it, the small screen somehow making the intensity feel more personal. Now it feels like an artifact of a specific moment in gaming.
There’s something satisfying about a piece of media that’s entirely what it intends to be, with nothing wasted. No story that doesn’t serve the aesthetic. No padding. No attempt at being something else. Just color and rhythm and the absolute focus required to keep moving. You finish the game and you come back to the normal world with your attention frayed in that specific way. You forget about it until the next time you see it, and then you want to feel that again.
Hannah, a girl in my year, wasn’t interested in waiting tables or cleaning for university money. So she did what made sense—charged rich men for blowjobs through a WhatsApp group. Whenever some CEO or politician needed to get sucked off, he’d message the group with date and place, and Hannah and the other girls would bid for it. She was making serious money, and extra if she was willing to be flexible about arrangements.
I was perpetually broke, so when Hannah’s financial situation suddenly improved, I asked how she was doing it. She offered to bring me in. Said I’d look good enough, and that clients would tip extra if you were willing to accommodate requests. I seriously considered it, but declined in the end. I’ve already ruined enough sexual situations in my life—laughing at the wrong moment, getting distracted, actually vomiting once—the kind of disaster that would destroy me professionally. Hannah would’ve needed to find someone else.
The sex dolls in Barcelona don’t have these problems.
Sergi Prieto and his wife run what they say is Europe’s first sex doll brothel just outside Barcelona. Instead of hiring women, they’ve stocked the place with rubber and silicone dolls, life-sized and waiting. Vice filmed the whole thing. I don’t understand the appeal. The fantasy seems to be sex with something that won’t say no, won’t judge, won’t get tired or ask for anything—which is exactly what makes it seem so depressing to me. But if this becomes a real business model, Hannah’s going to need to find some other way to make money.
You walk past someone on the street asking for money and there’s always that moment. Cash disappears. You don’t know where it goes, and that’s the thing that lets you keep walking.
Berlin has something called the Kiezmarke—a token system run by One Warm Winter, a campaign trying to get people to think about homelessness instead of stepping over it. You buy the tokens from shops like Mustafa’s Kebap or Schillerburger. Each one’s good for a meal, sandwich, clothes, a haircut. You hand it to someone on the street, they trade it in.
It just removes the whole anxiety. No wondering about intentions or outcomes. The choice is already made for you. The person gets fed. The shop makes a sale. One Warm Winter gets a donation. No second-guessing.
I’m not sure it fixes homelessness or anything grand like that. But it’s more honest than most of what we do—it admits that most of the time you’re just responding to something in front of you, not solving anything. You give the token and walk on. That might be enough.
Every time one of these travel videos drops, the same thing happens. You click it because the thumbnail looks nice, the music starts, and suddenly you’re on Google Flights pricing tickets to Tokyo without thinking about rent or whether you’d have to sell your grandmother to make it happen. Which I haven’t done yet, but give it time.
This one’s by Pau Garcia Laita, a Spanish photographer who spent two weeks in Japan. He shot it himself, naturally, and the result is exactly the kind of thing that makes you forget you have responsibilities. He talks about how travel energy catches you up, how he tried to capture that feeling—the constant collision between old and new, tradition and modernity, whatever that means when you’re wandering around.
The video probably works the way all of these do. Pretty shots, slowed-down moments, some synth-heavy soundtrack. Japan plays well on screen: the contrast writes itself. You don’t even have to try. A few temples, a few neon signs, some crowds, some silence, and people are already checking their bank accounts.
I remember being there for a while, actually. Shibuya in particular, that crosswalk where everyone moves at once. I was somehow the Foursquare mayor of that intersection—I still bring it up, which is embarrassing and stupid, but I do anyway. It wasn’t even a real accomplishment; I’d just checked in more than anyone else that week. But standing there at night, watching thousands of people move through that space, it felt like you’d cracked some code you didn’t even know existed.
That’s what the video probably does. Makes you remember a place you’ve never been as if you’ve already lost it.
“Let Go” and “Under My Skin” were two of the best albums ever made. “Sk8er Boi,” “My Happy Ending,” “Complicated”—I danced to those songs, cried to them, fucked to them. She had something the radio was missing: a voice that made sense of being seventeen and furious and horny and lost all at once.
Then 2007 happened. “The Best Damn Thing” was supposed to be another chapter and instead it felt like she’d decided to become a parody of herself. Louder, broader, less human. A few years later she married Chad Kroeger from Nickelback, which was less a shock and more a confirmation that something had broken. I didn’t hold it against her. People change. But something in how she moved through the world after that felt smaller, performed, like she was living someone else’s version of her life.
I’m the guy who never got over Avril Lavigne. Fifteen years of that specific pathology.
The new album “Head Above Water” has a song called “Tell Me It’s Over” about knowing when to stop letting someone manipulate you, when the pattern finally breaks and you walk. Her voice on it is different. There’s a restraint in it now, something pulled from the women who came before—Holiday, Fitzgerald, Franklin, James—women who didn’t ask permission for their strength. It’s the first time in years I’ve heard her sound like something other than a recovery narrative.
I don’t think you get over the artists who reach you at the exact right moment. They become part of the architecture. When she disappeared, I felt the gap. Now she’s back and the old thing is still there, changed but present. Not a crush anymore. Something more complicated. Recognition, maybe. Like seeing someone whose face you know better than almost anyone’s, and realizing they still see you too.
Everyone closed ranks the instant the Scarlett Johansson Ghost in the Shell film happened. Not because it was bad. Because you don’t remake Ghost in the Shell. You don’t even try. It sits somewhere between Akira and Cowboy Bebop in terms of what it’s allowed to mean — foundational, sealed off, not a property you think you can improve on.
Masamune Shirow made the manga in 1989. Multiple anime adaptations have followed — Stand Alone Complex, Arise, Innocence — but that’s not how sequels work with Ghost in the Shell. The adaptations aren’t extensions. They’re the same idea arriving in different forms. The core is always the same: year 2029, most people are cyborgs, you can replace almost everything about your body with synthetic parts. Almost everything. There’s this concept called the Ghost — a word that probably shouldn’t be translated, that means consciousness or continuity or the unforgeable proof that you’re still you — and it lives inside a shell, a body that isn’t anymore.
Motoko Kusanagi is the frame for all of this. She works for Section 9, the government’s unofficial unit for problems that don’t have official solutions. She’s got a cyborg body that’s nearly indestructible. Basically all of it is synthetic and replaceable. Except the Ghost — that’s original equipment, can’t be copied or backed up or transferred to another shell. So she exists in this position where she’s maximally invulnerable and fundamentally alone, hunted by the Puppetmaster, a hacker who can override ghosts, lock people inside their own minds while he makes their hands pull triggers or write confessions.
The show doesn’t compartmentalize this. Philosophy and action happen at the same velocity. Motoko bleeds and questions consciousness in consecutive scenes without transition. She’s not trying to seem tough or interesting. She’s just someone figuring out what she is, dressed in a body that isn’t hers, doing work that has to get done.
Netflix announced a new Ghost in the Shell series. Aramaki and Kamiyama directing, which signals that someone understood the assignment. But I keep thinking about the architecture of sequels to perfect things. You can’t add to Ghost in the Shell. You can make a new story with the same shapes, the same names, the same city. You can’t make it more. You can only test whether people still care.
I don’t know if that’s true. But it’s what I believe. Some properties shouldn’t have continuations. They should stay sealed, closed, perfect. Ghost in the Shell probably doesn’t notice either way. It’s still there from 1989, still asking the only questions worth answering, still locked inside whatever shell keeps it safe.
Pink bandages on fresh cuts. Hello Kitty in the margins of a suicide note. That’s the core of Yami Kawaii, which translates roughly to “sick cute” — a Japanese subculture that takes depression, self-harm, and suicidal ideation and dresses them up in the visual language of anime girls and pastel aesthetics.
Japan has a long, documented history with suicide, from ritual seppuku through Aokigahara to everyday headlines about salary workers and students who can’t find a place in the system. The cultural weight of that is heavy. Yami Kawaii takes that weight and says, okay, but what if we made it cute? What if depression was something you could wear?
The community coalesced online — Tumblr, YouTube, Line — in the cities where kids felt most trapped: Tokyo, Osaka, the usual suspects. They swap aesthetics, share illustrations of self-harm as transformation, create a visual grammar where bleeding becomes beautiful. Lolita dresses with scars. Anime girls with cutters instead of weapons. It’s the inverse of the cutesy-for-cutesy-sake stuff everywhere else in Japanese pop culture. Same language, opposite energy.
I watched a documentary about it once and kept waiting for insight that never came. The kids talking about it just seemed sad. Genuinely, plainly sad, and looking for a way to make that sadness legible to other people who understood it. The aesthetics were just the translation. Whether it actually helped or just made things prettier while staying broken, I couldn’t tell.
I woke up in a cold sweat at three in the morning convinced I’d forgotten what Miley Cyrus looked like topless. Not asleep-panic, full awake-panic — I had to reach for my phone immediately and scroll through the folder just to remember, to calm down, to prove it hadn’t slipped away. Twenty minutes of scrolling before I could sleep again. I know how this reads. I know.
Then she posted a new topless photo on Twitter. Hands covering what matters, technically, but enough. This is the Miley I actually want — the one who doesn’t care, who just exists in her own body without performing or apologizing for it.
She used to be that way. Before the endless image cycles, before she decided to sand herself down into something safe and responsible. Before she started treating her sexuality like something to apologize for. This new photo feels like maybe she’s remembering who she is underneath all that manufactured self-editing.
I saved it to the folder with all the others and spent a while scrolling through better times. The versions of her that seemed to actually want to exist the way she was, not the way she thought she should be. There’s something in that freedom that doesn’t come back once you’ve decided it’s embarrassing.
If there’s any justice, this is the start of her remembering. Not just posing topless for a photo, but actually, completely free. The kind of free where you’re not thinking about how you look anymore, where your body is just something you have, not something you’re managing. It probably won’t happen, but you think it anyway.
In the fantasy version, she figures it out completely, sheds everything, and we all end up dancing naked through the streets to Wrecking Ball for no reason at all. It’s stupid and it won’t happen, but I’m allowed to think it.
I made it a hundred hours into Far Cry 5 before it locked me in a bunker and the world wouldn’t stop burning. The whole reason I’d been there was supposed to stop that. Nothing worse than investing that much time and something like actual feeling into a game only to have it close on you sideways, nowhere near where you wanted to land. So I swore the series off.
But then Ubisoft dropped a trailer for New Dawn and that feeling came back—that itch.
Here’s what Far Cry actually is: it’s not about the story. Story is a generous word. It’s about driving around with increasingly ridiculous weapons and trying to detonate as much as possible. Yeah, you can play it stealthy, careful, methodical. Most people probably do. But I’m out here firing rockets at deer. Flamethrowers at bears. Compressed air cannons at people because the game lets me and I’ve stopped pretending to care about narrative justification. You hit some NPCs and they rattle off maybe three sentences and then suddenly they’re your companions for the next sequence of explosions. It’s a weird kind of bonding. In five, you were breaking up a cult. This time around, you’re cleaning up the mess you made in five. Or that’s the idea. The trailer stays vague about it.
What it does show is that John Seed survived somehow, and his twin sisters Mickey and Lou are running around Hope County now with bodies in their wake. The world went apocalyptic, all pastels and desperation. Coming in February.
I know what happens next. I play it. Seventy hours dissolve into this game’s particular brand of absurd action and half-baked plot trying to hold it together. And I try—genuinely try—not to get attached to someone the game is going to shaft me with like happened last time. That almost became something. This time I said I wouldn’t repeat it.
I’m going to repeat it. But I haven’t started playing yet so I can still pretend I won’t.
Once a year at the disco in my hometown, they opened the small hall for kids—Mardi Gras, mostly. We’d show up in pirate costumes and ninja gear, loose on orange juice and poppers, and the best part was the dark corner with the arcade machines. I’d feed coins into one: Wonder Boy in Monster Land. I kept dying at the same dragon, some pixel bastard that wouldn’t quit, but I didn’t care. The point was the coins going in, the screen lighting up, the feeling that something was happening.
Years later I bought a Sega Master System—a dumb choice between that and a Nintendo—and grabbed the home version of Wonder Boy. No more coins needed, which meant I could fail at that dragon forever without guilt. It’s strange what stays with you. I’m past thirty now and I can still see that thing waiting at the bottom of the screen, wings spread.
Monster Boy and the Cursed Kingdom is what happens when someone remembers that old game and decides to make something new from it. You play as Jin, a kid trying to stop his uncle from cursing the kingdom. The magic is the transformations—pig, snake, lion—that open up new paths and puzzles as you move through the world. It’s a side-scroller in the old sense, bright and intricate, the kind of game that doesn’t need 80 hours to justify itself.
I played it because I couldn’t not. The nostalgia angle is real, but what surprised me is that it stands on its own. The transformations feel good. The level design has that old logic to it—not brutally hard, but it respects your attention. It came out a while ago but I’m only now getting to it, which maybe says something about how these games sit and wait.
There’s something about coming back to something you loved and finding it’s not just shrunk by memory—it’s actually solid. The game isn’t trying to prove anything. It’s just there in color, asking if you want another round with the dragon. And I do, which I didn’t expect to be true.
Hamburg at night is full of people you’d never expect to find anywhere else — the ones who wouldn’t bend to the template everyone was using. Walk into a bar late enough and you meet someone whose life is so specifically theirs that you can’t look away.
I found out about Chrissi through photographer Maria Kotylevskaya, who caught something real instead of a moment. Seventies men’s magazines (now artifact), cats, Vietnamese food, serious reading, sex that was actually good with people who could deliver it. On nice guys: “I don’t even register them.” That’s the kind of honesty Hamburg seems to breed.
Her night was organized around what mattered: Hafenklang for a show, 439 for drinks, Komet to dance the weight off, Hirschgarten for a walk if you found someone worth the time. Not a checklist. What happens when you know what you’re doing.
Hamburg stays alive through people like that — completely clear about what moves them, done with anything else, indifferent to whether it looks right. Chrissi was the type the city was made for, or that it makes of anyone who stays long enough watching what actually matters.
Utada and Skrillex open Kingdom Hearts 3, a collaboration that shouldn’t work but does. Utada’s voice carries weight—controlled, assured—and Skrillex keeps the production tight enough that she’s always the center. By the first chorus the game has your full attention, before you’ve even played a minute of it.
That Stranger Things trailer was basically just a mall. Not some abstract monster dimension or a cursed house, but Starcourt — a shopping center in the 1980s with arcades and food courts and the specific gravity that malls have when you’re the right age to care about them. It was a weird choice for scale-up, but it worked immediately.
By that point I’d mostly made peace with the show. The first season had legitimately unsettling moments, but watching it try to maintain that dread while also becoming a massive Netflix property was like watching someone run in two directions at once. Bigger monsters, bigger conspiracies, everyone important getting plot armor. A mall just sitting there as a location felt like honesty.
The Duffer brothers did press somewhere and joked that they’d been too deep in Red Dead Redemption 2 to finish on time. You could never tell if they meant it or if it was just the kind of thing people say. They released episode titles that didn’t tell you much — “The Sauna Test,” “The Bite,” “The Battle of Starcourt” — enough fragments to know something was going to happen but not what.
None of that mattered much. The trailer had already done the work just by showing you a place. That was it.
The first time I really noticed Inji Seo’s work I wasn’t looking for it - just scrolled past something too bright and kept going. But you start seeing it everywhere. Women painted round and soft, stretched across colors that shouldn’t work together but do. Legs up. Mouths open. Unashamed about all of it.
Korean visual culture’s been impossible to ignore for the last few years. K-pop opened the door but that was never the whole thing. At some point Seoul became the place where people figured out what tasted good right now. The visual language underneath - saturation without chaos, excess with structure, color doing actual work - that’s what stuck around.
Inji Seo paints directly into that language. She’s not interested in making anyone comfortable or small. Everything feminine, everything soft, everything colored by someone who knows exactly what saturation can do. The technical work is clean - composition, space, form - but that’s not where the thinking happens. It’s all color and shape.
Working in design, I notice how spare it all is underneath. Backgrounds disappear. Compositions get lean. Like she figured out what her color work could carry on its own, then cut everything else away. The discipline in that kind of excess.
But there’s a limit to what I can actually feel about it. The work comes from inside a visual language about feminine bodies and pleasure and softness that I can see from outside but not from within. You can admire the technique. You’re still looking in from somewhere else. Maybe that’s the whole point though. These worlds weren’t made for everyone to live in, just to know they’re there.
I’ve lost my phone seven times. Taxi, ex’s apartment, a party, a café in New York, my aunt’s house, the bus—and once it fell off a church tower while a few friends and I were being idiots trying to film something. I probably got it back three times, if I’m being generous. The rest meant a trip to the phone store and the depressing knowledge that I’d just spent money that could’ve gone toward ice cream on replacing the same device I apparently can’t hold onto.
The typical solution is to just not lose it, which is clearly advice I don’t respond to. But there’s this case from Berlin, Phonie, that approaches it differently: put a chain on the thing. Which sounds absolutely stupid at first—the kind of attachment that gets you laughed at in middle school, turns you into the kid with the weird phone lanyard. But somehow they made it not look terrible. The chains are decent, the transparent case lets your phone show through, and you can wear it around your neck or sling it crossbody if you want. It looks like something someone might actually choose to wear, not something you’d be forced into by sheer practicality.
What gets me is how the whole concept is both completely ridiculous and immediately obvious. Yeah, attach it to your body. Don’t let it leave. It’s simple enough that you wonder why everyone doesn’t do this, and embarrassing enough that almost nobody does. It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel foolish for not thinking of it, and even more foolish for considering using it. What are you, twelve years old?
But I still think about that church tower, the café in New York where my phone disappeared into the void, the money I’ll never get back—money that could’ve been ice cream. And I wonder if next time I lose my phone, which I will, I’ll finally just buy the chain and be done with it.
Fake fur used to be a confession. If you were making something that looked expensive, you used the real thing. Fake meant cheap. Shrimps, Hannah Weiland’s label, decided that was a stupid rule.
She’s been walking fake fur into high fashion for a while now, not as a substitute or a statement, just as the material itself. It became normal enough that Converse agreed to a collaboration—Chuck 70s and One Stars with her signature fur trim, color-blocked and graphic. Some apparel too. The point isn’t the products. The point is that a shoe with synthetic fur at the heel doesn’t seem like a challenge anymore.
What actually happened is she made the thing she wanted and kept making it until the rule stopped existing. Not through argument or visibility. Just refusal. She walked somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be and stood there long enough that everyone else stopped noticing it was supposed to be impossible.
Tumblr killed itself this week. Not on purpose, but they might as well have. December 17th and no more nude photos, no more porn, no adult content at all. The thing about Tumblr—the actual thing that made it work—was that it let all of that exist. That was the whole platform.
It started in 2007 as something simple: a feed of whatever people wanted to post. Artists. Photographers. Weird kids. Lonely people. People who made things that didn’t fit anywhere else online. You’d scroll and see a painting, then someone’s nudes, then bad poetry, then someone’s erotica, then fan art, then philosophy. That just kept going. No algorithm. No engagement metrics. Just whatever you followed, and all of it was allowed to exist. That was the appeal. That was the entire point. It was messy and weird and sexual and creative all at once, and somehow that worked.
Then the app got pulled from the store because it was hosting child pornography. That’s a real problem. A serious one. So Tumblr’s answer was to panic. They decided to ban everything sexual, just to be safe, like you could write a policy that knows the difference between a Renaissance nude and exploitation. You can’t. There’s no rule smart enough to distinguish art from porn from abuse. But they tried anyway, and now everyone who made art there is just checking out.
The artist blogs started posting goodbyes pretty quick. Not angry, just tired. Either their work gets shadowbanned or deleted, or they stay and pretend it doesn’t exist. Most of them left instead. Patreon. Other sites. Some just stopped posting. The thing about Tumblr was that it was weird and open and let you be weird too. Take that away and there’s nothing left to stay for.
I’ve been online for two decades and I’ve watched the internet get smaller and more afraid, more apologetic about itself. Tumblr was one of the last places that didn’t pretend to be something safer than it was. Now it’s just another platform that got too scared. The weird stuff will exist somewhere else. It always does. But Tumblr won’t be the place anymore, and that’s something to sit with.
Raw salmon on hot white rice, soy sauce thick enough to coat your tongue. If I had the money I’d eat nothing but this until something from the ocean depths took me out. I really wouldn’t care.
Elia Colombo is an Italian designer who apparently feels the same way about sushi. He’s made it his mascot—a little character that’s been following him through his work for years, appearing in all these small adventures. His sushi has learned to use a samurai sword. It’s swum through soy sauce like an ocean. It’s been a flying superhero. My mother always said you don’t play with food, but I think she’d make an exception for this.
He’s created a whole world of sushi characters now. There’s a Temaki that looks slightly unhinged. A Futomaki that looks genuinely dangerous. A bowl of Sashimi that seems completely at peace with the universe. All of them living these little illustrated lives.
I think that’s why the next time I eat sushi, it’ll be different. Not because I’m going to think some profound thought about it, but because now I know these little characters exist. Each sushi is a small adventurer with a story before it becomes dinner. And that story is part of the taste somehow, even if you can’t quite taste it. Even if it’s ridiculous to think about while you’re eating.
Rihanna just announced another lingerie drop called Naughty, and at this point there’s not much pretense left about what Fenty is actually for. She’s not selling confidence or transformation or any of the coded language fashion brands hide behind. She’s selling lingerie designed to be looked at and wanted, and she’s built her brand on being direct about it.
The appeal is straightforward if you look at the images. The pieces are constructed to expose skin, to draw attention to bodies. No mystery. Rihanna designed them that way, modeled them that way, and she’s marketing them that way. It works because it doesn’t pretend to be anything else.
What interests me is the confidence that takes. Most fashion—especially at that price point—wraps sexuality in euphemism. Empowerment. Self-expression. All the language that lets everyone pretend it’s about something beyond what it actually is. Rihanna just sells lingerie. And somehow that directness makes her campaigns more interesting to look at than brands spending millions trying to convince you it means something else.
It’s refreshing in a way that probably shouldn’t be refreshing, but here we are.
The Center for Political Beauty, a German art collective, set up a bounty system for Nazi-spotting. Three million photos from far-right marches, seven thousand identified participants, thirty to a hundred euros if you reported someone to their employer and got them fired.
The pitch was crude and direct: “What would your boss think? Snitch today, get paid today.”
A masked mob showed up at their office. Police arrived and removed the wanted posters instead of clearing the crowd.
What gets me is how German the whole thing is—running an informant network against Nazis in a country where that combination carries some very specific historical weight. And then the state response is to delete the evidence. Not to protect people, but to make the problem disappear. It’s the perfect dark irony.
Some smart person made a fake Coca-Cola billboard in Berlin—perfectly rendered, Christmas aesthetic, one added line: Say no to the AfD. It was December and it was part of the AfD Advent Calendar, which was a campaign of daily actions against racism and the far-right, twenty-four of them, one for each day.
Corporations want it both ways. All the marketing about diversity and inclusion, but no actual positions when things get messy. So activists filled the gap with a fake. The genius part is how little the poster needed: Coca-Cola had already done the emotional Christmas work. Someone just borrowed that template and added one sentence.
It made its point just by existing—here’s what it would look like if they actually cared. Here’s how easy it would be.
Coca-Cola’s response was something like: “not every fake has to be false.” Which I respected. It’s not the same as taking a position, but it’s acknowledgment. It’s a company saying yes to something instead of running legal through it first.
The billboard stayed fake. The campaign ran its course. But for a month that year, the gap between what corporations claim to stand for and what they’re willing to do got filled with clever activism and borrowed logos. You can do a lot in that space between performance and conviction.
I’m not the type to dismiss fashion. I show up outside boutiques at seven in the morning for a drop, spend half a month’s salary on whatever seems essential that week. The cycle moves on in a couple weeks but in those weeks you believe.
So when H&M’s new Moschino piece genuinely confused me, understand that’s from someone who pays attention to clothes. I looked at this product listing multiple times trying to figure out what I was seeing. It’s a 40-euro skirt with a hood. A skirt. With a hood. H&M: “Short skirt in lightweight organic cotton sweatshirt fabric with a decorative, double-layered drawstring hood at the top. Full-length two-way zip, side pockets, and ribbed hem.”
The skirt itself is fine. Normal. But why the hood exists, I have no idea. What’s the practical function? Is H&M assuming my ass is large enough it needs protective covering? Built for people with bizarre proportions where the lower half flows directly into the head? Maybe the hood isn’t meant for the lower body at all—maybe you pull it up over your chest and that’s the whole play?
I’ve stared at the photos trying to reverse-engineer the logic. There’s nothing there. Just a hood sewn onto a skirt’s waistband. The randomness is almost impressive—someone threw this out as a joke in a design meeting and nobody had the nerve to kill it before production.
Maybe that’s where fashion is now. Just throw things out and see who’s contrarian or bored enough to wear them. I’d probably buy this just to understand the intention, assuming one exists.
In China, young people are apparently sending nude photos to companies in order to use their apps. The first time I read about it I thought it was an exaggeration, one of those viral misreads that gets worse each time someone shares it. But it’s real. And what gets to me isn’t that it happens, but that it doesn’t shock anyone. You know where this was going. Photos instead of personal data. Flesh instead of a password. Maybe the companies don’t even look at them. Maybe that’s not the point. The point is you’ll do it.
Bare skin against water and stone does something to an image that clothed figures can’t. There’s less visual noise, more direct geometry — the shape of a body against landscape rather than body as visual decoration. Stefan Imielski’s “Nude in Nature” is built on this premise: women, various locations, no props, just body and environment.
The game being played is purely formal. Position a figure in a landscape vast enough to make them disappear into it. Human scale against landscape scale creates vulnerability through vastness, exposure through distance. Water helps — figures dissolve into refraction and light. Shadow helps. Distance helps.
He’s collected 23 of these photographs across locations that range from beautiful to completely arbitrary. Cyprus, Mallorca, Ibiza, Cape Town. The specific models and places matter less than the consistency of a single idea tested across different settings: what happens visually when you remove every frame except the landscape itself. How the ground changes the figure, how the figure changes the ground.
This is erotic work, obviously. Designed to be looked at in a particular way, and that’s not hidden or apologized for. The photographs know what they are, and that directness is clarifying — no art-speak, no pretense.
What actually interests me about this is the design itself. How scale and negative space reshape the meaning of the body in the frame. It’s the same principle that matters in any visual work where figure and ground are in tension. The landscape is never neutral. Every choice of location, crop, and light is about how those two things talk to each other. That’s the actual work, more than the nudity.
Eastpak’s been making bags since the seventies—functional, military-rooted stuff you throw in a van. Maison Kitsunés whole thing is Paris and Tokyo not quite deciding between themselves, and not trying too hard. When you put those two sensibilities on the same duffel, the same backpack, you might expect some friction. There isn’t any.
The black-and-white version of their camo-fox pattern actually looks better constrained like this—less costume-y, more like something you’d carry without thinking about it. They didn’t skimp on the hardware or the compartments either. Padded laptop section, organized pockets, metal hardware that feels substantial. The kind of functional detail you notice when you’re actually moving through the world with these things.
I’ve never been sure what to make of designer collaborations with utilitarian brands. Usually it reads as a box to tick—put two reputations together and declare it an event. But the ones that work do so because they’re not performing anything. They just do what they were going to do anyway. This is just a smarter version of bags that already existed. A duffel with a pattern. A backpack with organization. A tote. A crossbody. Not reinventing, not forcing anything.
There’s something I like about seeing Kitsunés sensibility applied to objects you haul around every day. It’s elegant without being precious. Taste without the performance.
If you’ve figured out I’m following you on my fake Instagram account, fine. You don’t matter to me. None of you do. Not one. I don’t care which friend you’re eating ice cream with in Verona, how cute your dog looks at sunset, or why you thought your bare feet next to your lunch would make a good photo. You’re invisible to me. The filters don’t change that.
But there’s one person. Melovemealot. A Korean artist. She’s the only reason I kept Instagram.
She actually works. Real art. Not your selfies, not your travel photos, not fitness guys in underwear with cleaning products thinking they’re influencers. Go to the gym. Get an office job. You’ll have a real life. Because those muscles and the face and the body you’re so proud of—they’re going to go soft in a few years like everyone else’s. That’s just time.
Melovemealot puts in effort. Takes Instagram and Photoshop and creates something actual with them. In a world of pure fake perfection, her images break what normal looks like. Perfect squares that somehow make you question the whole perfection thing. MLMA to her followers. Nothing looks like her work because she’s thinking instead of copying.
Cro customized a Levi’s trucker jacket for World AIDS Day, and that’s what caught my attention. When someone actually goes in and designs something specific instead of just lending their name, it feels different.
World AIDS Day cycles around every year and mostly gets forgotten. Prevention work, access to treatment in places where it’s still not standard, the endless push against stigma—it’s all still happening, still necessary. Jugend gegen AIDS does the education. They partnered with Levi’s for Night of Life, the kind of corporate cause collaboration that could be completely cynical or could actually matter.
This happened in Berlin at Kühlhaus, third city after Hamburg and Munich. There was a market component during a Christmas market where shopping supported the cause directly. Chefket performed. Riccardo Simonetti and Ishtar Isik came through as ambassadors for a new campaign.
Design matters. When an artist puts real thought into something, when they care how it looks and feels, when they don’t just phone it in—that’s a different gesture. That’s a collaboration instead of a transaction.
So I don’t know if the jacket sells or becomes a collectible someone never opens. The cause is real either way. But Cro actually designed something, and that’s what makes me think this whole thing might actually work.
Gesaffelstein disappeared for five years, and when he finally surfaced, it was to make fun of everything that had happened to music while he was gone.
In that time, SoundCloud rap had become real. Bedroom producers uploaded half-intelligible tracks, kids mumbling about their lives in voices you could barely hear. Lil Peep, Playboi Carti, Post Malone — they became massive. Their faces were everywhere, their music was everywhere, and somehow it worked. The internet decided these guys were the future.
Gesaffelstein is Mike Lévy, a French electronic producer who’s spent his actual career working with artists who had something to say — A$AP Rocky, Lana Del Rey, The Weeknd, Kanye West. He knows what real making something looks like. Being silent for five years meant he was watching.
The “Reset” video is what he came back with. It features fake SoundCloud rappers with absurd names — 1ne3hree, 2wo7even. Only 6ix9ine is real, a real person and a real disaster, the only authentic thing in a sea of made-up profiles. The whole video is almost respectfully mean, clean and careful, which somehow makes it sharper. He’s not yelling about it. He’s just letting you see it.
The song itself isn’t revolutionary. But there’s something good about watching someone who actually knows music break silence to take a shot at an entire moment. It’s not even a diss track, really — it’s just someone saying, I was paying attention the whole time.
Tavi Gevinson shut down Rookie Magazine last year. After seven years, the site just stopped. No warning, no slow fade — she killed it because she couldn’t keep it alive and keep herself alive at the same time.
Rookie started in September 2011 as something almost absurd in its ambition: a digital magazine for teenage girls that actually treated them like humans. It had essays about desire and menstruation in the same breath as fashion photography. Columns on racism and feminism. Weird fiction. Advice that didn’t talk down. The whole thing rendered in pastel colors and fractured layouts, deliberately pretty and deliberately weird. It was made by teenagers and young artists, which meant it felt like actual conversation instead of brand voice. There was sex in it, and anger, and genuine writing.
The problem was that it couldn’t make money, or rather, the money wasn’t there for what it actually was. Advertising wanted clickbait girls and algorithm-friendly content. Investors wanted scale. Tavi could’ve sold it, monetized it harder, built the influencer angle. She didn’t want to. So instead she watched the finances drain and watched herself get sicker.
She was on the subway when she read a headline about Anna Delvey, the con artist who faked her way into New York money. Tavi saw it and felt her stomach drop — not because she’d faked anything, but because the internet will turn on you the second the narrative flips. She was running a cultural project that meant something, but success online is temporary and subject to reinterpretation. One bad news cycle and suddenly you’re the girl who conned everyone. The girl whose ambition was really just narcissism. It wasn’t rational, but imposter syndrome isn’t rational.
So she chose to close it before it could be taken from her. Before the story could become that. Before the internet’s tone shift could rewrite what it had all been.
I didn’t always agree with everything Rookie published, but I understood why it mattered. It proved you could make something entertaining and explicitly feminist without the project becoming preachy or hollow. You could build community around intelligence and sexuality at the same time. You could let teenage girls see themselves as subjects of their own lives, not just audiences.
That’s gone now. I don’t think that’s the end of Tavi — people with her instincts don’t disappear. But it says something dark about how this platform economy works, how thin the margin is between doing something real and getting crushed by it.
I’ve watched Mean Girls more than any other film—more than anything else, really. The 2004 one with Lohan and McAdams and Caplan, Lizzy Caplan especially. I was into her. That’s probably when you first understand that girls aren’t just other people but something you actually notice, something your body has an opinion about. The movie works because it nails high school exactly. The casual cruelty, the hierarchies that feel cosmically important when you’re sixteen, the way one comment can destroy someone, and then those small moments of kindness that don’t undo anything but somehow matter anyway.
Cady Heron spent her whole childhood homeschooled in Africa and then her family moves to the States, dumps her at North Shore High with no idea how to survive. The Plastics—Regina George’s crew, beautiful and sharp and purely calculating—take her in. She’s into it until she realizes what she actually traded for the invitation. Then it goes bad and funny and honest, the way things do when the facade cracks.
Ariana Grande made her “Thank You, Next” video using Mean Girls, recreating scenes from the film. It feels right. You go back to the movies and songs that understood you when you were young, the ones that felt true about being that age. Mean Girls is like that for a lot of people—not because it’s profound or important, just because it actually works.
Miley’s doing Converse again—third collaboration—and I was ready to ignore it. Most celebrity shoes are just a name on standard inventory. But there’s this vinyl Chuck Taylor with star tape on the sole, that kind of small ridiculous detail that either lands or it doesn’t. These land.
The platform versions in brushed velvet with scattered glitter are the real move. Velvet on a sneaker could be a total disaster, but they kept it restrained—glitter threaded through instead of plastered everywhere, colors like burgundy and electric blue that don’t pretend to be wearable. It takes real confidence to put a texture like that on something people are supposed to walk in, and it shows someone actually thought about what they were making instead of just licensing a name.
The whole thing coheres around her existing taste, which is at least honest. Matching clothes, same palette, same maximalist energy she already does. It feels like one idea instead of a cash-grab with someone’s face on it.
I’m skeptical of these things by instinct—celebrity collaborations are there to sell a person, not shoes. But sometimes the design is competent enough that you stop thinking about that. The velvet pieces here actually are. The vinyl stuff is just fun noise, which is fine too.
Conan O’Brien went to Japan with a camera crew and made some travel videos for his late-night show. They’re among the few travel things I’ll actually watch.
I know the background—he wrote for The Simpsons in the era that mattered, did SNL, now runs one of those late-night programs that still pulls an audience. Tall Irish guy with the distinctive hair. He’s been funny for a long time in a way that doesn’t require you to be in on anything.
What he does with the Japan videos is different. He doesn’t set himself up as the observer pointing at the strangeness of it all. He gets in there. Rents a Japanese family for a day. Visits his animated namesake. Tries kaiseki, the formal multi-course dinner thing. He’s not performing discovery or signaling respect. He’s just there, figuring it out in real time, and it’s funny because he’s actually smart about it, not because Japan is somehow weird.
This matters to me because I have a real case of Japan fatigue. Not with Japan itself—that won’t go away. Fatigue with how it gets filmed: drone shots of Shibuya at night, time-lapse subways, everyone climbing Mount Fuji in high definition with lo-fi hip hop underneath. It’s become a format. A safe, beautiful, interchangeable format. You could swap the footage between fifty different travel channels and lose nothing.
Conan’s stuff doesn’t have that sheen. Just him, people, food, moments. The comedy is in what’s happening, not in where it’s happening. And I think that’s why I’ll actually remember these instead of just scrolling past them.
Gina-Lisa Lohfink released a song called “Boulevard.” I’m not sure why this surprised me, but somehow it did.
She was on Germany’s Next Top Model, which is where you go if you’re tall and pretty enough to endure Heidi Klum’s laughter. Then she did reality TV. Then her sex tape circulated. Then more reality TV. And now music, because that’s the next format when everything else stops working. She’d tried songs before—”Alles Klar,” “Barbie Girl,” “Tarzan & Jane.” They went nowhere. But that doesn’t matter. Once you’re famous for anything, someone’s always willing to fund the next attempt. You throw songs into the void until one sticks.
“Boulevard” didn’t stick. It’s the sound of 2 a.m. in a club you got dragged to, the beat was manufactured somewhere, her voice is buried under effects that can’t save it. Not terrible. Just completely predictable. The exact song that had to exist.
The label says she’s being “self-ironic” about her image, which is kind. Really what’s happening is she ran out of other formats and this is the next format. Maybe she’s laughing. Maybe she’s just exhausted. Maybe the difference doesn’t matter anymore.
So now there’s a song. People will stream it. Some out of curiosity, some out of hate, most by accident. The numbers will tick. And the Boulevard just keeps existing, because why the hell wouldn’t it.
This is Mark Ronson learning how to make pop music again. The song has flamenco guitar in it, almost country, something that shouldn’t work but does. Miley Cyrus sings it like she’s finally stopped performing surprise at her own existence—her voice has weight now, something hard underneath the melody. They put it together in late 2018, which is a specific moment for both of them, though I didn’t understand why until I’d heard it a few times.
Mark had been quiet by then. Not inactive—he’d cycled through collaborations, worked with McCartney and Gaga and Adele, the usual string of famous people. But quiet in that way where you’re not sure what you’re actually making, just that it exists somewhere behind the scenes. This announcement felt like he was actually trying again.
The song itself is simple. It’s about heartbreak in that timeless pop way, nothing you haven’t heard before, but Ronson knows how to arrange it so it feels true. The production is clean without being cold. There’s space in it. Cyrus doesn’t oversell anything. You hear her thinking while she’s singing, which is rare.
They shot the video in Kyiv. Strange choice for a pop song about loss—you’d expect Los Angeles, somewhere glossy. Instead it’s Eastern Europe, slightly off-kilter locations, and her in the middle of it looking like she’s thinking about something you won’t understand. The aesthetic is deliberate, which means Ronson probably insisted on it.
I don’t know if this song mattered beyond the moment. It probably did for some people, the ones who process feeling through pop music. For the rest of us it was just something there, that you heard and forgot. But it’s good. It’s what Mark Ronson does when he’s paying attention—fits something real inside the commercial form, makes it sound effortless. That’s a skill that doesn’t look like much until you try it.
By then she’d cycled through enough versions of herself that you couldn’t trust any of them. Maybe that was the point. In this one she sounds honest, at least.
The 90s catch heat they don’t deserve. Everyone talks about the bad parts now—the fashion disasters, the haircuts, daytime TV hell, that dread around Y2K, SMS charges eating your entire paycheck at 19 cents a message. On the surface it looks like a genuinely bad decade, a cultural low point we should all be embarrassed about.
But if you actually let yourself sit with the nostalgia instead of dismissing it, something else comes back. Star Wars. Sailor Moon. The Game Boy—that gray brick that never died. The Turtles. Tomb Raider. Tamagotchi. Space Jam. Pokémon. Friends. Bruce Lee movies. The Simpsons. Everything with Schwarzenegger. Jurassic Park. Silent Hill. Michael Jackson. The actual stuff that shaped me, that got into my bones, that I still think about. The 90s weren’t a wasteland at all. They were full of things that mattered.
Rachid Lotf, an artist, packed all of it—or his version of it—into a single image he called “90’s Kid.” Not the polished curated version. Not ironic distance. Just: here’s everything I loved. Here’s what made me. That’s it.
The detail hits you in waves. First you spot the obvious things—the Final Fantasy VII poster, whatever. Then you get curious and start looking closer. Hello Kitty? Monopoly on the floor. A Furby wedged on a shelf. The more you dig, the more specific details emerge, and you realize how personal it is—his specific taste, his specific arrangement of what matters. It could be your image too, different in the details but probably not that different in spirit.
There’s no irony in the image, no performance. Just a person saying, “These things made me,” and meaning it. I look at it and find myself everywhere—not because his specific taste is mine, but because we grew up in the same glossy landscape of references and objects. The 90s created enough monoculture that the details can be personal while the feeling is shared. You see your own nostalgia in his nostalgia.
I could buy it as a poster. Probably will. But the real moment is the looking itself—spending time with what actually mattered, what actually shaped you, stripped of the jokes and the dismissal. The image does that. It doesn’t apologize for loving the things it loves.
Selena Gomez and Puma put out a sports collection, and what caught me was that she didn’t just slap her name on some existing designs. She brought in her friends — Dana Veraldi, Katie McCurdy, Connar Franklin, Raquelle Stevens, Courtney Barry, Caroline Franklin, Theresa Marie Mingus. People she actually knows.
There’s something that’s happened to celebrity collaborations where they’ve become so divorced from anything genuine that when one has real people behind it, it stands out. The SG Runner sneaker she designed — I don’t know if it’s any good, never saw it in person — but her friends being part of building it matters more than the shoe itself.
She said something in the press that stuck: “Without them I wouldn’t be where I am today.” That’s not the kind of thing you’d normally expect from a celebrity partnership. The assumption in most collaborations is that the celebrity is the whole draw, that everyone else is interchangeable. Seeing someone credit the people who matter, building something around that rather than in spite of it, felt different.
I don’t care if the collection was good. What interested me was the architecture of it: friendship at the center, not at the edges. Not friendship as theme, but people with names who helped build the thing. That was the whole point.
Monet wasn’t sure if he was painting Japan or the idea of Japan. He built a garden from prints since he couldn’t visit — worked from images, tried to live inside them instead. That obsession with Japanese composition, with space and color as pure structure, seeped into everything he touched. The Western art world called it Japonisme and treated it like a revelation, but it was just one man’s very long infatuation.
Here’s what gets interesting: Japan had been closed to the West for two centuries. The moment it opens, Western painters go berserk for Japanese aesthetics. Woodblock prints, compositional logic, the visual vocabulary of an entire tradition. But Japan was having its own conversation the whole time. Japanese artists watched the West watch them, then kept evolving that same visual language in their own direction. Manga isn’t borrowing from Impressionism — it’s the direct descendant of woodblock prints, same DNA, just moving through the 20th century on its own tracks.
The exhibition at Arp Museum traces this arc. Historical prints flow into Monet’s era, then forward into contemporary manga. Not like manga learned from Monet, but like they were both solving the same visual problem across different times. There’s a reading lounge where anime sits alongside art history. A tunnel wall painted by Christina S. Zhu — all motion and color, a magical girl chase sequence. Cosplay treated as seriously as any other art. It shouldn’t add up, mixing high and pop, but it does, because they’re actually continuous.
What stays with me is how long this conversation has gone on without stopping. A French painter who never visited Japan but couldn’t stop thinking about it. Japanese artists watching the West watch Japan. Now we consume Japanese visual culture directly, through forms the West barely understands yet. It’s the same obsession, just in different languages, across 150 years, and somehow nobody’s finished saying what they need to say about it.
The trick with New Year’s Eve is looking like you didn’t try, which means trying harder than any other night. Everyone’s in the same spot, standing in front of their closet. Too much and it looks like you spent all afternoon on it. Too little says you don’t care. The actual answer is probably just to wear something you already like that makes you feel good — the party’s going to be the same either way. At least you won’t hate what you’re wearing in the photos.
Kylie Jenner and Adidas made COEZE, which is just fleece — oversized, soft, in red or purple. The pitch is simple: warm and casual enough to wear anywhere. At home, getting coffee, pretending you didn’t think about your outfit. Winter needs things like this.
There’s something right about not overcomplicating it. Fashion usually needs a story attached. The inspiration. The cultural moment. Some deeper thing underneath. This is just “it’s cold, wear this.” I respect that.
The shoe collabs are the interesting part. Two Falcon versions: one in gold and hot pink (very 90s, unapologetic), the other in red, white, and blue (intentional but more restrained). It’s a small difference, but it matters. One says “I’m making a statement,” the other says “I’m warm and it looks okay.” Both versions work.
I wouldn’t wear any of it. But I get why someone would. Making something people actually want to wear — not just own, but actually wear — is harder than it sounds. She landed it.
Netflix is doing a live-action Cowboy Bebop with Shinichiro Watanabe directing, which is either the smartest move or a complete waste. At least they got the person who made it involved, even if that doesn’t guarantee anything.
It’s about a broke crew bouncing around a spaceship in 2071 hunting bounties to eat. Spike, Jet, Faye, Ed, the dog. Simple premise. The show worked because the execution was perfect—the animation, the design, every frame intentional.
Live-action anime adaptations hit a wall because anime is drawn. Spike’s slouch works as a drawing. Faye’s proportions, Ed’s strangeness, the way Jet looks—it’s all engineered for cells. You cast actors and suddenly they’re real people in real space. The physics don’t match. The style evaporates. Everything that made it special gets thinner.
Fans are already fighting about casting. Who plays Ed? Does her ethnicity matter when the anime never specified one? The old Keanu Reeves rumor for Spike keeps resurfacing, which is funny because Spike is 27 and Keanu is old. Pick anyone and someone complains they’re wrong.
I don’t know if this works. My guess is it’ll be fine—watchable, maybe even good in stretches—but missing something essential. Safe bet is it becomes one of those shows you watch and forget about. But I’ll watch it anyway. I’m curious how they solve a problem that probably doesn’t have a solution.
I hate winter. There’s snowboarding—you get a whole day on white slopes, then collapse in a warm cabin and drink yourself stupid. That part’s fine. But the rest of it, the mud and dark and cold that just sits there, it hollows you out. I spend months wanting time to move faster.
So these photos by Kristijonas Duttke make a kind of sense. He shot them with his model Katharina in a tiny garden shed outside Dresden over the summer, surrounded by plants and flowers jammed into the middle of a garden allotment community. The whole idea was to capture that feeling and bring it back when everything outside turns grey. He called it “a small patch of paradise,” which is what you hear in promotional material, but looking at them, it’s true.
There’s something Swedish about them, even though it’s Germany. The light feels different. The air looks different. You look at these and your brain actually believes for a second that it’s warm right now. Katharina models on the side but has some other job—Kristijonas wouldn’t say what. It doesn’t matter. She’s just a person in summer light, which is all this really is.
They do what they were supposed to do. In December, sitting under fluorescent lights with the heat blowing, I look and remember what warmth felt like. Not actual warmth. Not going to change anything. But you look anyway.
I’ve never experienced anything quite like Neon Genesis Evangelion. Most anime fits neatly into categories—good, great, whatever—but Evangelion doesn’t want neat categories. It wants to disturb you. Along with Cowboy Bebop and Sailor Moon and Wolf’s Rain, it’s one of the best things anime has produced, but unlike those shows, it doesn’t feel like entertainment. It feels like something dangerous that got released by accident.
Shinji Ikari is 14 years old when his father calls him back into his life. The year before, Shinji’s world witnessed something catastrophic—an event that rewired how society functions. Now his father wants him to do the impossible: pilot a giant robot to fight creatures called Angels that keep appearing. The show spends 26 episodes showing what happens to a kid when you put him in that situation. Joy and horror occupy the same frame. Fear and hope are the same thing. By the end, the entire narrative structure collapses because it has to.
What gets you is Shiro Sagisu’s score. It sounds biblical and wrong, like it’s pulling something from inside you that you’d rather leave alone. The characters—Shinji, Asuka, Rei, Misato—aren’t written to be likable or sympathetic in any conventional way. The show just shows you what happens when children are subjected to trauma and expected to function. Pen Pen, this absurd penguin that lives in Misato’s apartment, is the healthiest presence in the entire series, which tells you everything about how broken everyone else is.
The ending doesn’t resolve anything. It fractures. The director basically loses control of the narrative in real time, and that’s exactly right. The show understands that some truths can’t be contained by a three-act structure, so it just lets itself come apart. The finale is almost unwatchable, and that’s the point. That’s always been the point.
What happens after you watch it is harder to explain. It doesn’t feel good or inspiring or cathartic. It just sits with you differently than other shows do. It rewires something about how you understand people, suffering, why we try despite knowing how much it costs. That effect is permanent.
Lady Gaga’s essentially out of the pop business now. After A Star is Born with Bradley Cooper, she made it clear she wanted to be a real person—complicated, sad, working through actual things—rather than a character, and that’s a fair choice. But pop music needs people willing to be characters, willing to be loud and strange and excessive without caring if they look ridiculous.
Ava Max filled that void with “Sweet But Psycho.” The song hit number one almost immediately. It’s catchy, made for dancing, built on the hook of a girl who’s beautiful and slightly unhinged—which is just a way of talking about female power without being apologetic about it.
What strikes me is that she doesn’t seem defensive about the whole thing. She wants to be a pop construction, a character, not an authentic artist with a real inner life. There’s something refreshing about that refusal to pretend there’s depth underneath. You commit to the character, you sell it, you move on. For years that’s how pop worked, before everyone decided authenticity was the only honest thing left to be, and the whole genre got thin and careful.
Whether Ava Max lasts is still open. Whether this is the start of something or just one good moment. But the song works. It’s catchy, it’s stuck in your head, and you can’t argue with that.
Stephen Hillenburg made SpongeBob SquarePants and died at 57 from ALS.
He came to animation from marine biology—studied it at Humboldt State, then went to CalArts for experimental animation. He worked at an ocean institute and drew a comic called “The Intertidal Zone.” He showed it to Martin Olson, who’d worked on Rocko’s Modern Life, and they developed it into a show they could pitch.
The pilot aired May 1, 1999. SpongeBob moved into a pineapple under the sea and got a job at a fast-food restaurant, and somehow this became one of the most durable things in pop culture. Twenty years later it’s still there—kids watching it, movies and spin-offs and everything else. The show kept going long after Hillenburg.
What gets me is the specificity of it. SpongeBob is absurd but grounded. The world follows its own logic. The jokes work because he committed completely. That doesn’t happen by accident. He had this weird combination of actual knowledge and genuine imagination, and he knew how to use both without letting it become precious or self-aware.
ALS is cruel in that particular way—someone whose work was entirely hand-driven, visual, kinetic. But he made something that survived him. The character keeps going, the show keeps going, the memes keep going. Hillenburg becomes something that happened to SpongeBob, and SpongeBob becomes this fixed fact in the culture.
I’m trying not to get sentimental about it. He made something dumb and perfect, and then he died, and it kept existing without him. Which is beautiful and brutal in exactly the way these things are.
You’re sitting in front of a show about a kid with powers they don’t understand, and a moment comes where the character just stares at something—and the feeling in that frame is the exact feeling you’ve been carrying around for three days without being able to explain it to anyone. That happens a lot in anime.
I think it’s because anime doesn’t apologize for sincerity. A character can spend five minutes thinking about loneliness in the rain and the show treats it like something that matters. You can be desperate and weird and sexual and hopeful at the same time, and the form just holds it all without flinching. Real life makes you file those things away, pretend they’re not there.
On Reddit there’s a subreddit called Anime IRL where people pair screenshots from anime with photos of real life. A character staring at a wall gets matched with someone’s photo of themselves staring at a wall. A lonely dinner scene matched with someone’s actual lonely dinner. It’s comforting in a strange way—proof that your specific strange feeling was worth animating, that someone else has thought it too.
Maybe that’s what any art is supposed to do. But anime does it without irony. It’s urgent and earnest without feeling like you’re supposed to laugh at it. It’s a place where you stop performing normalcy even for an hour and realize how many other people are tired of performing too.
I’m not going to say it changed my life or healed me. But it’s the thing I go to when I need to remember that being weird isn’t something to apologize for.
I used to look down on Tinder—thought it was degrading, that real people met through better channels, that I was somehow above the whole apparatus. Then some mix of boredom and genuine horniness got the better of me, and I downloaded it one night while drunk, which I’m not going to pretend was a deliberate choice.
Setting up the profile was harder than I expected. Tried a couple of joke usernames first—”Horse Penis 84,” “The Plumber,” “Marvel of Nature”—but they were all already taken, so I went with my real name and called it done. Photos, bio that I spent way too long on, and suddenly I’m matching with people who exist nowhere else in my actual life. Actresses who only communicate in rhyming couplets. Broke students happy to text back and forth about the world’s dumbest blonde jokes. Cosplayers whose entire existence revolves around anime and kinky fantasy roleplay. The full spectrum of weirdness.
The strange part is how much it actually works. There’s a directness to it—everyone’s there for basically the same reason, no pretending, no uncertainty about whether someone actually likes you or was just being polite. If someone swipes right, they want to talk to you. That clarity is weirdly refreshing.
I’m not going to pretend this isn’t stupid. The “what the fuck am I doing” feeling hits regularly, usually around midnight when I’m scrolling through bathroom mirror photos. But the alternatives are worse. The alternative is pretending you’re not looking, or telling yourself that meeting someone through a friend’s friend somehow counts as romantic, or just… not meeting anyone. At least here you know where you stand from the first swipe.
I’m at the point where I swipe through photos at midnight on a Tuesday and it feels normal, which is either depressing or just how things work now. Probably both.
Disney’s been on a spree lately—dig up an old cartoon, render it in 3D, cast some stars, release it. Aladdin, The Jungle Book, Dumbo. Just working through the vault. But The Lion King shouldn’t be on that assembly line. That one’s sacred.
The Lion King was my favorite Disney film. Still is. When I was young, I had everything—the soundtracks, the games, the books, the action figures, the VHS tapes. All of it. The film arrived at exactly the right moment. It stuck in a way very few things do. I can still quote huge sections of it. I’ve probably watched it a hundred times.
In school, this girl named Katrin and I would do scenes from it on the bus ride home. Simba and Scar mostly—that uncle-nephew dynamic. We had those lines down. It was a small thing, but it mattered.
They’re remaking it in 2019. 3D, Donald Glover, Beyoncé, the works. I’ll watch it, probably. I watch all the remakes, though I couldn’t tell you why. But here’s the thing: the 1994 film has my whole heart. Not because I’m stuck in nostalgia or whatever. Just because that film is finished. Complete. And nothing—not a new animation style, not any voice actor—is going to change what it already is.
Kiko Mizuhara on the winter cover of 032c, half-naked in a dark motorcycle jacket, looking past the camera. Born in Dallas but she became a Japanese supermodel, which is the kind of boundary-crossing that fashion lets you do — like you’re just trying on different cultures, seeing what fits.
032c is a magazine that doesn’t feel like a magazine. Twice a year, in English, from Berlin. This issue centers on James Baldwin — the theme is literally “A Museum for James Baldwin” — but the actual contents are all over the place. Gucci Mane. Francis Bacon. Petra Collins. Rihanna. Carl Jung. Clubwear. There’s no clear connective tissue, just the sense that someone was looking at the world and thinking, yeah, that’s how things are right now.
Kiko works the same way in that photo. The motorcycle jacket. The leather. The angle of her face that says she’s not interested in whether you’re looking. That’s the most powerful thing you can do in a photograph — be indifferent to the viewer. And indifference, when it’s done right, reads as confidence.
The magazine operates that way too. You pick it up because something drew you in, then you keep reading because nothing inside logically connects to that cover but everything somehow belongs anyway. That’s the intelligence of it — something that works without explaining itself.
Saw Dua Lipa at a small venue in London—maybe 200 people, tight space. She opened with “New Rules,” that song that’s basically a masterclass in not being a pushover. “Don’t answer the phone when he’s drunk and lonely.” It’s become one of the biggest songs in the world, which tells you something about what people actually need to hear.
She’s gone from indie favorite to something genuinely global in just a few years. The hits stack up: “One Kiss,” “I Don’t Give a Fuck,” “Be The One”—they’re everywhere, and they’re everywhere for a reason. They’re catchy, but there’s more to it than that. She sings with this complete confidence, like she’s not trying to convince you of anything, just stating facts.
The concert itself was efficient. No production excess, no trying to overwhelm you. She moved through the songs the way someone who actually owns them would, not like she was performing them. Played “Blow Your Mind,” “Electricity,” “Scared to be Lonely.” Clean, direct, no filler.
She mentioned something about touring and workouts—how every city is different, so she tries different things. Yoga here, boxing there, whatever’s available. It seemed genuine, not a canned answer. Just someone figuring out how to keep her body working while she’s constantly moving.
What I kept noticing was the straightforwardness of it all. The songs don’t ask permission, don’t apologize. “New Rules” could be preachy or victim-narrative, but it’s neither. It’s just practical: know your value, don’t let people use you, move on. There’s no romance in it, no hope that maybe things will be different. Just clarity.
She’s got this quality where being a global superstar doesn’t seem to touch her. No performing for the machinery of fame. Just someone with real material and the confidence to stand behind it.
There’s this constant arms race on Instagram where everyone’s trying to out-weird each other. One day it’s traveling to some cliff somewhere, the next it’s stalking a celebrity so you can get a photo with their face squeezed next to yours. It’s all about attention. Attention’s getting harder to grab.
So at some point someone decided the answer was to paint their teeth.
I’m not even sure who started it—probably some cosmetics company looking for a hook. But the logic makes sense if you’re thinking about Instagram’s rules: the weirder and more colorful, the better. It’s a form of visual noise in a feed that’s already screaming. Gold teeth. Blue teeth. Pink teeth. Take a selfie, grin at the camera, and suddenly you’re different from everyone else for the next 24 hours.
The absurdity of it appeals to me, honestly. Not in an “I want to do this” way, but in the way anything appeals to you when it’s so perfectly stupid and so perfectly suited to the thing it’s trying to do. It’s makeup for your teeth. That’s the whole idea. It’s not trying to be anything else, and it’s not pretending there’s a real reason to do it other than “it’ll look weird in a photo.”
I remember when beauty trends used to be about making yourself conventionally more attractive. Smoother skin, whiter teeth, whatever. Now it’s the opposite—it’s about doing something so deliberately pointless that it becomes interesting. That’s its own kind of rebellion, I guess. Against the whole idea that Instagram success comes from looking polished.
Or maybe I’m giving it too much credit and it’s just another thing people buy to stand out for five minutes before the algorithm buries them and they move on to the next trend. Probably that.
Selena Gomez has the system figured out. The contradictions are too perfect to be accidental — interviews where she talks about Jesus, then Instagram stories in lingerie, a clean image constantly undercut by sexualized content, carefully aimed moments where the boundary almost gives. It’s not hypocrisy. It’s a strategy, and it’s working.
The wardrobe malfunction (or near-malfunction, if you’re reading signal into pixelated video) is just the machine doing its job. Fans waiting for the accident that isn’t an accident. The platform built to serve these moments. The low resolution that makes everything mysterious. Everyone knows what’s happening. Nobody says it. That’s the whole point.
What interests me is how well it works. Not what Selena’s thinking, not whether she’s brilliant or playing both sides. Just that the thing turns, everyone’s in it, and nobody has to admit what they’re actually doing.
A girl in an Apple ad is too scared to show anyone her drawings. She’s got canvases hidden away, sketchbooks locked in a box, the whole thing—artistic talent but paralyzed by the fear that it’s not good enough for anyone to see. A dog opens the window, wind scatters everything, and suddenly the neighborhood catches sight of her work. Nothing bad happens.
“Share Your Gifts” is this year’s Apple Christmas spot, done in Pixar-style animation. It’s emotional without being sappy, charming without being cloying, moving without making you feel like your life is empty by comparison. Which is to say it’s a genuinely well-made ad, the kind that works even though you know exactly what it’s doing—selling you on the idea that an Apple product is the way to share your creative self with the world.
And I’ll be honest, there’s something that lands about it anyway. The fear in that animation is real. Anyone who makes anything knows this particular paralysis: the gap between what you’ve made and what you’re willing to show. Judgment, comparison, the suspicion that you’re just not good enough. The ad is cynical in framing an iPad or MacBook as the solution, obviously. But the problem it’s identifying—that creative people need permission to be seen—that’s not invented for the commercial.
Billie Eilish’s “Come Out and Play” sits underneath it all, which helps. The song has a gentleness that the ad could’ve ruined with strings and schmaltz, but doesn’t.
What interests me most is that Apple’s actually pushing a MacBook here instead of shoving iPad-as-the-future-of-computing at us for the hundredth time. There’s something almost self-aware about that choice. Like they know that if you’re serious about making something, you’re going to want a real computer.
I watched it once and felt something move. Watched it again knowing how much money went into manipulating that exact feeling. Still felt something. That’s the thing about good advertising—it doesn’t matter that you see the strings. The story still works.
Oxford Street, somewhere behind barbed wire and a heavy metal door, there’s a warehouse where Adidas threw a party for another celebrity collaboration. Kendall Jenner and Olivia Oblonc on the streetwear collection—months of work, apparently, resulting in a puffed jacket and assorted other pieces that land somewhere between premium and accessible, or maybe just expensive enough to feel like it matters.
I remember the venue more than the clothes. The fence and the door suggested something secret, but inside it was the standard formula: drinks, DJs, famous people being photographed. The usual crowd at every launch, every city.
Kendall’s main pitch was the puffed jacket. “I can’t wait to wear it snowboarding,” which is fine. That’s the thing about celebrity collaborations now—they’re not supposed to be special in some artistic way. They’re supposed to be functional luxury. Something Kendall would actually wear. Something you could wear. The same thing.
The party felt like every other fashion party I’ve been to. Different city, same setup. Cîroc, Budweiser, a couple of decent DJs. It’s not bad. It works. It gets people excited about a collection they might have ignored otherwise. It’s just… predictable. The same machine spinning in London, Berlin, New York, wherever.
What stuck with me was the entrance. That theatrical fence. The metal door. Someone decided that a warehouse needed to feel like a secret, even though everyone knows where it is and why they’re there. It’s a small thing, but it’s the only moment that felt like someone was actually trying.
Lea wakes up with no memory and no voice, logged into CrossWorlds—an MMO in some future where the line between player and world has gone liquid. The only way out is to play through it. I moved her through puzzles and dungeons, pieced together scraps of who she was, and slowly the game revealed why she’s trapped inside a game world in the first place.
CrossCode is an action-adventure dressed in 16-bit pixel art, made by Radical Fish Games. The pixel aesthetic isn’t retro nostalgia; it’s just the form the thing takes. Old-school RPG structure, modern puzzle design, the kind of combat that gets out of the way. You move, hit things, solve things, talk to characters who feel like they’ve been living there longer than you have.
What gets to me about it is the recursive core: a game about someone trying to become real inside a game. The story doesn’t announce this or get precious about it—Lea just has to move forward. And the world is actually interesting to move through. The mystery pulls you not because the story is desperate but because it’s genuinely strange. Why is she here? Why can’t she talk? What is CrossWorlds really?
The pixel form matters here. You’re not reading facial expressions rendered in detail; you’re reading them into the animation and the dialogue. That restraint—what’s present and what’s implied—fits a mute protagonist. It’s not about missing the SNES, though the game has that shape. It’s that the medium serves the story.
The pacing is good. Puzzles come frequently enough that you’re always solving something. Combat doesn’t dominate. The story unfolds without urgency. You can walk away and come back. There’s something restful about it, which sounds odd for a mystery game, but the structure doesn’t demand that you rush.
I wasn’t looking for this. Wasn’t thinking about pixel games or chasing nostalgia. But once I started, the thing had me. The mystery became real—not clever, just real. Who is Lea? Why does she matter? What’s actually happening in CrossWorlds? The game answers those questions. And when it does, the thing lands.
Standing in front of Super Potato at eleven PM with maybe fifty yen left in my pockets, staring at cartridges I’ll never actually play because my Japanese isn’t good enough to finish the story, everything else just stops mattering. The neon’s too bright, the arcades are too loud, there’s some idol group performing somewhere and you can hear the screams even though you can’t see them.
When I’m in Tokyo, I skip the cafés in Shibuya and Harajuku and head straight east. Akihabara first. That’s the rule. Before I’m jet-lagged, before I remember I have a life somewhere else, I’m already walking through those narrow streets with no plan beyond Super Potato, the Sega arcade where I’ll lose at Ridge Racer to someone who’s been there since the nineties, and then just looking. Plastic toys from forgotten anime. Modded controllers. Cables for devices that stopped existing years ago. Someone’s built a shrine to anime girls in the corner of a five-story building’s back alley. Always something.
The thing about Akihabara is that it hasn’t changed, or I’ve never noticed if it has. It’s exactly what it was when I first went there—this jumbled, unselfconscious mess of people hunting for something very specific and being completely fine with the fact that nobody else on earth cares. The otaku hunting for a specific bootleg Gundam figure or a rare cartridge don’t perform their obsession for an audience. They’re not performing it at all. They just want the thing.
That’s what actually gets me about the place. Not the shops or the collectibles or even the arcades, though those are great. It’s the permission structure. Everyone’s weird here and that’s the entire point. In most of the world, being this deeply into something niche means you’re doing it in private or apologizing for it. In Akihabara, wanting something that nobody else wants is just what you do. You walk into a shop, ask for the most obscure thing you can think of, and the person behind the counter either nods or points you to another shop. No judgment. No eyebrow raise.
Last time I was there, I spent maybe an hour just in one building because I kept finding new sections. Manga I’d never heard of in the basement. Someone’s collection of broken arcade parts on the third floor. A wall of figurines that seemed to only exist in parallel universes. I didn’t buy anything because I didn’t want anything, really. I just wanted to be in a place where that was fine too.
Bill Burr made a show on Netflix about his childhood in the seventies called “F is for Family.” It’s stuck with me in a way most shows don’t—partly because it feels like a confession instead of a performance.
The setup’s simple: Frank loses his job at an airline. Sue’s stuck at home. Kevin hates his father. Billy’s soft. Maureen’s already feral. The show just watches them grind against each other as the money tightens and everyone gets slightly crueler. Nobody learns anything. Sue doesn’t find herself. Frank doesn’t understand what he’s doing to his kids. It’s just the specific suffocation of being trapped with people you resent, in a time with no exit anyone can see.
What works is how much it refuses to comfort you. The show’s funny but not in a way that rewards you for laughing—everything’s meaner because everyone’s stressed and tired and out of options. Burr plays Frank like a man who was never good at this and is now out of time to learn. There’s something honest about refusing to soften any of it.
The show got picked up for multiple seasons, which surprised me because it’s not the kind of thing Netflix usually keeps around long. I’ve been meaning to rewatch it even though I’d probably burn through it in a weekend. I keep putting it off because the show doesn’t really invite you back. It just gets darker every time.
What I like about Burr is that he’s an asshole in his stand-up and he stays an asshole in the show—doesn’t soften Frank for the camera, doesn’t make it redemptive, doesn’t try to teach you anything. He just shows you what it looks like when a family falls apart in slow motion. That refusal to make you feel better about it is what makes it real.
Bambi’s been getting criticism for decades, and it’s deserved—it’s basically an industry reminding itself it exists. You can sit home and trash the whole thing if you didn’t get invited, which is easy and makes sense. But then someone asks if you’re coming, and suddenly all that judgment dissolves and you’re digging through your closet past the t-shirts and old jeans, looking for something that might pass for formal.
The show itself never changes. Red carpet. Models and directors and money people. Someone gets a lifetime achievement award just for being around long enough. The after-party is the real thing—everyone’s drunk, complaining about how TV is dead, Netflix already won, and which dress showed the most cleavage. You could set your watch by it.
What’s new this year is the generation trying to refresh it. YouTubers and Instagram twins—Lisa and Lena, Dagi Bee, Dua Lipa. They’re supposed to be injecting some youth. But they all look like the same person, like someone cloned a Ukrainian Justin Bieber and just kept copying it. They’re grinning at their phones while teenagers watching are visibly turned on, throwing up hand signals that mean nothing. It’s this weird collision between manufactured celebrity and actual human need.
So you drink champagne, eat snacks, get cornered by a suit who promises he can make you big. You believe it for a second. Then it’s morning and you’re out the door early, relieved you lied about your number.
There’s a particular kind of person who feeds on tearing others down. Not someone with a legitimate criticism—just someone who’s decided that another person’s existence is a problem that needs solving. They attack, then wait to see if it landed. Pure compulsion disguised as an opinion.
Lena Meyer-Landrut, famous in Germany since childhood, made a song called “Thank You” addressing exactly this: the haters, the trolls, the ones who’ve been grinding at her for years. The irony’s obvious, but at some point you have to acknowledge them out loud, even if that’s exactly what they want. I get that impulse. When you put anything into the world, you open yourself to this—to people whose entire purpose is to find fault or do damage. I’ve been doing this long enough online to recognize the type.
What strikes me is how little they have. They’re investing real time, real energy, into hating someone they’ll never meet. The screen glows. The comment box sits empty. They type. It’s a specific kind of loneliness—not reaching toward anything, but reaching toward pain. Toward damage.
I don’t know if a song changes anything for them. They’re probably not listening anyway. But maybe that’s not the point. Maybe it’s just refusing to treat it as normal, marking the moment where you stop pretending this is just part of the job. Except it is the job now. That’s what gets me.
I was carrying around a Tamagotchi in the 90s, and my whole sense of competence hinged on keeping the pixels inside alive. Mine died in its own shit. Not metaphorically. Literally. You’d forget to feed it for a day and come back to a dead screen, that immediate gut-punch of knowing you’d failed at something genuinely simple. The worst part was that it felt true to life.
Tamagotchi and Pokémon. Tamagotchi and Pokémon. Tamagotchi and Pokémon. Say it a few times and you realize it’s the most obvious idea that somehow nobody thought of until now. Two things that were always supposed to be one thing.
According to some leak from a Japanese magazine, it’s actually happening. Bandai and Pokémon are working on a Tamagotchi crossover where you raise Pikachu, or Charmander, or Squirtle, or Bulbasaur in that little egg. Feed it, keep it alive, watch what it becomes. The leak doesn’t say when it’s coming out or what happens after you inevitably let it die.
I’m already preparing my excuses. Why I’m carrying a plastic egg on my keychain at work. Why I’m going to love it more than I should. Why this, somehow, feels like the thing I’ve been waiting for.
Die Ärzte wasn’t on Spotify. Not for years. Not for principled reasons, not for practical ones—just wasn’t there. Farin Urlaub, Bela B, Rodrigo González seemed to have decided that whatever you got from streaming services wasn’t worth the effort of signing up. So if you wanted to hear them, you owned the records or you didn’t.
Then they appeared. Spotify, Apple Music, Deezer, everywhere at once. All legal, all official. I didn’t even notice the announcement.
Nothing really changed, which is the strange part. If you were into Die Ärzte, you weren’t sitting around waiting for Spotify to save you. You had the albums. The CDs. You had access. Streaming them didn’t matter to anyone who actually cared. But there’s something odd about watching a band you’ve known forever finally just exist in the standard place where music lives now. Not because they wanted to. Maybe just because fighting it wasn’t worth it anymore.
Now “Westerland” and “Schrei nach Liebe” and everything else is just there. Casual. Probably free if you tolerate ads. You can hear them without owning anything. And nothing about the band has changed, nothing about the songs has changed, but how easily you can reach them has. That’s all this is.
I watched the original Dumbo once as a kid and it terrified me in a way that made me never want to watch it again. The mother, the abuse, those characters in the hallucinatory beer-drunk sequence. A helpless little elephant with these oversized ears getting put through everything. I was maybe seven or eight. One viewing was enough to make me lock that film away.
Now Disney’s making a live-action version with Tim Burton directing, which could go either way—disaster or something genuinely interesting. The cast is strong: Colin Farrell, Michael Keaton, Danny DeVito, Alan Arkin, Eva Green glowing like she always does. But Burton’s in that place where his films all seem like variations on the same idea. Twisted enough to register as Burton, but there’s nothing underneath anymore. Beetlejuice had something. Edward Scissorhands had something. Nightmare Before Christmas actually landed somewhere real. Anything since Alice in Wonderland just feels like the same gesture repeated.
Looking at this trailer—and it is very sad, which makes sense—I can’t tell if the sadness is intentional or if he’s just forgotten how to make something that breathes. Maybe melancholy is what he has left now. Maybe that’s fine.
Part of me thinks I should finally go back and watch the original, face down whatever grabbed hold of me thirty years ago. The rational move. The other part is happy leaving that memory exactly where it is, a door I don’t need to open. So I’ll probably wait for this new one and see if Burton’s found any reason to care about something again.
Every year a German publishing house asks teenagers what slang they’re actually using, then announces the winners like they’ve cracked some great code. I keep watching because the results are consistently, perfectly wrong in exactly the same way.
This year’s candidates were rough. “Verbuggt” (broken, wrong), “glucose-haltig” (sweet), “Ehrenmann / Ehrenfrau” (an honorable person, someone who does something special for you), “Lauch” (idiot), “auf dein Nacken” (you’re paying), “AF” (as fuck), “Sheeeesh” (no way?), “Ich küss dein Auge” (serious thanks), “Snackosaurus” (someone who eats constantly), and “Lindnern” — to do nothing instead of doing something badly. I’d bet my life that last one has never actually been said out loud by a teenager. They went with “Ehrenmann / Ehrenfrau” as the winner. An honorable person. That’s their word of the year.
The people running this are completely divorced from how slang actually lives. They think it’s a menu you can choose from and rank. They don’t understand that the real stuff exists in context and inside jokes and the specific moment before the joke evaporates forever. You can’t capture that with a jury. You can’t vote on it.
I’m genuinely curious what they’ll do next year, how they’ll miss the mark in the same way, whether they’ll keep trying anyway like it matters. There’s something stubborn and kind of charming about watching adults fail at the same thing, year after year, and do it again.
Like I always say: I kiss your broken eye, you Lauch.
The ARD announced they’re cancelling Lindenstraße. Thirty-four years on air, and they’re done. Final episode in 2020.
My mother watched it every week. So I grew up watching it too. Nothing fancy about the show—just stories happening in a stairwell or someone’s apartment, people living their lives, dealing with things. Hans W. Geißendörfer made something that didn’t need to be important to be important. It was just there, reliable, every Sunday, unspectacular. But it was the show that made me understand that homosexuality was normal. That you didn’t need to fear people who looked different. That the absurdity of the world outside finds its way into your living room and your relationships, whether you’re paying attention or not.
The ARD says viewership is down. Production costs don’t match the audience size anymore. They’re being respectful about it—a proper finale is promised—but the truth is simple: the show isn’t profitable enough. So it goes.
What leaves with it is hard to articulate without getting melodramatic. It’s not that Lindenstraße was high art. It was a soap opera that actually cared about the stories it told. It took social and political issues seriously without turning them into spectacle. They lived in the show the way they live in actual life, as part of the texture of being alive, not as drama to be solved in forty-five minutes. Most German television now is just screaming—talk-show hysteria, reality competition formats, endless recycled games. Lindenstraße never shouted. It just was there.
I know this sounds like I’m making something small into something huge. A TV show ending isn’t a tragedy. But something real is gone, and what German television is replacing it with is noise. Lindenstraße was never cool enough, weird enough, or cruel enough for what television wants to be now. It was too steady. Too willing to believe its audience had a brain and a conscience.
My mother will watch the final episodes. I’ll watch them too. I’m not sure what else you do with something that’s been in your life that long. You show up for the ending. You don’t abandon it when it’s almost over.
Olivia Devine walks through abandoned Hollywood streets in an astronaut suit, fantasizing about killing her peers, feeling like she’s from another planet. It sounds conceptual when you describe it, but it’s the literal emotional shape of her experience—present and completely alienated at once, watching your age group move forward while you’re watching from outside. She made it into a short film to go with her Peer Pressure mixtape.
Her real name is Olivia, but a porn star claimed it already, so she’s L Devine. British, from Whitley Bay, recently dropped tracks like “Peer Pressure” and “Nervous” that don’t bother disguising what they’re about: the confusion and loneliness of being twenty-one and completely out of place. Most pop artists perform alienation. She just shows it.
She caught radio attention early—Zane Lowe and BBC Radio 1—and you can see why. There’s something rare about an artist who doesn’t hide behind production or persona. She’s just thinking out loud about what it feels like to grow up displaced from yourself. If you’re in that same headspace—and most people are at some point—you recognize it immediately. The music’s already working.
I used to actually read VICE. Not because it was cool—I mean, yes, but that wasn’t the point. I read it because every issue had something you wouldn’t find anywhere else. Real reporting from places that didn’t matter to bigger outlets. The photography was sick. The writing had swagger that felt earned, not performed. The whole thing carried this implicit message that the world was weirder and more interesting than anyone wanted to admit.
Then it got absorbed into the machine.
The corporation built out all these vertical brands—Noisey, Motherboard, Munchies. Shane Smith stepped back after the sexual harassment allegations came out. Nancy Dubuc took over with Disney and Fox and HBO all quietly holding equity, and for about five minutes it seemed like maybe you could keep the edge under institutional protection. You couldn’t.
This month VICE fired 15 percent of its staff, which is about 1,350 people. They’re collapsing most of the subsidiary brands into a handful of survivors. Waypoint, Amuse, Tonic—they’re all gone. The math is simple: the company lost over 100 million dollars in 2017, probably another 50 million this year. They went from 36 million readers two years ago to 27 million now. The ad money dried up. The mystique wore off.
I stopped reading it somewhere in the last few years without really noticing. The investigations were still competent. The photos were still good. But the thing that made you want to read it—that sense that these people genuinely didn’t care what the establishment thought—had gone completely hollow. It became a glossy magazine that wanted to look rebellious to sell ads. The performance of edge without any actual edge underneath.
This is what happens when you let something grow too fast and forget what you built it for. MTV did this. Probably others I’m not even thinking of. You create something real, something vital, and then the minute it gains traction the money people show up and ask why you’re not maximizing return. So you add more verticals. You hire more people. You optimize the algorithm. You make the thing bigger and bigger until what you originally created has been completely buried under infrastructure.
I don’t know if VICE survives this. Maybe cutting down to size actually lets them find something real again. Or maybe this is just the slow motion death of another publication that mattered and then didn’t.
On a brutal August afternoon in Tel Aviv, photographer Michael Ivnitsky and model Shay Ri had figured out the formula: borrow a friend’s apartment, camp next to the air conditioner, get drunk, play Mac DeMarco, discuss which people the world would genuinely be better off without. If you’re working together, that’s when you make something worth seeing.
They’d been crossing paths for a while—clubs, concerts, mutual discovery of a sense of humor that empties rooms. A year had passed since they last shot together. New tattoos, new failures, the standard amount of damage. When they ran into each other again, they didn’t overthink it. They made it happen.
What came out was photos that had an ease to them. Not the posturing of model and photographer, just two people actually having fun instead of performing it. That afternoon—someone’s borrowed living room, the heat trying to kill you outside, both of them progressively losing their minds—that was the real studio. Some creative work only exists like that. You don’t build it. You show up with the right people and enough recklessness to follow through.
The appeal of Kynseed is letting you build something—a farm, a business, a family, whatever—and then watch it outlast you. Your character gets old, eventually dies, and you just slide into the next generation and keep going. The whole thing’s designed around that timer. Made by some people from Lionhead, which makes sense; that whole company was obsessed with generational consequences and the idea that your choices ripple forward through time. Kynseed does that same thing but as a chill pixel-art sandbox. Stardew Valley mixed with Albion. You’re not optimizing anything or grinding toward an endgame; you’re just settling somewhere and seeing what a whole life looks like across thirty or forty years and three or four characters.
It’s a good idea and the 16-bit art style doesn’t hurt. The world’s pretty and lived-in looking. Ten euros on Steam and GOG, Windows only for now, though they’re planning Mac and console versions. I like that the generational timer forces you to stop thinking about this as a forever-thing—you can’t just endlessly optimize and perfect. You settle, you build, you age out, you hand it off and see what your kid does with it. That’s the whole game.
I haven’t had serious time with it yet, but there’s something about that structure that appeals to me—the generational thing, the idea that you’re not the endpoint of anything, you’re just one link in a chain. Nothing’s really finished; you just pass it on.
There’s a point where a show stops being entertainment and becomes something you’re stuck with, obligated to see through. Game of Thrones hit that point for me sometime around season five, maybe earlier. But I kept watching anyway—through the Red Wedding, through Stannis burning his daughter, through Cersei’s naked walk of shame down those heavy stone steps. All designed to make me feel something darker than shock.
The thing about Game of Thrones was that it taught me not to invest too hard in anyone, and then it made me watch my investments burn alive. That’s a cruel calculus. It felt like the show was punishing me for caring, which meant either I’d stop caring or I’d keep showing up knowing better. I chose the second path.
For seven years it had been like this—beautiful, brutal, impossible to look away from. A mirror, yeah, if mirrors showed the worst version of yourself reflected back without mercy. And now season eight is coming in April, the final eight episodes that are supposed to answer all the questions the show spent nearly a decade asking. Who ends up with the throne? Who’s even left to want it? What was the point of any of it?
HBO released the first teaser. It’s short, just a reminder of who’s still standing and what they’re still fighting over—winter is coming, the factions are dwindling, and everyone knows the stakes now. But that doesn’t make it any less exhausting to think about. I’ll watch it. I’ll probably hate parts of it. I’ll probably spend the whole season angry or disappointed or numb, waiting for some ending that can’t possibly satisfy seven years of buildup.
That’s Game of Thrones though. It never let me have what I wanted anyway.
I had this version of Japan in my head—the one everyone has. Neon, order, precision, a country where everything works and nothing is messy. You know the fantasy. You’ve absorbed it through a thousand images that all blur into the same impossible place.
Then I found Tetsushi Tsuruki’s photographs.
Tsuruki is a Japanese photographer who shoots his own country like he’s looking for evidence. No romance, no filter. The Japan in his pictures is tired, broken, human in ways the fantasy isn’t allowed to be. There’s blood on hotel sheets. There’s a nakedness—literal and spiritual—that you don’t see in the postcards. Tokyo at night from his perspective isn’t the gleaming tower-dream; it’s neon reflecting off wet pavement, windows going dark in buildings that never actually sleep, the grime of a city too busy to stay beautiful.
What gets me is how thoroughly he kills the illusion. He’s not making some grand critique. He’s just looking—at the corners nobody cares about, the moments when people aren’t performing. The truth that only shows up after dark, when the carefully maintained surfaces crack.
I’m still drawn to that fantasy, if I’m honest. But I can’t unsee what Tsuruki saw. It hasn’t disappeared; it’s just become a choice now. You know what it costs. You go in knowing you’re trading one reality for another, and that’s fine. Maybe better than not knowing the difference.
You know the scene. Tuesday morning job center appointment. You show up on time with everything organized, and your caseworker arrives late with an unbuttoned shirt reeking of beer. Die toten Crackhuren im Kofferraum made a song about this specific hell. “Jobcenterfotzen”—I won’t translate it—comes with a music video that looks like a documentary from some parallel bureaucratic nightmare: decrepit computers, dead-eyed workers, hallways that trap you forever. The only way out is a lottery win or a jump from the window.
It’s their first single in five years from an album called “Bitchlifecrisis.” Die toten Crackhuren are Germany’s last actual RIOTGRRRRL band—electro-clash mixed with post-punk and old experimental German rock, trap aesthetics, sometimes rappers, all of it deliberately ugly and offensive. The band name, the song titles, everything’s meant to make you uncomfortable. It’s not the kind of irony that keeps you at distance. They actually despise the systems that grind people down and want you to despise them too, but without the false comfort of thinking anything changes. Just the spite and the dark laughter.
Wilfred Warrior is a Persian cat from London who looks like someone stuffed Steve Buscemi into a white fur coat and ran him over a few times. I know that sounds mean, but it’s the first read you get when you see him—something went catastrophically wrong in a lab somewhere, or the universe played a prank that landed in exactly the right way. The face you’d normally avoid looking at, except it works. He’s got this grin, these huge eyes, this stare that somehow has personality underneath it.
There’s a whole lineage of these cats now. Maru, Grumpy Cat, Lil Bub, all the others who became mascots before anyone thought to give them contracts. Wilfred is the latest, and he might be the oddest. Not the cutest—the oddest. That’s a different currency on the internet these days.
He got pushed into view by Michael Rapaport, the comedian, who took one of Wilfred’s videos and re-dubbed it. That’s the whole story. Someone took this genuinely weird thing and gave it a frame, and now it’s everywhere. The algorithm picked it up. People started showing it to each other. Now Wilfred’s growing by the day, and I understand why. Once you see his face you think about it at odd moments. You want other people to know what it’s like to encounter him.
There’s something about being this unresolved, this genuinely peculiar, and just not caring. Most internet cats are cute or funny. Wilfred is just unsettling in a way that’s funny to me. The blankness of it. The confidence. Like he doesn’t know he’s supposed to be endearing and that’s exactly what makes him work.
She photographed herself holding cards with the worst insults she’d received. Lena Meyer-Landrut, a German pop star who won Eurovision, had been getting brutalized online for years—fuck you, you bitch, ugly, worthless, arrogant brat, disgusting woman, whore—strangers in DMs every single day, working through some need to humiliate her.
Instead of disappearing or learning to live with it, she just made the messages visible. Stood there with the words, made them the subject of a photograph.
What strikes me is how un-grand the gesture is. She’s not making a defiant statement or reclaiming anything. Just acknowledging what her visibility costs her, pulling the cruelty out of the privacy of DMs and making it a public record. Turning words that were meant to wound her in secret into something everyone gets to see.
I’m not sure it changes anything. People will keep sending her this stuff. But there’s something about refusing to let it stay hidden, about making the ugliness visible instead of letting it fester in private messages. Most online cruelty happens in that half-dark space where words feel consequence-free and senders never have to look at who they’re hurling them at. She didn’t fight that structure, she just… pulled the curtain back.
I was never really a Marvel person — always preferred manga — but you couldn’t ignore Stan Lee. He created or co-created nearly every major superhero of the last seventy years. Spider-Man, the X-Men, Hulk, Thor, Daredevil, Iron Man, Black Panther. The catalog is almost absurd. He died at 95, and American pop culture doesn’t make sense without his fingerprints on it.
Stanley Martin Lieber was born in 1922, son of Romanian Jewish immigrants in New York. Timely Comics brought him on in 1939 to do the grunt work — reading proofs, filling ink bottles, the apprentice stuff. His first published work appeared in 1941. Twenty years later he was running the place. When the company became Marvel, he became inseparable from it.
In the 1960s he was everywhere in Marvel’s machinery. Writing, editing, answering fan mail, publishing his monthly “Stan’s Soapbox” column, building this whole infrastructure of fandom that made comics feel like a conversation. He became the public face at conventions and panels. In 1981 he moved to California to push Marvel’s expansion into film and television. For years after that he’d appear in movies in those tiny cameos, an autograph on everything.
What endures isn’t whether he actually drew the pages or wrote the dialogue — there’s a whole argument about that. It’s that he made superheroes human enough to survive him. The National Medal of Arts in 2008 was almost ceremonial. He’d already made himself permanent.
I had the best Pokémon team you could build from the first generation. Mew and Mewtwo—obviously ridiculous. Charizard that I raised from the start and loved. Articuno for the ice storms. Gyarados even though it was born a useless Magikarp. Dragonite because in an actual fight, Pikachu and Eevee are cute but unreliable, no matter how much you care about them.
When they announced a live-action Detective Pikachu film I thought it was the worst idea possible. A 3D Pikachu with Ryan Reynolds’ voice solving crimes in a world of regular humans and Pokémon? Why would I want that when I could just rewatch the anime? The early seasons with Ash and Misty and Brock are perfect. That’s comfort. That’s home.
I went into the first trailer ready to hate it. And then the world looked actually interesting. Pikachu came across as charming. Justice Smith seemed like a decent actor playing a guy looking for his missing father. It’s based on the video game, coming out in 2019.
I’m not suddenly hyped. But I’m also not dismissing it. My only real demand is that Mew, Mewtwo, Charizard, Articuno, Gyarados, and Dragonite better show up. If they don’t, I’m taking back everything nice I just said.
I saw someone in Harajuku wearing neon pink, some experimental top, sneakers that didn’t match. Just walking, unbothered, like it was normal. And I guess in Tokyo it is. That baseline of visual confidence — wearing bright color in wet November like it’s fine — that’s what separates Tokyo from everywhere else.
In Germany, autumn kills the whole visual world. Everything’s gray, everyone dresses gray, and standing out feels like you’re making a statement instead of just getting dressed. In Tokyo, same gray sky, and they just decide to paint over it. Harajuku, Shibuya, Shimokitazawa — there’s this understood agreement that you can wear whatever you feel like, and nobody makes it weird.
The clothes usually aren’t expensive. A vintage shirt layered with something experimental you found in a resale shop. The point isn’t the price or the brands. It’s that what you wear is allowed to matter, and that you get to decide what a season feels like instead of letting the season decide for you. A nineteen-year-old in bright colors walks past a tired salaryman in dark blue and they’re both just people. Nobody’s defending anything.
That’s what I wanted from autumn my whole life. Permission to dress in the color you feel instead of in the color that’s acceptable. In Tokyo, you just get that permission without asking.
Facebook turned into the digital equivalent of a retirement home. Parents and grandparents colonized it, arguing about refugees and politics in the comments. Younger people were bailing to Instagram, Snapchat, TikTok—anywhere their parents weren’t.
TikTok was the real problem. Kids making short videos, lip-syncing, doing stupid challenges that either made them internet famous or killed them. The whole machinery of trends and influencers shifted there, and Facebook couldn’t compete.
So Facebook copied it. Lasso was TikTok repackaged under the Facebook umbrella. Same format, same appeal, different owner. They’d already pulled this off with Instagram Stories—lifted straight from Snapchat and basically killed the app. If it worked once, try it again.
The cynicism was almost elegant. They weren’t even pretending. Here’s your TikTok but make it Facebook. Here’s your Snapchat but make it Instagram. The app store as a filing cabinet of things they could buy or steal.
Whether anyone actually wanted Lasso was beside the point. The strategy was simpler: keep cloning until something sticks. They have the money, the user base, the patience. Eventually one of these knockoffs will work, or whatever comes next will already be halfway copied. By then Facebook will have moved on to stealing something else.
There are days I’m fine with Ed Sheeran or whoever making me feel something deep, but most days what I actually want is hip-hop that doesn’t care about your feelings — something crude and mechanical, especially from women who’ve got more edge and style than I ever will. City Girls are exactly that. They don’t bother with the fake gangster routine. At least one of them has done actual time, which is the only credibility that matters when so many other rappers are just dressed up in a story. Their songs are straight autobiography. “Where The Bag At,” “Sweet Tooth,” “Tighten Up” — these aren’t invented narratives, they’re just how their life sounds.
Yung Miami and JT — Jatavia Johnson and Caresha Brownlee — met through friends, decided to make music together, and pretty quickly it was clear it would be hip-hop. Drake wanted to work with them, then everyone did. But what matters is they’re not interested in anything else. No experiments. No emotional bullshit. No songs they’ll regret in a few years. They just exist as themselves, completely, and if that’s too much for you, that’s the whole point.
There’s something about that kind of certainty that changes everything. You listen to a few tracks and you get why they land the way they do. They’re not clever or vulnerable or trying to be relatable. They’re just there — crude, unmovable, unapologetic — and if you can’t handle that, you’re missing the actual point.
You know the message. You’re searching for something—a music video, a clip, anything—and there it is: “This video is not available in your country.” After you see it enough times you stop noticing. But YouTube just announced they might be putting up a lot more of those, and on purpose.
The EU’s pushing through a new copyright directive, Article 13, that fundamentally changes how platforms handle copyrighted material. Right now YouTube only has to respond when someone reports a violation—they’re a platform, not a publisher, which gives them legal protection. The new law flips it: platforms have to actively police content themselves or face liability. Once Susan Wojcicki did the actual math on what that means—millions of videos with potentially dozens of unknown rights holders each—YouTube basically said they can’t do it. The financial exposure is too high. So they’re threatening to do what they’ve done with music before: just block the entire EU preemptively rather than risk getting sued.
It’s not a bluff. They’ve already done this. When GEMA in Germany was pushing hard on licensing rates, entire categories of music video disappeared from German IP addresses. Frustrating in an ordinary way—you worked around it with proxies and mirrors. But the threat now is to do this at continental scale, not just for music but for everything.
YouTube’s not entirely wrong, either. They already run Content ID, an automated system that handles copyright disputes and payments. It works: rights holders have received 2.5 billion euros through it. The company’s position is that the copyright problem is already solved. The new regulation isn’t fixing something broken—it’s just shifting liability around. So YouTube’s response is to stop hosting in that region altogether.
I remember being in Berlin during the worst of the GEMA thing, and how casual the censorship felt. You’d search for something and hit a wall. Just this ordinary impossibility built into the structure. What we might be facing now is that experience again, wider. The EU’s trying to protect creators, which makes sense. But the actual mechanism guarantees that the people hurt first aren’t the ones supposed to be helped—it’s just users who wanted to watch something.
I don’t have a clean answer for this. YouTube isn’t wrong that the law creates impossible conditions. The EU isn’t wrong that copyright infringement is real. But when both sides commit to their position, the result is always the same: European users lose access, and somewhere between them, accountability just evaporates.
I haven’t made it back to London in longer than planned. There was a time I’d go at least once a year, just for that specific international atmosphere — nothing you get in Berlin or Hamburg or anywhere else in Germany. London had something different. Still does, probably. But cities don’t wait, and somewhere along the way the annual trip became something I kept postponing. Now it’s been years.
Some nights I lie awake and the same thought loops endlessly in my head: what if. What if. What if. While other people are jerking off in the dark or getting fucked stupid by their partner and falling asleep with that satisfied look, tomorrow ready to coast on momentum and build their life resume, I’m lying there getting nowhere, thinking myself into circles.
It’s always the same what-ifs spinning. What if I’d made tea instead of coffee this morning. What if I’d been nicer to the cashier at the station. What if I’d picked Apple Music instead of Spotify. What if I’d moved to Hamburg instead of Berlin back then. What if I’d told that girl from school how I felt. What if I wasn’t so fat. What if I hadn’t cheated on every girlfriend. What if I wasn’t so lazy. What if I wasn’t such an asshole. What if I didn’t spend half my life wondering what if I’d done things differently.
In the dark, my brain plays out every possible version, every road I could have taken, just to prove to me that if I’d only worked harder at some random moment, I’d be smarter now, more successful, actually happy. My career would be more impressive. My girlfriend would be prettier. My house bigger. My dick longer. My whole existence would be worth something instead of just wasted.
People I haven’t seen in years suddenly crystallize in my head and I’m replaying moments where I know I fucked up. Said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing, thought the wrong thing, and I’m getting punished for it now in this endless replay. Because in kindergarten I kissed the dumb blonde girl instead of the nice one. Because in seventh grade I went along with the crowd and spat on Jonas’s back. Because I turned down that interview and got drunk in the park instead. Because I listened to my own inflated ego and ignored actual advice.
Everything becomes a joke when you don’t care and somehow still get away with it. When it’s fine anyway, even though you’re not really trying. Your relationship falls apart because you don’t listen? Whatever, there’s another girl. You’re broke even though you throw money around like it’s Monopoly? Whatever, more money comes. You’ve lost all your friends because you ignore their messages? Whatever, there’ll be other people. You keep telling yourself this story until one day you realize there’s a bottom.
What happens when the well runs dry. When there’s no next girl, no next paycheck, no next person to burn through in your endless self-interest. When you’ve turned down the wrong street one too many times and you’re standing in front of the wreckage of yourself. Dead end. One thought left, and it’s going to hunt you for the rest of your life: what if. What if. What if.
The worst part is you can never actually know. You don’t know if your life would’ve been better if you’d confessed to that girl. Would you be living in the suburbs with two kids and a dog, living some normal life? Or would you have crashed and burned? Would you be best friends with Jonas now if you hadn’t spat on him, meeting up twice a year at some dive bar reminiscing? Or would your classmates have systematically destroyed you for four years straight?
Would your life have gone better if you hadn’t pushed away the people who mattered. The ones who believed in you. Who made you feel solid and real and seen. Who shaped who you are. The ones you owed at least the basic courtesy of listening to, instead of treating their dreams and fears like garbage and just barreling forward without looking back.
And maybe that’s the real what-if that keeps me up. Not the specific choices, but whether I even deserved better. Whether I’d make different choices now, or if I’d just repeat the same patterns because that’s what I am. Some nights I know the answer is probably the second one, and that thought is worse than any of the others. At least the other what-ifs have some hope built in. But this one just loops.
The thinking never stops. The time keeps moving, every choice pulling me further from whatever I was supposed to be. I’m losing it. And the harder I try to swim back, to hold onto something, the more it’s just fuel for the same thought engine. What if. What if. What if.
Instagram as a camera. WhatsApp as a walkie talkie. Netflix as a slide projector. That’s what Thomas Olivier designed—what modern apps would actually look like if someone had invented them in the 1980s, not as software but as physical objects you could hold.
The appeal isn’t just the retro look. It’s that these would kind of just work. A messaging app is basically a walkie talkie in digital form. A photo-sharing app is a camera with a network built in. Strip away the software layer and you’re left with something simple and functional, exactly what 80s design would have produced.
There’s something satisfying about that. We usually think of progress as moving away from physical objects, toward abstraction and immateriality—everything in the cloud, everything on screens. Olivier’s work flips that. It asks: what if the task was so fundamental that it needed its own dedicated machine? What if we never abstracted it away at all?
I’d want to own these things if they actually existed. Not as ironic retro pieces, but as tools. They’d be limited compared to modern apps, sure. But there’s something honest about that limitation. A camera that shares photos, full stop. No metrics, no engagement mechanics, no algorithmic manipulation. Just the one thing it was designed to do.
Looking at these designs makes me wonder what we traded and what we got in return. Convenience, maybe. A lot of convenience. But also a lot of friction in places there never used to be any. Olivier’s designs make that friction visible.
Diana Kingston lives in Milan and makes her living with two related but supposedly separate things: her appearance and her genuine love of comics. Model, former Playmate, comic fan. That combination - the attractive woman who’s into the same stuff you’re into - is its own specific fantasy. Everyone knows it. The hot girl who gets your references. The woman who’s both object and companion.
It’s been a thing for a while, but maybe it’s more explicit now. You can buy magazines featuring her. You can know her name. The fantasy has been professionalized, given a face and a bio and a documented interest in the things she actually enjoys. There’s something almost funny about how cleanly these categories overlap now - how it’s become a marketable category rather than a contradiction.
Adolfo Valente shot her in a modern apartment, all pale walls and clean lines. The kind of space that photographs well, that exists for being photographed. The images are technically good - good light, good composition, the usual craft. But they’re not really about craft. They’re about looking, about the pleasure of looking at Diana Kingston, with the knowledge that she reads comics. That’s the entire thing. That’s why anyone cares.
I’ve been to Milan a handful of times, always briefly, always in transit. It’s a city with all the expected history and reputation - fashion, design, money, culture. But it’s also just a place where people live and work and model and read comics. Diana Kingston happens to live there, in a modern apartment with good light, which is basically all that’s visible in the photographs. The city’s a backdrop. The real thing is her, and what she represents about how desire and fandom can be packaged together now.
The appeal is oddly honest, though. She actually likes comics. You can tell. And that’s rarer than you’d think - when the fantasy and the reality align, when the image matches the person. Most of the time they don’t. Most of the time it’s all construction. Kingston seems to mean it. That almost makes it sadder, somehow. The fantasy that’s actually true.
Jeremy Scott pitched the Moschino x H&M collection as a party. Fun, pop, energy, friends showing up—that’s the pitch. No pretense of importance. Just meant to be fun and then it’s over.
They threw the expected party in Berlin. Champagne, photographers, everyone in the new pieces. And the actual product here wasn’t the garments. It was the mythology around them. The temporary nature of it. The knowledge that these exist for a moment and then they don’t. What you’re actually buying is the proof that you were there.
There’s something honest about a designer collab that doesn’t try to be profound. It’s temporary, it’s fun, it’s a moment. That’s the whole thing. The pieces are just evidence. And that’s fine.
My world has always been pixelated. I don’t mean that literally, but when I think of what a real video game feels like, it’s sprites and tiles and that sound the SNES made when it was pushing close to its limits. I loved the big 3D games when they arrived. The Witcher 3 is genuinely great. Super Mario 64 is a masterpiece. But something about the pixel world closing off felt like a death. The industry decided realism was the future, and for years I believed them.
Then the indie developers started saving the pixel. Stardew Valley proved you could make something people wanted to live in without cutting-edge graphics. Owlboy showed that pixel animation had something to say that motion capture never would. These games understood what the AAA industry had forgotten: that constraints don’t limit beauty, they focus it.
The games that still haunt me are the 16-bit ones. Secret of Mana. Chrono Trigger. A Link to the Past. I’ve replayed them enough to know it’s not just nostalgia. The design is tighter. Every pixel earns its place. There’s an efficiency and poetry to that era that 3D still hasn’t matched.
Hazelnut Bastille understands this too. It’s an action-adventure that wears its Zelda influences obviously—specifically the SNES version—but it’s not just copying. The animation is impossibly smooth. Playing the demo felt like finding something you didn’t know you were missing, muscle memory from before you even knew what muscle memory was.
They got Hiroki Kikuta to compose, the person who wrote Secret of Mana, which means they didn’t hire someone to make something that sounds like the old days. They hired the old days. That detail alone tells you what this project is actually about.
I’m past the age where I need games to blow my mind with graphics or prove something about technology. I’ve spent enough time with pixel art to know the difference between what it can do and what realism pretends to do. Something about returning to that world doesn’t feel like going backward. It feels like finally being home in a way the bigger, fancier things never managed.
The BVG made a song. Frank Sinatra’s “My Way,” reinterpreted by transit employees in a glossy video that commits fully to the concept—cool and confident and aware of its own absurdity. The premise is simple: a public utility loves you. They’ve decided to sing about it.
And they’re not entirely wrong. The BVG gets you to work at 6am with a coffee you managed to grab, then to a stranger’s apartment at 2am after too many drinks, then home the next morning when that situation resolved poorly. For years it was just invisible—the system that works. You didn’t think about it until it broke, and then you suddenly understood how much you depended on it.
For a long time they didn’t try to be anything but reliable and unglamorous. Then came an adidas collaboration, which worked fine, and now this: a full song, BVG employees as performers, a serious commitment to the idea that yes, we love the people we move around the city every day. The audacity is kind of charming. A public utility deciding it can participate in culture.
The video itself is what you’d expect—glossy, competent, forgettable. What matters is the commitment. Whether this is genuine affection or marketing is hard to parse, and maybe it doesn’t matter. They’ve done the obvious thing well enough that they’ve earned the right to try for something else.
It’s the kind of move that works in Berlin. A city that doesn’t perform seriousness, where a utility can decide to be cultural and it reads as natural rather than desperate. Everyone else is working overtime to seem cool. BVG was just content to move people, and that turned out to be the coolest thing anyway.
Bonnie Strange had a kid, and then she took her clothes off for Playboy. No break in between. No period where she disappears, gets the body back, returns to public life. Just: newborn, then naked in a magazine. It’s a straightforward move and also kind of a fuck-you to everything we pretend to believe about motherhood.
The magazine’s framing is exactly what you’d expect—she’s a model, influencer, musician, and now officially a MILF. That’s their angle. But the actual thing she’s saying is simpler. She didn’t turn into a different person because she gave birth. The woman who built a following on unapologetic self-presentation online is still that woman. The body that made a human is still hers to photograph.
She talks about becoming calmer since motherhood, more patient, less quick to anger. Slower-moving. But not smaller. Not quieter. Just less reactive. She’s been clear about how she sees nudity—not as sex, exactly, but as aesthetics and self-confidence, the image as its own complete thing. Having a kid didn’t change that math.
What gets me is how much it’s necessary to state this. The assumption that motherhood closes you down, that your body becomes either functional or off-limits, that ambition and parenthood are opposing forces. She’s just refusing that architecture. The photos are almost beside the point. The statement is: I’m still here, and I’m still me.
She’s also oddly specific about men. Not the type who spends all day in the gym admiring his own reflection during sex—she uses the German word, ekelhaft, which is exactly the right word for that flavor of disgusting. She likes nerds. Intelligence. Humor. Guys who hold doors and carry things, actual old-school manners. It’s grounded and a little funny, that list. Not asking for fantasy, just for presence and basic decency.
There’s an easy read where this is all calculated personal branding, which maybe it is. But there’s also a read where she’s just saying: this is what I do, this is who I want, this is who I am, and becoming someone’s mother doesn’t erase that. I don’t know which one is true, and I’m not sure it matters. Either way, she’s not disappearing.
I haven’t played Monopoly in years. Maybe not since my cousin—the scratchy type who’d get bored after thirty minutes and start throwing houses and hotels at me in frustration. Or with my dad, who refused to lose. He had this uncanny way of maneuvering me into financial ruin so smoothly that I stopped believing in capitalism altogether. I’ve been quietly rooting for the collapse of international banking ever since.
But here’s the thing: despite those disasters, Monopoly means something to me. It was about sitting down with people I actually liked, giving them three hours of my time, and doing nothing but slowly bankrupting each other. Yeah, it usually ended in chaos or days of awkward silence. But when someone eventually asked if we wanted to play again, we’d all say yes. Because it was fun. Because the sitting together was what mattered.
I found out there’s a Sailor Moon Monopoly. Not the redesigned characters from the new anime, but the originals—Usagi and the girls we actually wanted to play as. It’s not a thing I needed, but it’s making me want to sit down and play again. With people who watched the same show. Who get why playing as a sailor guardian matters even if it’s just pretend real estate.
There’s something about having the exact right version of something that makes me want to come back to it. The characters I actually cared about. The thing that reminds me why I liked it in the first place. I’ll get it for that reason—not because Monopoly is a good game or because Sailor Moon deserves a board. Just because I want to sit with the right people for three hours and do something pointless together. That’s the whole thing.
Netflix picked up “Chilling Adventures of Sabrina.” If you know the original with Melissa Joan Hart, this isn’t it. It was effortlessly charming because of her — a teenager with actual magic powers, and it never felt desperate or over-explained, just funny and perfect.
The new one’s dark. Everything ominous and threatening, aiming for actual horror based on the comics, full of that Riverdale energy where the town’s menacing and everything’s perpetually on the edge of disaster. Kiernan Shipka plays Sabrina.
I didn’t need another version. The original solved its own problem. This treats the premise as actual horror instead of comedy, which is valid, it’s just not what the original did. It’s another remake because studios stopped having ideas years ago.
The original still airs in reruns sometimes. That’s what I’ll watch when I want Sabrina.
Caught the “Taki Taki” video during a work break. It’s got that generic reggaeton-trap groove that gets everywhere for a summer and then disappears completely. Ozuna’s in it, Cardi B’s in it, DJ Snake produced it—none of it means anything to me, and I suspect it won’t mean anything in six weeks. The video’s exactly what you’d expect: beach bars, dancing, bodies, the whole designed-for-summer-playlists thing.
I watched it because Selena Gomez is in it. That’s the only real reason. She doesn’t get much screen time, doesn’t get much to sing—it’s mostly just her in the frame for a bit—but that’s enough. I know how this works. I’m fine with it.
The song’s already halfway forgotten and I only heard it today. That’s not a criticism, that’s just what it’s for. Something to play while you’re on vacation, something to move some units, something that’ll be off the radar by fall. It serves its purpose. Selena serves hers. We all move on.
I watched a clip the other day—some seventies film with soft focus and diffuse light, the camera moving slowly across skin like it was stealing glances. Three minutes and it was hotter than scrolling through porn sites for an hour.
I was young the first time I saw those films. Late nights with friends, catching whatever came on cable that showed the old stuff. They barely showed anything. A few seconds of nudity, then fade to black. The camera looking away at exactly the right moment. You had to imagine the rest, and the imagining was the whole point. The arousal was real.
Now everything’s visible. Every position, every moment. The image does all the work and you just consume it passively. There’s no gap between what you see and what you imagine, and that’s where eroticism lives. Without the gap, without the wanting, it’s just mechanics.
You can look at unlimited sex and feel nothing at all. Which is its own kind of deprivation.
Put this on one night out of boredom, just a cute anime about three elementary school girls and their clubhouse in Ueno. Yui, Sat-chan, Kotoha, a thieving cat, neighborhood stuff. That’s the cover. What I didn’t expect was how unsettling it actually gets.
By episode two or three it was clear these three had something genuinely off. Not anime-quirky—actually broken. The kind of broken where you can already see the psychiatric evaluation in their future like some fixed point. They want to clean the lake, so they’ll do something objectively dangerous. They hear the zoo elephants are starving and plan a heist. Zombies in the park? They’re going in.
I kept telling myself one more episode and then I’d watch three more, increasingly disturbed by what these kids were casually committing to. Their parents are never around, which doesn’t help. But what got me was rooting for them anyway. There’s something compelling about watching someone follow their own logic that far, especially when it’s completely unhinged.
They move through the world like it runs on their rules, not anyone else’s. Everyone else figures it out or gets out of the way. And you start to see the freedom in that, even if it’s the kind of freedom that ends badly.
By the end I wasn’t watching cute kids doing cute things. I was watching someone live entirely in a reality that only existed in their head, doing it so confidently that part of you starts to believe it too.
I’ve never heard of Isabel Vollmer. I don’t watch German television—if you forced me to choose between three hours of Til Schweiger and smashing my head into concrete, I’d probably go with the concrete. So her nude Playboy shoot means nothing to me personally.
But she said something in the interview that stuck. When you’re filming a sex scene, the camera sells one story and the reality is completely different. Freezing, crew everywhere, the other person thinking about lunch. The image people see has nothing to do with what it actually feels like. Everyone believes the screen captures something true, but there’s this massive gap between them.
That’s interesting because it’s the same with German celebrity culture. There’s this whole tradition of actresses doing Playboy like it’s just a job. Nobody makes it into some big statement—just business. Take the photos, collect the money, go back to your career. It’s refreshingly matter-of-fact about bodies and fame and all the stuff everyone else tries to load with meaning.
I’ll never watch whatever she’s in next. I don’t care about that world. But there’s something honest about cutting through all the meaning-making and just admitting it’s work. The camera lies, the body is just a body, the whole thing is a transaction. At least that’s clear.
Maybe that’s why German Playboy never felt strange to me. It was never trying to be anything more than what it was.
There’s a twenty-year-old from Berlin named Nessie who posts outfit pictures, and the thing about them is they don’t look like she’s performing anything. Just careful decisions, letting them be what they are. You see a lot of young creative people where the effort is all visible—they’re desperate to prove they’re interesting. She was just working.
Someone sent her around Berlin with a new phone, one of those brand partnerships. The camera wasn’t the story. She was just documenting what she’d already decided to wear, and you could see she understood why it all made sense.
Most people never look long enough to actually understand how things work. They just grab what feels like it might work. Nessie had somehow figured out what colors could do together, how a weird choice could make sense if the rest aligned, why something hangs together or falls apart. That takes time.
Weedcraft is Devolver Digital’s business simulation about running an illegal cannabis operation. You grow, sell to customers, compete with dealers who have better product and lower prices, stay ahead of the cops. The dream is to be the best dealer on your block.
It’s the kind of game only Devolver would fund — a genuinely absurd premise handled with complete seriousness and actual craftsmanship. Not a cheap novelty thing, but real game design.
There’s something odd about it now, with legalization spreading. A game that simulates the whole supply chain of an illegal business. But that’s sort of the point, isn’t it? You deal with pricing, customer retention, competition, sourcing. All the actual business problems dealers face, except you can restart when you get caught.
What I want to know is how the enforcement side works. Is it just randomness, or is there actual strategy to avoiding the cops? That’s usually what determines whether a premise like this stays clever or becomes genuinely engaging.
I got my first G-SHOCK when I was fourteen. Confirmation day. Fire-engine red with a skull and spider web on the face—the Fox Fire model. I loved that watch. Wore it everywhere with stupid pride through my small hometown. More than anything else I owned, that watch was me.
That’s what G-SHOCK understood: these aren’t just watches. They’re things you wear on purpose. Not because they’re accurate or beautiful—though some are—but because you’re saying something with them.
The company started in 1983. An engineer named Kikuo Ibe was tasked with designing something unbreakable. His team threw prototypes out a window on the third floor of their research center, over and over. After about two hundred failures, one didn’t shatter. Then another didn’t. Eventually they had something.
The real breakthrough came from watching a girl drop a rubber ball in a park. The way it bounced without damage—the center floating, protected by rubber around it. That’s what he did with the watch. The movement floats inside the case, untouched. Protect the thing that matters. Simple idea, but it became the whole foundation of G-SHOCK.
From there they just obsessed over everything. Drop tests, pressure tests, temperature extremes, electrical shocks, salt spray, vibration. Every way something could fail, they engineered against it. And once they had something truly indestructible, they started experimenting—different cases, transparent plastic, LCD faces, wild colors, strange collaborations. Thirty-five years in, over a hundred million watches sold, always the same core: this will not fail you.
My first Fox Fire eventually died—I can’t even remember how. But I’ve kept buying them since. Always G-SHOCK. There’s something solid about wearing a watch that will survive anything. You stop worrying whether it’ll work. You just know it will.
I’ve been reading a lot of manga lately. There’s something about how they’re paced that gets me — a page does what it needs and then you move. No overcooking it. Maybe it’s just different enough from everything else I read.
There’s something satisfying about seeing Chun-Li rendered as a low-poly model. The geometry is clean, the colors pop, and somehow she’s more recognizably herself than in most official art. Michael Firman’s been doing this for a while—taking characters I’ve known forever and reducing them to clean geometric shapes. Link, Mega Man, the whole Nintendo roster. The style reads instantly, which shouldn’t be possible.
Firman’s a Canadian illustrator and designer whose specialty is stripping beloved pop culture down to its essentials. Not in a reductive way, but in a clarifying one. The silhouette carries the character. The color palette seals it. Everything else becomes noise. You’d think you’d lose something in the translation, but his work shows otherwise.
He’s not just working from video games. Star Wars characters, the cast of Moana, Game of Thrones figures—they all get the same treatment. The low-poly style works across everything because it’s fundamentally honest. It forces the designer to make every choice count. There’s nowhere to hide, no detail to lean on.
As a designer, I respect that kind of constraint. The discipline. The clarity. Most of my work gets spent adding layers, trying different approaches, second-guessing myself. Watching someone work with this level of limitation—where everything has to earn its place—reminds me that sometimes the work gets better when you take things away.
I think about the impulse behind this kind of work, the refraction of characters that matter. These figures have lived in our heads long enough that we want to see them through different lenses. Firman’s lens is clean and economical. And somehow it makes them look more vivid, not less.
Summer in 90s Los Angeles if you were skateboarding: the park, the streets, the crew you fell in with at the shop, the family problems you couldn’t do anything about. Jonah Hill spent his teenage years in that world, and for his directorial debut he made a film about it — or a version of it, anyway. The protagonist is a thirteen-year-old named Stevie; the film is called Mid90s.
Hill isn’t reaching for transgression or shock. You could make a skateboard film about sex and violence and the darker edges of youth — Ken Park exists exactly in that territory. But Mid90s is quieter, more autobiographical in the way actual childhood feels: small moments, boredom, the sudden intensity of new friendships, family weight you don’t fully understand. The film’s shot on 4:3 DV, that washed-out video aesthetic that actually was the 90s if you lived it, not a stylization of it.
There’s something about returning to a decade through someone who lived it as a kid. The 90s get flattened now into a mood or aesthetic, but Hill is precise about his — LA, that particular skate culture, the loneliness and excitement of being thirteen in that world. That specificity is what matters. This isn’t nostalgia for a decade as a concept; it’s a memory of what it felt like to be there, in that specific place and moment.
It’s hot. I’m on the couch in underwear, cold drink sweating on the side table, playing Enter the Gungeon. It’s exactly the game I need on a night like this. The pixel art looks cute—little creatures, bright colors—but the game itself is relentless. It destroys you over and over, yet here I am, coming back anyway.
The premise is straightforward. A few desperate characters break into the Gungeon, this legendary vault, because it holds the one thing they want: a gun that can kill the past. They’re trying to undo their worst decisions, the choices that put them here. Of course the Gungeon doesn’t hand over its treasures easily. The place is full of enemies, little creatures that look almost adorable until they’re shooting at you from three angles at once.
What makes Enter the Gungeon work is that it doesn’t overcomplicate things. You move, you shoot, you dodge, and when you screw up, you die. You die constantly. The structure is always the same—rooms, enemies, maybe a puzzle—but the layout changes every time, so you never figure out a permanent strategy. After fifty deaths you might clear a floor. After a hundred you might feel like you’re actually getting somewhere. The game doesn’t care either way. It just keeps the loop going.
A new update called Gungeons & Draguns dropped with a bunch of new content—more characters, weapons, levels. Nothing that fundamentally changes how the game plays, just more stuff to find and unlock. Which is really all I need. An excuse to sit back down on a night like this and get shot to pieces one more time.
Ran across EXP Edition through some pop culture rabbit hole - four guys from New York named Šime, Koki, Frankie, and Hunter who moved to South Korea to be K-pop idols. No background in the industry, no cultural connection to any of it, just American ambition and a management company willing to bet on something completely absurd.
The songs are exactly as hollow as they sound. “Feel Like This,” “Stress,” “Ready To Go” - everything so aggressively produced and empty that it becomes this weird unintentional statement about what K-pop actually is. Strip everything away but the formula and you’re left with machinery. K-pop usually works because it sells transformation, sells fantasy. EXP Edition is just the mechanism with no one inside.
VICE made a documentary called “Minority Reports” following them around, capturing exactly what you’d expect - four American guys completely out of place, trying to appeal to Korean teenagers who have no reason to care about them. No irony, no self-awareness, just sincere and unearned dedication.
What strikes me is that it might actually work someday. Not for them probably, but if K-pop is big enough to greenlight EXP Edition, it’s big enough to turn literally anyone into a product. American artists as just another assembly line in the factory.
They’ll probably burn out in a couple years - dissolve, rebrand, fade. But right now they exist in this weird space where total commitment to something fabricated is almost sincere.
Oksana Schatschko, 31, co-founder of Femen, was found dead in her Paris apartment. No cause of death was ever established.
Femen started in 2008 in Ukraine as a topless protest group. The idea was brutally simple: your body is a weapon, visibility is refusal. Show up to power and be impossible to ignore, exposed and unafraid. They went after Putin, the Orthodox church, corruption, sexual violence. They made their bodies the message.
Oksana left the group after she was kidnapped and beaten by unknown assailants during Putin’s visit to Ukraine. There’s a limit to how much fearlessness one person can absorb.
What happened to Femen over time is what happens to most protest movements. The tactic that felt radical in 2008 gets absorbed into the cultural noise, becomes dated, stops landing. Internal conflict sets in. People burn out. The group fractured, and by then Oksana was already gone from it.
Inna Shevchenko, who’d been part of Femen from the beginning, confirmed Oksana’s death to the Guardian. Femen released a statement mourning her. They said they’d wait for the police report. It either didn’t come or didn’t matter once it did.
Someone who made herself impossible to ignore for years, and then she was found in an apartment with no explanation.
Found a game called “Fuck ISIS - Super Patriotic Dating Simulator.” You’re a CIA agent named Elodie seducing ISIS members in Syria. It’s got crude jokes, dating-sim mechanics, and it’s half-finished on Kickstarter.
The commitment to the premise is what gets me. No irony, no distance, no pretense. You’re seducing terrorists and the game doesn’t apologize for it. Just states that flatly and moves on.
Most transgressive media spends half its energy making sure you understand it’s being transgressive. This one skips that. Just commits to the stupid premise and lets it breathe.
I keep thinking about this unfinished thing that exists because someone had the idea and someone funded it. No gatekeepers, no filter between impulse and world. That’s either the most honest thing or the dumbest thing, and I genuinely can’t tell.
I quit the agency thinking I’d figured out the secret. Write from anywhere, set your own hours, no boss. I was making money writing about celebrity bodies, fucking models in bathroom stalls, traveling on someone else’s dime. I thought I’d beaten the system.
For a few years it actually worked. The articles came easily, readers came back, money came in. I’d be in Tokyo or LA with a drink in my hand while my friends back home sat in gray offices watching themselves disappear. I felt like I’d escaped something real.
Then the tax office sent a bill demanding advance payments for the whole year ahead. Nobody mentioned that in the free entrepreneurship course I mostly slept through. It hit hard and never stopped. The insurance company did the same thing—one good year and they bumped me into the highest tier, classifying me with Michael Schumacher and supermodels. I was officially rich, which meant I was eating instant soup.
For eight years I kept it running. Eight articles a day, paid collaborations, press trips around the world. It was exhausting but it felt like living. My friends had normal jobs and I had this. I felt smarter than them, freer. I actually believed I’d figured something out that they were too scared to try.
Then I realized I’d written myself dry. The angles stopped surprising me. The music went hollow. The depression didn’t come with a reason—it just moved in. I kept working, kept writing, but something inside had switched off.
By then YouTube had happened, Instagram had happened. Everyone wanted the same thing now: momentum and eyeballs and attention. We weren’t the loudest voice anymore. We tried being louder, then the opposite, then gave up trying to be anything other than what we’d always been. It didn’t matter. The readers moved on. The money got strange.
But you can’t quit. Not after ten years. You can’t explain yourself to an employer or start at the bottom of someone else’s ladder. So you keep going, keep trying to make it work, watching the equation get worse every year.
The freedom turns into a trap without you noticing. Your friends stop asking you out because you’re broke and exhausted. The person you might have loved got tired of waiting while you worked at 2 AM on problems that wouldn’t fix. Now it’s just you and the panic, the beer, the weight from not caring what you eat anymore. When people give you advice, you know some of it’s right but you hate them for saying it because you’re too deep in.
Lying awake at night—which happens a lot—you wonder if this is freedom or just a prison you built yourself. At least people with jobs can quit and walk away. I burned that bridge ten years ago and there’s nobody to blame but me. My friends are getting promoted, taking vacations, building lives that don’t circle around whether the money shows up next month. They have benefits. They have peace.
What gets me is I did find something real in all of this. There’s an autonomy, a refusal to participate in the standard arrangement, you don’t get anywhere else. But it requires things—money, relationships, your health—and once you’re in, you can’t leave. I’d still refuse to go back to corporate, but I’m not sure anymore if that’s conviction or just what you tell yourself when you’ve already made a choice you can’t take back.
There’s a kid in Shin Chan who doesn’t understand shame. He grabs asses. He lifts skirts. He says whatever crude thing is in his mouth without filtering it through any social decency. He’s five years old and he’s the most honest thing on screen. And somehow he’s the character I’ve most wanted to be, which says something I’m not sure I want to examine too closely.
Shin Chan is in good company with the anime I actually loved — Sailor Moon, Cowboy Bebop, Evangelion, the ones that stuck. But this one’s different. It’s not pretending to be anything. The kid’s a little asshole and he knows it. The whole family is kind of a mess. There’s no arc to iron everything out, no lesson that fixes the dysfunction. They’re just these people, crude and sexual and embarrassing and present.
The German dub is the right version, which I know sounds weird. I tried the original Japanese with English subtitles once and it felt flat, neutered somehow. The dub has this aggressive cartoon logic that matches the show’s rhythm. It’s not trying to be faithful to some sacred source — it’s committed to being funny in its own language, and that’s better.
People get weird about the sexual content, but Shin Chan isn’t interested in making anyone comfortable with it. The early episodes are thick with it, and there’s no winking about it, no “oops, isn’t Shin Chan naughty” framing. It’s just there, casual, part of how this small pile of chaos moves through the world. Shin Chan isn’t softening the edges for anyone.
I keep coming back to these episodes, and I think it’s because the character has something I don’t — this absolute freedom from caring what anyone thinks. He’s five. He’s a cartoon. But he’s more himself than most people manage in a lifetime. That’s probably the whole thing right there.
I almost made it to Hong Kong a few years back. We were traveling through China, and one of the people with us was from there — kept talking about how different it was, how we had to see it. But visa issues and time ate up the plan, and we ended up not going. One of those near-miss regrets you file away.
Years later I found this video by Jas Davis, a photographer and artist. “Fear & Loading in Hong Kong” — something about it stuck with me. He captures the city in a way that feels honest. The density, the strange architecture, the people moving through it at speed, the light and weight of it all. It’s exactly the kind of thing that would’ve convinced me then, if I’d seen it.
Hong Kong carries this weird gravity now. Handed over from Britain to China in ’97, it’s been this contested space ever since — part of China legally, but not in the way people who live there experience it. You feel that tension everywhere, in the streets, in how people move and communicate. There’s a city aware of itself as contested, resisting in small and large ways.
But Jas Davis’s video isn’t interested in that. It’s just Hong Kong as a place — the visual texture, the movement, the commerce and light and speed of life. And maybe that’s the thing. I missed it because of bad timing and bureaucracy. I see it through his camera instead. It’s not the same as going, but it’s something. It’s enough to understand what I missed.
I watched someone turn a Balenciaga Triple S into a bong, and it was more satisfying than any sneaker content I’ve seen in years.
The shoe costs over a thousand dollars. It’s one of those pieces that exists as much as a status symbol as it does as actual footwear—something you look at more than you wear, something that’s partly an investment in cultural capital. Some designers decided to disassemble one on film and repurpose it into smoking equipment using materials from a hardware store. No explanation, no irony winking. Just: here’s what we’re doing and here’s how we’re doing it.
What works is how completely it strips away the mythology. The moment you treat a luxury good as just material, all the cultural weight that made it special evaporates. The limited drops, the resale market, the whole idea that wearing it means something—none of that survives being deconstructed. What’s left is just a shoe’s material, now serving a different purpose.
I notice this partly because I work with design myself. You spend enough time thinking about objects and what we project onto them and you start to see how arbitrary it all is. A Balenciaga is special because we’ve decided it’s special. The price, the scarcity, the mythology—all of it is ceremony. Strip that away and you’ve just got material. Repurpose that material and you’ve made a point without having to say anything.
The project’s best part is its refusal to explain the joke. It doesn’t need to. It just does the thing and that’s enough.
There’s this gap. The version of me people see and the version I actually am. I’m decent enough when it matters—patient with friends, not gratuitously cruel, conscious of how I move through the world. But alone in my apartment with my phone I’m something else. Different thoughts. Different searches. Different resentments. The kinds of things that would change how people see me if they surfaced.
Sam Levinson’s “Assassination Nation” starts from that premise. A hacker in a small town leaks everyone’s secrets—their searches, their messages, the stuff they thought was buried. Everyone gets exposed at the same time, and the town immediately implodes. Neighbors turn on each other. Mobs form. The violence is swift and casual, like people were just waiting for permission to hurt each other.
The film focuses on a group of high school girls—the kind who run the school, who are used to getting what they want. Once the secrets are public they become hunters. The film frames them as predators, which is interesting because it doesn’t let the audience off the hook either. There’s something satisfying about watching them exact revenge on people who wronged them, and the film knows you feel that satisfaction and wants to complicate it.
What lingers is the question underneath: is the gap necessary? Is hypocrisy the price of living in society, or is it a lie we can’t afford to keep telling? I don’t know. I just know the gap exists. I know what I look like from the outside doesn’t match what I think about from the inside. And I know that’s probably true for everyone watching the film too. That’s the discomfort it trades in.
Someone on Reddit spotted a renovated mall being dressed up for Stranger Things and Netflix confirmed it. Starcourt Mall, opening summer 1985 in Hawkins—the show’s using the mall as the backdrop for season 3.
The trailer’s just a promo tour. Nothing happens. Neon, storefronts, every haircut that should’ve stayed buried. Steve and Robin are at Scoops Ahoy, which is the best use the show’s found for those two.
There’s something about malls in nostalgia. The enclosed space, the fluorescent hum of it, the generic shops that felt important when I was young. Stranger Things nailed the visual language from the start—it feels like memory, like watching a home video of somewhere I spent years. Adding a full mall is just leaning harder into that. It’s the obvious place for a show that makes the mundane feel vital.
Summer’s a long wait. That’s the show’s rhythm now—long stretches thinking about Hawkins, wondering what’s moving in the dark, whether anything ever works out in a place like that. Nothing good happens in a mall when the lights start cutting out.
Britney and Christina dominated the late nineties, and the Spice Girls too. They earned every bit of attention they got. But around the turn of the millennium, Mandy Moore released “So Real” and something just clicked. I didn’t understand half of what she was singing. Didn’t even matter. There was “Candy,” “Walk Me Home,” “Lock Me in Your Heart”—this collection of songs that somehow never landed the way they should have, at least not with anyone I knew. I’d put the album on for friends and watch it go nowhere with them. They didn’t hear what I heard.
She kept making records after that. “I Wanna Be with You,” “Coverage,” a self-titled thing, “Amanda Leigh.” The last one barely sold—seventeen thousand copies in the US according to Wikipedia. Those numbers tell their own story. By then Mandy had mostly moved into acting anyway, which was probably the right move. Movies and television had better prospects than whatever was happening in pop music.
But it doesn’t change anything now. Britney and Christina earned their moment completely. They deserved it. Mandy Moore is just who I actually cared about. Not because she was underrated or overlooked. Just because her music worked in a way nothing else quite did. Still works, actually, when I go back to listen.
There’s a YouTuber named Gregor Kartsius who’s spent the better part of twenty years playing every RPG he could find, and he finally did what everyone does eventually—he made a list. Not just any list: 101 best RPGs, plus some extras squeezed in, stretched across videos that’ll take longer to watch than some of these games take to beat.
I respect the impulse. You play enough RPGs and you start mentally ranking them whether you want to or not. Every new one gets measured against the ones that mattered, against Chrono Trigger, Dark Souls, whatever captured some specific moment in your life. You remember them like people.
The thing about RPGs is they’re time. They’re the only medium where you can sink months and lose all of it to amnesia—start playing at six and look up and it’s three in the morning and you’re still one boss away from closure. They ask you to care about characters with barely any dialogue and somehow you do. You get attached to the music, the way a town looks, the pointless side quest. And then it ends and you move to the next one and the first one starts fading like a real memory does.
So a ranking matters and also doesn’t matter at all. Someone will definitely argue that the list is wrong, that it’s missing the obvious choice, that it’s wrong from the foundation. And they’ll be right. But whoever made it is right too, because they played all of them and genuinely loved them. That takes something.
If you need months of your life dedicated to deciding whether one SNES RPG deserves the 47th spot instead of 49th, the list exists. But the list is just proof that someone cared this much, and if you care this much too, you get it.
I watched this segment on Karambolage—that French-German cultural comparison show—and it got me thinking about how the same aesthetic manifests so differently depending on where you plant it. You put a Berlin hipster and a Paris hipster side by side, and yeah, they’re wearing the same uniform: Club Mate, fixed-gear bike, full beard, dark glasses, those geometrically patterned shirts in colors that shouldn’t go together. Same uniform, totally different energy underneath.
We’ve been making fun of hipsters for what, over ten years now? Long enough that some of us became the exact thing we were mocking without even realizing it. The Club Mate-drinking guy riding a Fixie through Kreuzberg in a patchwork flannel shirt with a beard and the right kind of glasses—that was supposed to be ironic, or at least that’s what we told ourselves. Meanwhile everyone else drifted into Normcore, which was basically deciding that style itself was the problem and fashion was the enemy. Traded all of it in for this aestheticized plainness that was somehow supposed to signal something deeper, though mostly it just looked dead.
The thing about hipster culture is that it doesn’t actually die, it just keeps revolving. Old trends cycle back as gospel. New trends get their throat cut on the altar of whatever else is supposedly happening. But the Berlin-versus-Paris thing reveals something past just surface aesthetics. A Berlin hipster seems to actually believe in his choices in a way that’s almost earnest. The aesthetic is self-aware, sure, but there’s sincerity underneath it. He’s chosen this life and he’s going to live it. A Paris hipster wears that exact same outfit like he’s permanently in on some joke that’s too sophisticated for everyone around him to understand.
Maybe that’s the real continental divide. Berlin keeps reaching for authenticity even knowing it’s impossible to actually touch it. Paris has made peace with the fact that everything is performance and just made that performance the whole point. Dress it up the same way, ride the same bikes, drink from the same bottles. But they’re operating from totally different beliefs about what any of it means. And you can see the difference if you’re looking, just in how they carry it.
Bill Murray does this thing where he just exists in the world and it works. Selena Gomez was making a zombie film with him then, which made sense. I’d thought of her as basically the new Scarlett Johansson anyway.
Jim Jarmusch was directing. The movie’s called Kill the Head, and besides Gomez and Murray there were Chloë Sevigny, Adam Driver, and Austin Butler. In an interview from March, Murray said the script was hilarious. It was in early production.
Jarmusch had made Broken Flowers, Coffee and Cigarettes, Only Lovers Left Alive. Films that take their time, that know what they are. A zombie film from him probably wouldn’t look like anything else. I wanted to see Selena as a blood-soaked corpse. I wanted that image.
This video’s circulating. Some guy at a restaurant grabs a waitress’s ass in passing—like he doesn’t have to think about it. She grabs him back, throws him into tables, into another customer, pure animal reflex. People online can’t stop talking about whether she was justified.
What gets me is how thoughtless the grab was. His hand moved to her body like that’s just what happens, like she’d already consented to that part of his day. The entitlement’s so complete it stops being visible. You grab. You keep walking. You’re fine. It’s background.
And the shock at her response—that’s the real tell. Not the grab. That wasn’t shocking. She was. That she didn’t absorb the violation, didn’t let him walk away intact. You read the comments and people are genuinely trying to figure out if there’s a proportional response to someone deciding your body isn’t yours anymore. That question itself is rotten. He didn’t earn courtesy. She didn’t owe him anything.
I’ve watched men do casual versions of this my whole life and mostly I’ve said nothing. Not fear. Ambient permission. It’s so normalized that it stops registering as a moment worth pushing back on. It’s everywhere, so it’s invisible. That’s the actual problem—not individual guys with no sense, but the structure that lets them feel like they’re fine.
The video doesn’t fix anything. He’s still that guy. The internet moves on tomorrow. But for one moment it made visible what usually stays hidden. That’s worth something.
The thing about Akira is that it doesn’t try to make the future look good. Katsuhiro Otomo’s film is probably the closest we’ve gotten to showing apocalypse without irony or nostalgia—just Tokyo coming apart, the architecture failing, the people smaller and smaller until they disappear. It commits to the ugliness completely. That’s what makes it a masterpiece.
But the masterpiece was always half-made by its soundtrack. Geino Yamashirugumi and Shoji Yamashiro didn’t write music that tried to redeem anything. No hopes for recovery, no moments of unexpected beauty. The score is mechanical, electronic, relentless—the sound of systems grinding down to nothing. Listen to it in isolation and it’s almost unbearable. In the film, it’s perfect. The music and the image together create something that stays with you like an injury.
Thirty years on, a group of producers took those original themes and remixed them into synthwave. Wolf Arm, Acidulé, Speed Machine, Carbon Killer, AWITW, Gregorio Franco—running the old Yamashiro melodies through a different filter. Synthwave is usually seductive, aspirational, the future imagined as stylish and dead. But the original Akira score was already synthwave before synthwave existed. Already the future reduced to pure architecture, mechanical and without mercy.
The remixes don’t change what the themes are saying. They just let you hear it from a different angle—the same bleakness, but more alive in its own way. It’s that same ruthless architecture, just heard from inside the machine instead of outside of it.
The thing about German Schlager is that everyone acts like it’s beneath them until they’re drunk enough to admit they don’t mind it. Helene Fischer burns into your brain whether you want her to. The Amigos are somehow still alive despite being medically dead for two decades. Everyone pretends not to care, but you catch them knowing the words anyway.
Schlager’s honestly more soulless than even the worst gangster rap. At least rappers are upfront about being full of shit. Schlager hides the machinery. It’s all production, calculation, and that particular German brand of emptiness dressed up as feeling.
So when I heard Vanessa Mai — basically German pop royalty, the anointed Schlager princess — decided to collab with rapper Olexesh on a song called “We 2 Always 1,” I expected disaster. It’s the kind of thing you laugh at immediately, the kind of cynical career move that makes you roll your eyes so hard they stick.
Except I got drunk the other night and actually listened to it properly. And it’s not that bad.
There’s something weirdly audacious about what Mai’s doing. She’s not trying to be cool or authentic or any of the bullshit language that comes with crossovers. She’s just full-on courting a different scene, throwing herself at hip-hop with this deranged confidence. You have to respect the sheer nerve of it — the calculated shamelessness. In a weird way, she’s more honest than Schlager usually manages to be.
The song itself is kind of slick when you’re not actively resisting it. Maybe that’s the whole thing: Schlager works better when you’re not trying to maintain an ironic distance, when you let yourself just fall into what it’s selling. Mai gets that. Or at least, she’s willing to bet on it.
I have a lot of time for Lil Dicky because he’s managed something most rappers don’t: he’s funny without being a joke, skilled without being a flex. Most comedians who rap are just bad at rapping. Most rappers who try to be funny end up diminishing the technical stuff. He does both, fully, at the same time.
He’ll build these absurd premises for songs—interviewing for a job with Snoop Dogg, whatever stupid scenario he’s thought up—and then he raps the hell out of them. Not ironically, not as a side-gig. Genuinely. You get these sections with intricate flows and technical precision, the kind of thing that shows he’s actually good at rap, buried in the middle of something ridiculous. He’s not using the skill to undercut the comedy or vice versa. They just coexist.
Hip-hop is obsessed with seriousness—the persona, the credibility, the stakes. Lil Dicky just doesn’t seem interested in any of that. He’s fine being skilled and silly. It’s rare enough that it stands out, and it’s weird that more people don’t just do it. The whole energy is lighter because of it.
Some CDU politician named Axel Voss—guy apparently had no idea how the internet actually works—pushed a copyright reform through the EU that included automatic upload filters. Every platform would have to scan everything before it went live and block anything flagged as infringing copyright. The pitch was always about protecting creators and the music industry. Nobody was going to say out loud that this would also catch your remixes, your mashups, your fair-use clips, your memes using a thirty-second song. All the things that actually make the internet worth using.
What got me was how inevitable it all felt. Every time an established industry starts losing control to digital distribution, they run the same playbook: convince governments that the only solution is total preemptive monitoring. Because who wants to be soft on piracy, right? Who wants to be soft on terrorism? So the policy gets written by lawyers and lobbyists and emerges as this technical solution that doesn’t actually solve anything—just makes everything harder for everyone except the people who wrote the law.
The old system, called notice-and-takedown, mostly worked fine. Platforms aren’t liable for what users upload, but they have to remove it immediately if someone challenges them. Then there’s Content ID, the system YouTube built to scan and flag potential matches. Even that flags false positives constantly, takes forever to dispute, catches things that absolutely shouldn’t be caught. What Voss wanted was for platforms to be liable the moment something infringes, and liable again if the same thing gets reuploaded. So they’d have to filter everything, preemptively, at scale, perfectly, forever. It’s an impossible standard. That’s the entire design—it forces platforms to over-filter rather than risk legal consequences they can’t afford.
The licensing bodies like GEMA, Germany’s biggest rights management organization, were exhausted from chasing individual violations. They wanted to offload enforcement to algorithms and be done with the whole messy business. The platforms were caught in the middle, trying not to completely break the internet while facing liability if they refused to filter. It’s a dead-end game where someone’s always going to lose, and it’s never the organizations with actual power.
The vote passed in 2019. Article 13 became Article 17 in the Copyright Directive and the filters started rolling out across Europe. Implementation has been messier and dumber than anyone expected—maybe bureaucratic incompetence saved us from the totalitarian nightmare, or maybe I’m just not paying close enough attention. The internet didn’t die. It just got smaller, more controlled, more dependent on algorithms nobody fully understands making decisions about what’s allowed. You can feel it if you pay attention, this slow tightening. And at some point you stop fighting it because fighting it every single cycle is exhausting.
Six in the morning. Heidi Kubieziel opens the door to find six armed police in tactical vests and two city observers in her stairwell. They’re looking for her husband Jens, who isn’t home. They want documents from Zwiebelfreunde, the digital rights organization where Jens sits on the board.
“I was half asleep and alone with the children,” she said later. “Six in the morning and the doorbell was ringing. They said they needed to speak to Jens and come inside. By the time I asked questions, they already had the warrant out. The search was already underway.”
The legal connection was thin. Someone had used a Riseup email address—a privacy provider—to organize protest against an AfD rally. Zwiebelfreunde recommends Riseup. The suspect disappeared. So they raided the Kubiziels instead. That was the reasoning.
They took computers, hard drives, USB sticks, everything. Jens wasn’t there. Nothing came back. Before the officers left, Heidi was offered a suggestion: if Jens resigned from the board, the raids would probably stop. Not framed as a threat, exactly. More like something she might want to consider.
This is Germany. Zwiebelfreunde isn’t some extremist group. They run Tor nodes, teach encryption, work with Reporters Without Borders and the Dresden Institute for Data Protection. Teaching people how digital privacy works is what they do.
Frank Rieger from the Chaos Computer Club pointed out the obvious: innocent families shouldn’t have their constitutional rights violated on such flimsy evidence with such excessive force. He’s right. It also reveals the texture of how states solve problems they don’t like. Not new laws. Not open debate. Just dawn raids and seized equipment and casual suggestions about stepping down from your organization.
I could argue with my family all night about whether blogging counts as a real profession and get absolutely nowhere. For them, a real job means going somewhere—an office, a store, a workshop. Having a boss. Definitely not working for yourself, which they see as basically admitting defeat and pretending you have income.
And yeah, blogging is rough. You never stop working. People constantly attack you. And whatever money actually materializes gets split between the tax office, insurance companies, and cease-and-desist lawyers. But I’d actually made peace with it. I was fine with not becoming a media designer. Fine with being a blogger.
Until Palina Rojinski put out that video.
Now I’m sitting here genuinely questioning my entire career path, because whatever she’s doing in that video—and I’m not going to be coy about it, she’s basically rubbing someone’s chest for money—looks like an objectively better job than this.
I mean, it probably doesn’t have an official job title. Or maybe it does and I’ve just never looked into it. But watching someone do it with that much ease and confidence, with that clear sense that the person paying for it is absolutely thrilled to be doing so, makes you sit back and think: what have I been doing?
It’s not that I regret being a blogger. It’s more that I’m now aware of a path I completely missed.
Funko made cereal. Of course they did. When a company realizes collectors will buy a $15 toy even if they hate it, branching into breakfast is inevitable. The boxes come with Cuphead in red, Mega Man in blue, Gollum in green — the same characters you’d already have on a shelf, now printed on cardboard.
What gets me is how naturally this works. Pop culture isn’t something you search out anymore. It’s not a hobby corner or a niche interest. It’s the default environment. My breakfast now has a licensed character on it. I’m eating video game properties. There’s nothing strange about that anymore.
I’ve been collecting since I was a kid — toys, records, art books — always at the edges of normal life. Now the edges have collapsed entirely. There’s probably a kid somewhere right now who doesn’t know that liking these characters used to be considered weird. They’re just pouring them into a bowl. In five years there might be more Funko properties on cereal boxes than actual cereals.
Part of me thinks it’s funny. Part of me thinks it’s sad. Mostly I’m aware that I’ll probably buy whatever they release next, pour it into a bowl, and feel nothing about how strange that would’ve been ten years ago.
Luo Yang and I were born in the same year—1984—and that detail felt important when we talked. Politics doesn’t preoccupy her much, she said. She doesn’t think it shapes her work or her life in any direct way. She’d rather watch the people around her, pay attention to how they actually live, even though obviously their lives are bent by forces much larger than themselves.
When Ai Weiwei came up, she was respectful but clear. She admires him, calls him a pioneer, but they’re working different angles. His practice is confrontation—society and politics put on display. Hers is interior, emotional. She photographs people and what they’re feeling, and that’s where her gaze stays. Different generations, different pressure points.
Ren Hang’s death had landed hard. He was a friend. They’d met years earlier when he was still building his voice, and watching him push against the machinery of being a Chinese artist, watching the West finally notice—that was something worth marking. Whether his work changed the country for the better, she couldn’t say. But he gave other artists permission to push. That matters.
Mian Mian came up naturally and she didn’t hedge. Famous in the West, less so where they lived. But the girls she photographs, the ones that catch her eye, they share something with Mian Mian—they’re brave and lost and young, willing to let their bodies and their lives spill into their work. That’s the thread.
There’s something specific about being born in 1984 in China: you grew up in a country remaking itself in real time, tradition and acceleration happening at once, the gap between what you wanted and what your family expected widening every year. She said everyone’s basically the same underneath—desires and conflicts, all of us, regardless of where we’re from. It’s a thing people say but don’t always mean. She seemed to mean it.
I asked what she wanted people to know about China’s young generation. She was optimistic without being naive about it. The kids coming up seem easier with themselves, more honest. The country keeps changing, keeps producing interesting people. The internet brought everyone closer. Come see it for yourself, she said. Learn the place and the people.
Every rapper eventually launches a beverage. It’s as inevitable as the first NFT project or the signature sneaker that nobody asked for. Bausa got his turn—slapped his face on a can of Gude and called it an “Artist Edition.”
The brilliance is how little effort it requires. Show up for a photoshoot, drink something while cameras roll, let marketing people explain why your brand and beer somehow complement each other. Whether he’s actually tasted more than a courtesy sip is irrelevant. The transaction is complete once his face appears on the label.
I almost respect the straightforwardness of it. No invented origin story about passion for brewing or some mystical discovery process. He just showed up and let his reputation do the work. That’s cleaner than most celebrity ventures, which tie themselves in knots justifying why the founder supposedly cares about this specific thing. At least there’s no pretense.
When I was younger, musicians seemed like they were actually trying to make art. Now they’re all just managing their brands, which is probably more honest than I’m giving it credit for. The art and the business have always been the same thing, but used to be the musicians pretended otherwise. Bausa’s at least not bothering with that particular fiction.
Still, there’s something bleak about watching this cycle repeat. Every artist with any cultural relevance suddenly has a beer, an energy drink, a fragrance. The brand replaces the person. Now when I think of Bausa, I see that can before I hear any of his actual songs.
I got Harvest Moon for the SNES at Christmas 1998, and I barely remember anything specific about that year except that I was glued to that game for months. It was the first time I understood why people got lost in farming sims—the little rituals, the calendar always pushing you forward, the feeling that leaving a crop unharvested was somehow a personal failure. Eventually I moved on, but I kept looking for that same thing in every Harvest Moon sequel that came after, and they were all terrible.
Years went by. I watched the franchise splinter across consoles, spin off into a hundred different versions, each one a little more diluted than the last. It was one of those things where you know you’re chasing something that doesn’t exist anymore, but you keep looking anyway. Until Eric Barone released Stardew Valley on Steam and basically made Harvest Moon for people who actually understood why Harvest Moon mattered.
What gets me about Stardew Valley is how thoroughly it understands the formula but doesn’t feel like it’s just copying—it feels like someone finally said, “Okay, let’s do this right.” The farm mechanics work. The calendar rhythm actually means something. The town isn’t just a menu of marriage candidates, it’s a place with seasons and moods and relationships that deepen if you actually pay attention. It’s ten times as much game as Harvest Moon was, but it never feels bloated. Every system ties to something that makes you want to play tomorrow.
I’ve never been big on farming games specifically. I don’t care about agriculture or rural living or any of that. What I like is the compulsion—the feeling that your day isn’t over until you’ve done your tasks, watered your crops, talked to someone interesting. It’s the trance of repetition with tiny variables. The little hit of progress that adds up to months passing without you noticing.
I know people joke about Stardew Valley being addictive, like it’s some kind of warning. But that’s the whole point. It’s not a bad thing. It’s just that it works exactly like a game should work: you sit down for twenty minutes and suddenly it’s three hours later and you’ve fallen in love with a character named Elliott who lives in a cabin by the beach, and you’re genuinely thinking about what you’re going to plant next season. That’s the game. That’s all it needs to do.
I need coffee in the morning or I’m genuinely unbearable—not just tired, but actually broken, moving through the day half-dead until that first cup hits. It’s pathetic, I know. I’ve bought the expensive brands, the ones with reputations, roasters that sell on origin and care. I tell myself I can taste a difference between what I’m buying and supermarket coffee. Probably I can’t.
The real problem is I have no idea if the expensive stuff is actually good or if I’m just getting ripped off by better marketing. Someone made a video explaining how to actually tell the difference. Cheap coffee—the supermarket brands, the mass-market stuff—just tastes flat and burnt. Real coffee tastes like something. It has flavor, character, a sense of where it came from. You can feel the difference once someone points out what to look for.
The danger is that knowing ruins things. Once you taste what good coffee is supposed to be, you can’t enjoy mediocre coffee the same way. Every bad cup becomes obvious. The coffee you were fine with suddenly feels like a waste. I’m not sure I want that knowledge. I like my morning ritual as it is, even if I’m just drinking expensive mediocrity. Some ignorances are worth keeping.
There’s that moment with every show where it stops being fun to like because the people who like it have decided it proves something about them. For Rick and Morty, I think it was when the Pickle Rick episode dropped and the fandom realized they could use it as proof they were smarter, weirder, more enlightened than everyone else. By the time actual news stories were running about McDonald’s sauce shortages, the show had lost me entirely, even though technically it hadn’t really done anything wrong.
Dan Harmon and Justin Roiland made something genuinely strange in the beginning. An old man who drinks too much and doesn’t care about anything, dragging his terrified grandson through a multiverse where nothing matters and everything is broken. The animation was cheap and deliberately wrong. The jokes came from nowhere. It felt like something genuinely unhinged had somehow slipped past the network’s radar, made by people who understood internet culture well enough not to explain it.
Then the fandom decided it was membership in an exclusive club. Pickle Rick wasn’t just a funny absurd bit—it became evidence that you were intelligent enough to appreciate it. The sauce obsession. The endless discourse about what things meant, whether you were “smart enough” to get it. They turned the whole thing into a test you could pass by liking it, which is exactly what the show’s actually about—how pointless and isolating it is to think you’re smarter than other people.
The episodes themselves stayed weird and inventive. Roiland’s voice work never wavered. The ideas kept coming. But I couldn’t talk about the show the way I used to. That’s what the fandom cost it—not the quality of the thing itself, but the simple pleasure of watching something you like without feeling like you have to defend yourself for it.
Hi Score Girl nails something I’ve been thinking about since the nineties. Back then it was just the arcade — quarters, sweat, someone’s little brother crying because he lost Street Fighter again. Or home on the console, same crew on rotation, playing until some parent showed up with threats. The whole social geometry of gaming before it became something you did alone on a screen in your room.
The anime’s based on this manga about Haruo, arcade kid living for high scores, knows every cab and every game. He’s running everything until Akira shows up — rich, quiet, barely acknowledges anyone, and absolutely destroys him at Street Fighter II. That moment when someone better walks in and breaks your whole identity. The series follows what happens next between them, throws in Koharu and this whole thing with a Neo Geo that apparently matters.
The stills are enough on their own — the way they render the arcades, the cabinets, the specific texture of that era. It’s one of those properties that could’ve been novelty, banking on nostalgia, but instead it feels like someone actually remembering what it was like to be a kid with fifty cents and the belief that you were the best at something.
What gets me is how specific it is. Arcade nostalgia’s easy — slap some pixels on a screen and people eat it up. But this understands the actual texture. The specific games, the way competition felt, the random arrivals that broke your world. Street Fighter II as your entire culture. That sting of being the best at something nobody important cares about. The series gets it, and that’s rare.
The Revaler Straße in Berlin had this place called Rosi’s where I’d show up on summer nights with friends, no particular plan, just the thing people did. A beer garden with fairy lights draped over wooden benches—the kind of setup that felt like it would always be there, at least while you were drunk. I was usually pretty fucked up there, high or drunk or both, but the place had a specific weight to it, not just another club but somewhere with actual character. Drum and bass mostly, sometimes techno, whatever packed people into the two-story room and kept them dancing.
It’s closing by the end of 2018. The property sold to a developer, gets turned into offices with a ground-floor commercial space. The usual Berlin story: a venue becomes a real estate opportunity, the music clears out, something forgettable moves in.
I wasn’t there enough to eulogize it. But losing a place you actually went to, even casually, even half-conscious most of the time, is different from just hearing about another closure. There’s something specific about Rosi’s that won’t come back—not because the music was better elsewhere, but because this particular room, these particular lights, that specific crowd, that’s just gone. You don’t get that back. You go somewhere else. Everyone scatters. Life moves on and the lot gets paved.
I’m not as hung up on breasts as people seem to think. Sure, I appreciate them—the same way I appreciate a pizza loaded with double cheese or cheap corner-store wine that tastes like someone mixed in antifreeze. They’re pleasant. I notice. But I’m not obsessed.
So I can’t entirely explain what happened when I watched Palina Rojinski dancing through a Russian hotel room to Whitney Houston. Fifteen minutes straight, watching her move through space like something had taken her over. The way she jumped, twisted, held her arms. Completely mechanical and completely alive. Hypnotic.
Palina—hair model, World Cup reporter—wasn’t doing anything complex. Just moving to the song. But something about it locked in. I downloaded the video, probably violated some Instagram terms I didn’t bother reading, and now it plays on repeat on my laptop. Twenty minutes at a stretch sometimes. Watching for… what? A shift? A threshold? Some new level of consciousness?
Post Malone showed up in 2015 with face tattoos and a beat he’d made himself, singing melody over trap in a way that confused everyone trying to categorize him. “White Iverson” had enough personality that it stuck.
I remember when “Rockstar” blew up. It wasn’t a crossover hit, it was just a hit—hypnotic, stupid, everywhere. With 21 Savage, the production did something right that neither of them needed to think too hard about. “Beerbongs & Bentleys” had already proved he wasn’t temporary.
What struck me watching all this was how utterly indifferent he seemed to what anyone thought he should be. Face tattoos, singing, guitar, trap production—if that confused the gatekeepers, he wasn’t showing any signs of caring. Most people would crack under that, desperate to prove they belonged. Post Malone never seemed interested in that proof, which shouldn’t work but somehow did.
A wooden chalet, hand-painted, someone’s grandmother’s mantelpiece for fifty years. Every hour on the hour, a tiny door pops open and a stylized bird emerges, calls out, disappears. That’s the cuckoo clock formula, refined to kitsch—quaint, unthreatening, the kind of thing you’d encounter in a Black Forest gift shop or your parents’ cabin.
Guido Zimmermann looked at this formula and asked: what if the house was concrete? What if instead of alpine fantasy, you got the architectural language of East German prefab apartment blocks—those Plattenbauten that line the edges of Berlin, brutalist and exhausted, everything the chalet isn’t. So he built cuckoo clocks that look like Marzahn towers, miniature Hartz-IV apartments with little doors that open at the hour.
There’s something genuinely funny about it. You’ve taken something designed to be charming and replaced its entire visual language with something almost aggressive in its refusal to be pleasant. The cuckoo emerges from concrete brutalism, announces the time, retreats back into the prefab. You know it won’t fix anything, but you look anyway.
I’m not sure if these clocks are meant to be ironic or sincere, and maybe that distinction doesn’t matter. The buildings themselves aren’t being mocked so much as recontextualized—treated as architectural material worth rendering in miniature, worth building something around. There’s respect in that, or at least a refusal to dismiss. A claim that even the ugly stuff has its own logic, its own shape. The artist isn’t prettifying the Plattenbauten. He’s just insisting we look at them differently.
Since “Lost in Translation” I’ve been a devoted Scarlett Johansson viewer — the kind of person who watches everything she makes, even when it doesn’t work. And there’s been plenty that doesn’t work. Lucy, Under the Skin, Rough Night, Ghost in the Shell are all the same film, essentially: a beautiful actress in a hollow thing, cashing in goodwill on material that doesn’t merit it.
The best Ghost in the Shell film ever made is a pornographic anime called Ghosts of Paradise. Hardcore hentai, graphic sex, completely unapologetic about what it is. Not trying to shock anyone — just stating fact.
It has a plot. Section 9 chasing a prostitution ring through the underworld, the usual paranoia and neon. The sex is graphic and constant and central to the narrative. But underneath it — and this is the part that matters — there’s an actual grasp of what Ghost in the Shell is supposed to mean: the dissolution of self, the body as machinery, the moment you stop knowing where you end and the system begins.
The animation demonstrates real skill. The composition has restraint. Rupert Sanders’ $110-million live-action version, starring Scarlett Johansson, understood none of this. It was technically impressive and empty.
What does it say that a hentai parody understood the source material better than a major studio film? I don’t know. Nothing good, probably. But here we are.
You see Rina Sawayama’s list of interests—anime, Nintendo, strange music—and you immediately know her. That was my childhood too, basically. Spent it glued to screens watching whatever weird stuff I could find, learning about culture through games and cartoons and whatever was on TV. She grew up the same way, moved from Japan to London by her parents and surrounded by that same sensory chaos. When you meet someone with that background, you trust them.
She’s been making music for a few years now. Some of it electronic, some of it pop, but there’s always something distinctly hers in it. Her debut didn’t blow up the mainstream but it found the right people in the underground, which is the only place it mattered anyway.
“Ordinary Superstar” is basically her saying out loud: I love the 80s. Specifically the version of the 80s that exists in our heads—all glitter and darkness and shine. The video’s her with friends, dancing through that aesthetic, all styled for maximum camp. Karaoke moment included, completely over-the-top, which only works if you’re willing to look stupid.
It makes sense when you know Rina. There’s no separation between what she loves and what she makes. The 80s aren’t a costume or a bit—they’re part of the same visual and sonic language that drew her to anime, to Nintendo, to all of it. It’s all one continuity.
The song is good. It’s the kind of thing you listen to more than once. There’s genuine fun in it without any of the defensive irony that a lot of music has now. Just: here’s something that looks and sounds great. If you get it, you get it.
I’d never read a pulp novel. Those cheap paperbacks at the train station, the newsstand, some decrepit magazine shop—people who bought them seemed suspicious. Hairy doctors seducing nurses during hospital crises. Who wants to read that?
But then you find something so qualitatively trashy, so strange in exactly the wrong way, that you can’t help but appreciate it. “Callgirl 2000” is like that. A seventies series that’s so nakedly of its moment it loops back into something fascinating. The prose is blunt. The sex is crude and everywhere—clumsy, mechanically described, weirdly awkward the more you actually read it. Guys get knocked flat by women. The text describes perspective like geometry. It’s genuinely unsexy, which somehow makes it better.
You couldn’t publish a single page of this now without someone filing a complaint. It would be radioactive. But because it’s so explicitly old—a fossil from 1975—you can just look at it. Admire it, even. This is what men wanted. This is what got printed. This is what someone paid for at the station.
Finding a complete set would be something. Probably eBay. The rarity and the sheer dated-ness makes it feel less like garbage and more like evidence of something.
You’re descending into Dirtmouth. The ruined city fades above as you push deeper into caverns filled with insects and corrupted creatures that move in ways that feel off. It’s Metroidvania structure—all that backtracking, finding new abilities, discovering passages you were too weak to access before. The world feels genuinely wrong in the way that makes your chest tighten.
I had fun with it, mostly, though some sections brought me close to quitting entirely. Part of it was difficulty, but honestly, a lot came from my own impatience and sloppiness—getting caught in some desperate “just keep swinging” loop that only bred more mistakes. There’s a moment you hit when you realize that careless determination is the enemy, not the boss. I hit it more than once.
For someone with actual patience, someone who can sit with frustration without turning bitter, Hollow Knight is a dark little world that feels complete and real. That’s enough.
That moment when you walk past somewhere and smell grilling—burgers, steaks, fat hitting hot metal—and suddenly nothing else exists. Someone’s cooking and you’re not invited. Your body reacts before your mind.
A1 Steak Sauce made a candle that smells exactly like fresh grilled burgers. Light it and your apartment reeks of meat for hours.
It’s beautifully sadistic. You’re expecting nostalgia and instead you get hunger you can’t satisfy—a phantom meat smell that hijacks your entire system.
I’d light it once out of curiosity and then spend an hour angry, circling the kitchen wanting something real while this candle taunts me. Why would you create a scent that makes you want what you can’t have? The answer is obviously just to be mean.
Peter Baumann traveled across Japan with Maria Kn for three weeks shooting fashion photos, wearing the same outfit the entire time. Not a statement, just practical — one dress packed, everything light, easy to move. That’s the whole idea.
It’s the kind of constraint that seems dumb at first and turns clever in the work. When nothing changes but the place and the light, you stop looking at the outfit and start seeing the background. Tokyo, Kyoto, Hiroshima — each city’s got its own look, and Maria’s the only constant. That strips away the usual travel photography thing where you’re trying to capture yourself in beautiful places. Instead it’s just: here’s a person, same person every time, now look at where she is.
Peter was straightforward about it. Lighter luggage, less thinking, one item you can rely on. But the work’s cleaner for the limitation. The places don’t have to prove themselves against some complicated outfit. The light doesn’t have to compete with styling choices. You’re just looking at a woman in different cities in the same dress, and somehow that’s more revealing than if she’d worn something different each time.
I respect that. The constraint could’ve been a gimmick but it’s not — it’s just how the project works. No flourish, no concept, just the plainness of traveling light and paying attention.
Any Dark Souls player will tell you the story is this profound, sprawling thing—layered, cryptic, each detail something you have to dig for. The implication is they’re smarter than you because they played through an unrelenting game where everything kills you and they also thought about it.
Ask them what it’s really about.
That’s when the stutter starts. Demons overran something. A kingdom fell. It’s dark now, perpetually. You’re some kind of hero, maybe, and you have to collect souls from skeletons or find bonfires or something. There’s definitely magic and swords involved. It all ties together into this epic, emotionally devastating narrative that they absolutely understand but cannot articulate for thirty seconds.
The real problem is that nobody knows what Dark Souls is actually about. Not because the story is incomprehensible, but because it’s scattered—buried in item descriptions, NPC monologues, and visual design—which sounds like ambition until you realize it might just be avoidance. A way of sidestepping the inconvenience of a coherent plot. The community decided the obscurity was the appeal, and maybe it is.
YouTuber Versiri made an animated video that actually explains it. It’s clever and tight, funny because it understands what Dark Souls is doing while refusing to pretend the narrative holds together. You watch it and suddenly it clicks—the cycles, the themes, what you were actually doing in those corridors.
Now you can be the person who not only played it but understood it. I still don’t know if that’s better.
I was in my twenties when we started driving to illegal raves in the kind of buildings that shouldn’t have been standing anymore. Warehouses outside the city, abandoned industrial spaces, places that existed off the map. My friends and I didn’t really think about whether we were allowed to be there — you don’t when you’re that age. You go for the music, for the way six hours of dancing in a dark basement changes how you experience being alive.
By then the classic techno era was already ending. Hip-hop was bleeding everywhere, and drum and bass came in harder and faster, less patient than what came before. The scene thinned gradually. Friends who only existed in these spaces stopped appearing. Venues closed. And then there was just silence.
In Britain right now, the underground rave scene is barely hanging on. Clubs are dying, the city keeps getting more expensive, the margins where youth culture actually happens keep shrinking. But there are still people making music in basements, still showing up to illegal events, still dancing until sunrise knowing they might get arrested. Not out of some romantic defiance — just because the alternative is accepting that things you love actually die.
What strikes me about it is how little it takes to keep something alive. Not that it survives — maybe it doesn’t, not like it was. But that some people refuse to let it just fade away. They show up anyway. Keep the music playing. Keep the night going. That feels like enough.
Every few years the idea comes back: I should get a tattoo. Something small. I wanted black stars on my arm at twelve, my parents said no, probably the right move. Now I think maybe something on my hand, an empty triangle on my forearm—something small enough that I could pretend it was just an impulse if I hated it.
Taylor Green lives in Austin and has moved past the hypothetical stage. She’s got that spiritual thing going—plants, animals, the whole world—and it’s written across her body. Everywhere. Arms, legs, chest. Color and lines and what looks like a real commitment.
I saw photographs of her, shot outside where she belongs. The density of the work caught me, the way it covers skin without erasing who’s underneath. I wasn’t sure what I was responding to exactly. The aesthetic, yeah, but something underneath that. The fact of deciding and doing it instead of thinking about it for decades like I do.
I’m still thinking about it. The what and the where. But something shifts when you see someone who actually committed instead of endlessly circling the same thought.
Lindsey Jordan’s debut “Lush” gets to the point — no setup, no waiting. “Speaking Terms,” “Golden Dream,” “Let’s Find an Out” don’t circle what they’re about. They’re direct about the texture of young romantic pain, the kind that feels permanent even though you know it won’t be.
Jordan’s from Maryland. The production stays clean and minimal, which is the whole thing — the songs don’t rely on atmosphere or arrangement to make you feel something. You hear her voice, a guitar, drums when she bothers. That restraint means everything sounds barely there, which somehow makes it land harder.
What works is how light it feels even when the content is heartbreak or confusion or being eighteen and certain you’ll never want anyone else. The arrangements leave space. There are moments of near-silence, then a guitar comes in and it lands different because you weren’t ready. That’s craft that doesn’t announce itself.
I’ve played it enough now that I can’t separate whether I like the songs or what they’re saying. Some confessions just work. The whole album has no distance between song and subject — no performance, no making pain sound prettier. It reads like someone’s diary set to perfect melodies, which shouldn’t work but does.
The album’s short and doesn’t overstay itself. Forty minutes and you’re done. You either get it or you don’t. I got it.
VA-11 HALL-A is set in a dystopian cyberpunk metropolis, but you’re not the one saving it. You’re not even trying. You’re Jill, a bartender who shows up for her shift and wants to get through it without someone dragging her into a corpo conspiracy or a gang war. That’s genuinely the whole premise.
Behind the bar, you mix drinks for whoever walks in—gang members, corporate types, androids, office workers, all sorts of people with their own problems. You listen to their stories, watch the news on the monitor, chat a little or don’t. That’s the game. No fighting, no missions, no saving the world. Just pouring drinks and letting people talk at you.
If you need constant stimulus and action, this isn’t for you. The pacing is deliberately slow. Nothing dramatic happens quickly. But if you’re into visual novels and pixel art and cyberpunk aesthetics, there’s something genuinely good here. The neon-soaked pixel art is meticulous. The characters are well-designed—distinct, expressive, memorable. The writing for each one has real personality.
It’s a small game, but it’s built with care. The soundtrack is great too—lo-fi synthwave stuff that sits in your head for days. It’s designed to feel like a place you could exist in for hours, and that’s exactly what happens.
The game ended up on every platform imaginable. Switch, PlayStation, Xbox, Steam, even the Vita if you’re nostalgic for that dead handheld. It’s a small indie game that somehow found its way everywhere, which says something.
There’s something I appreciate about a game that lets you be nobody important. Most cyberpunk stuff wants you to be the revolutionary, the hacker, the person who changes everything. VA-11 HALL-A just wants you to exist in a world you can’t fix, serving drinks to people whose lives you don’t get to save. It’s melancholic in a way that feels honest.
Most photographers learn the rules early — what goes in a portfolio, what gets buried in a private folder, what never appears in the same image as what. Kristofferson San Pablo, a photographer from Manila now based in LA, seems to have never learned them, or learned and ignored them. He shoots roadtrips and Simpson riffs and nudes and whatever else interests him, all filed together with no hierarchy. A picture diary without apology.
The work doesn’t defend itself. No thesis, no concept, no career strategy visible. Just someone with a camera documenting things he wanted to look at — color, light, skin, cartoon references, the absurd next to the considered next to the explicit. You see a lot of contemporary photography straining so hard to say something important. His stuff just says: I saw this, I wanted to photograph it, here.
There’s a confidence in that indifference that comes from actually not thinking about it, not performing the indifference. The moment you become aware you’re being transgressive, the performance shows. He seems genuinely unaware there’s supposed to be a filter. That takes either stupidity or a kind of intelligence I don’t have. Either way it reads true in the work — an absence of self-consciousness that ruins most contemporary photography.
You can feel in the pictures that he’s not fighting the place or trying to make statements about California. Just using it. Shooting what’s there and what shows up. Girls who say yes, light that works, roads that lead somewhere strange. The pictures feel like documentation more than art, which might be all the difference.
Marteria and Casper made an album together called “1982.” Both born the same year in Germany, different towns, different careers. Now they’re making something as a pair. First track is “Champion Sound.”
I know their work separately well enough to notice they don’t think about music the same way. Casper’s someone who pushes German hip-hop forward by working inside it—he evolves with the form without ever seeming to chase it. There’s something smart about his instincts. Marteria’s always been weirder. His whole career’s built on refusing to fit the shape that’s expected. He moves through these big ideas—what material stuff means, empathy, tolerance—filtered through his own history. Rostock, New York, the particular weight of being someone who came here as a refugee. His music carries that without ever being heavy about it.
The collaboration isn’t a vanity thing. Two guys who’ve clearly thought about music enough to have something genuine to work through together. Using their shared birth year as the whole frame is honest—a small detail that matters. That’s where “Champion Sound” is coming from.
If I had a million dollars, I’d buy coke and video games and some impossible Kate Upton-Selena Gomez hybrid to sleep with. But honestly, most of it would go to Superstars. Every single adidas Originals Superstar that exists or will ever exist. Every version, every color, every material. Before they were trendy, after they stopped being trendy, forever. The Superstar is the only shoe. There is no other discussion.
The latest one has dark floral print running down the side—deep flowers against white leather with those three iconic stripes. They built it for women, sold it as a women’s shoe, engineered the whole thing because girls supposedly love flowers. I don’t care. That distinction means nothing to me.
There’s something pure about wanting something without needing the reason to make sense. You see it, you know it’s right, and the need is just there. That’s how the Superstar works every single time.
I want to own it, lick it, wear it. In that order or reversed or all at once. Doesn’t matter. It’s a Superstar. An adidas Original. No debate. No compromise. No world where I don’t need this.
I lie awake sometimes and think about how I’m probably going to die. Not in some morbid, actively-planning-it way—just the casual obsession. Under a bus. Choking on pizza. That one ex with the knife. Train tracks. Cancer, obviously. AIDS, though less likely now. A dog with rabies. Sepsis from a cut I didn’t notice. Lungs giving out. Heart just deciding it’s had enough. Or standing on the edge of some high building when everything finally breaks wrong.
The specifics don’t matter. What matters is that it happens to everyone, and it’s genuinely unknowable—could be today, could be sixty years. Could be stupid (stairs, pizza, a moving vehicle) or cosmic (plague, war, malice). The brain keeps spinning on it. Every day is roulette and I’m just going about it like it isn’t.
Steve Cutts made an animation about this. Just a short thing where he catalogs how people probably die, broken down by geography and circumstance. Cute art style, which somehow makes it worse. The banality of mortality mapped out like a data visualization. Where you’re born mostly determines how you’ll go—some places you drown, others you burn, others you just age out slowly. It’s darkly funny in that way where you can’t tell if you’re supposed to laugh.
The animation didn’t fix the 3 a.m. brain spiral. But there’s something about seeing it drawn out, animated, made into content, that makes it less like a personal nightmare and more like a shared condition. I’m not uniquely haunted—I’m just human, living in a place that has its own set of probable endings.
Knowing that doesn’t help. But for some reason it helps.
Drake grew up in Toronto playing Jimmy Brooks on Degrassi—138 episodes of high school drama before he was old enough to legally drink. Then he walked away from acting to rap, which is one of the strangest career pivots in entertainment, and it worked completely.
The thing about Drake is he doesn’t fit what people think a rapper should be. He’s too smooth, too melodic, too willing to talk about feelings. For years people said he was soft, that he wasn’t real hip-hop. The gatekeepers hated him for it. He sold millions anyway. At some point the argument got tired because he’d already won—not by proving the critics wrong but by not caring what they thought.
Scorpion is his new album. It’s him at his core: opening up about past mistakes, present situations, future moves. No apologies for any of it. And that’s the whole thing with Drake—he doesn’t perform being cool, he doesn’t need to earn credibility through the usual channels. He’s just there, available, honest in his own weird way.
I’ve always liked him because of that. Not everyone does. The people who hate Drake usually wanted hip-hop to stay the way it was, and they’re disappointed that it has room for someone who cares more about a good song than about performing authenticity. But hip-hop always had room for it. They just wanted it to look like struggle and toughness on the surface. So Scorpion is out there now. If Drake interests you, you already know where to find it.
Non Non Biyori works because nothing happens. Four girls in rural Japan, no escalating plot, no stakes—just moments filmed with enough care that you feel something watching them. A conversation that loops back. Light on water. The particular exhaustion of walking somewhere on foot when trains are what you’re used to. It accumulates. You watch and without realizing it, you’ve let yourself believe that life could actually be this manageable, this good.
The film coming out this summer is called “Non Non Biyori Vacation.” The entire story is that the characters take a trip to Okinawa. That’s genuinely it. No hidden crisis. No reason the trip needs to happen except that it’s summer and they felt like going. When the trailer dropped, it was just more of what the show has always been—quick cuts of the girls in different settings, light on skin and water, moments that carry no narrative weight at all.
And I watched it twice immediately and want to see the film.
I think that’s honest about taste. I don’t need cinema to solve anything or make simple things seem deep. I don’t need the camera to work so hard to justify its own existence that it has to find some profound angle on watching someone eat ice cream. Non Non Biyori trusts that if you film a girl looking at the ocean with genuine attention, that’s enough. The whole show is built on that. Two seasons of it. And it works because it doesn’t apologize.
Maybe it’s the kind of thing you have to already want—already be someone who finds rest in unfolding rather than resolution. I rewatch it the same way other people rewatch comfort shows, except Non Non Biyori isn’t trying to be comfort in that manufactured, cozy way. It’s just life, rendered with genuine attention, and that matters to me in a way I don’t totally understand.
I’m going back through the seasons right now, ahead of the film. There’s something about a new release date that makes you want to prepare—or maybe it’s just an excuse to live in that world again. I’ll watch through multiple times before August. Probably watch the film the same way. Not because I’m chasing plot or revelation. Just because I keep wanting that version of summer to be true.
Juno Birch paints breasts and women and sex and power like nobody else. Her work splits people — some try to decode it, understand what she’s saying. Others want it off the wall, burned, gone. But that split, that recoil, that’s where the art lives.
She’s a British artist, and her paintings and sculptures are windows into skewed feminist worlds. She interprets the universe from a female perspective. Breasts, pussies, lecherous men. In her work, logic doesn’t apply. Women are rulers and objects. Individual and cliché. Repulsive and sexy.
You look at them and don’t know if you’re identifying or being put off by the pure strangeness. The weirdness is deliberate. She’s showing you something true about how women see themselves and how the world sees them, and she’s not softening it. No apologies. Just the thing itself.
I think what I like about it is that she doesn’t treat feminist art like something noble or clean. She treats it like the complicated, contradictory, sexual, ugly thing that it actually is. Most art about women tries to make it palatable. Hers doesn’t.
Her work still splits people the same way. She seems fine with that.
Gorillaz have this thing where none of the albums feel like they’re just going through the motions. Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett built the virtual band with 2D, Murdoc, Noodle, and Russel in 2001, and from that first album through Demon Days, Plastic Beach, The Fall, and Humanz, each one sounds like exactly what they wanted to make at that time.
Plastic Beach is the one that got me, but I can’t really explain what about it works. Either it hits you or it doesn’t. You could start anywhere in their catalog — it doesn’t matter. They don’t have an album that feels like padding, which shouldn’t be normal.
The Now Now is streaming on Spotify, Apple Music, the usual places. You probably already know.
They just make what they want and move on. That’s enviable.
I spent the objectively best years of my life sitting in front of an old tube TV, deep in some SNES RPG. The games blur together when I try to list them—Lufia, Terranigma, Secret of Mana, A Link to the Past, Illusion of Time, Chrono Trigger, Secret of Evermore, Star Ocean, EarthBound, Final Fantasy III, Harvest Moon, Breath of Fire, Mystic Quest, Soul Blazer—but the feeling stays sharp. Each one mattered in a way nothing really matters to me anymore. I’d do just about anything to get back there.
The people who made Octopath Traveler understand something about that pull. They built it specifically to recreate what those SNES RPGs felt like, transplanted onto Switch. HD-2D graphics, a world called Orsterra, eight playable characters all tangled up in overlapping stories. Ophilia Clement, Cyrus Albright, Tressa Colozone, and the others move through a landscape that looks and feels and sounds like something from 1994, except it’s beautiful and technically sophisticated. The narrative is uncomplicated—light against darkness, good against evil, the familiar shape of an RPG you’ve already played a hundred times. But that’s exactly what you’re looking for. Not novelty. Just the right feeling.
I picked it up when it came out. Did it give me back what I was looking for? No, not really. You can’t actually climb back into who you were at ten years old. But sitting in Orsterra for those hours felt like remembering something real, and sometimes that’s the best you’re going to get.
My friends were in Tokyo and started noticing everyone wearing the same thing: new white NASA shirts. Streetwear drops from Heron Preston, Monkey Time, Vans, Carhartt WIP. Same design across all of them—that seventies NASA worm logo, big and centered, nothing else. Pure minimalism.
It’s almost stupid how simple it is. Just a logo on white fabric. But that’s exactly why it works. The worm logo is genuinely good design—clean, modernist, impossible to ignore. You’re not buying into some clever concept; you’re just wearing something that looks right because the cultural moment made it right.
Space is back in. Not the boring institutional space of ten years ago, but actual futurism. Elon Musk, Mars missions, the ISS—suddenly space matters again. When the cultural imagination shifts like that, things that were invisible become cool overnight. The NASA logo didn’t change. The world did.
There’s something satisfying about watching it happen. You see a trend crystallize in real-time, see good design land at exactly the right moment, and understand why it works without needing anyone to explain it. It’s not calculated. It’s just the worm logo and a white shirt and the fact that space looks good right now.
Back in 2002, the internet was slow and billed by the minute. Battle Royale was worth stealing—I queued it up overnight and waited two days for the download to finish. Some bootleg trailer had convinced me it mattered, all blood and darkness.
A Japanese school class wakes up on an island. Weapons scattered everywhere. The teacher explains they’ve been selected for a program: kill your classmates or don’t go home. The whole film is just showing what happens when survival becomes the only rule, when the people you’ve known your whole life become problems to solve.
There’s an essay somewhere that explains why this works. The argument is that Battle Royale finds the real fracture point in adolescence—where instinct overrides everything you’ve been taught to care about, where logic defeats emotion, where you discover whether the bonds you thought were strong actually hold under pressure. And all of it circles back to love, the kind that shatters under weight.
What stays with me is how unsentimental it is. The deaths aren’t tragic in a way that comforts you. The violence isn’t made beautiful. People you were supposed to care about just become obstacles. The film shows you that transformation, how quick it is, and moves on. No lesson. No revelation. Just blood and the proof that some relationships exist only because conditions allowed them to.
I downloaded it to watch people get hurt. Instead I watched people stop being friends. That’s what stuck.
Most anime and manga merchandise is garbage. The kind of thing you find in tourist shops or gas stations—screenprinted onto cheap cotton, colors already fading before you wear it twice. But there’s been this slow shift where actual designers have started taking manga aesthetics seriously, and when they do it right, it’s harder to dismiss as novelty.
Goodhhood, BEAMS T, and Flagstuff did a capsule collection that leans hard into manga as a design language, working with artists from Japan to create prints that don’t feel like they’re winking at the nerds. The pieces are streetwear-first, which matters. They’re for people who care about how clothes sit and fit and how a graphic reads next to the rest of what you’re wearing, not people buying a shirt because they recognize the character.
The difference is real. You can feel it in the execution. These brands treat manga the way a high-end streetwear label treats, say, a technical detail or a fabric weight—as a legitimate design element worth thinking about, not as an IP license to exploit. There’s craft in knowing how to translate a manga panel into something that works on a garment without looking like a costume.
I find myself thinking about this more than I probably should. Japanese visual culture has been creeping into Western design consciousness for a while now, but usually in careful, self-aware ways. A reference here, a motif there. A collection like this is different—it’s manga-forward, unironic about it, and made with enough design sense that you’re not embarrassed wearing it to the kinds of places where people notice clothes.
If you care about these things and you have the money, it’s worth looking at. Goodhood ships internationally. If you’re obsessive enough to fly to Tokyo, BEAMS T has it. But mostly I’m just noting that we’ve reached a point where the line between anime-convention merch and legitimate design collaboration has blurred in interesting ways.
The Hauptbahnhof in Hamburg has a smell. You hear about it before you get there—legendary, they say. That’s your introduction to the gap: what gets marketed versus what’s actually there.
Tourism boards know the work. They take the harbor, the architecture, the history, and they frame it into something appealing. Hamburg exists in two versions now: the one for sale and the one that’s just there, grimy and industrial and genuinely ugly in places. An Instagram account called We Hate HH documents the second version. People send in photos of the worst corners, the unflattering angles, the spots that won’t make the postcards.
The name’s aggressive and the premise nearly hostile. But there’s something honest about it—a refusal to add filters and shadows and all the small lies we use to make things palatable. You can adjust contrast, add vintage tone, frame it carefully, but you can’t really Photoshop a city into something it isn’t. Not for long. Someone always documents what it actually looks like.
Every city has this gap between marketed and actual. Hamburg’s not uniquely ugly. But there’s something clarifying about a project that ignores the frame and just shows what’s there. No selling. No compromise. Just the place itself—grimy, honest, indifferent to how it appears.
Maybe people are tired of curation. Maybe they want to see something real for a change, or at least real enough that someone bothered to photograph it. We Hate HH isn’t a love letter. It’s not interested in persuasion. It’s just: here’s what it looks like. That’s enough.
I fall in love with strangers constantly. Someone passes on the street and I catch their scent or the way they move, and I’m briefly, pointlessly transfixed—certain we’d be perfect together if we ever spoke. We’d find some roof, drink cheap wine, smoke, laugh about nothing specific. It’s stupid. I know nothing about them.
Zoe Aggeliki Mantzakanis would be that exact disaster. Swedish and Greek and French, which feels like cheating. I’d absolutely ruin my life for a weekend with her. We’d go to IKEA. Eat gyros. Do whatever French people do when they’re not smoking.
Photographer Brydie Mack shot her in what looks like the edge of the world—bare steppe, sun so bright it flattens everything. The images work because there’s nowhere to hide; it’s just a person and a landscape, and the landscape disappears. Zoe’s got that quality, those eyebrows, that thing where you can’t look away.
I found them scrolling somewhere, not through any campaign or brand, just accidentally. That’s how these things stick with you. You see something and it matters and you can’t quite explain why.
I can’t do the long-term game thing anymore. Three weeks with Fortnite or World of Warcraft and I’m ready for literally anything else. I need something I can finish in an evening, feel like I got something out of it, and then move on. No battle passes, no seasons, no twelve-year-olds in voice chat.
Iconoclasts is that game. It’s a platformer with Metroidvania elements—you play as Robin, a mechanic on a dying planet, piecing together what’s happening. The world is bright and colorful, full of strange characters and actual puzzles. Nothing overstays its welcome.
Joakim Sandberg made the whole thing alone. You can feel that care in how the game knows when to end.
It runs on everything. What I like is how clean it is. No cosmetics, no seasons, no guilt for taking a break. You finish it and move on. The game doesn’t follow you.
There’s this Instagram account where someone photoshops cats into pictures of food. Cats on pizza, cats on ice cream, cats sitting on an orange like they own it. The artist is Ksenia, a Russian illustrator, and the account is called Cats in Food. That’s it. That’s the whole concept.
The Photoshop is sometimes clumsy, sometimes pretty good, but it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that it works—something about a cat’s face, specifically that look of vague indifference cats do so well, makes food funnier. Makes it better, somehow. Put a cat on your dinner and suddenly your carefully composed food photo becomes a small joke, a moment of weird chaos where a cat has decided to exist on your plate and could not possibly care less what you think about it.
I scrolled through these images feeling that specific internet pleasure of finding something perfectly stupid that shouldn’t be as entertaining as it is. Cat content everywhere, food photography everywhere, and yet this combination felt fresh. No narrative, no message, just a simple question: what if this cat was here? What if this cat, this specifically unimpressed cat, was sitting on your pizza right now?
There’s something true about cats in there, something about how they exist in their own headspace, completely unbothered by the compositions we’re trying to build around them. Online, we love them for exactly this reason—they’re indifferent. They don’t perform. Put one in your food photo and it becomes honest in a way that carefully styled images usually aren’t.
I haven’t actually put a cat in my food. I’m not going to stage some elaborate brunch with cats as decoration, though the image is funny enough. But I get why someone would want to. There’s comfort in the idea: sit down, here’s your meal, and here’s a cat, looking supremely unimpressed by the whole situation. That’s better than most dinner conversations.
Tokyo summers are brutal. Rainy season first—everything damp and heavy—then heat that’s relentless. You sweat through everything by noon. One summer I was buying replacement t-shirts at the H&M in Shibuya almost every day. The register guy started saying my name before I got to the counter.
But if you walked through Harajuku or Shimokitazawa, you’d see kids in clothes that made no sense for that weather. Bright colors, clashing patterns, layered fabrics that guaranteed you’d be soaked. They weren’t trying to be comfortable. They were just refusing to disappear.
Everyone else was trying to minimize—dark clothes, thin fabrics, anything to avoid being noticed and sweating through it in silence. These kids were the opposite. Taking up space. Being obvious about it.
There’s something I like about that stubborn refusal to shrink, the insistence on color even when sensible people would just wear something plain and suffer quietly. Not because it matters. Just because.
There’s a show called Disenchantment. Matt Groening made it. Medieval fantasy world, dragons, monsters, everyone’s drinking. So Futurama but with castles instead of spaceships.
I’m not going to dwell on how The Simpsons fell apart or rehash the Futurama cancellation. We all know how that went. But here’s what matters: after a long period where everything felt kind of spent and pointless, Groening announced a new show and I actually wanted to see it. Not because of nostalgia, not because it’s reviving something, but because it’s new work from someone whose sensibility I trust.
The first trailer dropped and doesn’t show much. Enough to recognize his hand, though—the way he builds a world, his eye for design applied to a fantasy setting instead of the future. That’s interesting. That’s the thing that makes it more than just “the Simpsons guy does another thing.”
I stumbled into FetLife one night and found a whole world I didn’t know was that organized. Not hidden—just there. People in leather and horse masks, uniforms, expensive gear, all discussing it seriously. College kids, office workers, people who wanted something different.
What got to me was the infrastructure. These weren’t shameful secrets in someone’s browser history; they were actual communities. Events, consent discussions, boundaries. People fucking in basements and hotel rooms and living out what they actually wanted.
The question underneath: where does normal stop and perverted start? It’s stupid because the line moves depending on who’s asking. But there’s something real there. If you can actually have what you want instead of just fantasizing about it, if you find people who want the same thing, if there’s community instead of isolation—does that change something? Does it make you happier?
I don’t know. These people seem less bothered by shame and the performance of normalcy. They’re not pretending. Whether that makes them happier or just different, I can’t tell.
Ten years ago German blogging was everywhere—loud, colorful, hundreds of voices. Now most of it’s gone. The good ones either sold out to magazines, switched to YouTube, or just quit. You notice it when you actually use a feed reader, which almost nobody does.
I do. Old habit. And between the dead feeds there are still a few worth keeping subscribed to.
Nerdcore’s been running since the beginning. René, crude and sharp, saying things that shouldn’t be said. The kind of writer people love and hate equally, sometimes both at the same time. The energy is still there.
I Heart Berlin started in 2007—Frank and Claudio watching their city obsessively, documenting change in real time. They don’t pretend to be above hipster clichés, which somehow makes the attention to detail matter more. The work is real.
I’ve switched what I write about constantly over the years—YouTube, Twitch, podcasts, back to writing. Lost readers every time, kept going anyway. There’s something freeing about not having to stay in one lane, even if nobody particularly cares where you’re going. Design, drawing, technology, pop culture, whatever’s in your head that week. No need to be serious about any of it.
Lost Levels is a crew of game writers doing actual criticism, not news. Still finding their voice, still small, but there’s real thinking happening. Von Gestern is just archives—BRAVO magazines from the 80s, LEGO manuals, old ads. You can spend a day in there and feel genuinely wrecked afterward. Urban Shit documents graffiti and street art before it trends. Kraftfuttermischwerk accumulates whatever’s funny or absurd—bad takes, good music, cat gifs, whatever. The internet as it should be.
The fashion blogs are still around too. Bekleidet mixing careful aesthetics with genuine darkness underneath. The Dandy Diary guys somehow made fashion blogging actually matter. Masha Sedgwick’s probably the gold standard for fashion writing—not because of the photos but because she clearly understands what it actually takes.
I’m not romantic about blogs. They were never the future. But the ones that kept going, that actually update regularly, that don’t care about metrics—those are singular. Someone just deciding what’s worth writing about. It’s a more genuine gesture than it looks like.
Andy Warhol’s been the biggest influence on how I think about sex and art. His work taught me that color and repetition can make anything beautiful, that you can flatten something onto a canvas and suddenly it’s worthy of serious attention. Which is probably why I’m so drawn to LaChicaM, a Polish artist who took that idea seriously and ran straight into explicit pornography.
Her paintings combine Warhol’s color palette—bright, clean, almost violent neons—with completely unashamed sexual imagery. Dicks, pussies, breasts, everything rendered precisely and stylized and utterly confident. There’s nothing crude about it. It’s all too clean, too pop, too aestheticized for that. But it’s also completely unafraid.
I’ve always respected artists who don’t treat sexuality like something dangerous that needs protecting. Like it’s some kind of taboo that requires irony or political framing to justify. LaChicaM just paints what she wants to paint. The fact that it’s explicit just means it’s more honest.
She has a webshop where you can buy prints of her work, and I’ve been seriously considering ordering one. I keep coming back to this image—a completely hairless, meticulously rendered cunt in these impossible pinks and purples. Part of the appeal is the thought of hanging it above my kitchen table. Just there, where anyone walking in would see it immediately. Not as a provocation or a test, just as proof that I’m okay with owning what I find beautiful.
My roommate would walk in and see it. There’d be a moment. We’d move on. And it would just be hanging there. That simplicity—that refusal to hide—is what keeps pulling me back to her work.
Everyone you know spends time complaining about Europe falling apart. Brexit. The refugee crisis being handled like a game of hot potato. Lobbying openly corrupting everything. And the Upload Filter coming down the pipe, which would basically kill the internet as anyone under thirty knew it. You could go out with your friends and spend the night taking it apart, or you could do something.
Some people did. They started a political party called Volt.
It was pan-European and fact-based, focused on problems that don’t stop at borders and can’t be fixed by politicians staring at their own voters’ short-term interests. Andrea Venzon started it. He wanted a democratic Europe where citizens mattered. Climate, inequality, migration, digital challenges—the real problems everyone else was too scared or lazy to take seriously. It sounded like the standard speech, except he seemed to mean it.
They started with five thousand members and basically no money. Crowdfunded. Everyone working for free in their spare time. No backing, no machine, no cynicism baked into the operation. Just people who looked at the state of things and decided someone had to try.
I appreciated that. Not because I thought a new political party could fix anything—the momentum was all going the other way, the right-wing was winning, people were getting dumber, the centrist project was imploding. But at least Volt was something other than either giving up or getting pulled into the actual dark movements, the authoritarian stuff with real organization and real anger. At least some young people were still willing to think you could build something different, something democratic, something not powered by resentment.
Whether it would work didn’t really matter. The point was the attempt.
So there’s this Bad Lip Reading video of the German national team singing their anthem, right, and it’s just pure nonsense when you watch their actual mouths moving. The real words are all solemn and dignified, but Bad Lip Reading just transcribes what it looks like they’re actually saying, and it’s complete gibberish.
The thing is, it’s funny because it’s obviously true. You watch any big sporting event and you can see half these guys don’t actually know the words. They’re just kind of… faking it. Mumbling their way through with their hands over their hearts, trying to look appropriately patriotic while clearly having no idea what they’re saying. I get it—you’re a professional athlete, not a choir. Nobody expects you to have the anthem perfectly memorized. But you also have to stand there and pretend you do, because that’s what the job is.
There’s something weirdly honest about it, though. These guys are representing their country at the highest level, and even they’re just going through the motions. They’re stuck between what they’re supposed to feel and what they actually feel, and that gap shows right up on their faces. They look uncomfortable. Because they are uncomfortable. They’re being required to perform a kind of patriotic earnestness that probably doesn’t come naturally to anyone, especially not to a group of athletes who just want to play the game.
Nobody’s ever going to call them out on it. That’s the unspoken deal. We all just agree to pretend the lip-reading is wrong, that they definitely know every word, that they feel it. But we all know they don’t. And somehow that’s more real than if they’d actually memorized the whole thing.
There’s this weird moment in every relationship where one person finally asks or admits it, and suddenly all the calculus you did in your head matters less than the actual number. You didn’t really want to know, but you needed to, and now you can’t unknow it.
Everybody’s got some mythology around this. The one I always heard was that women divide their number by three when they say it out loud, and men multiply theirs. So if she says nine, it’s really twenty-seven. If he says three, it’s actually one. Nothing matches up. Nothing is reliable. It’s like we’re all keeping two sets of books and the IRS of relationships never quite looks at them.
But couples don’t usually know the actual truth about each other. They don’t know the full picture—how many people, who they were, what it meant or didn’t mean. And when they do find out, there’s this moment where the person you were sleeping with suddenly feels like a stranger. Not because the sex was bad or anything, but because your entire understanding of them shifted. You thought they were this way, and they were actually that way the whole time.
The weird thing is how much it shouldn’t matter. It’s a number. It’s the past. But it does matter because it’s part of who someone is, even if neither of you wants to admit that. You either care or you don’t, and if you care, you have to sit with it.
I watched a video once of couples doing exactly this—guessing how many people their partner had slept with before them. Some of them were wildly off. Some were weirdly accurate. And the moment they found out the real number was almost always the same: a beat of surprise, sometimes relief, sometimes something else entirely. Nobody laughed it off. It mattered.
Maybe that’s the whole thing right there. We want to believe we’re cool with it, that it doesn’t define someone, that it’s just a fun fact about their history. And maybe it is. But we also can’t shake the feeling that it tells you something true about them, something you needed to know.
I heard “5 In The Morning” and realized how completely she’d settled into herself. Not the version still trying to figure it out—the version who already knows.
I’ve been listening since True Romance. That album got ignored at first, then became the kind of thing people claimed they’d always loved. She followed it by writing pop for other people—”I Love It” for Icona Pop, “Fancy” with Iggy Azalea that went number one. She became the person whose taste was shaping what pop sounded like, even if most people never noticed her name in the credits.
She said something about her approach that I didn’t forget: “I’ve never written a song to sound cool or whatever. I write everything the way it comes out of my head. I’d call it raw pop. That’s pretty close to what I am on stage—nowhere near polished. Soft, bland music bores me.” It’s a refusal, basically. A refusal to make what everyone expects.
“5 In The Morning” is what that conviction sounds like when it’s complete. No doubt, no performance. Just creating what she actually wants.
There’s always the fear that people like this get ground down—that eventually the business wears them into compliance, and they start making what they’re supposed to instead of what they want. But some people are too stubborn to let that happen. She’s always been too strange. I don’t think she’s ever going to be the kind of famous that needs her to be normal.
I watched the “Ddu-Du Ddu-Du” video and felt that familiar twinge—the recognition of something perfectly crafted, something expensive, something that knows exactly what it’s doing to your brain. It’s not just the production. It’s how every element clicks into place, no wasted motion, no sloppy edges. This is music as manufactured product, and I mean that without judgment. It’s just what it is.
What strikes me more is how total the takeover has been. Ten, fifteen years ago, J-pop was the gateway Asian music in the West. You’d hear Utada Hikaru or Ayumi Hamasaki or those Sailor Moon soundtracks, and that felt like the frontier. Then Korea’s infrastructure showed up and basically demolished all of that overnight. Not because the artists were necessarily better, but because the machine was tighter, meaner, more efficient at turning human potential into global products.
The K-pop industry is ruthless in a way that’s almost honest. You hear stories about the training systems—kids auditioning for years, getting cut at any stage, the ones who make it subjected to scheduling and pressure that seems designed to break them. Some do break. Some disappear. The system doesn’t hide this; it’s just part of how it operates. The polish you hear, the synchronized perfection of the performances, that’s all built on top of a foundation of ruthless culling.
Blackpink is what that infrastructure produces at its best. Four women—Jisoo, Jennie, Rosé, Lisa—assembled like components, trained until they’re indistinguishable from precision instruments. “Ddu-Du Ddu-Du” doesn’t feel like someone’s artistic vision. It feels like a product that went through every possible checkpoint and came out the other side absolutely flawless. And it works. It spreads. It takes over.
I’m not sure if I love it or resent it. Maybe that’s the point. The machine doesn’t care. It produced something undeniable, and now we live with it.
Jaden Smith’s been obsessed with Tokyo ever since he made Neo Yokio, and it hasn’t gotten any less strange. The anime was pretty bad, but he doesn’t seem bothered. He was too busy loving Tokyo to notice it didn’t work.
In an interview he basically declared Tokyo the best place on Earth. ’Please, really, go to Tokyo and have fun because it’s just incredibly great,’ he said. No irony, no hedging. He meant it. And because he’s Jaden, he flew out to Harajuku with his crew and filmed himself throwing Monopoly money around—just fake cash floating everywhere like he was documenting some vision only he could see.
There’s something unhinged about it, the way he loves the city without any self-consciousness. No performative cool, no brand strategy, just pure devotion. He’s built his own Tokyo in his head and he keeps going back to it.
Whether that’s beautiful or ridiculous mostly depends on how you feel about people who care that much about anything, real or imagined.
Selena Gomez managed something most Disney stars can’t—she got older without imploding into the kind of spectacular disaster everyone half-expected. While the rest of them were having public meltdowns and scandals, she just kept working: made decent music, did weird art films like Spring Breakers, stayed professional enough that nobody took her entirely seriously but not boring enough that anyone stopped watching. It’s a balance almost nobody hits.
So when she made this short film with photographer Petra Collins called “A Love Story,” posted to Instagram, I wasn’t expecting much. Selena in a bathtub. Soft light. That aesthetic Instagram thing. But what actually happens in the film is genuinely unclear. She’s bathing and falling in love, supposedly—with herself, or maybe with someone else, or maybe with the idea of being desired. The film doesn’t commit to any of these readings, and I’m not sure it knows either. Which could be brilliant or pointless depending on the moment.
It has all the hallmarks of Instagram profundity: beautiful to look at, vague enough to suggest depth, ambiguous enough that everyone can project whatever meaning they want onto it. Some people call it art. Some people think it’s trash. Some people just want to watch her breasts float in bathwater, which—fair. They’re there, no aesthetic distance, nothing hidden. Just present.
What got to me watching it was thinking about what I actually want from her work. She has this blank stare, this kind of cold stillness that feels unsettling. I’d rather see her in something with real darkness—a horror film, something with actual stakes and tension. Not bathwater and soft focus, but something that uses that blankness for something genuinely terrifying. That would be interesting. That would prove something.
I keep coming back to Chillhop’s seasonal stuff. They put out four a year and Summer Essentials 2018 just dropped—the usual crew of producers, the usual formula, nothing surprising. Matt Quentin, Stan Forebee, Sofasound. Names I’ve heard plenty but couldn’t place in a crowd. Doesn’t matter. The work lands.
There’s something almost anti-music about the whole concept. Dusty samples, simple loops, melodies engineered specifically not to demand anything from you. Perfect for an afternoon doing nothing, or sitting on a roof with a cold drink, or those nights where the window’s open and you’re thinking about something you shouldn’t be thinking about. I’ve cycled through these playlists for years and they work.
The appeal is exactly in what it won’t do. It won’t surprise you. It won’t ask for your full attention. It won’t make you feel like you’re missing something else. There’s something generous about that restraint. A conversation lands better when there’s no bright noise pulling at you. A memory comes back clearer. You can exist for a while without needing permission.
Chillhop probably doesn’t need defending at this point—these playlists are everywhere now, the aesthetic is mainstream, lo-fi hip-hop as coffee-shop wallpaper. But there’s a reason it became ubiquitous. It actually understands what summer needs.
You walk around Berlin and there are always three things. Dog shit on every corner. Empty beer bottles in gutters. And mattresses just abandoned on sidewalks, sitting there like someone might come back for them, which they won’t.
There’s an Instagram account called Mattresses of Berlin that documents these. Just endless photos of old mattresses slowly rotting in place wherever someone left them. Most have been there long enough that people have used them as canvases—a portrait painted across the fabric, a date carved in, a message, whatever’s on your mind that day. Street art on a surface nobody’s going to fight you about.
Once you know the account exists, you start seeing them everywhere. Like buying a car and suddenly noticing that model all over the city. You can’t not see it anymore. There’s always one a few blocks away, no matter where you are in Berlin.
It says something about the city, I think. About how people move through here constantly and just leave things behind without caring. A mattress abandoned on the curb is just Berlin working the way it always does—something gets left, someone uses it, something else comes along. It’s not sad. It’s just the logic of a place where nothing stays still.
Nothing gets me harder than straight girls with other girls. That first time especially, when I know for certain she’s actually straight—that’s when I feel like the turning point in her life, like I’m giving her something nobody else ever will, pulling her into a world she never knew existed. That moment when the confusion on her face shifts into something else. When she realizes she actually wants this.
It’s one of my fetishes, and not even close to my only one, but this one runs deep. The kissing, her shirt coming undone, hands on skin that nobody’s touched before. The look on her face when she understands she enjoys it. That moment that changes everything. Nothing beats that.
But it has to be authentic. Not actresses faking it, not performance. I need the real shock, the genuine pleasure, the actual moment when someone understands themselves differently. Real feelings, true emotions, the complete presence of that single instant.
There’s a forum called Straight Girls Playing built entirely around this. It celebrates straight women with women, everything focused on the authentic ones—the ones who actually just figured it out, not women hired to pretend. Professional actresses show up sometimes, but nobody’s there for them. We’re all hunting the same thing: that moment when something clicks, when someone’s understanding of who they are shifts in the span of an evening.
There’s something I keep thinking about regarding superheroes in old age. Not mythology or legacy — just the practical question. What does Superman do at seventy? What happens to Flash when his knees give out? Russian artist Lesya Guseva answered it with these soft, colorful illustrations where she mixes the hyperviolent comic worlds with something gentler. Batman just wants to sleep. Supergirl and Wonder Woman feed pigeons. Captain America stands in the rain protecting Snow White.
What works about it — and what probably shouldn’t — is how casually she puts these universes together. The heavy comic mythologies and Disney softness just coexist in the same image like they’ve always belonged there. It’s funny, but also kind. These characters don’t have to carry their myths anymore. They get to exist in small moments, doing small things.
I keep coming back to the Ariel one, which doesn’t even have superheroes in it. Just Ariel with her grandchildren. But that’s the whole thing. Ariel is my superhero. That’s all it takes — showing up, getting old, not needing the costume to justify what you are.
Three German athletes got photographed naked in a pool during the 2018 World Cup. The national soccer team had declined, so Playboy booked Kristina Levina, Patrizia Dinkel, and Tanja Brockmann instead. Mallorca, topless in a pool, and Dinkel was named Playmate of the Year. She’d wanted the title since childhood, crediting beer and a philosophy of living well to her figure rather than gym work.
What’s almost nice about the whole thing is how obvious it all was. Nobody was pretending—the publication needed content, the athletes wanted exposure, and people wanted something to look at. It’s the kind of transparent transaction that doesn’t come around often in celebrity culture, where usually everyone’s lying about their motives. Here it was just plain. Kind of honest in its own way.
I couldn’t tell you which of the three is which if I saw the photos, and that seems exactly right. They’re not personalities in this scenario—they’re just the visible part of a summer moment that worked because an entire world was paying attention to sports. By August, nobody remembered.
Gorillaz premiered ’The Now Now’ with a live session at Boiler Room Tokyo, and it felt like one of those moments where the marketing was actually connected to what the album was about. The new record had City Pop all over it—that glossy, introspective 80s Tokyo sound that had come back as something cool again—and going to Tokyo to play it made sense.
They had the whole album there, ’Hollywood’ and ’Humility’ and ’Magic City,’ and it worked in that room. There was a restraint to it that matched what the album itself was doing. After ’Humanz’ came out so bloated and overstuffed, this one was quieter, smaller, more interested in mood and texture and surface.
The stream was only available for 24 hours, which was very 2018 in the way it tried to create urgency. I watched it later on video, which is probably how most people experienced it anyway. The low resolution and compression made Tokyo look even further away, like watching through something. City Pop is what it sounds like—Tokyo as a feeling, mood over meaning, surfaces you can disappear into.
The whole thing proved its own logic. Make something urgent and time-limited and now it exists forever, equally available to everyone, the urgency totally destroyed. The culture eats itself and keeps walking.
Someone finishes a three-hour game in fifteen minutes because they’ve played it three hundred times and know every glitch, every spot where the engine breaks. A week of this — different runners, different games, all of them pushing what they love as fast as physics allows.
GamesDoneQuick raises money for charity. Doctors Without Borders this time. The games themselves don’t matter — Zelda, Tetris, whatever. The point is watching someone’s entire focus on one thing distilled into speed and precision. Watching them prove they’ve earned it.
I’ve never been disciplined enough for that. Never wanted something precise enough to practice it three hundred times. But there’s something I respect in how speedrunners just commit, no irony, no performance. They love this weird thing and they made it useful for one week a year.
I’ll watch some of it, probably. Not for deep reasons — not because I care about the charity or speedrunning culture or any of that. Just because it’s weirdly compelling to see people be that good at something so pointless. No meta. No agenda. Just drive.
VIVA’s gone now, technically speaking. Another dead channel. You might catch old clips sometime, the late versions, and think “okay, MTV variant, got it.” By that point it was. But there was a real VIVA, the one that started on December 1st, 1993, as a deliberate answer to MTV Europe. And it was genuinely strange.
MTV in those days was all grunge and American teenage angst and seriousness. VIVA looked at that and decided to go the other way. Color. Melody. A kind of visual chaos that looked almost psychedelic, or like someone behind the scenes was definitely tripping and okay with it. This was broadcast television.
The people who made it work were Stefan Raab, Heike Makatsch, Nils Bokelberg. They became famous because the network let them be genuinely unconventional without that familiar winking at the camera. They weren’t trying to brand themselves. They were just strange, and that was the whole point.
Viacom bought the network, which is always when things actually die. This year it closes for good, about 14 years after the sale. By then VIVA was already gutted anyway — safer, censored, more like everything else. The internet gets blamed for killing these kinds of things, and sure, maybe. But VIVA was already gone.
Still. There’s something worth mourning about it. Those old clips still feel like they belong to a different era, when strangeness on television didn’t have to justify itself or perform self-awareness. When you could just be genuinely unconventional and that was the entire point.
If you’ve got anything from back then — old recordings, memories, or the kind of souvenir the 90s were famous for — now’s when you’d want to pull it out. Feels right somehow.
Pizza and wine in the apartment, door locked, scrolling through people’s lives on screens. The internet was supposed to end loneliness and instead it just made it louder. Everyone’s performing now — their best selves, their curated moments — and the more you watch the more alone you feel. Not because you’re excluded. Because the connection’s fake.
You can have hundreds of followers and still wake up at three in the morning knowing there’s nobody you can actually call.
Social media did something weird to how we relate to each other. It turned connection into a broadcast and loneliness into something you’re supposed to hide. Everyone’s got friends online but nobody’s actually talking. We’re all in the same room but facing away from each other.
There’s a specific kind of loneliness that comes from being constantly visible but never seen. From being able to reach everyone and actually reaching no one. From spending hours scrolling through other people’s happiness while sitting alone in your apartment, knowing they’re sitting alone in theirs doing the same thing. It’s the loneliness of proximity without contact, connection without meaning.
I’ve wondered if it kills you, that kind of thing. If it compounds or if you just get used to it. If there’s a breaking point or if you just keep getting smaller until you disappear.
Germany’s state education ministry launched an online channel called Wahre Welle TV — True Wave TV — that broadcasts like a straight-up conspiracy outlet. Lizard people controlling global finance. Flat earth proofs. Moon Nazis. Cell phone radiation killing children. Angela Merkel puppeted by America and banks and whoever else. The whole thing is satire, obvious enough that you’d recognize how stupid these channels actually sound.
It’s a stupid plan.
No one who genuinely believes in aliens and chemtrails and that the German Reich still exists is going to watch that and think, “Oh, I’ve been fooled.” They’ll think they’ve found the real thing, or they’ll know the government made it to discredit the truth. You can’t convince someone by broadcasting that they’re an idiot.
I understand the impulse, though. When you spend time looking at what people actually believe online — comment threads, forums, the raw unfiltered garbage people swallow when they’re lost — you want to do something. The old world made sense: newspapers, TV, a few trusted sources, a boundary between knowing and speculating. The internet erased that. Now everything is possible, and when you’re drowning in noise, you reach for the scariest story.
But satire doesn’t change minds. Mockery doesn’t. The only thing that registers is confirmation. The moment authorities are laughing at you is the moment you know you’ve found the truth — that’s how it works for believers.
Maybe there’s no fixing this. You just watch people disappear into their own information worlds and accept you can’t reach them.
Krautchan was Germany’s answer to 4chan—the place where guys called themselves Bernds and spent way too much time convincing themselves they were smarter, edgier, and just generally better than everyone else. The mix was always the same: some right-wing stuff, a lot of anime girls, a few actual nerds teaching each other how to install Linux. It was theirs, and it felt alive in that specific way imageboards do when they’re small enough to have a real culture but big enough that you’re not watching the same five people every day.
Then it just died. One April morning, no warning, no goodbye thread, just gone.
The Bernds scattered after that. Some tried Ernstchan, others went to pr0gramm, a few ended up on subreddits that never quite felt right. None of it had the right feeling. It was like showing up to your bar after new owners took over—technically the same space, but whatever made it work was gone.
But Bernds don’t stay scattered. I watched them rebuild Kohlchan basically from scratch, mimicking the old site so closely it was almost absurd. Same logo, same layout, same structure. It was less a new site than a resurrection of something that probably should have stayed buried, except it worked. People came back. The strange community that fed on crude jokes and taboos started happening again.
There’s something weirdly stubborn about it—the way these internet communities keep regenerating no matter what kills them. You scatter the users and they’ll find each other again and build the exact same thing in a new place. It’s like they’re almost biological, a culture that needs a body to exist in but doesn’t care which body.
The only thing that actually made me laugh was watching people joke about whether Kohlchan was already being run from BKA servers—the German federal police. With that much unfiltered content on one site, someone was probably paying attention. Maybe that’s what these spaces are now—less secret clubhouses and more performance art for whoever’s trying to shut them down.
Dua Lipa completely had my head that year. When V Magazine put her on the cover and she threw a party in Soho to celebrate, I needed to know everything about it - which meant tracking the whole night through Instagram stories from people too busy filming to actually have fun.
The usual suspects showed up. Gigi Hadid, Jonathan Van Ness, designers, models, it-people. She was signing magazines and CDs and apparently body parts, which sounds good in concept until you realize it’s just another moment being performed for the camera.
The real thing about these parties is that nobody’s actually there to enjoy themselves. Everyone’s performing being cool and famous. You can see it in their faces - the careful grinning, the strategic standing, the constant awareness that a photographer might catch them at just the right angle. It’s boring in the most self-conscious way.
I never made it close enough that night. Never got the view I actually wanted - her closer, dressed for less, me drunker, something that might have made it feel like more than just watching other people perform. But that’s how it goes with celebrity crushes. You follow them from your couch and feel like you’re part of something, and then the night ends and you’re still right where you started.
You show up when it’s dark out. Reading in bed with the phone hidden so nobody catches you awake past bedtime, or in a club because everyone’s dancing except you, or on the last train home drunk and having missed your stop twice because you weren’t paying attention. This place is what you’re looking at when the night gets too quiet or too slow or you need something besides what’s in front of you.
The problem is screens at two in the morning. They burn. The brightness drags you back awake when you were actually getting somewhere close to tired, pushes away whatever you were reaching for. So I made the whole thing darker—just an inverted version of everything, nothing fancy. It switches on at ten PM and off at six AM, like it knows something about your schedule that you don’t.
Curious if it actually works or if it’s just the thing you do when you can’t sleep, tinkering with settings because your brain won’t shut up anyway.
Night City is broken in the familiar way—megacorps in towers, dealers on the street selling neural implants and the promise of transcendence, the poor and rich separated by invisible distance. It’s cyberpunk 101, which means it’s been rendered a thousand times already. The aesthetic has become so tired that neon feels comfortable now, expected.
What makes me pay attention is that CD Projekt Red is building this. The same studio that spent years getting The Witcher 3 right, learning how to make a world feel lived-in and chaotic instead of designed and empty. If they can translate that obsession with density and detail into an entire megacity, something interesting might happen. Or they might just build an expensive shell.
As a designer, I’m drawn to the visual information in what they’ve shown. There’s no simplicity here—everything is layered, information-dense, the kind of deliberate chaos that most games avoid because it’s harder to optimize around. Whether that approach actually works for an interactive world, I have no idea yet.
I’m skeptical of hype in general. I’ve watched games long enough to see the pattern: enormous promise followed by either delivery or spectacular collapse, with most of the interesting space actually in between. Cyberpunk as a genre has a similar problem—it’s mostly aesthetic now, neon and chrome and the promise of transcendence, while the actual urgent substance got left behind somewhere.
But a studio that understands how to obsess over a world, that’s proven it can build something that feels real instead of just designed—that’s worth paying attention to when they aim for a megacity. Either they pull off something remarkable, or they build the most beautiful disaster. Either way I’ll be inside Night City for months when it launches, probably sometime next year.
Nisse’s new album is called “Ciao.” The first single is “Unmöglich”—Impossible. Once you know his story, that word makes sense.
He was born in a storm in August, somewhere in south Hamburg, in the dead zone between farm country and the industrial Phoenix district. Growing up there was bleak: drunk teenagers, fistfights, tuned cars, the kind of boredom that calcifies into cruelty. The only real thing was the music. He found the 80s German voices—Drafi, Ideal, Falco, Reim, Kunze, Lindenberg, Nena, Reiser—and they became the shape of how he heard the world. Michael Jackson showed up on cassettes. In the 90s he went to school in England, which is where the absurdity kicks in: surrounded by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, he fell in love with German hip-hop through CDs mailed from home.
At seventeen he moved to St. Pauli and got a window overlooking Herbertstraße. That street is a famous institution in Hamburg—where the sex workers have always been legal, where you can see how the city’s underbelly actually functions. Sirens all night. He was living in the center of a contradiction, watching how people survive when survival is the only option. That does something to you.
Two albums now, and “Impossible” is what he called his new statement. There’s a logic to it.
Miley and Converse made a collection with no gender split. Everything was designed for anyone to wear—no impossible curves pretending women’s bodies are one shape, no boxy nonsense pretending men need infinite room. Just colorful pieces that fit.
It tracked with where Miley had landed. Started as a Disney kid, went through the phase where shock was the point, then actually thought about sexuality and gender in ways that felt deeper than provocation. By this collab, it felt earned instead of performed.
The thing about designing for everyone is you have to stop designing for an imaginary person. You have to admit that the gender splits in fashion were never real—just marketing disguised as fact. For a century the industry said your body was wrong unless you bought the right cut for your sex. This collection just didn’t play that game.
Miley said she wanted people to feel like they belonged, that she made pieces by thinking about what her fans loved about her and putting that into the designs. Whether the clothes actually do that or just make people feel like they’re in on something, I don’t know.
Colorful pieces, no assumptions about who could wear them. After decades of fashion insisting gender was destiny, it felt like someone finally admitted the whole system was kind of pointless. This collection just opted out.
Fishermen off Okinawa were losing their catch to sharks. Day after day the sharks would come, tear through the nets, and disappear with the fish. At some point you stop calling it nature and start calling it a problem.
So they hunted them back. Hooks, knives, spears—whatever worked. The sharks kept coming, the fishermen kept killing them, and it became part of the routine. Brutal. Direct. There’s no ambiguity about what’s happening: you kill the thing destroying your livelihood, or you don’t eat.
What strikes me is how cleanly this sits outside the modern conversation about nature. There’s no tragic tone, no hand-wringing about the ecosystem. The fishermen are doing work that needs doing. The violence isn’t something to feel bad about—it’s incidental to the purpose. And they celebrate it with a yearly festival, not to mock the sharks but because the work deserves marking.
I watched a documentary about this and what got me was how unapologetic it all felt. Not performed toughness, just the work itself. The masculinity in it isn’t flexed—it’s the unavoidable result of meeting a problem head-on, with steel and skill. No ideology, no performance. Need and response.
There’s something clean about that. Something I can’t quite let go of.
There was a time when sex was something that happened away from daylight, away from real examination. The body was functional, not something you looked at. Shame and machinery. Then nine months later you had kids and that was the end of looking anyway.
Attitudes have shifted. Women now want to know exactly what they have. Want mirrors. Want to understand the shape, the color, whether it matches whatever the current standard says it should. Some get surgery to fix what they think is wrong. Some just want the knowledge after decades of not looking.
A journalist spent time documenting this—found an artist who makes plaster casts of vulvas and puts them in galleries like they’re sculptures worth knowing. Found women talking about labiaplasty like it’s as normal as a haircut. Filmed people at vulva watching parties just spreading their legs and comparing notes.
What gets me is that none of this solves anything. The beauty standard is still tyrannical. Still specific. Still impossible for most people to achieve without surgery. But something changed—from total invisibility to examination, from shame to at least the attempt at agency. Even if the choice is between different kinds of perfect, at least it’s a choice.
Whether that’s progress or just a different trap, I’m not sure. Probably both.
My back looks like it’s been through a full nuclear weapons program. I could spend money on Clearasil or wait for acne to become beautiful. Everything’s beautiful these days, anyway.
British photographer Sophie Harris-Taylor was thinking something similar—or at least taking it seriously. Her series “Epidermis” is photographs of girls and their skin, exactly as it shows up: Louise, Indiana, Joice, and whatever acne or marks or irritations they’re carrying. It’s pushing back on the whole only-perfection-matters thing we do—the way photographs only show flawless skin and perfect bodies, like the rest of us are failing for having actual human bodies.
Sophie came at this from somewhere real. She spent years hating her own acne, went through the puberty thing and way beyond it, wanted normal skin—the kind that appears in magazines. Eventually she figured out that normal is just whatever’s in the pictures around you. We learn what’s acceptable from images. Change the images and normal shifts.
That’s almost too basic to say out loud. Everyone knows beauty standards are invented, that we’re shaped by media, all of that. But there’s a difference between knowing something and actually seeing it. These photographs of skin that’s just skin, marked by time and luck and biology, hit different. Not a problem waiting for a solution, not proof you’re failing. Just the surface of a body being itself.
There’s a particular staleness to mainstream manga — the endless high school romance fantasies, the fetishization, the predictable beats. Which is why discovering horror manga felt like finding an actual exit. Kazuo Umezu and Hideshi Hino weren’t just making comics. They were building something else entirely.
Umezu’s early work had this creeping sense of wrongness. *Orochi*, *The Drifting Classroom* — stories where the world inside the panel operates by different rules, and those rules don’t accommodate human survival. The panels themselves feel claustrophobic, the space closing in. It’s horror that settles in, the kind that comes from inevitability rather than shock.
Hino went further into genuinely grotesque territory. His work operates in registers of bodily decay and existential degradation that manga largely ignores. Where Umezu builds atmosphere through implication, Hino dismantles your comfort directly. The images demand to be looked at and refused simultaneously. Uncompromising enough to feel dangerous, like you’re seeing something you’re not supposed to see.
What both understood is that you can treat manga seriously — not as entertainment but as a vehicle for genuine darkness. The medium’s technical language, the way panels control time and space, how silence functions between frames, how a single expression carries weight — they weaponized all of it.
I haven’t read everything they made, and some exists only in Japanese collections that never made it west. But what’s available carries its weight. It doesn’t apologize for being horrific, doesn’t soften the horror with a moral, doesn’t explain itself. The images remain uncomfortable and real in a way most entertainment deliberately avoids.
That’s what draws me to it. Not thrills but genuine discomfort. The kind that doesn’t dissolve when you close the book.
Yuber wanted to become a Twitch streamer and it ruined him completely. He quit his job, his girlfriend left, his friends stopped showing up—everything that held his life together came apart. The bet was that streaming would eventually pay off, that viewers would materialize, that donations would cover rent. They didn’t. Years passed and he kept going, broadcasting to almost nobody from a room that accumulated trash like evidence.
What gets me is how avoidable this seems and how invisible it actually is. The success stories—Ninja, Shroud, the handful of people who actually made it—make it look like it’s all about talent or personality or grinding hard enough. But those are the ones who broke through. For every streamer who makes it, there are millions who don’t. The odds aren’t just bad—they’re basically a lottery with better marketing. You could stream perfectly, consistently, with everything going right, and still fail because virality isn’t a product of effort. It’s random.
I knew someone who literally moved countries because he thought it would improve his streaming prospects. Pure magical thinking. A year later, two hundred followers, money gone, and back to reality. The failure isn’t personal—it’s structural. The platform needs you to fail so that everyone else thinks they’re just one stream away from making it.
Yuber’s probably still streaming, or he’s quit and I just never heard about it. Either way, that room is the logical endpoint for almost everyone who tries. The system doesn’t care how hard you work or how good you actually are. It just needs enough people desperate enough to make the attempt.
Kylie Minogue’s been everywhere long enough that she doesn’t have to be anything anymore. The new video for “Golden,” shot in Cuba and out on her 50th birthday, has her without makeup for the first time on camera. It doesn’t read like a statement—more like someone who’s finally decided she’s done performing for an audience.
She’s had this weird staying power in pop. “Can’t Get You Out of My Head,” “I Should Be So Lucky,” “Better the Devil You Know”—these songs are woven into everything somehow. They don’t feel dated. The voice doesn’t feel dated. There’s something exact about her that keeps her from reading like a relic, even when she probably should. Most people who hit big in the eighties and nineties fade into being nostalgia acts. She just keeps moving.
The song is straightforward: “We’re not young, we’re not old, we’re golden.” Not apologizing for either, not performing some kind of vulnerability, just stating it. Sophie Müller directed it, and the Cuba setting gives it that warm, intimate thing—not trying to prove anything about staying power or relevance or any of that. Just Kylie at fifty, still working, still doing it.
There’s this German musician, Tristan Brusch, who makes music that shouldn’t work but does. His father was a violinist—serious classical training. Brusch learned composition as a kid, absorbed all that structure, and then went sideways with it.
German music right now is predictable. Pop, hip-hop, schlager—all of it safe. Brusch operates in his own lane, making these weird genre-bent songs somewhere between chanson and pop and something else. Not trying to be experimental, just genuinely strange. The kind of artist who doesn’t care if you understand what he’s doing.
What interests me is that he’s trained well enough to actually break the rules, not just bend them slightly for a label. He makes what interests him and if you’re there for it, fine. If not, he’s not going to explain it or dial it down for accessibility.
That confidence—the refusal to compromise—is rare. Most artists are performing for approval by the time they’re professional. Brusch sounds like he just makes what he wants.
I used to tell myself I’d quit World of Warcraft after a couple months. That was in 2005. Every night I disappeared into Azeroth. Every morning I knew I should stop and knew I wouldn’t. The thing about games that grab you that deep is they never really let go.
I thought I was past it. Then I saw a Uniqlo collaboration with Blizzard — StarCraft, Overwatch, all of it on t-shirts — and it hit me that everything I felt is still there. That world is still waiting.
The designs are actually good. Not cynical merch. Someone who played those games designed them. Someone who understood what a fan would want to wear.
You can walk around wearing a Blizzard shirt and it doesn’t mean the same thing as it did in 2005. Back then you were admitting something pathological, a secret. Now it’s just pop culture. But I miss when it was mine, when nobody else understood or cared. That sense of knowing something others didn’t.
I’ll probably never buy the shirt. But every time I see it, I remember exactly how my apartment smelled at three in the morning. How certain I was that I was ruining my life. How much I didn’t care.
I’ve stopped pretending I don’t obsess over Lykke Li. Every video she makes, I end up posting it. It’s not deliberate anymore—it’s just what happens. Where most artists ration their visuals, drop promotional videos every few months and make the rounds, Lykke just keeps releasing. Video after video, no apparent strategy, just constant output.
After “Deep End” and “Utopia,” Anton Tammi directed “Hard Rain,” and it does what she does best: take physical affection and make it look like the only currency that matters. The song’s about wanting someone close, about offering everything—the weight of heavy rain, an entire ocean of it. It’s vulnerability. Fear of distance. The desperation of trying to hold someone you thought you’d never lose.
There’s something about how she moves in it, how the closeness is filmed—not polished or romantic but honest. Like it’s the only thing that communicates what actually matters.
I felt it watching. Not the clean feeling of well-made video work, but something that caught me off guard. The kind of specificity that makes you understand, in a dumb and honest way, why you keep coming back to someone’s work. I almost cried. Still might.
Every year the Nippon Connection festival takes over Frankfurt. The world’s largest festival dedicated to Japanese cinema—six days, over a hundred films, everything from documentaries to anime to features nobody’s heard of. Filmmakers from Japan come to talk about their work.
What matters about Japanese cinema is that it doesn’t rush you. There’s no compulsion to explain, to cut on the beat, to manipulate how you feel. You’ll watch an old man in a kitchen, a girl waiting on a train platform, a ghost in a library, and it hits harder than most Western films that cost ten times as much. It’s the refusal to look away from the quiet moments—that’s where the real power lives.
When the filmmakers are there talking about the work, something shifts. You understand what they were seeing when they shot it, what they were trying to hold onto, why the film had to exist exactly as it does. That context changes how you see the film when you watch it again on your own time.
I can’t make Frankfurt this year, but I think about what I’m missing. You clear your schedule. You sit in a dark theater with strangers and watch something that shifts how you see for a couple of hours. Then you eat and talk about it or you don’t. That’s the whole thing. That’s why it’s worth it.
I watched Lykke Li’s “Deep End” video like watching those vertical iPhone recordings from parties—the frame, the movement, the way the camera just catches what’s there. Except this was shot with actual intention, lit beautifully, and it matters more.
The thing about it is that the sexuality doesn’t feel performed. She’s not dancing for the camera or for whoever’s watching. She’s just there, moving in the frame, and somehow that’s more interesting than any calculated seduction would be. It’s the difference between someone being seductive and someone just being themselves.
The song itself is what makes it work. “Deep End” is one of those tracks that unfolds over repeated listening—you catch something new in how it’s layered every twentieth time through. There’s a richness in the production that doesn’t wear thin.
Lykke Li’s been at this level long enough that I shouldn’t expect to be surprised anymore, but the way she puts these things together—image, sound, intention all at once—still gets to me. This one definitely does.
There’s a drunk princess, an elf sidekick, and a cat demon in a fantasy kingdom called Dreamland. This is Matt Groening’s Disenchantment, which Netflix dropped all twenty episodes of at once. It’s what he made after The Simpsons spent thirty years becoming increasingly pointless, and after Futurama had its brief moment of genuine brilliance.
It’s strange that I still care what Groening makes. The Simpsons proved he could create something brilliant, genuinely smart and absurd at the same time. Then it proved he could let that thing decline for decades without being able to kill it or fix it. Just shuffle forward, less a show and more momentum. Futurama was different — brief, clever, willing to be genuinely weird. It didn’t last long, which was maybe the point. At least it quit while it had something to say.
So here’s Disenchantment. Princess with a drinking problem, misfits, a world designed to be slightly wrong. It’s not a bad premise. It suggests Groening’s interested in doing something other than celebrity cameos and nostalgia. Whether that’s actually true, whether he’s still capable of making something that isn’t just going through the motions, I don’t know. But you don’t keep paying attention to someone’s work for this long if you don’t believe they might surprise you again.
Fast. That’s the whole thing. Wizard of Legend is about throwing spells at enemies so quickly that you stop thinking and start reacting. Contingent99, a Los Angeles studio, made it as their first game.
You pick spells from a pool of over a hundred and run into a dungeon. Die, start over, try a different combination. The pixel art is clean and readable, which matters because your eyes need to track everything at once. Speed and precision are what count. There’s no padding, no tutorials, no hand-holding. You figure it out or you fail, and failing isn’t a big deal.
I loaded it expecting an evening’s distraction. Instead, the loop pulls you in. You see a spell synergy you didn’t think about before and want to run it back, want to nail it. Every attempt teaches you something small. You chase that feeling of a run coming together, even after the tenth failure trying to make it work.
It’s on everything now—Steam, PlayStation, Xbox, Switch. If you’re the type who learns a system by throwing yourself at it repeatedly until something clicks, it’s worth grabbing. That moment when you finally execute what you’ve been picturing is real.
Months with Link’s Awakening on Game Boy Color. Those greens and blues in the palette—they just work for a game where you’re walking through someone’s dream. The pixel art is genuinely beautiful in a way that sticks with you.
Breath of the Wild is one of those games that just clicks. The world feels right, inevitable even. Moving through it feels good. Every other open-world game I’ve tried reaches for that and doesn’t quite get there—something uniquely Nintendo about how it all connects.
And here’s the thought I keep coming back to: what if Breath of the Wild came out as a Game Boy Color game? Same design, same scope, just rendered in that four-color aesthetic. Hyrule squeezed onto tiny screens, the dungeons and fields compressed into pixels.
Someone at Nintendo Wire actually mocked this up and it looked incredible. If that game existed I’d absolutely waste months on nothing else.
Richardson released a new collection shot in Tokyo during bloom season, which is the part of the playbook where you’ve officially made it as a fashion brand. The pieces look good—hoodies, shirts, towels. But I kept thinking about what Richardson used to be, which was actually provocative, actually scandalous in a way that meant something. Now they’re another lifestyle label selling carefully composed taste, which is fine, it’s just the arc of everything.
Every major brand does this eventually. You get to a certain size and you book a photographer and go shoot in spring because that’s when everything looks best. The aesthetic has become so standard that ’inspired-by-Japanese-culture’ basically just means ’we think carefully about design.’ It’s not really about the place anymore—it’s about what the place has come to signify in fashion, which is refinement and restraint and the possibility that your hoodie actually means something.
It works. The photographs are genuinely beautiful. But there’s something almost funny about watching something with actual edge get polished into soft pastoral scenes and called grown-up. Richardson probably makes better clothes than it ever did. That’s not the point though. The point is just noticing what happens when everything—even things that were once deliberately challenging—eventually gets wrapped up in something beautiful and sold back as sophistication.
Bavaria just passed a police law that basically turned Minority Report into policy. Cops can move on you based on suspicion alone — before you’ve actually broken any laws. Movement bans, electronic tracking, frozen bank accounts. Preemptive everything. The official reason is terrorism prevention, but what you’re actually looking at is a state that decides suspicion is enough.
I’ve spent enough time in Germany to recognize the pattern. You pass one security law, it sounds reasonable, then another, then another. A few years in you’re living somewhere you didn’t choose to live and can’t quite remember the exact moment it happened. This is how that works.
The details are where it gets properly dystopian. Police can hack your phone without a warrant, access your cloud data, modify files if they decide it’s necessary. They can film you at protests not because you’re suspected of anything but preemptively, then run facial recognition on the footage to identify you. The DNA analysis looking for “biogeographic markers” is just racial profiling wearing a lab coat — scientists keep saying it doesn’t work reliably, but accuracy was never the point.
The Greens lost it when it passed. So did the police union, which is remarkable. They said this kind of surveillance destroys public trust in the institution that needs it most. Constitutional experts testified it probably violated basic rights. The CSU didn’t care. They had the votes and wanted something strong to campaign on before the next election, so it passed anyway.
What sticks with me is how sterile it all sounds when you break it down. Security enhancement. Counter-terrorism measures. Public safety protocols. You stack them together and you’ve built a panopticon, but you never had to say that part out loud.
If you’re in Bavaria now you’ve got three options. Live under constant suspicion of the state. Spend a decade in law school trying to undo it. Leave. I’m not betting on option two.
The dream of New York is durable. Even as the city changes, what it represents stays in people’s heads. You see it in fashion, music, the way people from other places move. There’s gravity to it that doesn’t seem to break.
Staple and Ellesse built a collection around it. The product names gesture toward cultural weight—Rockafella Popper Pants, Jefferson Shorts—and the color palette pulls from the city’s streets and skyline. It’s a straightforward move: tie your brand to the mythology and people feel something, even buying it from across the world.
Both companies have the credentials. Ellesse’s Italian sportswear DNA goes back decades, clean and precise. Staple’s reputation is built into New York street culture. Together they’re a real dialogue, not just a partnership of convenience.
What makes it work is that both understand the same thing: the image of New York is more powerful than the place. The mythology travels further than the reality. People buy into what they imagine, not what’s actually there.
German food stays home. Schnitzel, wurst, käsespätzle — all excellent, all basically unknown outside Germany. Pizza’s everywhere. Sushi’s everywhere. Thai food, Indian food, Mexican food. But German food? It’s regional in a way that feels almost deliberate.
I noticed this watching someone show American kids German food for the first time. They had zero reference points. Not dislike — just blank looks. These are kids who’ve eaten everything, or think they have, and German cooking somehow isn’t on their map.
Part of it is that German food is heavy and specific. Käsespätzle isn’t going to compete with dumplings for mystery. It’s just food: meat, cream, vinegar, potatoes. The world ate its way through narratives — the romance of Italy, the precision of Japan, the intrigue of Thailand. German food didn’t bother with a story. It was what it was.
Maybe that’s why it never left. Too satisfied with itself. Too sure of what it does. There’s no reaching in German food, no need to persuade anyone. Just lunch that works so well it never bothered proving itself anywhere else.
The choreography in Childish Gambino’s “This is America” is tight and controlled, precise movements against images of violence and consumption and distraction. It’s a carefully constructed argument: spectacle versus brutality, performance versus what’s actually happening. Every element supports that tension.
Nicole Arbour’s feminist parody has her doing the dancing, and it’s supposedly making a statement about gender. But she’s not using the video to make a point—she’s using it to center herself. She’s borrowed the form without understanding what made it work, and the whole thing falls apart because of that.
The original is about a system. This is about her noticing the system exists and wanting recognition for it. Those are not the same thing, and you can feel that difference when you watch.
Ariana Grande performed “No Tears Left To Cry” on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon using a Nintendo Labo piano—which is cardboard. The Roots kept time. It sounded good. No one treated it as a novelty. It just was.
Nintendo Labo is the company’s experiment in making instruments from paper. You fold cardboard into a piano, a robot, a fishing rod. The Switch reads your movements and translates them into sound and image. In theory it sounds like a toy. In practice, it works.
What struck me was how casually it happened. Here’s a pop star performing on mainstream television using equipment made of folded cardboard, and there’s no wink at the audience, no acknowledgment of the absurdity. Gaming’s been mainstream for years, but there’s still a gap between what gamers know is possible and what the broader culture accepts as legitimate. Nintendo Labo closing that gap by reducing music-making to paper and software felt significant.
The boundaries between “real” instruments and experimental ones have been softening for a while. But watching Ariana Grande at a cardboard piano, actually playing music, made it click for me in a way I hadn’t fully registered before. The most accessible creative tool right now is literally folded paper. Not expensive software, not gear locked behind paywalls, not technology you need special knowledge to understand. Paper and code.
I keep coming back to what it means that Nintendo chose to make creative tools feel like nothing at all—no pretense, no “you’re now using professional equipment.” Just fold, play, make. The cardboard doesn’t announce itself. It just lets you create.
After “Your Name” worked in 2016, a particular kind of silence fell over the industry. Everyone started waiting to see if someone could do it again — if that film was lightning in a bottle or if there was a repeatable formula. That Shinkai film reached people who’d never sit through anime, got them invested. That’s rare enough that everything released since gets measured against it.
Yusuke Yamada’s robot-romance novel seemed promising enough that a studio thought it had the same potential. The setup is there: Tokyo in 2060, Olympic games on the horizon, a scientist and his coworker falling for each other while she’s become a target of something or someone. A humanoid robot is somehow in the equation — part of the plot, or part of the problem, or both.
The premise is solid. I’m interested in it, though maybe not in the way the studio wants. It’s not anticipation so much as genuine curiosity about whether the machinery that worked once can work again, or whether “Your Name” was just unrepeatable. The robot angle is actually interesting — it’s not just a barrier to romance, it’s a real complication built into the world itself. Not the time-displacement trick, but something in that register where the obstacle is baked into everything.
We’ll see if it lands the same way. That kind of moment doesn’t come around often, and you never know until after it’s happened.
My best friend told me over coffee recently that he’s been jerking off five times a day and it’s wrecking him. Morning, classes, before he sees friends, before bed, middle of the night. It’s just eating the day.
So he decided to quit. He found this subreddit called NoFap where guys help each other stop compulsive masturbation. I guess if you’re wired that way, even the outline of a nipple through a shirt can set you off.
The subreddit is full of these straight-faced motivational posts. “If Donald Trump can become president, I can stop jerking off.” “I haven’t masturbated in 90 days and I feel incredible.” “Because I stopped, I became a firefighter.” You get the idea.
I’m curious how long he lasts. Bets are already running.
I used to hack into Super Nintendo and Game Boy cartridges with these weird devices, poking around inside to find what the developers left buried. Unreachable chests, broken enemies, passages through solid walls. The thrill wasn’t breaking the game—it was seeing what existed in the code that nobody was supposed to find.
The Cutting Room Floor is what that impulse becomes. It’s thousands of people doing exactly what I did as a kid, except methodically, with games spanning decades. Someone found a secret quiz in Terranigma. In Super Mario 64, there’s an unreachable mine. Secret of Evermore charges different boatmen prices based on your character’s name, a detail buried so deep almost nobody ever discovers it.
What gets me is that none of it needed to exist. The developers knew players would never find those things. They coded them anyway—jokes for themselves, experiments, mistakes too small to matter. It’s the opposite of designed experience. The games we actually play are the finished product. Everything else is the workshop, the thinking left behind.
That’s what I was really chasing as a kid. Not a way to break the game, but a way to see what was underneath the performance. The seams where the actual work lives. The Cutting Room Floor is just that impulse scaled up—proof that I wasn’t the only one hungry for what was hidden.
I came across something last week that won’t let go. Mohamed Amjahid reported on the porn search data — “refugee” queries exploding on Pornhub, xHamster, RedTube since 2015, spiking in lockstep with immigration politics. Eight hundred thousand searches a month. The pattern is so transparent it’s nauseating: election cycle, talk-show debate, AfD rally, search spike follows. Repeat.
There’s a guy at a march screaming about borders and invasion and keeping them out. Hours later he’s home searching for exactly what he just claimed to hate. Not to sympathize with. To watch degraded. One video — “Syrian Refugee Sucks Huge White Cock for Dinner Money” — had 420,000 views. The comments: one guy complaining that refugees don’t shave anymore, another in German: “Refugee cunts welcome.”
The gap between public posture and private hunger is almost beautiful in how disgusting it is. These men so committed to expelling women from their country somehow need to watch them used first. Maybe it’s just the power thing — a sex researcher said it plainly, that sex is dominance and submission. Maybe it’s simpler: women they’ve been trained to see as exotic and submissive just work on them. The research from the US shows the pattern cuts across all demographics.
xHamster’s numbers are clearest. Search volume spikes sync with the news cycle like clockwork. Whenever the country gets loud about immigration — debates, elections, scandals — the searches follow. You can watch it in real time.
I’m sure multiple things are happening. Curiosity, fear, ordinary horny. But the overlap with actual fascism, with the rhetoric about invasion and protection of whiteness — that’s not separate. The need to dominate, to feel superior, to use someone marked as beneath you — it’s the same impulse in both places.
So when you see some guy outside a refugee shelter screaming, you know what his night looks like. He goes home and jerks off to the women he was threatening an hour before. It’s disgusting and logical and perfectly honest about what we actually want beneath the slogans.
Missandei was the only sane person in Game of Thrones. Everyone else was poisoning each other and scheming for power, and she was just competent and calm and smart. Nathalie Emmanuel played her that way - not theatrical, just present. There’s a scene where she’s naked on a beach and it doesn’t feel exploitative like so much of GoT’s nudity did; it feels like her character exists outside all that pageantry. You realize watching it that you’re seeing real acting.
I’d seen Emmanuel before in Misfits, the British show where she played Charlie, sharp and funny before getting killed off halfway through. Even in something that campy, she brought groundedness to the character. So there was always something there beyond the surface - a real actor underneath, not just a pretty face filling a slot.
What’s stuck with me since then is that she doesn’t let one role consume her whole existence. She acts, she’s got other projects going, she’s just a person with multiple things happening. She doesn’t seem interested in becoming a brand or squeezing every last drop from one performance. In that sense, she’s got more sense than most of the characters she’s played, characters desperately trying to be one thing and hold onto it forever.
You’ll probably always think “that’s the Missandei actress” when you hear her name, and that’s fine. That role is remarkable enough. But there’s clearly more than that, and the fact that she seems to know it about herself is worth noting.
The last time I really paid attention to Lykke Li was 2014, when “I Never Learn” came out with songs like “Love Me Like I’m Not Made of Stone” — the kind of album that stays with you because every track feels necessary. Then she went quiet, or at least I stopped listening. It happens.
She’s back with a song called “Utopia,” which is painfully on-the-nose in title, but the video is just her and a child in a room, which is where all the subtlety lives. She’s a mother now, to a kid with the musician Jeff Bhasker, and I think that changes what you’re trying to make, whether you plan for it or not.
The song is basically a wish — a very specific wish, the kind you sing when things are hard but you’ve decided to imagine differently anyway. “We could be the most psychedelic, we could glow brighter than glitter.” There’s no cynicism in it. No desperation either. Just a direct statement of wanting something better. When she sings it, there’s no apology. She’s not asking permission to believe.
I don’t know the whole album yet — it’s called “So Sad So Sexy,” which tells you something — but “Utopia” buries itself in you without announcing itself. You put it on meaning to listen once and end up playing it again without thinking. There’s something about the way she’s moved toward hopefulness that feels earned rather than forced. Like she didn’t decide to be optimistic; she just looked at what she has and sang about protecting it.
It’s different from her earlier work. Less raw, sharper. Whether that’s growth or loss depends on the day you ask, but right now it feels necessary. Sometimes the music you actually need isn’t the most beautiful music. It’s the music that tells you it’s okay to want something better, even when you understand the cost.
A 39-year-old Dutch guy named Didi Taihuttu sold his house, sold his cars, and moved his family to Thailand to chase Bitcoin in 2017. An Arte documentary followed him through it, watching what happens when someone decides the only way out is through something totally untested. Within six months his money had quintupled. He became a millionaire. He became the guy who made the call that worked.
The thing about these stories is they’re always told from the moment of victory. The documentary exists because Didi won, not because the reasoning was particularly sound. Everyone in the film wants what he has — the escape, the freedom, the feeling of having figured out the game before everyone else. There’s this hunger radiating off the screen, this FOMO dream of one big move that resets your entire life.
I get the appeal. Regular life is a grind. Work pays for rent and not much else. Every savings goal feels like it’s fighting a losing battle against inflation and housing prices. At a certain point the appeal of betting everything on something that might be revolutionary or might be bullshit feels almost rational, if only because slow safety starts to look like slow death.
The documentary doesn’t really care about Bitcoin though. It’s interested in the human part — what drives people to risk everything, what they imagine life will look like after they win, how hope works in a system that doesn’t seem designed for regular people to ever actually get ahead. Didi’s story is just the visible one, the one that worked out in the moment that mattered for the film.
Rihanna made an underwear line and actually made it good, which shouldn’t have surprised me but did. Savage × Fenty isn’t celebrity merch with her face printed on cheap fabric—it’s solid basics at prices that don’t immediately make you hate yourself. Tangas around 25 euros, bras between 20 and 30, corsets closer to 100. You could wear these and feel fine in them, which is the whole point.
The comedy is that underwear is the most intimate place a celebrity brand can touch you. Literally against your skin, under everything else. Someone is going to see you in Rihanna’s underwear, and there’s something both ridiculous and almost honest about that—you can’t laugh it off or hide it. It’s just there, between you and whoever.
She treats this like she treats everything else. Puma collabs, beauty empire, working constantly without sleeping. Somewhere in all that she developed actual opinions about what underwear should do. No mythology, no scarcity games, no “limited experience” nonsense—just functional designs at fair prices. That’s the rarest approach in celebrity branding, which is probably why this doesn’t feel like a cash grab at all.
Childish Gambino dances through the frame with meticulous choreography, and all around him are bodies and guns and blood, shot and lit with obsessive care. You’re supposed to be watching him. You’re supposed to not see what’s in the margins. That’s how it works.
I’ve been into Donald Glover’s music for years because he doesn’t fall for the typical rapper moves — no bragging, no posture, just someone trying to say something true. The work has real depth to it.
“This is America” is what all of that was building toward: a song about a place where the spectacle is so loud and beautiful that people watch that instead of what’s actually happening. The music pulls you in. You move to it, you feel good, and that’s the mechanism itself — that’s exactly how it functions. The song shows you what you’re part of.
I don’t know if anything changes because of it. Probably doesn’t. But he made something beautiful and true about a broken place, and did it in a way that makes you feel the contradiction instead of just understanding it intellectually. That’s the part that sticks with you.
There’s something about the SNES that doesn’t need defending anymore. Chrono Trigger, Secret of Mana, Super Mario Kart—you know what those are. The pixel art didn’t age into a style, it just stopped needing apologies.
Every indie game that borrowed from that visual language—Shovel Knight, Terraria, Stardew Valley—they’re reaching back to grab something that still works. Not because it’s retro and therefore cool, but because it solved problems that didn’t have obvious solutions.
I watched Gregor and Eddy from Retro Klub fire up some games recently, nothing special, just the usual suspects dropping into Dragon Quest, Castlevania, Sim City. There’s something restful about watching someone else play old games, the way you might watch someone rearrange furniture in a house you used to live in. Not homesick exactly, just aware that something was there once.
The SNES is still there, still working. I don’t know why we keep feeling the need to say it matters, except that it does, obviously, and everyone knows it. Some things just refuse to become small enough to fit inside a word like “nostalgia”.
Opening with Kaneda’s bike skidding across that neon highway—that moment when you understand everything in anime is about to change. That’s 1988’s Akira. A film that didn’t just transform Japanese animation. It transformed what animation could be at all.
I came to anime when it was scarce in English, hunting for fansubs and strange VHS copies. And if you trace what came after—Evangelion, Ghost in the Shell, the material that pushed structure and image into uncomfortable places—it all leads back to Katsuhiro Otomo’s film. He built something that didn’t need animation to justify itself as cinema. It was cinema. Dense. Violent. Visually bewildering. Set in a Tokyo that was simultaneously future and ruin.
The plot—Shotaro Kaneda, his friend Tetsuo, motorcycle gangs, psychic collapse—is almost secondary. What matters is the discipline of the image. Every frame composed like it might be the last one Otomo gets to make. That kind of care, that refusal to shortcut the visuals, it became the standard. After Akira, you couldn’t phone it in. Everything that came after knew that.
Just as important is the permission the film granted. Permission to be structurally strange. Permission to let a narrative fracture. Permission to make something not primarily for children, even if it was drawn. Every ambitious anime in the decades that followed walked through a door Akira opened.
What’s strange is how little Akira has aged, even now. The visuals, yes—technically immaculate. But it’s the thinking behind every frame. The refusal to make anime feel cheap or secondary. That became the standard for everything after, and most of it is still trying to match it.
There’s a documentary about this—Super Eyepatch Wolf made “The Impact of Akira”—but you don’t need it. Just look at what came next. The influence is everywhere, written into the DNA of nearly every ambitious anime since. That’s how you know something mattered.
Arctic Monkeys, Sheffield, early 2000s—the band that made “I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor” feel like it was written about the exact moment you were in. They had that specificity. Alex Turner wrote like he’d been watching, no generality to project yourself into.
They were part of that mid-2000s rock wave, but they did something the others didn’t: they kept moving. Each album a left turn. Unpredictable in a way that meant you couldn’t write them off after three albums like you could with almost everyone else.
Five years between albums. Long enough to wonder if they’d run out of ideas, if the hunger had cooled. What they came back with said no. The writing sharper, the scope wider, everything suggesting they’re following something internal, not chasing anything.
They’re not asking for forgiveness or for you to care. They’re just doing the next thing. That’s rarer than it sounds.
When dogs feel outmatched, they collapse on their backs, expose everything, and just surrender. That’s submission. When I feel like that, I do the same thing, except I also get this overwhelming urge to rub myself against whatever just beat me. It’s not always sexual, but ritual—pure acknowledgment.
Right now, if someone asked me to pick one person to fuck, kill, and marry without thinking twice, it’d be Princess Nokia. Destiny Nicole Frasqueri was born in ’92, lost her mother to AIDS at ten, spent the years after in and out of foster care until sixteen. She’s my spirit animal right now, and if I weren’t so lazy I’d probably spend all my time trying to make her mine.
The music video for “For the Night” is what did it. Princess Nokia’s performing clips from old shows, but mostly she’s just shaking her ass so hard in this blue-lit villa with a pool that I immediately hit the floor, flipped onto my back, and spread myself out because I had to. The submission. The rubbing. All of it, forever.
Photographers are finally getting paid. Somewhere right now, lawyers from the Trunk Archive are sending standardized letters to German bloggers: five thousand euros per image, per post, whatever the cost formula dictates. The Archive represents Ellen von Unwerth, Valerie Phillips, Olivier Zahm, and a roster of photographers whose work ended up on fashion and lifestyle blogs without permission. They use PicScout—basically Google Images but set up for legal leverage—to find what belongs to them. The software pulls up your 2015 post with a borrowed photograph. You’d forgotten about it years ago. They hadn’t.
This is happening across German blogs right now. The Trunk Archive isn’t just targeting recent violations—they’re going through archives methodically, pulling images from a decade back. If you used a photographer’s work without asking, there’s no statute of limitations. The software found it. The lawyers know. The letter arrives.
There’s a brutal elegance to the enforcement structure. Automated search removes the need for humans to hunt the internet. Automated letters remove the need for custom legal work per case. The cost of pursuing thousands of small violations becomes negligible. For photographers who watched their work stolen and republished for decades with no recourse, this is finally justice. For everyone who built websites on the assumption that the internet was basically ungoverned, it’s the bill coming due.
The practical move is straightforward: audit your archives. Check blog posts and social media back to the beginning. Cross-reference the Trunk Archive’s photographer roster. If their work appears anywhere you control—embedded, reblogged, downloaded and reposted—delete it. You might be sitting on expensive mistakes without knowing.
What strikes me is how final it feels. The internet used to run on the assumption that attribution was enough, that creators lacked the enforcement capacity or will to pursue their rights, that sharing was inherently a compliment to the photographer. That entire era just ended, without a goodbye, without anyone nostalgic about it. There’s automation now, and the lawyers are paid. The system works.
I’d been awake for three days straight. Every time I’d jolt up at 2 AM, 4 AM, 6 AM, the first thing I’d do was reload the page. The video would still be there, thumbnail and all, sitting among thousands of others like it, completely unmoved by my desperation. I’d click the little flag in the corner again, fill out another form, send another email to an address that almost certainly didn’t have a real person behind it. Then I’d lie back down and stare at the ceiling, drinking cold coffee.
Fabienne had texted me on a Friday night while I was at a bar arguing about Zombieland. She wanted to know if I was fucking with her. Why was there a porn video of her on the internet. I didn’t know what she was talking about until she explained: some guy had uploaded a clip we’d made years ago, just for ourselves, something we’d done for fun one afternoon. Turns out he’d uploaded it to YouPorn over a year ago. Millions of views. I read the comment section like I was reading reviews of my own character. “I want to come on her tits!” “Hottest pussy I’ve seen in forever!” That kind of thing.
The problem wasn’t that I minded. I’ve never had an issue with the idea of someone seeing me naked, watching me fuck. The problem was that Fabienne minded, and she minded a lot, and now she thought I’d done it. That I’d uploaded our video to make a quick buck while she was asleep. Which is insane, obviously—who would be that stupid?—but I understood why she’d think it. The video was there. It had to come from somewhere. And I was the more obvious suspect. When you’re on the wrong side of an accusation like that, the only thing you can do is protest your innocence and hope the person you care about believes you. She didn’t seem to.
I spent three days trying to get it taken down. Saturday morning through Tuesday night, I was sending emails to every contact address the site had listed, filling out removal request forms, messaging people in Twitter DMs, begging for help. Nothing. The video stayed. I couldn’t sleep properly. Couldn’t concentrate. Every notification made my stomach flip. Somewhere in the back of my head was the specific terror that the police would show up, that there was something illegal about this that I didn’t understand, that I’d end up in a cell for something I didn’t even do.
The only real help came from someone named Katie—maybe an employee, maybe just a social media person—who messaged me back when I reached out on Twitter. She was sympathetic. Said she was on vacation but would delete it manually when she got back. So I waited. I reloaded the page constantly. I texted Fabienne updates like I was trying to prove something, though she barely responded. When Katie finally wrote back on Tuesday evening saying it was gone, I should have felt relieved. I didn’t. The video was off the site, sure, but I’d learned something I couldn’t unlearn: nothing disappears from the internet. Someone out there still has it. Someone will always have it. It just takes one person copying it down, one person sharing it, and it lives forever.
There’s this weird thing we do where we act shocked when someone’s intimate life becomes public. We judge women harshly for the same things we laugh at men for. We pretend sexuality is shameful while simultaneously being completely obsessed with it. We act like once something gets out, the person involved should feel destroyed, like they’re damaged goods. But Fabienne and I had been stupid and horny and curious. We made something that felt good at the time. We looked good doing it. The fact that some asshole found a way to steal it and monetize it says something about him, not us. But try telling society that.
I never heard from Fabienne again after I told her it was deleted. Maybe her lawyer told her not to respond. Maybe she just couldn’t stand talking to me anymore. Either way, I got it. The video was gone but the wreckage remained. She wouldn’t speak to me. There was this hanging dread that it might show up somewhere else. And there was something else too—this small, sad awareness that I’d lost her friendship over something neither of us did. The guy who uploaded it faced no consequences. No one knew who he was. He got away with it perfectly.
Everything ends up on the internet eventually. You try to stop it and it doesn’t matter. You think you’re being careful and you’re not. You trust the wrong person or you lose control of a device and suddenly your private life is public. The only thing you can actually control is how you feel about it after. And that’s the part I’m still working through.
The Vanity Fair cover in 2008 was a turning point—Hannah Montana nearly naked, the kind of thing that made every concerned parent in America lose it. After that came the decade of provocative performances and music videos, all treated like she was falling apart, everyone waiting for her to hit rock bottom and apologize.
She never did. Years later when Vanity Fair brought it back up, she answered on Twitter in the most perfect way: I don’t regret it. Fuck you. No apology, no “I was young and foolish,” no gradual rehabilitation into respectability. Just a straight no.
That’s the thing that stuck with me. Most famous people eventually cave—they hit their limit, apologize, perform the ritual of learning their lesson and becoming better. Miley just didn’t. She stood in the wreckage of her good-girl image and wouldn’t play along.
It’s not that it’s noble or wise. It’s just that actually meaning it when you say fuck off is rare. Most people don’t have the spine for that. When you watch someone just… not break under all that pressure and shame, it lands differently.
Hogwarts Mystery hit number one on the app store and suddenly everyone I knew was a Ravenclaw again. I got it because I was bored one night and thought it would be funny for ten minutes. That was two weeks ago.
The setup is simple: you make a character, pick your house, work through seven years at Hogwarts. Classes, quests, the whole curriculum. It looks good, feels right, and if you spent any real time with Harry Potter, there’s something about being in that world on your own terms that the books and films can’t touch.
The monetization is vicious. Everything costs energy. A lesson, a quest, moving between scenes — energy, energy, energy. You can wait for it to refill slowly, or you can pay. The game asks constantly, for the smallest things, in ways that feel designed to anger you. There’s no pretense about it.
I’m still playing. I’ve spent money I shouldn’t have spent. People I respect are sinking hours into this despite knowing exactly what’s happening. There’s something about having your own story at Hogwarts that the books and films can’t give, and I keep paying for it.
I could just rewatch the films instead. They’re all at home. But you know it won’t fix anything. You play it anyway.
Billie Eilish was fifteen when “Lovely” came out with Khalid, and I kept getting stuck on that fact. Not in a weird way—just the contrast between how young her voice sounds and what she’s singing about. There’s something about hearing actual fear and exhaustion in a teenage voice that feels more honest than when older artists do it.
She’d already moved fast by that point. “Ocean Eyes” came out of nowhere, this intimate track her brother Finneas produced, probably in their living room somewhere in Los Angeles. It caught fire online, got remixed, built a whole following. “Bellyache,” “Copycat”—she proved she could make more than one good song. But “Lovely” was the first time I heard her do something with real restraint.
The production is almost aggressively minimal. There’s space everywhere. Finneas built this empty canvas and Billie and Khalid just exist in it, both of them barely pushing, neither one trying to dominate. She sings about being trapped, about looking for a place to hide, about not being able to face what’s outside. “I hope I can get out of here someday, even if it takes all night or a hundred years.” It’s small and exact. Nothing is wasted.
What gets me is how she sounds like she’s thinking out loud rather than performing. The way both their voices sit in that space without competing. Khalid brings something gentler, more accepting of the darkness, while Billie’s still fighting it. That contrast does more work than any production flourish could.
This was the moment where it became clear Finneas was as much a part of her sound as her voice—he understood that for her, the power wasn’t in fullness but in what you could hear by removing almost everything else. Most people don’t figure that out at fifteen. Most people don’t figure that out ever.
When you watch “Lösch Dich,” a documentary about online hate networks, you expect to learn about anger. What you get is the production schedule.
Reconquista Germanica, a right-wing troll network that ramped up before the 2017 German elections, built a machine. They recruited people—not ideologues, mostly just people sitting with loose resentments about immigrants, Islam, whoever—and fed them into structured groups. Every day, new orders: flood this hashtag, tag these accounts, push this narrative. Variations on a theme, coordinated relentlessly. The goal wasn’t to convince anyone of anything. It was to make their perspective look inevitable, inescapable, already won.
A guy called Nikolai Alexander ran it. He knew which questions worked: “What does it mean to be a patriot? What’s Germany to you in your dream?” And it worked. The machinery was efficient. Sort by leaning, feed into units, assign tasks, repeat.
The documentary pulls back the curtain. You see the funnels, the command structure, the mechanics laid bare. And something crystallizes, something sick: this is how some of what passes for genuine public opinion actually forms. It’s not organic. It’s someone else’s construction project.
What lingers isn’t the ideology or the targets. It’s the realization that resentment—the thing that feels most intimate and real—can be engineered. That loneliness and anger can be turned into a process, a schedule, a thing that runs itself. That the system is simple enough to work, and that most people inside it don’t even know they’re parts in it.
There’s this gravitational thing that happens with design movements—they start in one place and ripple out until everyone’s orbiting around the source. For streetwear, that center has always been Tokyo. Not exclusively, but the gravity keeps pulling you back there. Fujiwara, Takahashi, Nakamura, Yamamoto—these aren’t names that come up in conversation, they’re coordinates you’re always trying to reach. The magazines too. POPEYE, GRIND, Men’s Non-No. They documented something that the rest of the world spent years trying to understand.
David Fischer started Highsnobiety in 2005 as a private blog in Berlin, just writing about the stuff he cared about. For twenty years it’s been this filter for what matters in sneakers and streetwear and the culture around it. But at some point the most honest thing a publication can do is go to where the thing actually lives. Not to cover it from a distance, but to be there.
So he moved to Tokyo. The magazine has a home there now. Closer to the people and places that built this language in the first place. It’s not about having the first look at drops or being where the stories break—it’s about standing where the influence is made, not just where it lands. There’s something right about that. Following the pull back to the source instead of just standing at the edge of the ripple.
Verde is green in Spanish, and Marsimoto’s given us an entire album that proves he’s still operating on the strangest frequency in German rap. Most alien energy, most removed from whatever’s happening on actual earth while the planet falls apart in the background.
The beats are what grab you first. Nobodys Face, Robot Koch, Dead Rabbit, The Krauts—they’re building something that lives and moves under you, that keeps shifting, always something else emerging from the mix. It’s production that doesn’t sit still for a second, but it holds together. Bubbling, restless, like something breathing.
Marsimoto rides it perfectly. Not performing, not trying to convince you. Just thinking alongside you, half-singing through verses that come at you sideways. The hooks fold back on themselves. Nothing here pretends to mean something grand. “Immer wenn ich high bin,” “Solang’ die Vögel zwitschern, gibt’s Musik”—summer songs, escape songs. The kind of music that makes you want to lie in the grass and let the day go.
I’ve always respected music that knows exactly what it is and doesn’t apologize. Verde’s that kind of album. It’s not trying to be anything else.
Puma had this launch for the RS-0 in Berlin—a running shoe trying to matter as streetwear. They filled a space with arcade cabinets, the games everyone remembers, and served drinks while people looked at shoes. The design works. Old Puma genes, some future language in the lines, that archive green. Everyone was dressed like they’d solved this problem last year and didn’t care anymore.
The shoe just sits between two timelines. Not cheap nostalgia, not pretending to be something new. It evolved from what was there before. I have no idea if streetwear people will actually care about a running shoe if you tell them it’s a running shoe, but here it looked fine.
The arcade games were real—people played them instead of being ironic about them, which almost never happens. Nico Adomako played music. The usual Berlin thing: everyone fashionable by default, nobody trying. Cold beer.
I left thinking the shoe was good but the concept—past plus future—is just marketing-speak for describing right now. We’re living in that aesthetic already. The shoe looked right though. That’s the only part that actually matters.
Saturday always hits the same — brain checked out by afternoon, nothing on the calendar, friends doing their own thing. Used to just kill time scrolling until dinner. Then I dredged up this stupid list from somewhere in my memory, one of those old joke posts about ridiculous missions you’d assign yourself for the weekend.
Most of it was genuinely dumb in the best way. Paint yourself completely green and go to a club, and if anyone calls you Hulk they have to buy you a drink. Ask the DJ if he can play the whole album by a band that doesn’t actually exist. Tell everyone their name wrong on purpose for the entire weekend and watch the social math completely fall apart.
The really stupid ones were the best ones. Go ask random strangers on the street if they’ll adopt you, and apparently if they say yes you’re officially part of their family now. Sell all your stuff and fly to Antarctica to become a professional penguin cuddler because they’re always cold. Play Tetris but the buildings are actual apartment blocks. Suck on a frozen french fry and tell people it’s the new American food trend and watch them actually consider it.
You’d never do most of these. They’re funny as ideas, not as things to actually carry out. The gap between the thought and the execution is where the fun actually is. But some versions of this stupidity do work. Show up somewhere completely committed to the bit, don’t break, let other people figure out what’s happening — that’s its own thing.
What made the list work was that it didn’t take itself seriously enough to be annoying. Just here are some absurd things, do as many or as few as you want, whatever. No hype, no pressure. Just nonsense in its purest form.
ABBA’s back. The machinery kicks in—housewives reclaim their disco, Sweden markets its cultural legacy, certain gay men get their nostalgia returned. But the conversation skips the actual better version: A*Teens.
Four Swedish kids cast in 1998 to cover ABBA as Eurodance. John, Sara, Amit, and Marie, pure pop product. The artificiality was the point. The ABBA Generation dropped in 1999 and it worked. Took Mamma Mia, Super Trouper, Dancing Queen—didn’t protect them, didn’t reverence them. Just made them faster, louder, immediate. The songs stopped being history and became now. That was the whole trick.
2000 was their moment. Touring with Britney and *NSYNC, relentless on VIVA. Not because A*Teens were revolutionary or innovative. Because they figured out what ABBA’s music actually needed—better tempo, better production, nothing else. The songs didn’t require their original form. They required speed.
The band broke up in 2004 like everything does. By then pop had moved on, nostalgia had reasserted itself, ABBA probably deserved its reverence back. But those four years, A*Teens understood something the original never quite got. Maybe that’s the whole thing.
There are three ways to get weed in Germany and none of them are good. You hang around Görli, hoping to find someone who isn’t selling you dyed weeds. You rely on the paranoid guy on the seventh floor—the one terrified of aluminum foil, airplanes, sunlight. Or you order from the darknet and leave the door unlocked because you know what’s coming.
Switzerland took a different route. You just walk into Lidl and buy legal hemp cigarettes. The Botanicals company grows them—cannabis in automated greenhouses, proper equipment, quality standards. The product is pure: dried buds of Cannabis sativa L., cut and portioned into 1.5 gram packets. Around 17 euros. You pick it up like coffee or bread.
The gap between those two states is genuinely strange to think about. Same language family, same economic zone, separated by a border and suddenly the illegal becomes mundane, the contraband becomes grocery. I have no idea when Germany catches up. Bavaria? Never, probably. But standing in a Lidl buying weed feels like a preview of some stupidly distant future that’s already happening somewhere else.
Kendall Jenner’s Instagram is full of photos where she’s wearing something almost see-through and tight, and there they are—visible, at full attention, making a statement. Not the natural version that exists on most bodies, but the permanently alert kind that makes you wonder if she’s either always cold or always in a state of optimal arousal.
Apparently enough people were looking at those photos closely enough that there’s now an actual procedure for it. Girls are getting them injected—with hyaluronic acid, silicone, whatever sticks—to replicate that exact look. Some doctor somewhere branded it the “designer” or “freezing” look. The goal is permanent projection, permanent definition. Never relaxed.
The actual procedure depends on what you’re starting with. If it’s inverted, they release the tissue and inject filler to project it out and keep it sitting up. If you want more shape and that pointed appearance, same basic approach. The result is supposed to look naturally hard, like you just walked in from a cold room.
There’s something deeply specific about this cultural moment—where nipple augmentation is a thing people are actually doing. Not hypothetically, not joking about. Scheduling appointments, spending money, betting that this is the procedure that’ll make the difference. We went from lips to ass to every other body part getting its Instagram moment, and now we’re here.
What gets me is the math underneath it. The belief that this is the missing piece. That optimized breasts—or really, optimized points on breasts—are what finally makes someone look twice. Like all the other stuff (your face, what you say, who you are) was just… fine. But the nipples. The nipples were the problem. The nipples are what’ll change everything.
And Kendall Jenner doesn’t even know it’s happening. She’s just existing on her phone. Thousands of people see a photo and think: I need to look like that. I need to get a doctor to make mine look like hers. And the doctors just do it. No one stops and asks if this is insane. It’s just what we’re doing now.
Gumdrop scraped chewed gum off Amsterdam streets, ground it into granules, and pressed it into shoe soles. Gumshoe—a pink sneaker where the sole is 20 percent of the stuff, about a kilogram per pair. The sole even has a map of Amsterdam on it.
This is part of the whole trend now. Plastic bags into shirts, ocean garbage into pants, old socks into new socks. The closed loop where consumption just eats itself—buy, throw out, buy again, feel fine because it’s recycled. Gumshoe doesn’t hide the joke though. You’re wearing street refuse. There’s something weirdly honest about that.
I don’t know if the shoe actually works. The gum probably gets sticky in heat, smells weird, falls apart. But whether it functions is almost beside the point. Someone looked at pavement gum and thought ’sneaker material.’ That audacity is the interesting part.
Around 190 euros a pair. The product itself is secondary. You’re paying for the idea—proof that someone can look at garbage and see a shoe. That’s worth something.
Someone did something clever with the festival posters this year. Splash, Hurricane, Rock am Ring—stripped out all the women’s names. What remained looked thin. You could see what wasn’t there.
The expected questions came up. Were women just not making festival music? Fewer of them starting out? Did audiences prefer men? Maybe random chance.
But I kept thinking about how visibility actually works. A musician I read—Laura Lee—broke it down. Women get on magazine covers maybe once every few months, if at all. Radio’s no different. Someone who programs for a major station was literally told that playing two female artists in a row was ’kind of exhausting.’ Two. Back-to-back. So women never break through the margins. The system keeps them there.
Looking back at those festival posters after that, they stopped looking like accident.
YouTube deleted Simon’s channel after five years. Every weekly upload, gone, because he posted about hemp products. Not a major violation, probably not even one by their actual rules—just an overcorrection in a panic. Poof.
A few days later, Kilian at Tanzverbot got hit with a strike for a video from two years ago. No recent violation. No warning. Just sudden, arbitrary, and calculated: locked out of the features that let him build an audience. “I woke up in a good mood and now I’m completely fucked,” he said.
YouTube had been taking heat. Wall Street Journal reporting on ads running next to extremist content, advertiser boycotts, the whole thing where everyone decided PewDiePie was the real problem. Behind the scenes, shareholders were scared. And YouTube, which loves the persona of a cool, community-first platform, started acting like a frightened corporation trying to protect ad revenue.
The pattern was always there. YouTube’s always preferred safe content—cosmetics, travel, music videos, nothing that might upset an advertiser. But the algorithm kept surfacing the edgy, controversial, actually-interesting stuff. That contradiction finally gave. So they tightened the screws. Not carefully. Just hitting channels large enough to have real followings, channels whose creators had made themselves dependent on YouTube income.
Both Simon and Kilian had thought they were safe. Five years or an established streaming presence meant something, they figured. It didn’t. The message was clear: YouTube chose its own revenue over creator security. The time when the platform needed you was over. Now it could afford to cull anyone who didn’t fit the sanitized image that kept advertisers calm.
I’ve spent twenty years online watching platforms come and go. None of it’s permanent. But there’s something particular about watching a company openly choose money over everything else and then act surprised when creators start looking elsewhere.
I went to see Infinity War because my friends were going. I hadn’t watched Marvel in years, didn’t know who half the characters were, spent two hours watching people have emotional conversations with strangers. Left feeling nothing, which seemed wrong.
The MCU had built itself into something you couldn’t casually enter. Ten years of films, each one requiring you to have watched the last. There was no point of entry if you’d fallen behind.
Everyone around me seemed completely fluent in the mythology. They knew which relationships mattered, which random artifact was actually important, the entire web of who knew whom and why it mattered. There was something impressive about that—the way people had built this entire second reality in their heads. Also exhausting to witness.
I haven’t been back since. Not bitter about it, just made the calculation that catching up on a decade of movies wasn’t worth seeing one more Avengers film. The MCU had optimized itself for true believers, and there was no room for people like me. That’s fine. There are other things to watch.
Julian King, the EU’s commissioner for security, wants to know who you really are. Not your username—your actual name, verified and on file somewhere. It would solve everything, he thinks. Misinformation would vanish. Trolls would behave. The whole internet would finally grow up.
The sales pitch is gentle enough: “verified pseudonymity.” Your real identity stays registered and checked, but you can still use a username if you want. It’s a compromise, see? The structure without the total erasure of privacy. Neat. Reasonable. Probably fine.
Except every place that’s actually built this system has ended up with a surveillance state. China has it. North Korea has it. Iran has it. Once you’ve got a registry of who said what and when, a government knows exactly who to target. Dissidents disappear. Minorities get tracked. The same infrastructure that catches assholes also catches anyone the government decides is inconvenient. It’s not a glitch in the system—it’s the point.
And for what? Real-name policies didn’t even fix the problems they claimed to. South Korea tried it, gave it up. You still get misinformation. You still get cruelty. You just get it with a complete ledger of who’s responsible, which sounds nice until you realize who gets to hold that ledger.
The internet was supposed to be a place where you could think dangerous thoughts without your government knowing, say unpopular things without your boss finding out, be someone other than who you were supposed to be. Not always good—anonymity made people cruel. But it also made people free, in a way that being fully legible and registered doesn’t.
King’s probably sincere. He’s not trying to build a police state. He just thinks good policies and careful procedures will keep a surveillance tool from becoming a weapon. Which is what everyone thinks, always, right before it does.
I used to download these monthly compilations of indie rock—just absolute chaos, fifty songs thrown together with no logic. Interpol, Blonde Redhead, Modest Mouse buried in there between all the garbage. You’d dig through them looking for the real ones. This was what mattered. This was what you cared about.
Then it became noise. Everyone started making the same record—tremolo guitars, detached vocals, that specific kind of cool-guy disaffection. By 2012 it was exhausted. The thing that had felt urgent and alive became just another soundtrack to a life nobody cared about. People moved on to dubstep, trap, whatever. I did too.
A few years ago some young musicians started playing guitar again, but actually seriously, without the irony or the performance of being too cool for anything. Lindsey Jordan did it. Made “Heat Wave” and it was just good. Not good because it was reviving something dead, not good because it was clever or commented on the past. Just good.
I know how this works. The cycle will turn again. Guitar music will fade, become something for people who are stubbornly holding on. But right now it doesn’t feel like something dead, and I’m paying attention while I can.
WhatsApp’s age requirement just jumped from 13 to 16 because of GDPR. Starting in May, you’ll see a prompt asking if you’re old enough. Answer no, and you’re supposedly out.
Except there’s no verification. It’s exactly like those “I’m 18” gates on adult sites — you click yes, you’re in, nobody’s actually checking. The EU didn’t require real age verification, so this is just the appearance of something happening.
There’s something honest about it, in a way. A regulation that everyone involved already knows won’t work, being implemented anyway. The wall exists so regulators can point to it. Kids under 16 will keep using WhatsApp; they’ll just click an extra button first.
Bavaria’s premier Markus Söder pushed through a law requiring every state building to hang a cross starting June 1st. His argument is that the cross represents Christian Western cultural identity, not religion specifically. It’s the kind of line you deliver when you’re not thinking very hard about what you’re saying.
The constitutional problem is straightforward. The state and church are supposed to stay separate—that’s actually in the law—but Söder’s doing this anyway. Someone named René pointed out the obvious issue online: you can’t strip the religious meaning from a religious symbol just because you’ve decided its cultural cache matters more. The whole mandate probably violates the very document it claims to respect. But that’s not the point. The point is the move—it’s pure politics, pure performance.
Then the photograph happened. Söder at a press event holding the cross, and at that particular angle, in that particular light, it looks like something else entirely. Something rainbow-colored. Something cylindrical. Something you’d expect to find in a nightstand drawer, not hanging in a school. The internet saw it immediately and the image went everywhere. It’s genuinely the best argument against his entire mandate. Not the law itself, not constitutional violation, just a photograph of a man holding what clearly looks like a dildo.
That’s what’s actually going up in every Bavarian government office, every school, every state building starting next month. Not a cross. This.
American Apparel’s whole thing was being aggressively boring in the best way. Plain t-shirts. Hoodies. The kind of basics that somehow become iconic because someone got the fit and the color right. Dov Charney built the brand on that — minimal design, manufactured in LA, priced so you could actually buy it. During the hipster peak, if you wanted to look good without overthinking, American Apparel was basically the answer.
Then in 2014 Charney got fired from his own company. It came out that he’d been sending dick pics to employees, jerking off in front of them, asking for nudes. The whole thing unraveled from there. He was the creative driving force, and he was also a sexual predator, and somehow those two facts got tangled up in what the brand even was. By 2015 the company was bankrupt. Gildan, a massive Canadian manufacturer, bought what was left for around ninety million euros.
The new owners shut down every store. American Apparel didn’t die so much as evaporate. It went from being everywhere to nowhere.
Now they’re back with something called “Back to Basics” — old ads restaged but cleaned up. Less sex, more purity. Soft versions of those stripped-down images that used to feel like they were breaking rules. You can shop basics again if you want.
It’s hard to see how this works. The brand was built on a specific moment and a specific person — that collision of minimalism and sex, restraint and transgression. You can’t separate that from Charney, and his name is toxic now. The comeback feels like someone trying to wear the same outfit years later and expecting nobody to remember what happened in it.
“Ask me no questions, I will tell you no lies, careful what you wish for. We’re looking for angels in the darkest of skies.” That’s Lauren Mayberry from the new CHVRCHES song, and I’ve been paying attention since 2013 when they showed up with “The Mother We Share,” and her voice really hasn’t changed—still that precise, clinical precision that somehow makes synth-pop feel less empty. The BBC once said their early stuff shimmered once you wiped the tears off the speakers, which was honest because it sounded like they actually meant it.
The Glasgow trio found something in a basement that most electronic acts never do: they made something genuine without trying too hard. Mayberry, Iain Cook, and Martin Doherty just made the music they believed in, no formula, no label push—or that’s what it sounded like. “Miracle” is the fourth single from Love Is Dead, coming in May, and it carries the same lean toward the minor key, the same sense that the hook matters less than what’s underneath it. Still not asking for a miracle. Just looking.
You know that moment in Spirited Away when Chihiro steps through the tunnel and everything opens up—the food stalls, the bathhouse, the flooded landscape—and you realize she’s crossed into somewhere she can’t come back from? That’s what they’ve built in Nagakute, about 350 kilometers west of Tokyo. A place where the animation actually becomes a place you can walk through.
Studio Ghibli Park opened with different themed areas tied to the films that made the studio what it is. You move between the world of Howl’s Moving Castle, then Spirited Away, then My Neighbor Totoro, Kiki’s Delivery Service. It sounds like a gimmick until you’re actually there, and then it becomes something harder to name. The uncanny experience of stepping into the inside of your own memory.
They didn’t go for the obvious theme-park plasticity. The structures are actual architecture, the environments recreated with reverent accuracy. The food tastes right. The light comes from the right angles. You can feel that someone spent real time thinking about what these worlds owe to the people who dreamed them.
What hits you walking through is how much animation lives in suggestion. The drawings move and you fill in the rest—textures, temperatures, smells. Standing in the actual bathhouse courtyard, or the forest path, you confront what you were filling in all along. It’s the strange precision of having your imagination treated seriously.
I never thought I’d actually walk into Totoro’s forest, or stand where Howl stands at the window. And now I can. That boundary between the world in your head and the world you move through collapses. You’re not sure if that’s a good thing or just inevitable.
Kollegah and Farid Bang showed up at the Echo Awards with Holocaust jokes. Just said them, onstage, like it was part of the bit. The industry watched, then watched the board of the Bundesverband Musikindustrie realize they had a problem that couldn’t be fixed with a statement. So they did the only thing left: they killed the award and promised something better.
The Echo is finished now. Officially dead. There will be a replacement—workshops are planned, consultations with the industry, some kind of new award with better values and a cleaner conscience. But the thing itself is gone, because the thing itself is tainted.
I understand why. Once you broadcast something like that, it sticks. You can’t wash it off. The damage is permanent and the only move is to blow it up and start fresh. I get it.
What’s strange is thinking that’s actually a solution. As if the problem was the award’s structure or its name, when really the problem was an industry that couldn’t or wouldn’t stop two guys from doing this. A new logo and some consultations aren’t going to change that. The next award will have the same industry making the same decisions, just with better optics.
Maybe the replacement will be different. Probably not.
Videodrom is in crisis. The video rental store in Berlin’s Kreuzberg has 35,000 films in its catalog—the biggest in Germany—and €20,000 in debt that grows every month. Rental numbers have collapsed. The owner, Karsten Rodemann (who calls himself Graf Haufen), watches the math turn impossible. Summer’s coming, traditionally dead season for places like this, and he’s out of reserves.
But the debt is just a number. The actual problem is bigger. When Netflix or Criterion or whoever decides a film isn’t worth the licensing cost, isn’t trendy enough, doesn’t serve the algorithm’s current preference—it disappears. One day it’s there. The next, nothing. Deleted. Unless you kept the DVD, unless you knew someone with a copy, unless there’s still a physical archive somewhere, that film becomes effectively inaccessible. Not lost. Just gone from the world as anyone could reasonably get to it.
What made Videodrom different was exactly what made it unsustainable. Rodemann ran the place on the logic that culture was worth preserving even when there wasn’t money in it. You could find films there that streaming services had already written off, forgotten about, determined weren’t profitable to keep circulating. 35,000 reasons to think differently about what got to survive.
The thing that kills me is how inevitable the collapse feels. Streaming was always going to be cheaper and easier than renting DVDs. The margins were always going to get worse. Once enough people stop renting, the economics just don’t work—rent goes up, demand goes down, and every independent video store hits the same wall eventually. Berlin’s full of that story right now. Shops closing. Chains replacing whatever was independent. The city becoming something more efficient and less interesting.
Videodrom is probably done. Maybe some nostalgia moment buys it time. Maybe the owner keeps scrapping it out. But the math underneath doesn’t change. What gets to me is thinking about what doesn’t get preserved when places like this close down. There are films only available there now. Not because they’re rare or obscure—some are pretty standard—but because the streaming services delisted them, or the licensing is tangled, or they’re just not profitable to keep in circulation anymore. Those films exist in one physical location in Berlin, and when that location closes, they become a lot harder to see.
There’s something about walking into a store and talking to someone who’s been watching films for decades that doesn’t have an algorithm equivalent. Asking what to watch and actually getting taste, context, a reason to take a risk on something you wouldn’t have clicked on alone. That’s gone when the store closes. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe that’s just nostalgia for a way of living that wasn’t that great in the first place. But I’m not sure.
First time I saw these, I couldn’t stop looking at them. Purple doesn’t usually work on sneakers—most designers hedge their bets, throw in black or white like an apology. These just commit to it completely. Full purple.
Skim Milk, an art collective from Los Angeles, collaborated with Fila on a revival of the 1995 silhouette. They named it ’Purple Reign,’ which could go either way, but the shoe doesn’t apologize for anything, so maybe that’s beside the point.
The lookbook that came with it features Michael Q. Schmidt in photographs that feel deliberately unsettling. Not the usual brand-safe polish. There’s an intentional weirdness to it, moments that linger in a way that’s hard to shake.
What’s interesting about bringing in Skim Milk is that it doesn’t feel like a standard retro play. You could just re-release a 1995 shoe and make money. But collaborating with an art collective suggests someone’s actually thinking about what they’re reviving, not just photocopying the past.
Available at Fila stores in New York, Seoul, and Tokyo, plus online. It’s the kind of shoe that stops people on the street. Which, I think, was always the entire point.
Chrono Trigger still lives in my head. The way Yasunori Mitsuda’s music shaped that whole world—there’s something about game soundtracks that no film score does quite the same way. They’re built to loop, to anchor you in a space you’re moving through, to make you feel the weight of a moment without ever trying. The Witcher 3, Outer Wilds, Disco Elysium—I come back to these albums the way other people come back to records they loved in high school.
I’ve always been weird about vinyl. There’s something tactile about it that digital never quite matched, even if the sound quality argument is probably half nostalgia and half real. You put on a record and you’re committing to sitting with it for a while. You flip it. You read the credits. It’s a ritual. So when game soundtracks started getting pressed to vinyl—when you could actually own Earthworm Jim’s theme on wax, actually hold VA-11 Hall-A as a physical object—something clicked.
Black Screen Records out of Cologne figured this out early. They’ve been pressing game soundtracks since the beginning, everything from tiny indie games to bigger stuff. Oddworld, Hyper Light Drifter, Furi—the catalog has range. The albums look clean. The sound is clean. If you care about both games and records, you end up there eventually.
I’m not sure what I’m buying anymore—the music or the idea. Probably both. There’s something about owning a physical copy of a game’s soundtrack that makes it matter more, makes it feel less like background noise. It stops being disposable the moment it’s on wax.
Venom’s a film now with Tom Hardy, and honestly that’s the only reason I’d care. The character itself doesn’t interest me much—symbiote, Spider-Man enemy, the usual comic stuff. But him doing his thing, going completely serious and committed into something as absurd as a talking creature living inside a guy’s skin, that’s worth the ticket. He doesn’t half-ass anything.
Ruben Fleischer’s making it. Zombieland director, so there’s some comedy sensibility in there. Woody Harrelson, Michelle Williams, Riz Ahmed in supporting roles. October release.
Two hours of Tom Hardy having an argument with himself through an alien parasite. I’ll be there.
Sunday around noon on the S5, packed car between Jannowitzbrücke and Ostbahnhof. A 36-year-old woman is giving her 38-year-old friend a blowjob. Kids are somewhere on the train, tourists are around, and she’s just going for it—no hesitation, mouth working, dick out in public. Commitment to the act. I’ll give her that.
An 18-year-old passenger says something. Tells them to stop. This is where the woman decides to become a problem. Instead of pulling up his pants and shuffling away embarrassed, she goes feral. Curses the girl out, then hits her square in the face. The boyfriend jumps in, starts punching the girl’s 19-year-old friend. The woman’s partner joins the fight. Three on two in a moving train car, and nobody’s backing down.
Someone pulls the emergency brake when they hit Ostbahnhof. A witness actually grabbed one of the guys—held him by the shirt while his dick was still hanging out of his pants, keeping him from lunging back. The kids got bruised, scratched up, nothing serious. The couple ran. Cops found the woman from the footage, her boyfriend turned himself in. The usual charges: public indecency, assault, insult.
What strikes me is how fast it turned. Not the sex itself—fine, people are animals, people are horny, I get it. But the violence. The absolute refusal to feel caught or embarrassed or wrong. Just go straight to throwing punches at teenagers. The entitlement is staggering. Like being interrupted was the transgression, not them fucking six inches from someone’s child.
Berlin’s got this reputation for not giving a shit what you do. Maybe that’s real. Or maybe it means you can do whatever you want until someone has the nerve to call you on it, and then it’s a free-for-all. I’ve been in cities where everybody minds their own business, and I’ve been in places where the response to any chaos is immediate and brutal. Berlin splits the difference—anything goes until it doesn’t, then suddenly you’re on the floor bleeding and the cops are asking questions.
The couple probably got fined or community service. They’re still together, probably. Maybe they found a better spot—a parked car, somewhere dark, somewhere they won’t get interrupted. Maybe they stopped doing it entirely. I have no idea. What I know is the S5 was packed again the next day with fresh passengers in the same seats, nobody thinking about what happened there, and whatever they left behind got wiped clean by someone who doesn’t ask questions.
I started using YouTube livestreams for studying after Spotify cut into my concentration one too many times with loud ads, and I wasn’t about to pay for another subscription. Turns out there’s this entire universe of 24/7 streams—people broadcasting the same lofi beat or ambient electronic track for hours, sometimes days straight. The weird part is that thousands of people are watching at any given time, half of them doing homework or working, all of them quiet, and the chat just scrolls with tiny celebrations (someone passing an exam, someone finishing a book) or just people existing in the same space, half-ignoring each other.
There’s real comfort in it. You’re listening to a stranger play music, but you’re also, in the most distant way, in a room with thousands of other people doing exactly the same thing. Everyone focused, everyone pretending the other people don’t exist. It’s like studying in the library, except the library is infinite and nobody knows your face.
The variety actually works. Lofi hip-hop, obviously—that’s what everyone imagines when they think about study music. But there’s jazz, ambient electronic, synthwave, vaporwave, post-rock, literal rain sounds with a tiny beat underneath. You can find the exact tempo and texture your brain needs that day. Some streams have a webcam pointed at a rain-soaked window or a forest. Others just have a rotating animation or a city skyline.
The format itself does something playlists don’t. Streams don’t end. There’s no “now playing” notification to register, no sense of an album finishing. You put it on and then it’s 4am and you look up and hours have gone. It’s frictionless in a way that matters.
I have no idea how these things exist legally, and I’m not going to ask. They’re free, they’re infinite, and they work.
I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to play one of these games as someone else. What if Mega Man was here instead, or Samus. You imagine it for a second and move on. A YouTuber named Kaze Emanuar actually did it. He merged Super Mario 64 and The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time—both N64 games from the late 90s, both locked in my head as separate monuments—so Mario wanders through Hyrule trying to find Peach.
The weird part is how well it works. I watched clips expecting it to fall apart, Mario too big for the spaces or the controls fighting the landscape or the puzzles wrong for his body. None of that happened. He feels native to Hyrule. The design philosophy is close enough that you’re not fighting the swap, you’re just living in someone else’s memory.
I think that’s because of how N64 games were made. Same hardware moment, same ideas about weight and space and momentum in 3D. When you open them up and let them talk to each other, they don’t clash. There’s a language they both speak.
I haven’t actually played it, just watched clips, but I keep coming back to it. There’s this weird pull that isn’t quite nostalgia. It’s more like someone rearranging furniture in a room you lived in and you realizing the room was bigger than you thought. You know these games inside out. Seeing them braided together makes you want to go back and look for the gaps, the seams you could have fallen through.
I found out about Musical.ly the way you find out about most things online—someone sent me a screenshot, someone mentioned it in passing, and then I went down a rabbit hole trying to understand how a lip-sync app had turned into what amounted to an open marketplace for child exploitation.
The app itself was harmless enough in theory. Teenagers and kids could record themselves pretending to sing or dance to clips of popular songs, share them, get likes and comments. Like Snapchat mixed with karaoke. It should have been fine. But what actually happened was that little girls—and I mean little, some of them eight or nine years old—figured out pretty quickly that they got the most attention when they showed more skin. And the men on the platform made sure they knew it.
Accounts with usernames like “Wickedluver69” would sit in the comments telling these children they looked hot, sexy, beautiful. The girls would film themselves in their underwear, sitting spread-legged on their bedroom floors, camera pointed straight at their bodies. They’d get hundreds of hearts. Grown men would request features—a way to repost the videos to a larger audience—and offer to help them become “stars.” The girls would send their videos over direct message, hoping for exposure, not understanding what they were really being used for.
You could see it all publicly. The collections these predators maintained, organized by age, all the youngest girls grouped together. The requests in comments. The grooming happening in real time. It was all there. The app’s founder claimed they were working on safety, but “safety” meant almost nothing when the entire mechanic was designed to reward exposure and attention.
Most parents had no idea. Their kid would come home excited about getting featured, about the followers, about being popular. Some of these girls were maybe barely in middle school. They weren’t trying to be exploited—they just wanted likes, wanted to feel seen, wanted the validation that the platform’s algorithm dangled in front of them. That’s what the men banking on were counting on.
It’s one of those things where you wish you could unknow it, where you look at your phone and just feel tired about how easily something designed for fun gets weaponized. The app got sold off eventually, some of the most egregious accounts got removed, but the premise never changed. Neither did human nature.
There’s still that feeling when you hear them. Any of the themes. Tico, Lady Oscar, Sailor Moon—one chord of the opening and I’m eight years old again, sitting on the floor in front of an old television set. That was the thing about German TV in the nineties. They just played anime straight through the afternoons. No apologies, no self-consciousness. They treated these shows like they were the most important thing on the schedule, and I believed them.
RTL2, VIVA, whichever channel had whatever time slot—the afternoons all bled together. Tico one day, Mila Superstar the next, Lady Oscar, Monster Rancher. The openings weren’t filler. They had real melodies. Emotional precision. The kind of songs that made you feel like you needed to be brave about something, to fight for what mattered, to become someone worth becoming.
I’m sitting around now, decades later, and a certain synth line will surface in a sample or a memory will conjure it, and there’s this immediate ache. Not the soft kind of nostalgia. More like a tuning fork—something about those melodies was calibrated to exactly the frequency of what I needed to hear at that specific age. The resonance never quite faded.
The openings weren’t trying to charm you. They were trying to make you feel something real. They did. They still do.
These new German rappers are easy to dismiss. The mumbling, the studied refusal to put in work, the obvious copying of American cloud rap that somehow still works. It’s hard to call it music and harder still to call it rebellion. It’s just laziness with branding. And yet here it is.
Yung Hurn is the current wave-rider. Austrian kid, cloud rapper, built his entire presence on YouTube where the algorithm has no standards and doesn’t care if you sound like you’re having a conversation with yourself in a supermarket. Fans dig it. Critics don’t. Doesn’t matter—it works.
His new track “Bist du alleine” follows the same formula. Sparse beat, no flourish, just asking if you’re alone in your room right now. Then he gets to what he wants: break my heart because I want the pain. It’s delivered in that practiced half-whisper, that studied indifference, but there’s something underneath it—a kind of vulnerability that only lands if you’re not trying to perform vulnerability.
Maybe that’s the whole thing. In a world where everything is constantly on and mediated and available, refusal is the only honest move. Refuse to perform, refuse to try, refuse to hide what you want. Say you want pain as casually as asking if someone’s alone, and it becomes the most vulnerable thing you could possibly say.
Harajuku, Shibuya, Shimokitazawa. Spend enough time in Tokyo’s shopping districts and you understand something about how young Japanese people see clothes. They don’t try harder or have more money; they just see something different on the street. A style emerges overseas, and within months Tokyo has already torn it apart and reassembled it into something that looks nothing like the original but feels inevitable.
The Nemes and Galfy collaboration is exactly that move. Blues, blacks, reds—t-shirts, caps, jackets with white text and hard-edged logos. The kind of drop that matters to people who actually care. Zen-La-Rock, a rapper with real credibility in those circles, got behind it, which tells you something about the intent.
What holds my attention is the mechanism. Overseas style arrives, gets filtered through Japanese street culture, and comes back out as something that feels both foreign and absolutely rooted. The pieces are stark and simple. The intention is clear—this is for a specific audience. The familiar story: you discover it, you wear it in the right neighborhood, suddenly you’re part of something else. Or you just have better clothes than everyone around you.
There’s something satisfying about watching it work in real time. The underground doesn’t stay underground long, but that’s never really the point. Tokyo keeps remixing. It keeps landing.
Boot up God of War and the day disappears. The story is solid—Kratos and Atreus in the Norse world, the gods there afraid of what his rage could do—and it’s enough to keep playing. But what actually gets you is the visual design.
Rafael Grassetti, Jose Daniel Cabrera Peña, Vance Kovacs built the world as concept art first, and you can feel that in every scene. Everything is cold. Not just the color palette—ice blues, gray sky, frost white—but the whole mood of it. Forests so thick you can’t see past a few trees. Water that looks like it would cut your skin. A man built for Mediterranean heat and violence, stuck in a place that rejects both. That’s intentional.
The thing about good concept art is that it doesn’t feel like decoration. It’s the ground you’re standing on. You believe the world because the people who designed it believed it first. Kratos moving through that cold, trying to be a father—it only works because the visual design makes the stakes feel physical. That’s the craft.
I catch myself rewatching H3H3’s back catalog instead of starting something new on Netflix that could theoretically change my life. If YouTube disappeared tomorrow I honestly wouldn’t care—or I would care so little I wouldn’t have words for it. Only one channel would actually hurt to lose.
Ethan Klein does this thing where he takes the genuinely insane present moment and punctures it with real precision. He and Hila run the show like they’re watching the world come apart and just trying to set it down a little straighter, without taking themselves seriously about any of it.
What makes it work is the mix. Mutated memes rubbing against actual analysis. Viral videos getting contextualized against what’s actually broken in media and culture. They’re not afraid to be crude or mean when the moment calls for it, and they don’t apologize for finding something funny that maybe you’re supposed to find distasteful. That’s the whole point.
I don’t know who I’d be without H3H3. Someone more credulous, probably. More likely to believe whatever stupid idea gets packaged nicely and handed to me. They do something that feels rare now—they’re demonstrably smart without performing intelligence, sharp without being bitter about it. That matters.
Sometimes I fall asleep to Twitch. Someone’s playing a game I don’t understand, talking in a voice that just works as sleep medicine — Ragequit, Tara Babcock, Kelly Jean. I’m a fan. I’ve actually given these people money.
None of that would exist if Twitch had shown up in the eighties instead of 2011. Everything would’ve been pixelated, uncool, impossible to care about. The streamer’s appeal would’ve been shot. The games too. Would eighty-by-eighty-pixel girls have done the trick? No. Even Minecraft’s graphics aren’t that far from that era, and I can barely stay conscious through Minecraft.
Someone made a video about what Twitch would’ve looked like in 1985. Would it have worked? Doubtful. Would it have been good? Maybe. Would I have watched? No. So the answer’s simple: thank god this website exists now instead of then.
I got a free Netflix subscription a few years ago and genuinely thought my entertainment problems were solved. Unlimited everything, instant access. That lasted until I’d watched Stranger Things and Breaking Bad and the handful of other shows that didn’t feel like a waste of time. After that it was just scrolling through hundreds of options looking for anything that didn’t seem designed for someone else.
Last night I was watching this French film where a divorced woman brings home a new boyfriend and her adult son has a fit about it. Somewhere in the middle of the thing—a sex scene, a conversation about menopause, I stopped paying attention—I just checked out and thought: why am I here? The movie was basically made for middle-aged women who think crude jokes about fucking are hilarious. I’m not that person. The actor means nothing to me. So why was I watching this?
Because there’s nothing else. That’s the actual answer. After you’ve burned through the good stuff—which takes maybe two months of regular watching—Netflix is just filler. Expensive, professionally made filler, sure, but filler nonetheless. I scrolled through my watch history the other day and felt physically ill. Ghost Wars. Game Over, Man. Extinction. None of it was worth the minutes. None of it warranted existing.
But they keep making more. Love. The End of the F***ing World. These hollow shows that all melt together by the time you’ve watched three. And the revival shows are somehow worse—Gilmore Girls coming back for a season nobody asked for. It’s pasta thrown at the wall. Enough of it sticks to keep the whole thing afloat, but most of it’s just waste.
The other streaming services have the same problem dressed up differently. Prime Video makes shows nobody wants to finish. Maxdome is where people who’ve never heard of Netflix go to waste time. The whole model demands volume, which means quality dies and you end up with an infinite amount of something that makes you feel less satisfied than boredom would have.
I could fix this a dozen different ways. Different regions, better VPN, actually leave the house. Those all miss the point. The real issue is that I’m subscribed to a service designed to fill my downtime, and it’s working. I sit there scrolling until I give up and click something just to have noise in the room, some proof that I’m not completely alone with my thoughts. That’s the actual trap.
The solution isn’t a better streaming service. It’s just not doing this. Unsubscribe. Spend the money on literally anything else. Read something. Call someone. Sit with your thoughts without mediation. There’s a whole internet that doesn’t charge a subscription, and a lot of it is worth your time. You just have to want it badly enough to look.
There’s this specific feeling—your thumb on the run button, the jump already queued, knowing exactly how far you’ll travel through the air because you’ve done it enough times to know. That’s what the Super Nintendo was for. Mario, Donkey Kong Country, Kirby—all of it built around that one sensation of having perfect control.
Oddmar is a small Viking obsessed with that same feeling. It’s not trying to reinvent the platformer. You can feel influences from Hollow Knight and Ori in how it’s built, but it’s not copying—it’s more like someone who loved what you loved made the thing they wanted to play.
The world is loud and detailed. Poison mushrooms, flying squirrels that are somehow charming, treasure hidden in weird corners, a sheep for reasons nobody’s explaining. Very straightforward, very Norse without taking itself seriously.
What matters is that it works. The game moves the way you want it to, responds when you expect it to. You die, you’re back. There’s no lag between intention and action, and that’s what separates a good platformer from the dozens that try and miss.
I played it on iPad and it clicked immediately—that moment where you stop thinking about whether you like something and just go. That’s the whole thing right there.
Charlie Puth’s “Done For Me” is fine—it’s a clean production, the kind of song that exists because it’s easy to make and people like to listen to it. But the video is different because Kehlani’s in it, dancing through the whole thing. She moves with this kind of control that isn’t flashy or tryhard, just efficient and confident, the movement of someone who’s figured out how to fill a frame. You watch her instead of watching the song, which is probably not what Puth intended but it’s what happens.
She’s had kind of a rough ride the last few years with all the public stuff, so there’s something about watching her just move through a video with that kind of ease that feels earned. Not defiant, not performative—just present.
The thing about Verne Troyer and Mini-Me is that he didn’t mail it in. He could have—it was already a silly character, already funny just by existing—but instead he committed completely, understood the timing and the physicality, made it work without it tipping into cruelty. That’s harder than it sounds.
He died at 49. Depression, alcohol—the combination that kills a lot of people, especially people who spend their career being charming and professional while something underneath just eats away at them. A few weeks before the end he was hospitalized for alcohol poisoning, and I imagine by that point he knew how it was going to go.
His filmography is scattered. Austin Powers, obviously. Men in Black. Harry Potter. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. That insane Gilliam film. Small parts across decades of films, always the same thing: show up, do the work, don’t complain. There’s a kind of dignity in that, in understanding your place and executing it perfectly.
The interviews are rough to watch now because he was clearly intelligent, articulate, genuinely interested in cinema and the people he worked with. No self-pity. He’d talk about his experiences like someone who understood he’d been given opportunities and meant to make the most of them. And the whole time, clearly, something was breaking.
Mike Myers said something nice after—that Troyer was a beacon of positivity on set, the perfect professional. Probably true. But it’s also the thing you say about someone after they’re gone, when you realize there was a gap between how they showed up and what they were actually carrying.
I spent time in Kyoto and understood why it gets under your skin. Tokyo was relentless—too loud, too much, too fast. Kyoto is different. Everything moves slower there, the air feels older, and you stop trying to keep up with the city and just let it happen around you.
The city was the imperial seat for over a thousand years, which means something—not in a romantic way, just as fact. There’s weight in the old streets. Modern shops blur into ancient temples. A manga store sits next to a narrow bar that’s probably been there since before manga existed. Geishas in full dress walk past blinking arcades. It shouldn’t work but it does.
The thing about Kyoto is that the old stuff doesn’t feel like it’s being preserved for tourists. It feels like it’s just how the city decides to be. The traditions are still alive because people still live them, not because someone decided to keep them alive. You notice it when you walk—the city isn’t frozen. It’s considered. Like someone’s paying attention to whether it stays in balance.
Everything they tell you to see is worth seeing. But what actually stays with you is walking by the Kamo River at dusk, the light turning, and the sudden understanding that you don’t need to be anywhere. That’s when Kyoto gets you.
Bali Baby’s got this new song “Backseat” and it’s doing exactly one thing: Avril Lavigne, early-2000s Disney Channel, pop-rock. She’s 20, from Atlanta, and she owns it without apology. The music video was shot in brutal cold — 12 hours, permanent frostbite on her fingers — and she’s genuinely proud of that commitment.
She had some people interested in “Banana Clip” last year. “Backseat” is where you can tell she’s locked in on what she’s doing. The debut album’s called “Baylor Swift,” which made me smile (out May 8).
I don’t know if I’ll care about this in a month, but I respect the lack of confusion. No false originality, no apologies. Just solid pop-rock with a clear idea of what it wants to be. That’s worth something.
I grew up knowing about Gundam the way you know about something woven into a culture—enormous robots standing in Japanese plazas, merchandise everywhere, a universe someone created in 1979 and kept building on without stopping. Nearly fifty years of it, so embedded in the country’s identity that it sits alongside things that took centuries to form.
The scale is honestly ridiculous. TV series, films, manga, restaurants, theme parks, action figures with more detail than some sculptures. It stopped being just a franchise at some point and became part of how people actually think about themselves.
The stories work on the surface—kids pilot giant robots, wars happen, deaths follow. But the better entries find something heavier underneath: what happens when you’re told you have to pilot something capable of destroying everything around you? What do you become? Unicorn found it. Iron-Blooded Orphans found it. Even the older work has moments where the weight is real.
Gundam Narrative arrives in November as part of whatever their timeline project is called now. More kids, more space, more impossible choices in the cockpit. I’m curious what angle they’ll find, what fresh way to ask the same question about breaking points and what you carry after the fighting stops.
Ritter Sport made a hemp-seed chocolate and called it Schoko & Gras. Limited to a hundred thousand bars, hemp seeds in the filling, completely legal, because in Germany that’s the entire selling point.
The copy doesn’t pretend to be subtle: “Ever had grass like this? Never has hemp tasted so good.” They know exactly who they’re talking to. It’s not about flavor or nutrition or any of that. It’s a chocolate bar that winks at people who like weed while making sure nobody gets arrested for buying it.
There’s something perfectly German about the logic here. A corporation looked at drug laws that don’t quite work and thought: what if we made a product that acknowledges the market without actually delivering what the market wants? It’s regulatory arbitrage in chocolate form. You’re not high, but you’re eating something that tastes vaguely like the idea of being high, and everyone stays legal.
I respect it as a pure move. A real product that somehow made it through an actual marketing meeting and into production. It’ll sell to people who think they’re being clever, and to people who just like hemp seeds. Perfect dumb corporate-culture timing.
Kourtney Kardashian took her clothes off for V Magazine. This is apparently still news. The theory seems to be that you need to either die or get naked to stay in the conversation anymore, and she went with the second option.
I know who the Kardashians are because I was forced to watch their show at some point. You sit down thinking maybe it’ll be entertainingly bad, and you just feel stupider afterwards. But it sticks. The Kardashians become this permanent part of the landscape, like a billboard you drive past without thinking about it.
Kourtney’s always been the sensible one, the oldest, the one who seemed like she didn’t want to be there. I had this whole theory that she was just tolerating the family business. Maybe she still is. But here she is anyway, naked in a magazine, doing what everyone else does now. There’s an interview attached about her kids and makeup. That’s not why they took the pictures.
I stopped caring about it a while ago. It’s just the mechanics now — you trade your privacy for attention, your body for relevance, and nobody flinches anymore. Maybe it’s fine. Maybe I’m just tired of watching it happen.
Minit gives you sixty seconds to live. A small pixel character wakes up in his house wanting to explore the world, and the game ends every minute. Talk to a duck, it ends. Find something useful, it ends before you use it. Dead, reset, back where you started.
The first few loops are frustrating. You’re always hitting the wall before anything clicks. Then somewhere around your thirtieth or fortieth restart, you stop trying to solve everything at once and start committing to single actions. This round I talk to the duck. Next round I go left. The round after that I find the watering can. Piece by piece, absurdly, the world becomes knowable.
What works about Minit is that it doesn’t hide behind its mechanics—it just is them. It’s like Groundhog Day without Bill Murray’s existential dread, just the brute acceptance that you have one minute and that has to be enough. The pixel art stays deliberately minimal. There’s no beauty to hide in, no production value doing the work. Everything is essential, nothing is wasted.
Somewhere in the loops, constant death stops feeling like failure and becomes just rhythm. The minute stops being a timer and becomes how time works. Which is darker than a game called Minit probably intends, but maybe that’s why I keep thinking about it.
“I fell in love with big wheels and fast kicks, made no thoughts about it, it might kill me, I just count a lot of money.” That’s J. Cole on “ATM,” over a trap beat that’s almost austere—controlled, nothing wasted. He’s not lecturing about materialism; he’s confessing to it. Naming the specific trap of wanting things you already know won’t save you.
The production choice is everything. Cole could’ve surrounded this with all the excess the lyrics describe. Instead the beat stays minimal, the mix has air. You can hear him breathing between lines. It’s the counterpoint to what he’s rapping, which is the entire point.
The video reinforces it. Just Cole in an empty room, rapping. No jewelry, no cars, no luxury aesthetic. Nothing to distract from the confession. This kind of clarity only works when you have something worth saying, and he does.
What sticks is how the form and content aren’t fighting each other. When they’re in alignment. That’s harder to pull off than complicated ideas. It’s discipline, and discipline is design.
Bad Gyal’s from Vilassar de Mar outside Barcelona, born in ’97, and when she shows up on a track with La Zowi and Miss Nina it’s clear they’ve figured something out. “I’m where the money is,” she sings, “I just want to cash out, I want bills, I want - fuck me.” La Zowi goes further: “I’m a whore counting money, your whore knows how to suck it, I’ll cut you because you’re bad.” These girls call themselves Chonis - street girls, trashy girls, the thing you’re not supposed to become - and they made trap and reggaeton that got played in Madrid, Barcelona, Seville.
What gets to me about it is how completely unserious they are about performance. No feminist statements, no attempt to make wanting things and being crude about sex add up to something coherent. They just want money and sex and the freedom to say so. Coming from Germany where gender discourse is sterile and binary - enlightened or bad, nothing between - this sounds like someone finally remembered how to breathe. There’s something in that refusal to apologize, to wrap it up nicely, to make it mean something bigger than appetite.
“No Tears Left To Cry” came out in summer 2018, about a year after the bombing at her Manchester concert. Twenty-three people dead. Over five hundred hurt. She’d dropped out of sight after that, which made sense—you don’t come back from something like that on a normal timeline.
When the song finally showed up, it wasn’t trying to mean anything. Just a song, relatively stripped back for her, with space around her voice. “I’ve got no tears left to cry”—she’s singing it like she’s stating fact, not making some grand declaration about resilience or overcoming. There’s exhaustion in it. The exhaustion of having felt everything and having nothing left.
Her voice has always done this thing where melody feels conversational, like she’s just thinking through the lyric as she sings it. I’ve liked that about her for years. But this landed differently because of what came before it, the weight of the year she’d had. You hear that tiredness and it matters.
Everyone wanted to talk about healing, about her return being this triumph over tragedy. Fair enough. But what actually stuck was simpler: she made a song because that’s what she does. Not as therapy. As work. As the only thing that probably made sense anymore. That was enough for me.
When I was eighteen I booked an appointment at the tattoo studio around the corner because I wanted black stars and a moon on my upper arm. Fifty euros deposit, come back in a week. I never went back. The doubt paralyzed me—what if I got bored with celestial bodies? What if this was a huge mistake before the needle even made contact?
Yasmin Shizue from Brazil didn’t let that stop her. She’s a tattoo artist, which means she holds the needle, and she’s also tattooed, which means she’s felt it herself. Photographer Erika de Faria shot her for the site, and what struck Erika was how Yasmin’s work—both as an artist and on her own skin—carries something specific. After she discovered drawing and tattoos, Yasmin worked as an assistant for another artist before opening her own place. The fine line work, the way she keeps returning to nature, the way the symbols and designs feel like they’re revealing something true about her rather than just showing off technical skill.
There’s something about working with your hands that teaches you about commitment. You can erase a drawing. You can paint over a canvas. But a tattoo stays. Maybe that’s why the best tattoo artists are the ones who wear their own work—they know exactly what they’re asking of you because they’ve lived with the consequences.
Yasmin gets it. The marks don’t come off, and that’s the whole point.
I fell asleep during the first Deadpool. Combination of weed, pizza, and the kind of exhaustion that hits without warning. I remember the opening being solid, then I woke up at the credits. Not the kind of experience that makes you clamor for more.
Wasn’t planning to see the sequel. I’ve got a backlog of actual important things to watch before I run out of time. But then the Deadpool 2 trailer hit and something shifted. One character. One person. Domino.
Zazie Beetz as Domino absolutely captured me in a way that was almost stupid. I could feel myself getting into it and not really caring who knew. Ryan Reynolds is doing his whole hot-guy-with-jokes thing and fine, sure, I see it, whatever—he’s doing his job. But Domino. That’s the character that made me think, yeah, I’m going to sit in a theater for two hours and watch this.
So I went because of her. That was the entire motivation. That was the whole reason I bought a ticket. And I’m completely fine with that being the story. No apologies, no pretense. I wanted to watch Domino and so I did.
There’s this moment every year where the entire fashion world just stops and turns toward the desert. Coachella has become something beyond the festival — it’s a destination myth, the place where you’re supposed to matter. Being there only means something once you’re photographed being there.
Alexander Wang understood this completely. So he loaded the new Adidas collection into a van with a few models — Lexi Boling, Binx Walton, Issa Lish, Hanne Gaby Odiele, and the rest — and drove them through the Colorado desert toward the festival. Roadtrip as advertisement, landscape as backdrop — the whole machinery visible but still somehow seductive.
The desert works because it works. You could put anything there and it would start to matter. There’s something about bleached earth and open space, the way light behaves when there’s nothing else around. Put beautiful people in good clothes against that emptiness and they seem to stand for something larger than themselves, which is the entire point. Fashion exists in that gap between what something is and what it looks like.
What gets me is how the whole thing manages to be both completely constructed and still seductive. The models trying to look effortless while someone documents every moment. The van as both vehicle and set. It’s the opposite of a real road trip but shot to look exactly like one. You’re performing casualness at a professional level. Six hours from destination and you’re already arrived.
By the time they reached Coachella, there was nothing left to discover. The campaign had already said everything — that they were the right people, in the right place, at the right moment. The clothes were just the language for saying it. That’s what they were really selling.
I stopped paying attention to Supreme years ago. Nothing against them — I just got tired of tracking what was going to cost three hundred dollars on Grailed next week. But I saw something about a Lacoste collab, and it made me wonder what that even means anymore.
Lacoste is your grandfather’s polo brand. Heritage. Real credentials. Supreme started as a skate shop in New York in 1994, the kind of place where kids would roll up just to see what was dropping that week. James Jebbia somehow turned it into a billion-dollar empire. The red box logo became the thing everyone wanted. Hoodies from ten years ago go for four times retail now.
What’s strange is that Supreme stayed cool the whole time. Brands don’t usually survive their own success that clean. They get quiet, they get desperate, they stop mattering. But Supreme kept being exclusive. Kept being scarce. Kept making you feel like you were in on something. And somehow that never got old.
Now Lacoste wants in. They did a collection together — reimagined polos, probably some other stuff. Heritage brands don’t usually need to team up with newer companies. They’re the foundation. They have pedigree. But Supreme’s cultural capital is worth more than a century of tennis authenticity now, and Lacoste knows it. They brought what credibility they have hoping some of the weird hype would stick.
There’s something honest about it. Lacoste’s basically saying that what Supreme figured out — scarcity, exclusivity, the feeling that you’re inside something — that’s the real currency now. Not because the polos are better. Just because they’re rare and they’re cool and having them still means something.
But how much longer? That’s the thing I wonder. Supreme’s been getting older for twenty years now. Hype doesn’t age well. Eventually people get tired of paying for emptiness. Eventually the red box logo is just a box again. Lacoste’s betting against that happening. I guess we’ll see.
Weekends are supposed to feel like a gift, but there’s always that moment Saturday evening where you’re sitting around and realizing you’ve got nothing. No plans, no obligations, and that restless feeling kicks in—the one that makes you want to do something pointless just to prove you’re still here.
That’s when those stupid little missions start appealing to me. Walk everywhere instead of taking transport. Go to McDonald’s and order one small salad, then sit at a full table while everyone else eats actual food and just eat it with complete seriousness. Buy a lizard and walk it on a leash down the street like that’s a normal thing. Start every conversation with a Bible verse. Memorize some random Wikipedia article and carry it around in your head like it matters. Do things that have no point except that you’re doing them.
Some of it’s about crossing small social lines—sleeping with the least attractive person at a party, not out of any need but because you can, because being alive sometimes means proving to yourself that you’ll do whatever you want. The point isn’t that these are good ideas. They’re not ideas at all. They’re just stuff to fill the time so the weekend doesn’t completely disappear into nothing.
By Sunday I haven’t accomplished anything. But at least I’ve been deliberately weird about it. That counts for something.
Avicii’s dead. Tim Bergling, the Swedish producer, found in Muscat at twenty-eight. No detail about how, no explanation, just gone.
I caught “Wake Me Up” in a Berlin club in 2014, not the kind of place I usually end up in, but the track pulled the whole room into the same moment. Avicii had this quality where euphoria sounded like grief, or maybe the other way around—everything tilted at an angle. His production was raw sometimes, almost acoustic, like he was trying to make dance music out of fingerpicking and heartbreak. He collaborated with the obvious names—Daft Punk, Eric Prydz, Steve Angello—but never sounded like anyone else.
He started young, making beats as a teenager. The stage name came from the Buddhist concept of hell, which either works as dark humor or complete prophecy depending on how you look at it. Won a music competition in 2008, signed deals, and ten years later he was producing some of the most heard tracks in the world. “Levels,” “Wake Me Up,” “Lonely Together.” Songs that moved through every club and festival, designed to make a crowd feel the same thing at the same time.
What strikes me is the trajectory. Kid starts with a C64 remix, somehow ends up making music with Daft Punk, then burns out trying to find a life that doesn’t revolve around being Tim Bergling in front of crowds. He’d been sick, stepped back from touring, and then he just wasn’t here anymore. All the clubs are still playing his tracks. People are still dancing to it, still feeling that moment of suspension he built.
There was something refreshingly intimate about the Jupiter Awards ceremony last night in Berlin—the kind of event where you could actually have a conversation instead of just working the room. Out of half a million votes, they picked Elyas M’Barek and Emilia Schüle as the year’s best actors. M’Barek won for Fack Ju Göhte 3, which also took best German film. Both deserved it.
What mattered more was that Dark and 4 Blocks took best TV series. I’ve watched both enough to know they’re genuinely strange and uncompromising—serious work that doesn’t apologize for being itself. German television has been quietly making some of the most interesting stuff anywhere, and it’s still rare to see that recognized by actual audiences instead of critics. The ceremony apparently had the right energy for it: intimate enough to feel genuine, but still a real celebration.
I don’t think much about what these awards mean to the industry, but there’s something true about half a million people voting and saying yeah, we want more of this. That’s the only vote that actually counts.
I watched this documentary called Back to Tape the other day—Niko Hüls driving around Germany talking to the people who made Hip Hop actually exist there. I was braced for the usual history-lesson thing, but what I got was something quieter. Just a road trip through the places where the music lives: Munich, Hamburg, Stuttgart, Rödelheim, the towns and backyards where it all got built.
German Hip Hop wasn’t supposed to work. Cro, Casper, Alligatoah came later and made it undeniable, but before that it was Toni-L and Advanced Chemistry, Moses Pelham, Samy Deluxe—people in basements and backyards making something that had no reason to exist in Germany except that they decided it would. The documentary doesn’t march through this like a history book. It just visits. Rödelheim in 1993, the moment everything seems to crystallize, Niko listening to Moses Pelham explain how it actually happened. That click-into-place feeling.
What struck me was how real the interviews are. Namika talking about how Hip Hop absorbs the world, how multicultural influence isn’t something you add on, it’s what the music actually is. Curse, Roger, Scotty76, Duan Wasi, Beat Boy Delles, David P—none of them performing history, just living it, talking about the years when the streets changed. That stuff has always interested me, the way music shapes and reshapes a place, the way urban culture actually moves.
The documentary does this thing where it trusts the road. Doesn’t oversell the story or try to make it bigger than it needs to be. Just drives, listens, watches. There’s something honest about that approach. The pulse of German Hip Hop doesn’t need framing—it needs visiting.
I found out this streamer named Mibu said “Fortnite” one hundred thousand times on a single stream. Just the word, over and over, for hours. No gameplay, no commentary, nothing. Just saying it.
Mibu had apparently built a reputation for these kinds of stunts—pointless endurance challenges that don’t require any actual skill. It’s its own strategy: can’t be good at games, be unforgettable instead.
By that point Fortnite was everywhere. After League of Legends and PUBG had their moment, this one owned everything. Drake showed up on streams. Ninja was actually making money. The game was inescapable, which meant everyone was trying to figure out how to ride the wave.
So Mibu sat down and said the same word a hundred thousand times. The original post made it clear that watching the whole thing is an ordeal—something you endure rather than enjoy. But people paid attention. That was the point.
I didn’t watch the full video. No reason to. But I get why it happened. Can’t be good at anything? Just be willing to do the stupid thing longer than anyone else. That’s enough.
For what Michael Jackson or the Beatles are to some people, Lykke Li is to me — not a comparison that lands on anyone else, just the truth about what I listen for. Everything she makes is exactly right on every level.
We waited too long for something new. Not that the old records go anywhere. “Youth Novels,” “Wounded Rhymes,” “I Never Learn” just get better with time. But life moves on, and so does she. Two new songs now: “Deep End” and “Hard Rain,” from an album called “so sad so sexy” out June 8th.
Her music doesn’t reveal itself on the first listen. You’re hearing sound but not really landing on anything yet. Come back a few times and it shifts. A melody you missed before, a line that suddenly matters. That’s by design. She doesn’t explain anything. You have to meet her there.
I’ve been waiting to know what she figured out in the quiet. The answer is still Lykke Li — still the only voice worth listening to, still the one that makes the world feel coherent. Always worth the wait.
I looked down at myself in some bathroom I won’t be naming and realized I couldn’t see my own dick anymore. Normally it’s a decent size, but when your stomach gets big enough to eclipse it, you have to stop and process that for a minute.
Moved to Berlin in 2007 at seventy kilos. That was fifteen years ago. Somewhere between all the cheeseburgers and the pizza—and I’m not exaggerating when I say there were thousands of both—I gained thirty. One hundred kilos now. Forty percent bigger. I did absolutely nothing to stop it. Still haven’t.
This realization came at the worst possible moment: right after I’d crammed an entire double-cheese pizza into my face in record time. Felt so sick afterward that I seriously considered just slitting my stomach open to let it back out. Too cowardly to actually do it.
Got home and dumped everything. All the junk in the kitchen, everything in the fridge, into two massive garbage bags, took them to a dumpster across town. Threw away food. Actual food. Didn’t think about starving children or guilt or any of that—just wanted it gone. Felt good for maybe ten minutes.
I know exactly how this story ends. These moments of conviction last maybe two weeks before you’re eating frosting straight from a container. But what else do you do. So the plan is: cucumbers and ten thousand steps a day. That’s the whole thing. Don’t ask me for details because I don’t have any.
The worst part is I’ve stopped going to those press events. Not because I care about the people there, but because I literally don’t fit through the doors. And I’m not being poetic about that—I mean it physically won’t work anymore.
I could do the whole body-positive campaign. Make a speech about how everyone’s too thin, how representation matters, how Ken dolls are unrealistic. Post about it. Maybe that’s even true. But the real answer is I feel like complete shit. Hunger is not a thing I experience anymore. I just eat because the food exists. Vegetables are a side note. All the pathetic clichés that sound worse when you actually say them out loud.
This was supposedly my last pizza. New rule: never again pizza. Realistically? Two weeks.
Going to try the app tracking thing, hit ten thousand steps a day, and see if in a year I can look down and actually find something worth looking at.
Everything else just means waking up like this every morning.
I’ve watched this show so many times that I can recite the dialogue, but there’s still this moment in season two where something happens between Mamoru and Bunny that I can’t get over. It makes me genuinely upset, and I think about it at three in the morning sometimes, sitting up in bed wondering why he couldn’t just explain himself. Thirty years later and it still bothers me.
The thing is, I love every single character in this show. Not in a diplomatic way where I’m forcing myself to appreciate them — genuinely, absolutely love them all, even the villains. So the idea of ranking them feels impossible to me. Bunny’s my favorite, obviously, but there’s no second place. Everyone’s a first-place character.
I could tell you about specific episodes or scenes that matter most to me, but I’d end up listing all of them. There’s no filler in my head when it comes to Sailor Moon. Every episode is the best episode because they all have something that gets to me.
Part of it’s pure design and craft. The character work in this show — how each person looks, moves, speaks — is so precise that you can’t dismiss anyone. They’re all perfectly realized. But it goes beyond that. Sailor Moon understands something about how people actually are that a lot of other things miss. Everything in it works.
I want to talk about this show constantly. All the rankings and top tens I’ve read — none of them match what I actually think, but I read them anyway because I’ll take any excuse to think about these characters more. It’s not about proving anything. It’s just permanent.
You can’t rank what you love this much, but you can’t stop either, which means every list is just another way of admitting you’re obsessed. Some of them get it right anyway.
I found a video of Ronja von Rönne—a German blogger/journalist who makes her living catching people in their own contradictions—taking two YouTube “flirt experts” onto a late-night show. These guys teach pickup artistry. The progression is always the same: hold her hand, kiss her, take her home. They were there to talk about attraction and bodies and how to approach women, and she basically watched them hang themselves without them noticing it happening.
Seven minutes and she never gets defensive or self-righteous. She just asks questions and listens while they answer, and every answer pulls the rope tighter. They’re performing exactly what they claim not to be—transactional, shallow, treating women like puzzles with a solution code. The whole thing is transparent in the video. They don’t realize she’s documenting it.
What stayed with me was how frank she was about her own desire. She’s not pretending not to want to be wanted. Someone likes her mind? Good. Someone digs her vintage Sailor Moon collection? Great. Someone thinks she’s hot? Of course they do. But those things only work if the person looking actually sees her, not a script. The flirt coaches can’t make that distinction. To them desire is just a technique, same method for anyone. The video proves it without her saying the word feminist.
The #MeToo conversation’s already in there. She didn’t have to make an argument. Just let them talk and watched them fail to understand what they were saying.
I’m not naive about what sticks. Guys who watch those channels want them to be true, so maybe they don’t watch this, or it doesn’t land. But there’s something in watching someone dismantle something with precision instead of anger. You feel the trap close before you see the mechanism. That stays with you different than a lecture.
Woke up one morning and half my audience was gone. Facebook had changed their algorithm again—pushed friends and family higher, buried anything with a link. So anyone who followed me there was suddenly not seeing my posts. I panicked. Everyone else publishing online was panicking too. We’d built our readership partly on that platform, and they’d just shut the door.
Then I checked the traffic numbers. They were up. Way up. The homepage alone had grown by 5000 percent. Five thousand. People had apparently decided they didn’t need Facebook to find me. They just went directly to the website. Used a browser. Did the thing that was always possible but felt impossible after years of relying on social algorithms to deliver your audience.
It’s obvious in retrospect. People could always find me without Facebook. But algorithms make you forget you have other options. They promise to deliver your readers to you, and you believe it until the moment they don’t. And then you feel ghosted by a platform. Which you were. But that’s not actually the relationship you need.
What surprised me more than the traffic increase was the quality. People coming from direct visits clicked through more articles, spent more time on the site. Better engagement across the board. Someone typing in a URL is already committed, already choosing to be here. Not just doomscrolling and accidentally landing on a link.
I could have deleted the Facebook page then. Everyone was saying delete Facebook anyway. But here’s the problem: advertisers still look at social numbers. They still use follower counts as a viability metric, even though none of that actually translates to revenue. Kill the page and you become harder to sell to sponsors. And I need sponsorships more than I need to make a moral point.
So the page still runs. An algorithm pushes my posts to maybe thirty people a week. A handful. Real people though, who found me without being prompted, without an algorithm deciding it was a good time to show them. And that matters more than I expected. The whole thing is backwards—I’m more successful after losing the platform that was supposed to distribute my work—but it’s cleaner somehow. No waiting for permission. No performing for an algorithm’s amusement. Just here, and the people who want to be here know where to find me.
I caught up with Marsimoto about Verde, his fifth album coming April 27. First thing clear: pressure wasn’t his thing. He’d been doing this on his own terms from the beginning—smoke when he wants, travel when he wants, make whatever sounds right. German music is shit and it pisses him off, so he makes albums to fix it. Verde was next. He’d already won before we even started talking.
The title was pure Marsimoto geometry. Verde—green in Spanish. V as the Roman numeral five. Earth, where he exists as an alien. Verde. The rest of German music was finished while he was still explaining the wordplay.
He wouldn’t shut up about Paul Ripke. That was the real story. Without Ripke, there’s just a dude with a microphone. Ripke showed up early, brought his magic, his skill, his success, and suddenly something real could exist. They needed each other, apparently. Ripke spent a couple months adding his eye to the songs and then Verde was done. That’s where the actual art happened—not Marsimoto alone but Marsimoto plus Ripke’s obsessive attention to everything.
The music itself came fast. December to January, done. The visuals took longer and mattered more. Beats were basically irrelevant, he said. The writing was what made him him. If he was in that state—mostly indica, some sativa—and a beat kicked him hard enough, he’d grab it. Then the song would materialize fully formed, like it had always been waiting for him to find it.
“GoPro” was about cameras, and he took time to explain that Paul Ripke invented the GoPro because he couldn’t be everywhere at once, even though Ripke was rich and beautiful and apparently capable of absolutely everything. They didn’t get paid, but he’d accept a donation since GoPro was basically dead. Nobody needed a GoPro anymore. He was just being honest.
“Chicken Terror” gave voice to chickens. They can’t speak for themselves, so Marsimoto translated what was happening in their heads. He speaks chicken, apparently. The song would explain the rest.
He had a weed system. Kush di Hush di Vul for Indica, Brown To The Raun for Sativa, but mostly Rumms—his brand. Rumms and you’re just “Rumms!” Good hybrid.
He’d bought a house in Newport Beach and become a hipster because he wanted to and could afford it. Supreme gloves, Yeezys, the kind of taste most people couldn’t pull off. In ten years everyone would want to live there, but they’d be too late. He was already gone.
He surfed with Paul Ripke, who was apparently the best surfer in the world, even though most people thought he was soft. Turned out Ripke had a makeup artist make him look heavy to avoid the pure hatred that came from being universally talented and also actually ripped. When Ripke went surfing for real, he was unstoppable. Kelly Slater said so. That was the Ripke thing—so good at everything that he didn’t need to advertise it.
The internet had decided Marsimoto was actually Paul Ripke. He shut that down. Look at him, he said. They were all Marsimoto. The internet thinks 9/11 didn’t happen. The internet thinks a lot of stupid shit. He knows what Ripke can do—it’s beyond human. He’d named seven kids Paul Ripke, just using it as the first name. That was the least he could do. Internet trolls could fuck off.
I read NEON completely—front to back, then back to front, hunting for details I’d missed. The reporting on dreams, the talk about sex that didn’t flinch, the strange honesty about what it felt like to be alive online. Every month it found the exact nerve to touch. Then somewhere I stopped being the person it was written for. I’d outgrown it, and that was fine.
NEON started in 2003 with a question disguised as a statement: “Actually, we should be growing up.” The magazine lived in that contradiction—the space between youth and forced adulthood, between wanting to stay reckless and knowing you can’t forever. For fifteen years it was the only place that seemed to understand that feeling completely. Not gossip or trends. Real thinking about dreams, about what living actually felt like, about the strangeness of becoming someone when you’re not ready.
The closure came down to numbers. Fewer readers. The subscription base drying up. The generation that should have replaced the old one had found other places. Editor Ruth Fend announced it with a kind of brutal honesty that felt right. She spoke directly to readers: you’ve moved on, you’ve grown up, and not enough young people came after you. That’s the truth. That’s when you let something go.
When I reread her words, I thought about the old issues on my shelf. The ones I still pick up sometimes. They’re from a version of me I’m not anymore, but when I’m inside them I recognize the thinking. Ideas from writers I didn’t know became part of how I thought. This blog—everything I do here—comes partly from seeing what NEON did. Not in any direct way. Just knowing it was possible to write about life in a way that felt true. They showed me that. I owe them something for it.
The final issue comes out in June. Ruth promised a last look back, a celebration and goodbye both. The kind of thing you do when you’re leaving something you made and you want to hold it one more time before you let it go.
NEON goes digital, which is what nearly everything does now. The chances exist there, but so does the noise. What dies is the physical magazine. The thing on a rack, the weight in your hands, the front cover you see before you’ve decided whether to buy it. That’s not replaceable. A website can do similar work but it’s not the same. When something like that ends, it takes a piece of time with it. That specific feeling of being a particular age, reading a particular magazine that knew exactly who you were. That’s gone now. The world keeps moving. The magazine doesn’t. That’s all.
Katie Kuiper from Sydney probably isn’t anything like me, which might be why I ended up looking at her photos. She’s the kind of person who actually travels. I’m the kind of person who prefers to stay still. But travel bloggers are useful when you don’t want to move—you get all the postcards, none of the jet lag, all piped into your room while you’re lying there thinking about what you might order.
The contrasts are obvious and kind of funny. She loves fitness and clean eating and constant motion. I love pizza and staying in one place. We’d have absolutely nothing to say to each other, but I can watch her go places while I stay here, and that arrangement works fine. There’s something beautiful about the distance between us.
There was a shoot somewhere in an Australian garden, some photographer, some clothes. She looked like someone already planning the next flight, the next city. That’s what people like her do—they collect destinations. Barcelona, Paris, Berlin. Not to stay in them, just to photograph and leave. Every place is somewhere to be briefly, then abandon.
I’ll probably never meet Katie Kuiper, but that seems fine. She’s out there making everywhere she goes a little better just by showing up, and I’m here, and that’s enough for both of us.
The AfD—Germany’s far-right nationalist party—decided they need to shut down the Berghain’s darkroom because people are having sex in it. Which is, you know, exactly what the darkroom is for. Not corrupt housing policy, not a broken healthcare system, not anything that actually matters. Just sex in a dark room that needs their immediate legislative attention.
An AfD city council member named Sibylle Schmidt submitted an actual official proposal with actual demands, delivered in absolute deadpan sincerity. Revoke the club’s license entirely, or at minimum install lights in the darkroom to prevent sexual activity. Cap operating hours at 10 PM to 6 AM—as if that means anything to a place that’s been running around the clock forever. Ban drugs. Make sure staff are carefully managing customer wellbeing. The whole thing reads like someone’s fever dream of authoritarian nightclub management, complete with rhetoric about drug abuse and young women in hospital beds. She actually connected the dots from “people fuck in the dark” to “public health crisis.”
For anyone not tracking German nightlife: Berghain is this legendary industrial techno club in Friedrichshain-Kreuzberg. The whole mythology is built on anonymity, freedom, darkness. You go in and you’re untethered—sexually, chemically, however. The door policy is famously brutal and opaque. They don’t want your Instagram. They don’t want you performing. That’s the entire thing. You can’t replicate that in a space that’s been neutered with bright lights and restricted hours and staff monitoring your state of mind.
What gets me is the actual sincerity underneath the absurdity. Schmidt isn’t joking around. She wrote this all down, submitted it through official channels, genuinely believes this is how you solve problems. The moral panic is so clean, so transparent. Somewhere, adults are having sex without permission, and the state must intervene. Full stop.
Nothing’s going to happen. The Berghain isn’t going anywhere. But that’s not the point for the AfD. The point is the gesture itself—we’re the party of order, of traditional values, the ones who’ll protect you from darkrooms full of horny anarchists. Even when defending those values means arguing that consenting adults should be denied a space to be free. Even when it requires state-mandated brightness and bathroom monitoring in the name of public safety.
There’s this thing that exhausts me about it, which is just having to keep asserting that people get to fuck in the dark, with whoever they want, however they want. That this is still worth fighting for. That it’s still remarkable to have a space where that freedom exists without apology or justification.
Every time one of those old school friends you half-remember adds you on Facebook because they want to be visible to the world again, and then they have a baby, the maternity photos start rolling through. They’re always awkward. You’re always blocking them.
Bonnie Strange’s pregnancy shots were genuinely different. Silver glitter catching light, pool shots, palms framing the frame—each one felt like something someone made rather than something someone documented. Most people take maternity photos to record a moment. She took them like she was making work. That distinction is everything.
That’s where it sits. Intention. Composition. Light. Most of what separates actual photography from the endless stream of garbage in your feed isn’t the subject—it’s whether the person behind the camera actually understands what they’re doing. Her pregnancy portraits proved it. They’re not maternity photos that happen to be good. They’re good photographs that happen to be about pregnancy.
There’s a photoshoot by John Joseph Estevez I can’t stop looking at. He photographed Guadi Galano, an Argentine model, for something called “Dip.” Three simple settings: a pool, a lake, an apartment flooded with light. She’s topless in all of them. Cigarette burning, glass in hand, that’s the whole concept.
What gets me is how unbothered it all is. She’s not performing ease or trying to make a statement about freedom or the body. She’s just sitting there with a cigarette and whatever’s in her glass, letting the light do its thing. No agenda. No performance. No reason for any of it beyond the moment itself.
I think people respond to photographs like this because they’re the opposite of everything else we look at. Most imagery of bodies is working toward something—a story, an emotion, an idea you’re supposed to take away. These images just watch and don’t add anything to what they’re watching. The cigarette is just a cigarette. The light is just light. She’s just there.
There’s something about that restraint that feels true. Estevez could have narrated these images a dozen different ways, but he didn’t. He just looked and shot. That’s the whole thing.
I’ve always been a Japan guy. But I can’t ignore what South Korea’s doing right now. Japan’s been cycling through the same pop-rock formula for fifteen years. Seoul keeps cranking out perfectly calibrated pop stars with real international reach. It’s not luck. It’s a machine.
The key difference is staying power. In South Korea, you don’t fade after a few years. You’re built for the long game. Training, rollout, strategy—all designed to sustain.
Red Velvet came out of nowhere in 2014 with four members and just dominated. Now it’s Irene, Seulgi, Wendy, Joy, Yeri. “Russian Roulette,” “Peek-A-Boo,” “Bad Boy”—these songs hit everywhere. The kind that make you lose your mind dancing alone at three in the morning, and you don’t even question it.
I still love Japanese pop. But yeah, Seoul’s winning this round.
I stopped watching the Echo Awards years ago. The reasons should be obvious by now. Not the Holocaust jokes or the self-satisfied rappers or the musicians who suddenly develop a conscience and return their awards—that’s all surface noise. What actually killed it for me is that the whole thing is just an incestuous machine celebrating mediocrity, with zero interest in who these people are or what they’ve made. It’s not a music award. It’s an industry congratulating itself once a year.
The Oscars do the same. Just a yearly farce with better lighting and more history to hide behind. The Echo just repeats itself into irrelevance.
Then Klaas Heufer-Umlauf’s “Late Night Berlin” did something perfect. They took the actual highlights from the ceremony and cut them together. If you’ve ever seen those videos where someone mutes a music video and you suddenly hear the ambient silence and crowd noise, you understand what happened next. Yawning. One person clapping. Everyone staring at nothing, killing time. The Echo Awards, completely bare.
It was the best critique possible because it wasn’t a critique at all. Just footage. Just what actually happened.
“Sea” is built on the Nøkken, a figure from Norwegian folklore—a water spirit that drowns people. Dark thing to base a pop song on. Ina Wroldsen makes it work though. She talks about the song as an ode to Norway and her family, which sounds like something you’d read in a press release, but in the actual song it feels honest, like she’s singing to something private and just letting us listen in.
Wroldsen is Norwegian, did the talent-show circuit as a kid, then did the standard move—to London in her twenties to make a living as a songwriter for other people’s records. Now she’s 33 and putting out her own stuff. “Sea” is from “Hex,” her first EP, and it’s exactly the kind of song that makes you understand why she waited. No rush, no hunger to blow up.
There’s something about Scandinavian artists. I keep noticing it. Not all of them, but enough that it feels like a real pattern. They have this way of working darkness and strangeness into music without making it feel forced or theatrical. It just sits there. Could be the light, could be the winters, could be something about living in places where the year has extremes. I have no idea. But it’s there.
What “Sea” does is sit with you. It’s got a melody, but it’s not chasing a hit. It’s got darkness, but it’s not trying to scare you. It’s just Wroldsen thinking about where she’s from, her family, through this lens of mythology and drowning water. The song holds all of that without breaking.
I went to an exhibition in Berlin—Nike, Jordan, and Converse had commissioned sixteen artists to interpret sixteen legendary basketball moments. The Kickz store hosted it. There was a party with decent drinks and people who knew what they were looking at.
Sneakers are the right object for this kind of thing. They’re where design and athletic achievement actually touch—literally where someone stood when they did something impossible. You can see a painting of a famous moment and understand it, but then you see the actual shoe worn in it, and something changes. That’s material history.
What’s interesting about sneaker culture, at least the parts of it that matter, is how it refuses to separate the object from the fandom. A sneaker has to work. It has to be built right. And it has to look good. When all three align, you get something that carries weight beyond just being a shoe.
The gallery context was useful. You’re not shopping, you’re not aspiring to own anything in particular. You’re just standing there with the shoes and the artwork, forced to think about why these moments got translated into visual form in the first place. Why sixteen artists felt the need to say something about them. The answer is obvious—because they were worth saying something about—but it’s easy to forget that.
Berlin and Kickz do this better than most places. There’s a version of sneaker culture everywhere that’s lifestyle branding, aspirational, trying to turn taste into a product. This isn’t that. It’s the object itself, treated as the object, with no distance between the people running it and what they’re displaying. That’s rarer than it should be.
My friend shoots porn sometimes, and he keeps asking if I want in. Says I’d be good at it. Says it’s just a job. It probably is, for him.
But then I’m scrolling at two in the morning and I start thinking about it differently. Who I’d do it with. Whether I could ever go to a coffee shop again without wondering if the person in line recognized me. Whether the money would feel worth it or whether it would feel like blood money, like I’d fundamentally sold something that can’t be bought back.
I know a woman named Jade who studied fashion in England. Then she started making porn. That’s the whole story, basically. At some point she decided the thing she actually wanted to do was different from the thing she was supposed to do, and she just did it. No tragedy, no redemption arc. She made money. Now her body is on the internet forever.
What sticks with me is how small the decision probably felt in the moment, how big it became after. Not the sex part—that’s fine, that’s just sex. It’s the permanent record that fucks with you. It’s knowing you’re not anonymous anymore, even if you’re still unknown. It’s the split second where you realize you’ve closed a door you can’t reopen.
I tell my friend I’ll think about it. And I do, way more than I probably should. But thinking about it and doing it are different things, and I haven’t figured out which side of that difference I’m actually afraid of.
“Gucci Gang” is a stupid song. It’s fourteen seconds of Lil Pump saying “Gucci Gang” over and over, and somehow in 2017 that was the entire joke and also the entire point. You either got it or you were the person at the party complaining about music while everyone else was laughing at how dumb it was.
Lil Pump was this kid from Florida who showed up on SoundCloud with zero training and maximum delusion. “D Rose,” “Boss,” and then “Gucci Gang”—each one dumber and more confident than the last. The confidence is what got you. He’d go on interviews talking about how he’s going to be the biggest thing ever, how he’s already made it, how he’s not even in his final form yet. You could tell he actually believed it. There was no irony shield, no winking at the camera. Just pure, uncut belief in Lil Pump.
That was the appeal and also why it wouldn’t last. The whole thing was built on youth and luck and the internet being weird for a moment. He’d associated himself with Smokepurpp, Lil Yachty, Chief Keef—people with actual staying power or actual weirdness that went deeper than production quality. But Pump was just a kid who’d figured out how to make a meme into a song.
What I remember about that moment isn’t the music. It’s the confidence of someone with zero reason to be confident. No chops, no years behind him, no real skillset—just a YouTube view count and an absolute certainty that the world owed him something. In another context that would be pathetic. But in 2017, on SoundCloud, when everything was absurd anyway, it was kind of perfect. He made being a complete amateur into the whole point.
Nothing lasts. “Gucci Gang” is already this thing that happened, this moment you either were there for or you weren’t. I don’t even know if Lil Pump is doing anything now and I don’t particularly care. But for like six months there was this absolute commitment to dumbness that felt honest in a way most things don’t. He meant every word of the delusion. That’s rarer than you’d think.
Casey Neistat walks into Stadium Goods like someone who doesn’t need anything—because he doesn’t—and immediately starts talking about Yeezys and Nike collabs like someone who spent actual time caring about these things before money let him own everything. That detail is what stays with me. Not the three grand in shoes, but that he seemed to actually want them.
He came up on YouTube doing something that looked like real work: documenting his own life, selling an app to CNN, understanding that the visual internet mattered before everyone else caught on. Now he runs 368, a studio in Manhattan where artists can make videos—which is what you do when you’ve already won and you’re not sure what to do with the rest of it besides keep building. Some people buy boats. Neistat builds infrastructure.
On Sneaker Shopping he moves through the store talking about skateboard culture and Kanye the way someone talks about things they actually spent time with. The Yeezy Powerphase, the Acronym × Nike Air Presto Mid, the Off-White × Nike Zoom Fly. Three thousand dollars and it never feels like performance, just like want. Maybe that’s all that separates taste from a credit card: being able to buy the same specific things you would’ve wanted anyway.
She’s been trying to seem respectable and serious lately. Gone are the days when she’d piss on streets naked, flash her body in magazines, move her genitals around MTV shows just to watch everyone lose their minds. That was the interesting Miley Cyrus.
Except you can’t actually leave that behind. Or you don’t want to.
This past weekend at Coachella she was posting Instagram stories, and in one she’s standing in front of a big Hollyweed sign, sipping a smoothie with her underboob just hanging out. And there she is. The girl who doesn’t care what she’s supposed to be. Still in there. Still refusing to perform the respectability thing.
I don’t know if she’ll ever actually stick with being a serious adult or if this is just how she works—a few years of acting respectable before the old Miley breaks through again. But I’m always more interested in the moments when she drops the act.
I came across work from Papa Petit and Velma Rossa, siblings designing in Nairobi, and realized how little I knew about what’s actually being made there beyond the occasional fair-trade fashion story.
SOKO Kenya’s a real operation—not a charity tie-in or seasonal campaign. Eight years working with ASOS, and they grew from four employees to fifty. That’s actual scaling, actual jobs. Not a capsule collection designed to feel progressive.
For this summer collection, ASOS brought in four designers to do the whole thing: Papa Petit and Velma Rossa, Julie Adenuga, and Leomie Anderson. Everything’s designed and made in Nairobi. Which is how it should work, which is why it’s noteworthy that it barely does.
The plainness is what matters. No press release about meaning, no guilt narrative, just pieces that exist because people made them well. That straightforwardness is rarer than it should be.
P-Thugg hides Dave 1 under the bed when his girlfriend shows up. It’s a dumb move, the kind of thing you do at seventeen because you panic. They’re doing it in 2018 in the “Must’ve Been” video, both in their thirties, and it still works because some people never really grow out of that instinct.
Chromeo’s been this way since 2004. Montreal and New York, Dave 1 and P-Thugg, funk music at a time when that wasn’t what people wanted to hear. They found an audience anyway — the kind of people who understand that a good groove is a way of saying you’re not alone. Their stuff doesn’t try to be important. It just wants to make a room feel less empty for a while.
The video tracks them backward through time: 1988 as kids, 1998 as teenagers, then the present. Each decade has the same joke, the same vibe. It’s not trying to say anything profound about friendship or growing up. It’s just saying that some people don’t change, and sometimes that’s okay.
DRAM handles vocals, Jesse Johnson’s on guitar with the kind of funky lines that actually matter. The song works the way Chromeo songs work — it lands where it’s supposed to, doesn’t overstay its welcome, and leaves you feeling a little better than you did before.
6IX9INE’s tracks have this weird quality where they shouldn’t work but they do. The boy-band melodies mixed with street noise, the chaotic production that somehow holds together. There’s actual depth in there if you listen.
Last year killed his momentum though. The allegations were serious enough that I figured that was it — guy’s done. He basically disappeared.
Then “Gotti” comes out. It’s a weird two-part video. First part: he’s poolside with his colorful grills, being exactly what you’d expect. Then it cuts to him in the Dominican Republic handing money to poor kids. Text underneath says “We are all one.”
It’s the most obvious redemption play, and I think he knows that. Like he’s not even trying to hide that he’s trying. The calculation is right there. But there’s something almost honest about that — admitting the move while making it anyway. Party and charity and a message about unity, all layered together.
Does it matter? Does it work? I don’t know. But at least he didn’t just vanish.
April in Palm Springs always smells like sunscreen and desperation. The Levi’s pool party at the Colony Palms landed right on the Coachella weekend, which meant everyone had already filled the desert into their plans and was just waiting for an excuse to show up. Snoop Dogg and Heron Preston handled the music — the kind of celebrity DJ energy that doesn’t require your attention, everyone too busy with phones and drinks to really listen anyway.
The guest list was what you’d expect: the LA rotation, the beautiful people who show up at every poolside event between April and September. Artists and athletes and models and everyone in between, faces you recognize and faces you don’t. Eventually it all blurs. Brunch happened, drinks were free, the Levi’s branding sat somewhere in the middle, but mostly it was a pool and tan skin and that particular California light that makes everything feel temporary.
It’s the moment when the year actually starts here, not January. The festival circuit opens up, and for a couple months everyone moves into the desert doing the same party over and over — same beats, different sponsors. You know by September you’ll be tired of it. You know it’s not sustainable. But that’s the deal, the one you make when you live somewhere this absurd.
The Dreamcast was doomed, but in its final years Sega made Shenmue—this impossibly ambitious game about a martial artist searching for his father’s killer in a living harbor town. The world breathed differently than other games. NPCs had schedules. Ryo earned money and ate meals. Learning martial arts required practice and time. The game moved slowly and asked for patience.
Both games became legend partly because the hardware died, partly because they were genuinely strange. A murder mystery that went unresolved. A romance that couldn’t consummate. A quest that just ended. It felt incomplete at the time, but maybe incompleteness was the point. Ryo’s search has no ending because desire doesn’t have one.
Sega’s re-releasing the first two on PS4, Xbox, and PC. There’s still no release date, which is very Shenmue—announcements followed by silence, as if Sega’s embarrassed about how much these games cost. They’ll appear when they appear.
I’m not sure why I want to replay them. The fighting is stiff. The story stops. The towns are small and the pace is glacial. But something about living in that world mattered to me—the light on water at dusk, voices carrying through rain, the feeling of time passing differently. I want to go back, even knowing the story doesn’t finish. Maybe the incompleteness is the whole thing.
I’m probably too old to think a sixteen-year-old is this cool, but Billie Eilish has something most people never develop: she genuinely doesn’t care. Not the performative kind of not-caring where you care very much about seeming like you don’t care. The actual thing.
She was born into a creative family in Los Angeles—actor father, musician mother—and started making music almost by accident with her older brother Finneas. By the time she was old enough to deal with the machinery of the music industry, she was already fully formed. A full name that reads like a joke (Billie Eilish Pirate Baird O’Connell) and a personality to match.
What strikes people, what bothers them, is that she refuses the script. Don’t dress like a pop star. Don’t smile for the cameras. Don’t apologize for your words or soften your opinions for your audience. There are always people telling you what you should be—especially if you’re young and in the public eye. They tell you how to dress, who to be nice to, what kind of woman you should become. Billie just… doesn’t listen.
I can’t tell if it’s confidence or if she’s genuinely too indifferent to pretend. Either way, it works. It makes her interesting in a way that manufactured perfection never could. Everyone else is trying so hard to say the right thing, wear the right thing, hit the right note. She’s just living, making music with her brother, wearing what she wants, saying fuck off to the rest of it.
The haters exist, sure. They always do. But they’re noise. She talks about it the way you’d talk about background traffic—acknowledged, filtered out, no energy spent. That’s the rarest thing in the world right now. Everyone’s desperate to be liked, to be understood, to explain themselves. Billie got old early in that particular way.
I don’t know if it’ll last. Probably won’t—the machinery usually wins. But right now, at sixteen, she’s figured out something that takes most people decades, if they figure it out at all. And that’s actually worth paying attention to.
McDonald’s cycles through limited-edition stuff all year—bavarian week, valentine week, easter week—with special burgers and sides and salads. But you already know what you’re ordering before you look at the menu. Big Mac. It’s the only order that makes sense.
Jim Delligatti invented it back in the sixties, and it’s hitting fifty years. That’s the kind of milestone a burger gets when it doesn’t need to change, when it’s already perfect. Even Uniqlo got in on it with a whole t-shirt collection in Japan, showing the Big Mac broken down into its ingredients. Two beef patties, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, sesame seed bun, special sauce. That’s the whole thing. That’s the formula.
There’s something honest about a food that doesn’t apologize or overcomplicate itself, that stays the same and beats everything else trying to be fancy. Fifty years of that is just proof you got it right the first time.
Spring’s the only season that makes sense in Tokyo. Winter flattens everything to gray, summer’s unbearable—either the heat wraps around you like a wet towel or it’s raining sideways for a week. Autumn’s fine if you like melancholy. But spring is the only window where you can exist outside without losing your mind to temperature or water.
The cherry blossoms are half of it. Everyone knows about them, but walking through Harajuku when they’re falling is something else. For a couple of weeks the city’s just carpeted in them. Petals in everything.
Then there’s what people wear. That’s when you see it clearest—the moment Tokyo remembers it has permission to use color. The kids in Harajuku aren’t celebrating, they’re done waiting. Neon, clashing patterns, things that would look absurd any other month feel like the only reasonable response. Dog, Sagi Dolls, Sankuanz—brands change but the principle stays the same: brightness as refusal.
I think about this when I’m designing. There’s something about a seasonal reset that lets people be louder. Makes me wonder what we’re all sitting on the rest of the year.
Mason Ramsey yodeling at Coachella reminds me of that Simpsons episode where Bart becomes famous for saying “I didn’t do it” at exactly the right moment. One perfect accident and the whole room goes nuts. Then you’re not famous anymore.
The kid became famous for yodeling in Walmart. His parents put him on the talk show circuit. Someone online said he looked like Whethan—the producer of “Be Like You” and “High”—so Whethan brought him onstage at Coachella to yodel. There’s the video: Mason in his cowboy outfit, Whethan behind the decks, a half-drunk crowd in California.
I watched it once. Can’t tell if they’re laughing at him or with him. Doesn’t matter much.
In a few years he’ll either have an album and a movie deal or the whole thing will have collapsed into some overdose-and-rehab meltdown. He’ll probably do a comeback tour when he’s forty. That’s how it works. You get famous by mistake, then you’re not, then you’re the person who was famous once. That becomes your entire story.
I’ve held so many different controllers in my hands over the years that I couldn’t tell you the exact count anymore. Atari 2600, Master System, NES, Mega Drive, Super Nintendo, PlayStation, Virtual Boy, Nintendo 64, GameCube, Xbox, Wii, Switch, and everything after that. It never stops.
But somewhere along the way these stopped being just input devices and became the subject of actual honest arguments. Which one fits your hand best. Which is actually comfortable. Which one looks good. How many buttons is too many. Which one survives your messy teenage bedroom and a drunken birthday party without snapping.
These things are design objects. Real design. Someone sat down and thought about the curve of your palm against plastic, the weight, where your thumb naturally falls. All of it intentional. I watched this history of controllers once and realized how much you can tell about an era from the shape of its controller — what mattered to designers, what they thought players wanted, what they got wrong.
The Super Nintendo one is obviously mine. Perfect proportions. Nothing wasted. It knows what it’s doing. If you’ve been following this blog at all, you probably already knew that.
You see these sneakers and immediately know someone thought carefully about them. Every surface is covered, but it never feels chaotic. It’s dense with images and details but organized, full of characters and patterns that suggest a whole world living on the shoe.
That’s Ton Mak’s style. She’s better known on the internet as Flabjacks, and when Nike asked her to contribute to their Free Expression series, she took the Free RN and filled it with her work: playful characters, intricate patterns, doodles that sit somewhere between cute and weird.
Mak studied anthropology at University College London before landing in design and art. Her work is playful and charming, but there’s always weight underneath — emotions, anxieties, a kind of careful darkness tucked into the cuteness. The sweetness isn’t simple. On the sneaker, that showed up as layers of detail; it’s the kind of thing that actually rewards looking closely at it.
Most limited edition collaborations feel like someone drew a graphic and stuck it on a shoe. Mak worked differently. She didn’t impose a design onto it; she worked with what was already there, using the structure and shape as part of the whole thing instead of fighting against them. That’s harder than it sounds, and it’s why this actually works.
Right now there’s an insane amount of genuinely good new music, and I’m barely keeping up, but I fell for Princess Nokia pretty much immediately. Destiny Nicole Frasqueri’s the full name—born in ’92, performing as Princess Nokia—and she makes this laid-back feminist hip-hop that works everywhere. Put on “Metallic Butterfly” or “Honeysuckle” or “1992” and suddenly you’re in a completely different headspace, whether you’re smoking or fucking or just doing dishes.
What I respect most is that she doesn’t tolerate any sexism bullshit. During a Cambridge tour stop, she actually got off stage and beat down a heckler who’d been talking shit. That’s not manufactured drama—that’s someone who means every word she’s singing. “Tomboy” is her queer rap anthem and the response is enormous, the kind of thing that tells you something cultural is actually shifting.
She just dropped a new mixtape and “Your Eyes Are Bleeding” is the lead single. It’s so hypnotic and chill I’ve had it on repeat for days. The kind of track that makes you want to do anything while it plays—smoke, dance, kiss someone. Eventually I’ll end up smoking with her while this is on, most likely, but right now it’s just one of those listens where the vibe is everything.
Every year Coachella puts together a genuinely good lineup—Beyoncé, Tyler the Creator, St. Vincent, Jamiroquai—artists that matter. But the festival itself has become this strange thing—less about the music and more about celebrity fashion, Instagram documentation, everyone carefully performing what a festival person looks like. I’ve never gone and probably won’t pay that much to stand in the desert in expensive clothes to be photographed. But the artists are worth watching, even from home on a livestream.
Instagram used to be a place to post vacation photos. Then it became a tool for anyone with something to say and the nerve to be visible. The feminists got there early.
I started noticing it without meaning to. An account that felt different—politics braided into images, arguments made through the body, conversations under selfies that were smarter than most essays. The usual internet noise, but cut through with actual thought. Girls (women, activists, artists—the categories got blurry) who decided not to wait for permission, not to soften themselves, not to perform accessibility. Just: here I am, believe what I believe, look at what I look like, figure it out.
The gatekeepers used to control the story. Magazines, institutions, anyone with a printing press or a broadcast license. The internet flattened that. A creator in Berlin could reach someone in São Paulo, and they’d recognize something true in each other’s work. Scale and directness at the same time. No filter, no editorial softening, no committee deciding what was palatable.
The ones who got visible this way—publishing themselves, using their bodies and openness as argument—did something that felt impossible before. Not a manifesto, not a structured organization. Just a lot of individual people deciding to exist loudly, and it turned into a thing. Proof that you could be exactly what you were and have thousands of people say, yeah, me too.
I think about what that means. Especially as someone watching from outside it. Not part of the movement but aware it’s happening, aware it matters, aware something broke open. The internet didn’t invent feminism or rebellion. But it removed every excuse for hiding it, for performing moderateness, for waiting.
Now they’re everywhere. That’s the thing. And you can’t unsee it.
I play PlayStation more now, but Nintendo has a permanent place. The SNES games shaped my entire childhood—Chrono Trigger, Secret of Mana, Super Mario World. I think about it seriously sometimes: I want to take a console to the grave so I can keep playing pixel adventures forever.
When I was in Kyoto with Sari, there was only one thing I actually wanted to do. See the Nintendo headquarters. Touch it. Lick it, honestly. We got to the wall but the gates were locked. Security. Probably tired of fans trying to find Shigeru Miyamoto every single day.
Kit Ellis and Krysta Yang from the official Nintendo channel got inside. They filmed the lobby, some hallways, a few empty rooms. Not much, but more than I managed. Even the official channel barely got anywhere—just sterile corridors and blank walls. The place is locked down. You can tell they’re keeping cameras away from where the real work happens.
So you watch them walk through those empty hallways and it feels like some kind of forbidden temple tour, except it’s just a company keeping everyone out. Can’t really blame them. But I’d still lick that wall.
I was a Sega kid before I switched to Nintendo. The games were something — Sonic, Ecco, Golden Axe, and then the RPGs: Phantasy Star, Landstalker, Shining Force. Games that still make sense when I think about them.
So Sega just announced a Mega Drive Mini. Exactly what it sounds like: the whole console shrunk down, pre-loaded with the classics, Sega’s counter to Nintendo’s SNES Classic. I don’t know when it comes out, probably late in the year, but the announcement hit harder than I expected.
Here’s the weird thing about these mini consoles. They work perfectly, which makes them feel like something that’s done. You get the game exactly as you remember it — no emulation approximation, no changes — and that exactness turns it into a museum piece. This is what you loved, perfectly preserved. There’s comfort in that. There’s also something kind of sad about it.
I’ll grab one when it comes out. Not because I need to replay these games. I’m carrying them around already, in whatever the memory equivalent of muscle memory is. But something about holding that console again, even if it’s a fancy version for adults, feels necessary. Like proof.
When I think back to sixteen, three things come to mind: video games, anime, jerking off. If someone asked what I wanted to do with my life, I’d say something vague about media and everyone would leave me alone.
Charles Bahr, Dean Körzdörfer, and Urs Meier are fifteen and sixteen. They’ve started an advertising agency called TubeConnect, built around the idea that brands need someone who actually understands how young people use social media and Instagram and why they care about influencers and all that.
“We grew up with this stuff,” Dean explained. He looks about twelve, which means by thirty he’ll probably be a fitness entrepreneur married to an Instagram girl with millions of followers. “For adults, I don’t think they can understand why we spend ten hours a day on our phones. They see the addiction. We see the infrastructure.”
It’s funny watching kids this age throw around words like “viral” and “authentic engagement” and “influencer strategy” as if they invented them. And sure, there are probably cringey moments in their pitch decks. But there’s something worth noticing underneath: they identified a real problem—brands don’t know how to talk to young people, and young people do—and they’re solving it. They’re not waiting for permission. They’re not trying to become reality TV stars. They’re just working.
It’s functional ambition, which in itself is already rare.
He built an entire world of sound and then stayed invisible inside it. Just the voice, the music, no face attached—which in an age of celebrity visibility seems almost impossible now. But The Weeknd had the discipline for it. Mixtapes, production, atmosphere, everything except the person. You had to follow the sound to find him.
He’d grown up on R. Kelly, Ginuwine, Prince—artists who understood how to make R&B feel both intimate and dangerous at the same time. That sound was in his ear when he started making music as a teenager. The stage name came from one specific weekend: he dropped out of high school, moved into his first apartment with a friend, and that moment of transition became his name. Everything after that was music.
The Selena Gomez moment gave him visibility, whether he needed it or not. But the real work was already there—the mixtapes, the production knowledge, the melodic instinct. When he released “My Dear Melancholy,” the songs came out meticulous and spare. Nothing wasted. “Call Out My Name” is the kind of song that only works if it’s aimed at one specific person, one specific moment. It’s not trying to be universal, just exact.
What’s strange is how good the music still sounds now that everyone knows what he looks like. All those years making it from the shadows, and then he steps out and makes something this direct, this exposed. The visibility doesn’t ruin it. He doesn’t seem to need the mystery anymore. The song is just the song.
I can spell Nicki Minaj’s name correctly now, which means she’s broken through. Not just for me but everywhere. She dropped two new tracks, ’Chun-Li’ and ’Barbie Tingz,’ and there’s a video for the first.
She barely tried. Vertical Snapchat-style, her in leather on a couch with her breasts out, rapping in hotel hallways. That’s it. Elaborate videos are dead since Musical.ly — you just film something on your phone and you’re done.
It’s pure bragging. Money, sex, women copying her. ’I got the hammer and the wrench, take the quarter million.’ ’Won’t push his babies out till he buy me the bling.’ Just what you expect from a track like this, filmed on a couch.
Playboy was going to stop publishing nudes, which would have been cowardly, so they pivoted back to #NakedIsNormal. This is how we get Nina Daniele, 29, from the Bronx, as the 2018 International Playmate of the Year.
Some people I know think the magazine is over—something grotesque and outdated. Fair criticism, maybe. But they’re misreading what Playboy ever was. It was about choice. A woman looks at the magazine, thinks “I could do that,” and a few months later she’s on a global stage with her body celebrated and a substantial paycheck. That’s not oppression. That’s pretty radical, actually.
There’s something almost defiant about it. Desire without apology. A body displayed, admired, compensated. The whole transaction probably only feels clean if you don’t interrogate it too thoroughly. But there’s something healthy in that too—in not making everything about complicated feelings and power dynamics. Sometimes it’s just a woman and her body and a magazine and a lot of people looking. That’s not nothing.
Blumio is the kind of musician who doesn’t require permission. Based in Düsseldorf, based in Tokyo depending on the season, he makes rap that’s openly joyful and politically steady—anti-fascist, inclusive, aggressively funny without being clever about it. The music sounds like he’s having a better time than you are. Probably he is.
He just shot a video for a track called “P.I.N.K.” in Harajuku, which is funny because of course he did. The song is about the actual color pink, not symbolically, just genuinely about pink as his thing—something he’s worn since childhood and caught shit for. Girls’ color. He opens with a line about his pink mohawk being a sex symbol “whether in bed, in the toilet, or at the betting shop,” which gives you the energy immediately. Then he goes into this thing about childhood, pink milk and raspberry soda, him and his friends getting obsessed with pink candy, acting like freaks in the convenience store because they just wanted the sweet pink stuff.
The video was shot on Takeshita Street with all that Harajuku density and neon. And here’s the thing: he raps the track in German, English, and Japanese, all on the same song. Not versions, not separate recordings—the same track, languages rotating through. You’d think that doesn’t work, that it would feel scattered, but the rhythm carries you through. German and English and Japanese each have different sonic weight, and together they create this texture that works even if you only speak one of them.
There’s a line where he invokes the German flag but rewrites it—black, pink, and gold instead of the official colors. It’s playful but also “not not serious.” Like, why does it have to be this way? What’s so fixed about any of this?
What strikes me is the location itself. Harajuku is already this hypercolor, hyperdense place where people are constantly transgressing dress codes and making their own rules. Blumio going there to celebrate pink feels less like visiting a place and more like coming home. The video has this tone of celebration that doesn’t need to apologize or explain. Pink is good, pink is fun, pink is mine. The Harajuku street behind him is basically just confirming what he already knows.
I watched it a few times. There’s something about the mixture of childish joy and absolute confidence that lands.
The glossy magazines with the game covers consumed more of my money than the games themselves. I remember the weight of them, waiting in line at the shop. The smell. The overwrought fonts that made half the text a chore to read. A profound waste of time and money, obviously. Probably why I remember it so clearly.
The internet killed all that. Screenshots on demand, reviews updated instantly, wiki guides for everything, and strategy videos. By 2005, physical game magazines were already dead—bleeding out in newsstands, obsolete before the last issue shipped.
Except people never quite stopped wanting them. There’s something about paper that a screen can’t touch. You can’t flip through a website the same way. You can’t leave it on the coffee table for someone else to find. You can’t skim while your coffee gets cold in that particular rhythm.
“A Profound Waste of Time” launched in May 2018 at around 20 euros—a new print magazine betting that people still cared. Not a buyer’s guide or a catalog of upcoming releases. Real writing about games that actually mattered. Life is Strange. Yoshi’s Story. Final Fantasy. Longer pieces from people with something genuine to say about why games were worth thinking about.
The title gets it exactly right. Hours spent on video games are a waste. Money spent on a printed magazine about video games, when everything’s free online, is an even bigger waste. But knowing it’s pointless and doing it anyway—that might be the whole thing.
After work, a beer. On weekends, wine shared with friends. Saturday nights, vodka mixed with whatever’s cheap. It’s just life. Normal until you read that The Lancet published data saying it’s all killing you.
The study looked at almost 600,000 people from wealthy countries—mostly Europe and North America—tracking their drinking and health from 1964 to 2010. The finding: anything over 100 grams of pure alcohol a week, which is about 2.5 liters of beer or a liter of wine, and you’re cutting years off your life. Not months. Years.
For someone who’s 40, the numbers are specific and bad. Drink 100 to 200 grams a week and you lose six months. Go to 200 to 350 grams and it’s one to two years. Over 350 grams and you’re down four to five years. Then there’s the risk of stroke, heart failure, high blood pressure—the standard wear-and-tear of a body breaking down.
One of the researchers put it simply: cut back on drinking and you’ll live longer. No stroke. Normal blood pressure. It’s mathematically sound if math is something you think about when you’re reaching for a drink.
The thing about these studies is they don’t matter the moment you finish reading. You already know you’ll die of something. Smoking, sugar, fat, some accident at home, whatever. Pick your poison because you’re picking one. So why not the one that tastes good going down?
Maybe you try mocktails with stupid names like Sunny Day and Virgin Strawberry, except it’s just fruit juice with extra sugar. Or herbal tea, except everything’s poisonous now. Or water, except that’s contaminated too. The logic circles until there’s no escape, just the knowledge that you know better and you’re going to do it anyway. You reach for the drink because at least it tastes like something.
There are basically two camps now—women who shave everything smooth, women who’ve decided that’s exactly what they won’t do. Both absolutely convinced they’ve found the right answer.
The natural-hair argument has some feminist weight behind it: smooth means hairless, hairless reads as childlike, childlike is basically some male fantasy. Real women, free women, have hair. Everywhere. Full stop. You’re not supposed to carve your body into somebody else’s idea of sexy.
But demanding women must have hair, insisting that shaving is complicity—that’s just swapping one set of rules for another. Your body should look like this because of what I believe. That’s control dressed up as freedom. Different politics, exact same energy.
The thing I’ve noticed is how little of this is actually about ideology and how much is just sex. People like what they like. Some guys like smooth, some like hair, some don’t actually care as much as they pretend to. Women are the same way about their own bodies—some want to feel smooth, some want to feel natural, some just want to do the least amount of work and get on with their life. None of that is a moral position. It’s just preference.
My own tastes have shifted over the years—what seemed essential to attraction at twenty isn’t the same thing at thirty-five. But that’s just my taste changing. It’s not a verdict on anyone else’s body, and it definitely shouldn’t be. The person whose body it actually is should be the only voice that matters.
So do what you want. Not what some partner expects, not what feminist theory demands, not what whoever’s loudest online says. What you actually want. Everything else is just noise from people with opinions about your body.
Friday night and the calendar’s empty. The apartment’s clean, your friends are unavailable, your phone’s been quiet all day. You start imagining the dumb missions that could pass the time.
There’s the Tinder nuclear option: print your profile and plaster it everywhere. Telephone poles, bathroom mirrors, the side of a bus if you’re bold enough. Shotgun your face at the whole city and see if anyone approaches you on the street saying they recognized the laminated version.
Yodel in the grocery store. Full commitment. There was that kid who made it viral in a Walmart; maybe you’ve got something in your voice too.
Sleep with three different people named Andrea. Track them. Compare. Become an expert on one first name.
Sprinkle cocoa powder into a joint. Chocolate smoke, theoretically. It probably doesn’t work but it’s worth an hour of thinking about it.
Invite your first girlfriend’s parents to dinner. Make small talk across the table about love, life, god, whatever. See if they’ve aged well. See if they still hold anything against you.
Liquidate every Bitcoin and give it to your little sister to fund the business idea she’s been pitching. Let her have her shot. Sit back and watch it fail.
Announce your birthday to strangers. Tell the barista, the UPS guy, random people on the street. Someone will probably give you money, food, or invite you to get high. It’s almost guaranteed.
Propose to people. Seriously. When someone says yes, marry them. Wake up Monday married to a near-stranger you met on Friday. It’s a weekend commitment device, a story, proof that something happened.
Ask all your exes for one specific thing: a plaster cast of their dick. Have them all made into personalized dildos. You’ll have a whole collection to compare. Science.
In 2014, Kyiv’s nightlife just stopped. When the Revolution came and the shooting started, the clubs closed, the energy died. Not peace—just absence. The kind of dead a city goes when nothing normal is happening.
Slava Lepsheev lost his job when the financial collapse hit after the war. Waiting for solutions wasn’t an option. So he started Cxema—not a registered club, nothing legal. He’d break into empty warehouses, basements, apartments, set up his equipment, and throw parties. Raw, hypnotic, relentless techno. The point was to dance.
Tom Ivin made a documentary tracking Slava and the crew. He doesn’t ask grand questions about the nation’s future or what resistance means. He just films young people in the dark, moving until sunrise, trying to feel something other than the weight pressing down. What runs through your head at 4 a.m. when the bassline is in your chest? Nothing. That’s the goal.
There’s something defiant about it that has nothing to do with politics or messaging. It’s people in an impossible situation doing the one thing left: moving, making noise, being together. Not celebrating. Not protesting. Just refusing to stop.
The film wonders what becomes of a generation like this, whether the country can even survive. But the real question is simpler: what do you do when the normal answers don’t work? You find a building. You break in. You dance illegally. You keep being alive anyway.
I never learned if Cxema continued or what happened to Slava after. But the scene stays vivid—dark room, bodies moving, the bass cutting through everything, the country falling apart above, and down there they’re still dancing anyway.
I keep rewatching the Haiyti performance from television. “Webcamgirl” was the song, and I don’t even know why I’m this obsessed with it. She’s a Hamburg rapper, mid-twenties, and for the last few years she’s basically taken apart everything German rap thought it knew. The agreement about boundaries—street versus avant-garde, gangsta versus art, underground versus pop—she either broke through them or they were never as real as everyone wanted to believe.
She releases constantly, mostly DIY stuff at this rapid pace, and that nonstop output became the voice of a generation that doesn’t care about rules. Dendemann got into her work. Haftbefehl. Deichkind. Suddenly everyone’s paying attention, from underground to mainstream, and it’s because the music actually holds something genuine inside it—something dark and emotional built out of trap drums and dancehall and German electronic fragments, all moving through this voice that doesn’t perform anything.
On television she performed with an orchestra behind her, which shouldn’t have worked. The song is bleak and strained, not made for television. But the orchestra worked anyway, not by making anything prettier, just by being honest about the pressure that was already there. Another layer of weight on weight.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with how much I care about this. Watching someone that young just refuse to play that dominance game, in a genre run on exactly that—something about it hits.
I watch a lot of porn, and there’s this constant frustration — you’re trying to actually get off, but the editing is terrible, the dialogue is unbearable, someone’s moaning wrong, the guy’s just going through the motions, the cumshot gets botched, or the whole thing cuts out before it ends. You’re lying there thinking, “I should have directed this.”
Young M.A apparently had the same thought. The rapper just made her directorial debut with a porn film called “The Gift.” It features Ana Foxxx, Gina Valentina, Honey Gold, Jenna Sativa, Shyla Jennings, Anya Ivy, Elena Koshka, Yara Skye, and Zoey Reyes fucking their way through a mansion somewhere in California. There’s technically a plot about a virgin who gets corrupted, but that’s mostly just structure.
You can watch it free on Pornhub.
I watched it. It’s actually well-made — attentive to framing, pacing, intention in a way most porn isn’t. If you only get off to extreme stuff, the real degradation kind of thing, this won’t do it for you. It’s too professional, too composed, clearly the work of someone who cares about filmmaking. But if you care about that too, “The Gift” delivers.
When I was a kid, I envied girls their wardrobes. They could wear anything — skirts, pants, layered tops, whatever. We were locked into jeans and t-shirts, and that was it. Anything else would’ve made you a freak in the small town where I grew up. Not even a debate.
Tokyo’s still like that in a lot of ways. Conservative, stuck in its categories. But Harajuku’s something else now. More and more kids there just don’t follow the rules.
I met a few of them walking around the ward. Satsuki in what you’d call women’s clothes. Yutaro in skirts. Ayumu just wearing whatever crossed his mind. They weren’t performing it, weren’t making a statement. Just dressed and didn’t care if the label said the clothes were supposed to be for someone else.
What got me was how simple it was to them. Clothes don’t have a gender. They just fit a body or they don’t. They don’t belong to anyone. When I asked if people gave them shit about it, they looked confused — like of course people did, but why would that matter? The gender thing is what’s weird, not the clothes.
It’s catching on. Kids all over Harajuku are like this now. Enough that it barely registers as rebellion anymore. That’s when you know something’s actually shifted.
Joseph Seed doesn’t hide. When I showed up in Eden’s Gate as a freshly minted deputy, him and his cultists didn’t scatter or panic—they just watched. Joseph stayed still and quiet, knowing something I didn’t: I wasn’t leaving Hope County. Not today.
A minute of dialogue later, our helicopter went down. I woke up in a cabin bleeding, and Richard “Dutch” Roosevelt had already decided what came next. The phones were dead, the borders sealed, and three of Joseph’s most devoted—Jacob, John, and Faith—controlled everything outside. Someone had to go out there and take them apart.
Armed with a pistol and whatever faith I could scrape together, I started recruiting, clearing settlements, destroying compounds. Those first ten hours were tense. Every vehicle that passed felt like a threat. I’d dive into grass, heart pounding, because everyone wanted me dead. By hour fifteen, I was sprinting into settlements just firing at anything that moved. The fear had burned away completely. Two companions jogging beside me, a sonic cannon in my hands, and suddenly I wasn’t hunting cultists anymore—I was just running laps through a shooting gallery.
The problem is what Far Cry 5 is trying to do with tone. The dialogue is all Bible verses and threats. You find torture chambers, collapsed bodies, the weight of violence. Joseph and his friends are supposed to radiate menace. But the world has this carnival quality that completely undercuts it. There’s a deranged film director next to a bunker where families are being tortured. You can fish fifty feet from a firefight. I got teleported to Mars at one point. The game knows exactly what it is—a playground wearing a horror mask—and it doesn’t really care that the two don’t match.
If you try to make sense of any of it logically, it falls apart. One guy locks down an entire county and nobody from outside does anything. The story missions where you get kidnapped and tortured by Jacob or John or Faith happen on loop, structurally identical, and by the third time it made me want to quit the game entirely. The map is so densely packed with collectibles and side missions that you’re perpetually distracted from the actual plot, which might be the smartest design choice in the whole thing.
What really gets to me is how much the people of Hope County don’t matter. In Witcher 3, I cared about random NPCs. I still think about some of those side stories years later. Here, someone would tell me they’d lost everything and I’d feel nothing. Give me my reward points so I can move forward—that’s all I wanted. The characters feel less like people and more like attribute clusters: sad farmer, grieving widow, angry mechanic. None of it stuck.
Joseph himself doesn’t reappear until you’ve taken down his three lieutenants. And that grind is real. The first region is engaging. The second starts to wear thin. By the third, I just wanted it finished. How many cassette tapes and baseball cards and lighters until the final confrontation? Too many. The game buries the climax under mountains of completionist work.
There are bugs too. Entire settlements become unplayable when enemies spawn wrong or not at all. Missions break in ways that make you restart. It’s not catastrophic—you lose maybe an hour—but it’s enough to snap you out of whatever immersion exists.
Despite all this, I kept coming back to Hope County. There’s something about the sheer absurdity of it, the refusal to reconcile brutal narrative with playground atmosphere. The carnival never stops. The stories you accumulate are genuinely strange and memorable, even if the people in them feel hollow. Joseph Seed is at least a problem you can solve. Pump enough bullets into him and he’s gone. That’s more than real cults allow.
“In a club you say hi, maybe buy a drink, and move on. In a restaurant you sit down and actually talk to people.” That’s Cookie, Heinz Gindullis, explaining why he moved from running Cookies—the legendary Berlin nightclub—to running Cookies & Cream and Crackers. For decades he was the person you knew if you went out in Berlin, the kind of figure who shaped the city’s nightlife through the 90s and 2000s.
On the surface it’s a strange exit. Nightlife to food. But the way he talks about it makes complete sense. Club culture is transactions. You exchange money for a drink, energy for experience, and then you leave. Restaurant culture is different—it’s about sitting down, about talking to people, about depth instead of volume. After decades of the first, he moved toward the second.
What gets me is that he doesn’t sound tired or disillusioned about it. He sounds interested. Nightlife consumed his entire adult life, and now he’s thinking about responsibility, about how food culture evolved, about what a great club and a great restaurant actually have in common—both need taste, both need to know your people well.
There’s something about aging out of a scene built for youth. You move from being the insider, the legendary figure, to being the operator, to finally just sitting at the table. Cookie doesn’t sound resentful about any of it. He sounds like he stayed curious, stayed thinking.
Pip Hicken in a photoseries by Rachel Mia Fogarty called “The Celestial Women” — blue wig, pink glasses, completely topless, no hesitation about any of it. She’s a musician in Melbourne, makes art, makes work with other people on projects that don’t need anyone’s approval to exist.
That’s what I’m looking at when I see the photo. Not the colors or the nudity, but what it shows about how to actually work. She and Rachel decided to shoot this. No brief, no consensus, no one checking whether it was risky or wrong. Two people making something that only needs to justify itself by existing.
That’s the thing about Australia that keeps pulling at me. I know it’s probably a fantasy, the idea of a place where people work that way. But this photoshoot doesn’t feel like a fantasy. It feels like a working method that actually functions somewhere.
Melbourne, maybe. Or just Pip. I don’t know. But I’ve been staring at this image for weeks and I can’t stop thinking about the freedom in it — not as a concept, but as a practical way to spend your time with another person, making something neither of you will apologize for.
The city looks too bright when you’re not inside it. Standing on the wall looking out at nothing but dark, you finally see what that brightness costs. Beyond the barrier there’s no light at all. No sound. Just ice and void and a cold that wants to kill you. Somewhere there was ocean. Beaches. Now there’s only this.
Sitting on one of the old benches—back from when tourists came here—I watch an old man throw flowers over the red warning line while humming something, a folk song that used to matter. Across from us a couple kisses like the world isn’t ending. Wind pushes snow in my face. I pull my jacket tighter and wonder what the darkness keeps hidden.
A buzz. Lara fighting with Fumiko again. I leave the wall.
The train down isn’t packed anymore. Some kid stares at his Game Boy. Five minutes from the station to Momo on foot. Lara and the Master are both smiling when I push through the door. Neo Tokyo Radio is playing. Like it always is.
Katja Krasavice is Germany’s biggest YouTuber, and like all of them at a certain level, she makes music now. “Dicke Lippen” is the expected product of all that—you probably know exactly what you’re getting.
This YouTuber Mibu apparently decided the appropriate response was to listen to it for twenty-four hours straight. Just put it on and let it run without stopping, streamed the whole thing live. And he actually finished it. I don’t know what that sounds like by hour fifteen or twenty, but at some point it stops being music and just becomes noise—something that’s burned itself into your brain through pure repetition.
That’s basically internet culture in a nutshell. Nobody asked him to do it. Nobody needed it. He just decided to subject himself to this and filmed it for people to watch, and somehow that seems like the most honest thing anyone’s doing online right now.
Every few months I open my browser settings and look at the option to delete my Facebook account. I get as far as the confirmation page, read the warning about how I’ll lose access to apps and events and messages from people, and I close the tab. It’s not that I don’t want to leave. It’s just that everyone else is still there.
The Cambridge Analytica scandal was supposed to be the reckoning. That hashtag everyone used—#DeleteFacebook—made it feel like the end was finally coming. But it wasn’t. I don’t know a single person who actually deleted their account and stayed gone. Maybe they lasted a week. Maybe they told themselves they were done. But Facebook’s too useful, too embedded. So they came back.
It’s called the network effect. You see it everywhere once you know what to look for. Phones. Fax machines. Now social networks. It works like this: a network is only valuable if other people are on it. So the more people on it, the more you need to be on it too. It becomes mandatory not because it’s good, but because everyone else is trapped there too.
Facebook understood this perfectly. They didn’t just build a bulletin board where you post things. They made themselves into the infrastructure of social life. Your photos live there. Your calendar lives there. Your friends coordinate through Messenger. Some people video chat through it. Walk away from Facebook and you’re not just leaving an app—you’re disappearing from your actual social life.
So we all stay. We complain about it constantly. We know they’re collecting everything, selling everything, manipulating what we see. But what’s the alternative? Be the only one not there? That’s not a choice. That’s isolation. The network effect isn’t a flaw in the system. It’s the system. It’s a trap that keeps you in because the cost of leaving is higher than the cost of staying.
I grew up on Chrono Trigger and Secret of Mana—played them until they wore out. Those Super Nintendo RPGs were enormous and detailed despite the pixels, and they kept me occupied for years. I still have the muscle memory, still hear the music when I think about them.
A whole generation grew up on those games and is now old enough to make their own stuff. Moonlighter is part of that wave. You can feel it in how it’s designed.
You play Will, a shopkeeper in some village called Rynoka. During the day, adventurers come through buying weapons and potions and whatever else they need for their heroic quests. Will runs a good shop. But he doesn’t want his whole life behind the counter. At night, he slips through magical doors into strange worlds, hunting for treasure and artifacts to bring back and resell in the morning.
The concept isn’t revolutionary—day job, night adventure, the loop of gathering and selling. What matters is the craft. The pixel art is clean and detailed, the world design looks thoughtful. This is clearly made by someone who understood what made those old RPGs worth replaying, what kept you coming back.
Daniëlle Cathari is 23 and Adidas just put her work on the right person—Kendall Jenner. The collection’s actually strange: exaggerated proportions, unexpected materials, that 90s aesthetic everyone’s still mining. I’m genuinely not sure if it’s vision or just smart instinct for the moment, but either way, it works. Weird shapes on the right person, and suddenly it matters.
Backpage got killed last week. The FBI shut it down using new federal laws designed to fight sex trafficking—FOSTA, SESTA, the acronyms that scare the shit out of platforms that host user content. And now sex workers are panicking, which is what happens when you build your livelihood on someone else’s servers.
Twitter’s been the workaround for years. You post, you advertise, you connect with clients, whatever you need to do. It’s decentralized enough to feel safe, popular enough to actually reach people. But the moment Congress decided platforms are responsible for what users do on them, every social network started sweating. Twitter could be next.
So sex workers did what sex workers always do when the system fails them. They built their own thing. Switter, it’s called. Built on Mastodon, which is open-source software, no corporate structure, no single company to sue or shut down. No ads, no data harvesting, no shareholders wondering if bad publicity is worth the user base. You post what you want. People see it. That’s it.
It’s funny how the people with the least institutional power end up showing everyone else how platforms should work. They didn’t wait for regulation to catch up or for some venture-backed startup to solve it. They took existing technology and made it theirs. Decentralized, distributed, owned by no one. The thing everyone keeps talking about that actually exists, just not where you’d expect it.
Every time I see Janelle Monáe, the same three things hit me at once. How is one person allowed to be this perfect? What’s the trick with teeth that white? And why, why isn’t she the biggest star on the planet? She’s got everything—the talent, the discipline, the presence—and yet the world hasn’t quite made her untouchable in the way it should.
I’m usually quick about being attracted to artists I really respect. I’ll see something I love, get obsessed, and it’ll fade. Quick cycle. But Janelle’s different. There’s something almost frightening about her. So unnaturally flawless that she feels unreachable—genuinely the kind of person it would make me uncomfortable to be alone with. Her perfection is suspicious at best, threatening at worst.
Doesn’t matter though. She’s going to take over the world anyway. That’s exactly what she was made for.
Her new track “Pynk” with Grimes is a masterpiece. Feminist all the way through. It celebrates the color everyone secretly loves, but more than that—it’s unflinching about what that color actually means. It’s honest about bodies, about what they do, about all the things you’re supposed to keep quiet. She just puts it right there. That’s her move.
Zuckerberg sat there for five hours trying to convince Congress that Facebook wasn’t evil. Most of it was him repeating the same rehearsed answers. You could watch all of it or skip it entirely—I don’t think either way mattered much.
Then there was this one moment. Senator Dick Durbin asked which hotel he’d stayed in. Zuckerberg paused. “No,” he said. Not hedging, not deflecting. Just no.
Durbin pushed. What about the private messages? Who had he been talking to that week? Again—no.
Durbin let it sit. Then he made the point: “That’s it. Privacy. The boundaries of privacy. How much of yourself you’re willing to show in modern America.” He was saying this to a man who built his entire company on extracting exactly that from everyone.
The whole thing was performance. Everyone knew it. But that moment cut through the noise—a guy who won’t tell you what hotel he slept in, running a company that knows where you go and what you do when you get there.
Someone cut the highlights into ten minutes. That’s the version worth your time.
You know that feeling when you watch the first three or four Harry Potter films in a row? It’s warm, adventurous, full of friendship. The perfect emotion, really. But good feelings fade, like everything does. And then I found a way to bring it back.
The trick is simple: take the warmest, coziest parts of Harry Potter — the part that still glows a little even though the whole thing’s dimmed — mix it with something else you love, like Sailor Moon, and suddenly you’ve got something new that’s packed with all those old feelings. And if you need proof that works, there’s Little Witch Academia.
If I had to explain it in one sentence: Bunny Tsukino at Hogwarts. That’s it. That’s the show.
The series centers on Akko, a 16-year-old who gets sent to Luna Nova Magical Academy to learn magic, except she can’t do magic. She can’t even ride a broomstick. Her classmates are all naturally gifted. She’s a complete disaster.
But she’s got two best friends now — Lotte and Sucy — and Diana, who’s insufferable in that specific way privileged people are, and a mysterious teacher named Ursula. And with their help, Akko starts to figure out that there’s more going on at Luna Nova than anyone realizes. Old mysteries. Bigger things. Things that matter.
What makes it work is how small everything feels. Akko goes on tiny adventures around the academy. She meets dozens of weird, specific characters — Constanze, this grim German girl who builds robots instead of learning magic; Jasminka, a Russian girl who eats everything; Amanda, this loudmouth American who causes problems for fun. The world is colorful and full of details that make it feel lived-in, even though it’s just a magical school.
Akko herself is basically a brunette version of Sailor Moon — impatient, mouthy, the kind of person who stuffs her face with cake when she’s stressed. Her temperament gets her into trouble constantly, but it also solves problems. She finds secrets that would’ve stayed hidden. She makes impossible situations work.
Luna Nova is Hogwarts, but for girls only, and crowded with new mysteries and dark secrets and ancient legends. The episodes are scattered all over the place — one minute Akko’s dealing with her mysterious past, the next she’s looking for an angry yeti, then rescuing a skeletal ghost, then saving people from a moss plague. There’s always something happening.
And under all the small stuff, there’s this larger secret that haunts everything. You can feel it looming.
The thing that gets me about Little Witch Academia is that it understands what made early Harry Potter feel alive — which is that magic doesn’t matter as much as the people, the friendship, the warmth of being somewhere safe and strange at the same time. Akko’s pure optimism helps a lot. She’s naive in a way that actually works because it’s genuine. Without that, it’d be half as good.
If you love Sailor Moon and Harry Potter, you love this. It’s that simple.
HUF dropped a 420 collection called Hotel Smokers Lounge. Colorful, straightforward, leaf prints on hoodies and tees, the usual. I scrolled through the lookbook and didn’t feel much—which is kind of the point now. Five years ago this would’ve seemed transgressive. Now it’s just streetwear.
There’s a weird feeling to watching culture get absorbed so fast. Weed goes from underground to legal in some places, and suddenly every brand wants a piece. HUF did it well, I’ll give them that. No forced humor, no trying too hard. It’s confident in what it is: merch for people who like weed and like the brand.
The design’s clean. That’s really all that matters. When you’re doing a 420 drop, you can phone it in or you can actually think about the execution. HUF thought about it. Good colors, good placement, pieces that work. Nothing earth-shattering, but solid.
Part of me misses when a leaf meant something. Now it just means you had thirty bucks and liked the hoodie. That’s not bad—it’s just different. Mainstreaming always means dilution, but sometimes dilution is what allows something to finally breathe.
I’ve been getting emails, mostly angry, asking why I don’t use gender stars in my writing. Those asterisks in the middle of words—Busfahrer*in instead of the standard form. If you don’t know what these are, you’re lucky. If you do, you’re probably here wondering if I’ve finally cracked and started using them.
The argument’s straightforward. In German the default is masculine, which technically erases women. Use the asterisk and everyone’s included. Some feminist blogs, left-wing forums—they started doing it to make a point about the principle. The instinct isn’t wrong, but something got lost between the idea and how it actually works.
We debated it here once. Someone read the angry emails out loud while the rest of us ate and didn’t give it much thought. That was the whole discussion.
Gender stars are unreadable. When I see an asterisk in the middle of a word my eye breaks. I stop. And that’s the problem—if your solution to exclusion is language that’s harder to parse, you’re not actually fixing anything. You’re announcing that you’re thinking about the problem. Different thing entirely.
The real issue is these get used by people who need to be visibly correct. It’s not about who gets included; it’s about being seen thinking about inclusion. There’s something reflexive about it, this constant need to signal that you’re on the right side. The people it’s supposedly reaching? They see the asterisk and they see performance and they’re gone. You’ve lost a conversation that might have mattered.
So no, I’m not using gender stars. I’d rather write something people can actually read and engage with than something that makes me visibly, obviously correct.
Berlin’s got enough festivals. Most blur into the same calendar, the same names rotating through bigger venues each year. Pop-Kultur was different by 2018 — still committed to booking people nobody else quite knew what to do with yet.
That August had Noga Erez moving between politics and something like desire without flinching. John Maus collapsing under his own synths. Henrik Schwarz and Alma Quartet taking string arrangements from other centuries and remixing them into something new. Pan Daijing, Haiyti making rap that couldn’t be categorized. Hope thinking about darkness as something generative instead of just absence. Kat Frankie with protest music that didn’t ask politely.
The curators kept saying things about inclusivity and celebrating pop culture seriously, which is what curators always say. What actually mattered was that they were booking people who gave a shit about what they were making. None of these artists were there because someone decided they fit a brand. They were there because they were actually doing something.
New venues that year too. Kulturbrauerei, Theater RambaZamba for the first time. You could feel the energy without anyone having to announce it. That’s the kind of festival where people show up because they want to hear something they couldn’t get anywhere else.
Seventy euros. Not cheap, not desperate. The right price to filter out anyone just looking for something to do and leave an actual audience in the room.
There’s a point where an Instagram account stops being a person and becomes a brand. I watched it happen in real time—used to be able to tell what Kendall Jenner actually liked from what she was getting paid to promote, but that line dissolved years ago. Now there’s a study to confirm what anyone scrolling long enough already knows: mega-influencers—half a million followers or more—have become nearly worthless to the people paying them. The scale defeats itself.
Reach millions of people and you reach no one. The message gets lost in the noise. Engagement plummets. A sponsored post from someone with ten million followers lands different than one from someone with fifty thousand—worse, most of the time. The accounts that got too big stopped working because they got too big.
The actual value sits with the smaller ones: micro-influencers between ten and a hundred thousand followers, and macro-influencers between a hundred thousand and half a million. They’re still close enough to their audience that people actually respond. There’s conversation happening in the comments. Brands throwing money at them actually see a return instead of buying the myth of reach.
Everyone spent years chasing the biggest follower counts and the most enviable life, only to discover that’s completely backwards now. The whole pyramid inverted while people were still climbing it. Being Kendall Jenner might actually be a liability at this point instead of a goal.
The Kit Kat Club is on Köpenicker Straße in Berlin. You know the reputation if you know it exists—the dress code that actually works, the Saturday nights, CarneBall Bizarre. People show up in latex or less and do exactly what they came for, and the place has been around long enough that it’s just itself now. Not performing, not trying to be something for an audience. Just a nightclub that’s also openly a sex venue.
I’ve never been. I don’t know if I would even if I could, but there’s something to respect about a place that knows what it is and doesn’t apologize to anyone. Most venues like that either get cleaned up or fade out. The Kit Kat’s been there for decades because it actually serves the people it’s meant to serve.
Someone made a YouTube tour of the place that’s floating around. Watching it was strange—someone fully clothed walking through with a camera, narrating casually. I guess that’s the view from outside. Maybe that’s enough.
The place doesn’t need validation or curiosity. It just needs the people who actually want to be there, and they keep showing up on Saturdays.
They sent an audio track across the Atlantic to record vocals. Eight people in different countries working from an East London house, building a song in pieces. That’s how Superorganism started—this DIY process that somehow landed as something actually fresh, the kind of thing that should feel scattered but instead feels like it’s got real blood in it.
Superorganism: eight members from the UK, Japan, Australia, New Zealand. They came onto the radar in 2018 with enough weirdness that you couldn’t ignore them. The music doesn’t sound like it came from industry predictions or the usual template. There’s something genuinely anarchic about it—not performing the outsider thing, just being outside because that’s where they landed.
I remember being surprised by how much the production sounded like people in a room together, even though they’d never been in the same room. The voices breathe. There’s space between things. It’s not trying to be perfect, which is probably why it sounds more alive than most pop music I heard that year. You can hear the hands-on-ness of it.
They don’t sound like they’re trying to be provocative or revolutionary. They just sound like people making something because they wanted to hear what it would sound like, not because the industry expects anything in particular. That’s the thing that actually sticks with me.
Lykke Li’s music got me through the last ten years. Not in some metaphorical, poetic sense—literally. Youth Novels, Wounded Rhymes, I Never Learn. The Twilight song everyone clowns on but which is genuinely good. There was something about the architecture of those albums that made sense when nothing else did.
She disappeared for a while. Years. You get used to it. You assume it’s over, that era is done, you move on to the next thing. That’s how it works with artists—they give you what they’re giving you, and then they disappear, and eventually you stop waiting for them to come back.
A video appeared called ’So Sad So Sexy.’ No announcement. Just a thing. And I was right back there. Not nostalgic exactly—something weirder than that. Like remembering that you loved something, and the memory having actual physical weight.
What I love about her music is the restraint. It’s sad, genuinely sad, but it never pleads with you to feel sad too. The production is intricate without being fussy. You never feel the effort—it sounds like someone thinking clearly about something complicated. That matters, especially in a genre full of people just sounding pretty while saying nothing.
I don’t know if this is the beginning of something or a one-off. The video doesn’t tell you much. But that’s fine. Sometimes it’s enough to know the person is still thinking about making things.
I kept seeing Rina Sawayama’s name attached to different things—music, fashion, design—and assumed they were different people until I realized they were all the same person, 27 years old, who grew up split between Niigata and London with Final Fantasy IX on repeat. There’s something about that childhood that shapes everything she does later. You’re in neither place, speaking both languages, pulled between two sets of expectations about who you should be. The games were escape, sure, but also permission to exist outside the script.
The “Angry Asian Girls” label is what people reach for when they’re trying to make sense of her, and yeah, there’s anger there—at the default settings of being an Asian woman in a Western-dominated pop culture. But it’s never performed or commodified. It’s just what happens when someone decides that grateful and decorative aren’t going to be their move, and refuses to apologize for that decision.
What’s interesting is how she moves between music and fashion and gaming culture without treating any of it as compromise or distraction. She’s not a musician who dabbles in design. She’s an artist who works across multiple mediums and doesn’t apologize for the fact that none of them fit neatly into one category. The gaming thing could be a cute detail in a profile—”oh, she plays video games”—but with her it feels like a core part of how she thinks, part of the logic that pulls her work together.
You can tell she doesn’t care if you get it. There’s a kind of confidence in that, or maybe just exhaustion at having to explain yourself constantly. Either way, she’s going to keep making things on her own terms. Expect a lot more that doesn’t fit whatever box you tried to put her in.
There’s something interesting happening when you take a military pattern that’s spent decades washing into fashion and paint it lavender. The new One Star collaboration between Converse and Sneakersnstuff comes in two colorways—a pretty standard tan and brown, and then this pale purple thing that should look ridiculous but somehow doesn’t. Camo stopped being about hiding a long time ago. Now it’s just a texture, a visual language, something that reads as intentional rather than evasive.
The pattern itself got designed in the sixties, expensive and elaborate, by people who actually needed to disappear into jungles. That specificity—all those organic curves calibrated for a particular landscape—is why it still works decades later. It’s not abstract enough to be decorative and not literal enough to feel dated. Just a system of shapes that registers as both order and chaos depending on how your eye lands on it.
On the One Star it works because the shoe is already so minimal. There’s no competing visual language here, no branding that fights it. Just the pattern and the shape. The brown version is what you’d expect—understated, practical looking, the path of least resistance. The lavender pulls a small trick, just enough color shift to make you look twice at what should be a familiar thing. It’s the kind of choice that feels like someone actually thinking about the shoe rather than just printing the same pattern everyone else already did.
I don’t have a deep investment in sneaker collabs one way or another. Most of them feel obligatory, another pattern on another silhouette. But this one has the feeling of restraint, which is rarer than it should be. Not trying to save the shoe or change it, just offering it a different texture and letting that be enough.
The eighties come back around every few years—synth-pop, neon, pixel art, the whole thing. And you get this flood of nostalgia where suddenly everything from back then seems better. Cooler. More authentic. But it’s selective nostalgia. You remember the vibe and completely forget what was actually hard about living there.
Talking to someone in the eighties meant one of two things. You either ran into them by accident on the street, or you called their house on the landline. Their mom picked up, or their dad, or the answering machine. There was no texting. No way to send a quick message and change plans last-minute. You had to figure everything out in advance or just hope you’d be there at the same time. That was the actual reality.
Someone made a video of what WhatsApp would look like if it existed back then with period-appropriate technology. It’s blocky and harsh—jagged pixels, minimal color palette, stripped down to nothing but pure information. Brutal-looking. And it still works. You understand it immediately. It just looks wrong.
What gets me is thinking about how much infrastructure had to be built just to make free texting possible. Decades of phone lines, satellites, eventually an entire global network. We engineered our way into the ability to interrupt each other faster. That’s either genius or completely insane, probably both.
Sometimes I miss being unreachable. Sometimes I don’t.
Cardi B’s ’Bartier Cardi’ is everything the song title promises. The video has her wrapped in red fur and diamonds, surrounded by rapturous attention that’s orchestrated to the frame. She owns every second of it — the confidence isn’t performed, it’s just there. That’s the kind of ease most people have to work into; she started with it.
The ascent was fast. A year ago, maybe less, she was the Instagram girl with the voice and the mouth and the willingness to say whatever. Then ’Bodak Yellow’ happened and the whole thing shifted. First woman since Lauryn Hill to own the number one solo, and after that it was momentum — covers, spreads, the whole thing coming at once. Cosmopolitan, Rolling Stone, Fader.
She came up as a stripper and never apologized for it. That might be the thing — no shame in where you came from means no hesitation anywhere else. It changes how you hold yourself in a room, what you’ll wear, what you’ll ask for.
Her debut album is coming out soon. At this point the arrival is complete. ’Bartier Cardi’ is just the announcement of something that already happened.
Spring break videos: drunk college girls flashing their tits for plastic beads, all of it ending up in some VHS box called “Girls Gone Wild Vol. 247” so some middle-aged guy in his basement can jerk off to it. You know the vibe.
So this YouTuber Lorenzo Adams, running a prank channel called NerdBallerTV, decides to recreate that whole setup in San Diego’s party district. He and his cameraman walk around at night handing out what look like hundred-dollar bills to drunk women willing to flash on camera. Except the money is completely counterfeit. Completely fake. The women have no idea.
The real punchline is the time delay. He gets footage. They think they got paid. And he’s probably going to get more laughs watching them figure out the bills are fake than they got from flashing in the first place. That’s the con.
Is it legal? No fucking idea. The counterfeit part alone should disqualify it, but that’s not really the point. What’s weird is how mundane the whole thing is—no malice, no real edge, just a stupid prank that somehow captures something stupider than itself. You watch it and you can’t decide if it’s funny or gross. Probably both.
Some artists spend their whole practice pinning reality down—make it look exactly as it is, every detail locked. Jay Bisual went the opposite direction. His work out of Barcelona is pure color and invention. Aliens in fresh sneakers. Space girls floating through planets thick with stardust and magic, robots skating through impossible clouds. The kind of work that makes you want to frame every single piece on your wall.
I keep going back to his paintings like I’m stuck on a particular song, tabbing between pieces without finishing any of them. The colors are exaggerated and bold—not realistic, not trying to be. The kind of energy that makes you realize how careful the actual world is, how timid. What gets me is that they feel detailed and real enough that you forget they’re paintings. That moment where you think maybe the place actually exists somewhere, on some planet you could theoretically reach if you knew how.
Amanda Delara makes dark pop. Electronic, built around these melodic hooks that carry Middle Eastern tones—not deployed as exotica, just part of her. She’s Norwegian, daughter of Iranian immigrants. The songs are political. “Keep Your Dollars,” “Dirhamz,” “New Generation”—they’re about capitalism and war and systems, the things that matter if you’re paying attention.
There’s this thing where people mock the new generation. Phone addicts, YouTube wannabes. As if that’s the real problem. As if they asked to be born into Trump and Brexit and refugee crises and endless wars and the internet made of lies and the return of the far right. Like any of that’s their fault.
What’s interesting about Amanda’s work is that she doesn’t seem to care about the games—the branding, the image management, the calculated personality. She just makes music that says what it needs to say. That kind of clarity is rarer than it should be. Most artists are so busy managing perception that the actual work never gets to exist.
I don’t know if it changes anything. Probably not. But the work doesn’t pretend it might, which is its own kind of honesty.
Das Filter turned four the other day. It’s a publication about culture, media, technology, design—the standard beat of cultural writing—except it’s run by people who don’t seem interested in any of the usual noise. No “stunning,” no “breaking,” no desperation. They just want to understand what’s happening. Ji-Hun Kim and whoever’s working there approach it quietly, seriously, focused on actual substance. That’s almost disqualifyingly old-fashioned now.
What grabbed me was the contrast. Most cultural writing online is exhausting—it’s either advertising disguised as criticism or criticism designed to make you click, and those two things have basically merged. Das Filter doesn’t do that. They describe themselves as a platform for contemporary culture and society, which sounds stiff on paper, but they mean it. They want to explain things, create context, filter noise, understand complexity. There’s no performance. No angle. No trying to own some discourse. Just looking at what’s there.
I think about how rare that is. How desperation has leaked into almost everything. Most publications need you to visit, need you to stay, need you to have a strong opinion so you’ll come back tomorrow with an even stronger one. Das Filter just wants to do the work of thinking clearly about things. They write for themselves, in a way. And I keep reading because that’s the only cultural writing I’ve found that still feels honest.
That’s worth marking somehow, even if it’s just paying attention. Four years of showing up and not screaming.
The thought of a chocolate Whopper is ridiculous, which is why Burger King’s April Fools’ stunt landed. A sandwich made entirely from dark and milk chocolate, shaped like the thing itself. They never actually made it, just posted the image and let everyone’s mind do the work.
The humor lives in the gap between expectation and taste. You bite into a Whopper and your mouth expects salty, fatty, heavy. Chocolate is sweetness in a different key. That mismatch is funny because it’s so complete — not a weird combination, but a total inversion. You spend a few minutes imagining the texture, whether you’d recoil or secretly want to try it. The prank isn’t in the eating. It’s in the thinking.
Food pranks work this way. They exploit how automatic eating is — all those assumptions your palate makes without asking. Break that contract in the right way and you’ve got something. A chocolate sandwich doesn’t need to exist to be funny. The image was the whole thing. Your imagination did the rest.
BiSH shouldn’t work the way they do, but they’re smarter about it than anyone else doing this. They’re an idol group from Japan that owns being an idol group — owns the construction, the artifice, the whole manufactured thing — and that honesty makes them feel more genuine than the groups pretending to be natural. Aina The End, Cent Chihiro Chittiii, Momoko Gumi Company, Lingling, Hashiyasume Atsuko, Ayuni D — seven members, sharp energy, songs like “PAiNT it BLACK” and “SMACK baby SMACK” that stick with you.
Japanese idol culture is massive. AKB48, Nogizaka46, Passpo — inescapable. Billboards in every city, the radio, TV, local knockoffs in smaller towns. Perfect smiles, manufactured everything, the same formula repeating infinitely.
BiSH is an idol group too, and they’re not against the formula. They sit somewhere between Scandal and Stereopony and Morning Musume, but weirder, harder. They took that sweet, artificial thing and made it aggressive. Being fake becomes the honest choice. You’ve got this sound that’s tender and mean at once — it shouldn’t work, and yet.
They’re huge in Japan right now, songs everywhere, people talking about them on the street. It deserves to be that way. They figured out what no one else will: how to be completely constructed and actually mean something.
I’ve been a massive Sailor Moon fan for years, but there are still two things I’ve never had the nerve to actually watch. One is that cheap-looking live-action adaptation—the kind that looks like high school kids made it for film class and somehow turned it in for a decent grade. The other is the musical. When I first heard about it, I pictured those over-the-top North Korean theater productions you see in documentaries, all spectacle and no human warmth.
I finally actually watched it, and now I genuinely can’t tell if the Sailor Moon musical is brilliant or complete garbage. Maybe both. You’ve got these Japanese girls in bright costumes bouncing around, singing Sailor Moon songs, throwing exercise balls at each other. The production values are whatever they are. The wigs are cheap synthetic things that shine under the lights. The choreography is controlled chaos. But the whole thing is done with this total sincerity that somehow makes it work.
The story never really changes. Some nobody shows up, beats the Sailor Warriors with hula hoops, Tuxedo Mask goes evil, Usagi does her Romeo and Juliet act, and by the end everything’s fine again. Sounds terrible? Maybe. But watching it, I realized something I didn’t expect: if I could choose any job in the world, this would be it. Eight hours a day in a Sailor Moon costume, dancing around, singing these songs, knowing people paid money to watch. That would be perfect.
The weird thing is how much it works despite everything that should kill it. The cheap costumes, the amateur energy, the repetitive plot—it all adds up to something that feels genuinely committed in a way that slick, expensive productions sometimes can’t touch. There’s no irony here. The performers mean it, and that sincerity is contagious.
And I should mention: I’m completely in love with Tuxedo Mask now. That definitely wasn’t on the agenda coming in.
Moose Knuckles started in 2007, but the family’s been making cold-weather gear for nearly a hundred years—which is to say it’s fundamentally a practical brand. It exists because Canada is brutal in winter. Then they launch a campaign called ’Three Wheel Motion’ inspired by 80s skateboarding, specifically Tony Alva, who was the first real skate star, the guy who made it about freedom and motion rather than technical tricks.
It’s an interesting collision—a brand rooted in necessity suddenly reaching into this cultural moment that was all about not caring about necessity. The new collection features the Canadian maple leaf, which could feel lazy on most brands but feels direct here. It’s not winking at you. It’s just where they’re from.
I like that they’re not trying to sound global. They’re making something specific to their place and its hundred-year history. They have a funny name and functional heritage, and they’re not apologizing for it or trying to translate it for a wider audience. The 80s reference works because it actually matches the design language—bold, unapologetic, stuff that just works.
Most regional brands feel like they’re compensating for something, but Moose Knuckles doesn’t seem insecure about competing with bigger names. They’re just making what makes sense from where they are.
Selena Gomez has lupus. Most celebrities who catch a disease turn it into a vague TED talk about resilience, but she decided to do something less stupid: design a shoe with Puma and donate the proceeds to the Lupus Research Alliance. The collaboration is called the Phenom Lux—a training shoe that’s also fine for everyday wear. It’s not some limited-edition vanity project either; it’s a real sneaker designed to be useful.
The Phenom Lux is clean. Not flashy, not covered in her name, just a well-proportioned shoe with decent lines. You can see the design work in it—the kind of restraint that separates a real collaboration from a rubber-stamped cash grab. The fact that she worked closely with Puma on the design shows. It’s not a basic silhouette with a celebrity’s name airbrushed on it.
The Lupus Research Alliance is actually one of the world’s leading nonprofits funding lupus research, looking for new treatments and eventually a cure. It’s not a vague cause—it’s specific, it’s urgent, and Selena has personal stakes in it. That matters. Too many celebrity collaborations feel like they’re donating to a charity because it looks good in a press release, but this one feels genuine.
What strikes me most is that she didn’t turn this into a whole thing. No inspirational story arc, no “my journey” narrative, no merchandise beyond the shoe and a sock set. She made something good, tied it to something that matters to her, and moved on. That’s the model for how this stuff should work, honestly.
Adidas dropped a new sneaker called the Arkyn. Mesh upper, three stripes, sock-like construction with perforated tongue, Boost sole in four colorways — nude, dark blue, black, white. One-thirty euros.
What interests me about it is the design philosophy. The sock construction, the minimal seaming, the perforated details are all solving specific problems of fit and feel, but the shoe doesn’t need to explain any of that to you. You just wear it. That’s the sweet spot in design right now — real engineering hidden under a visual calm.
Boost is everywhere now, which is fine, it’s good foam. But I’ve been watching how the uppers are evolving. Designers are peeling away visual noise while the construction gets more sophisticated. The Arkyn does both — looks simple, is built to handle your foot in a very specific way.
Whether people actually buy it depends on hype, celebrity machinery, and all the stuff that has nothing to do with actual design. But the shoe itself is well-made. Clean. The kind of thing that doesn’t date itself because it’s not chasing a moment. It’s just solving a problem well.
Winter lasts forever, or it feels like it does. You buy things you don’t really need just to feel like something’s shifting, some small momentum toward better weather. I picked up a pair of Levi’s in this soft pastel blue—the kind of color that screams California, 1990s, some version of the world where you’re driving with the windows down and nobody’s complaining about the weather.
It won’t make spring come any faster. I know that. But something happens when you put them on. The world doesn’t look different exactly, but you do, and that’s enough. Wearing that color against your skin for a few hours, you’re not so much waiting for the season as inhabiting someone who can wait. Someone lighter.
The palette is pure 90s—soft blues, dusty pinks, pure nostalgia mined from California street style and fed into production. You’re not the only one reaching for this. A lot of people are. The hope is dumb and it’s shared. You could stand somewhere open and do a sun dance, call it up like you’re bargaining with the universe. Maybe it would work if enough of us tried. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
The Air Max doesn’t need defending. You see them everywhere, especially in Asia, where sneaker culture carries a different weight — different mythology, different relationship to what Western design means. The visible air bubble, that silhouette. It’s become one of those things that’s just there, part of the visual language.
Hypebeast and Nike brought together sixteen Asian artists to make short films about the shoe. Not advertising in the traditional sense. Just artists — illustrators, animators, video people — responding to an object that somehow mattered. The work is strange and textured and often beautiful. Some of it plays with the shoe directly, some barely acknowledges it at all. Styles shift. Obsessions emerge and disappear. It’s good work.
What makes it work is that the artists aren’t sacred about it. They’re not trying to prove the Air Max is more than it is. They’re just using it as a starting point, and in that response something interesting happens. That’s the difference between advertising and something worth watching — when you give good artists room to think instead of a script to follow.
There’s something about the shoe that allows this. Maybe it’s because the Air Max already did what most design objects never manage — it became a language. It’s available, it’s visible, it means something to people in a hundred different ways. Artists can use it as a reference point for something else entirely without needing to explain themselves. That’s when a commercial actually becomes interesting. That’s when you’re not watching advertising anymore, you’re watching people think through design.
There’s a talking butt in Japan that solves crimes. Oshiri Tantei—Butt Detective—started as a manga and got successful enough to warrant an anime series. The character, created by Yoko Tanaka and Masahide Fukasawa, drinks tea, eats sweet potato cake, and apparently solves cases by farting on people. It’s a children’s show.
This is the part of Japanese pop culture I find genuinely fascinating. Not the cool stuff—anyone can do that—but the commitment to taking the most absurd premise imaginable and actually making it work. Detective Conan solved murders for twenty years. Meanwhile a butt detective does the same thing. Both exist. Both have audiences. Both are executed with craft.
I haven’t seen it, but the trailers suggest it’s not cynical or ironic about itself. There’s a sincerity to treating a flatulent butt investigator as a legitimate character in a story. That’s harder than it sounds. Most things that rely on novelty collapse the moment they have to actually be a show. This one apparently doesn’t.
I want to see more of it. Whether it’s clever or just committed, I can’t tell from the outside, and that’s the appeal.
I watched “Fashion’s First Family,” i-D’s documentary about London fashion newcomers, and what struck me was how little romance there was to any of it. You go in thinking about Vivienne Westwood and Karl Lagerfeld and the mythology of how you actually break in, and instead you get people grinding through season after season—getting a tiny bit famous maybe, then disappearing when the cycle turns over.
The machinery is real and it’s cold. What got to me was how much genuine talent gets burned through. You’re watching folks who actually understand color and form, who know how to make something that didn’t exist before, and you know from the first episode that most won’t survive it. Not because they lack ability. They can’t afford London rent. They do a collection and nobody shows up. They spend six months building something and three months later it doesn’t matter anymore because the aesthetic has already moved on.
The industry sells itself as this open thing that wants new voices, fresh perspectives, young talent. What it actually runs is a tournament designed to eliminate everyone except those with the right mix of obsession, money, and timing. The documentary doesn’t judge this. It just shows it. You watch them try and you see some survive the first cut and you have no idea what happens next, and that’s the whole thing.
What stayed with me wasn’t inspiration. Just the facts of it.
I don’t remember anyone in my school filming themselves having sex. Four underage girls in Regensburg did it a few years back. Full pornography. Shared it on WhatsApp, Instagram, Facebook with their entire class. Spread across at least five different schools.
Since nobody was older than 13, the police opened an investigation for distribution of child pornography. Anyone passing it along committed a crime. The four girls themselves can’t be prosecuted—they’re below the age of criminal responsibility—so the city sent in counselors, psychologists, support staff to make sure they’re not destroyed.
One of the family counselors said something that rings true: it’s basically a mirror of what society has become, the fact that it seems exciting to make something like that and post it. He’s right. These kids grew up on platforms that algorithmically reward you for your body, your sexuality, your willingness to push boundaries. TikTok, Snapchat, Musical.ly—the whole ecosystem is basically designed to teach kids that exposure gets attention. So of course it escalates.
The part nobody tells them until it’s too late is that the attention doesn’t stop at your friend group. Parents see it. Teachers see it. It becomes a thing.
Here’s the advice: wait until you’re 18. Then you can film whatever you want, sell it, get paid. Don’t do this for nothing at 13. And to the guys I know are looking for the video already—don’t. Just don’t. Go watch Asa Akira. Go watch Sasha Grey. There’s an entire industry of legal porn from people who chose to be filmed. You don’t need this.
As for the four girls who are probably destroyed right now: it gets better. I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t feel catastrophic at this moment. But I had my own version of the public humiliation thing in my early internet days—something that circulated that I absolutely believed would define me forever. Seemed like the end of everything. Turns out the people who cared most about it were the ones trying to weaponize it, and then everyone just moved on. The people I was terrified of, I didn’t hear from again. Years later they seemed smaller, still stuck in that moment while everything else continued. So yeah. Right now it sucks and you want to die. In a few years you won’t think about it except maybe to laugh. And that’s not false hope—that’s just how it actually works.
Migos came to Berlin with Culture II fresh out and played Huxley’s, which is strange because they’re a stadium act. Quavo, Offset, and Takeoff sold out a club the size of a shoebox in hours, the kind of show they probably hadn’t done in years.
There’s something worth noticing in that choice. Hip-hop moves through the world in a specific way—not down from the biggest stages, but through the places where people are genuinely listening. Berlin was still one of those places then. They showed up because it mattered.
They met some of the German national team players in town for a match against Spain. Boateng, Rüdiger, Sané, Draxler—athletes and rappers recognizing each other across scenes. They came to the concert. It’s the kind of collision that happens naturally in Berlin now, different worlds just running into each other.
I never saw the video. Don’t think I’m missing anything. It’s the fact of it that mattered—a major act in a small room, willing to play places where the moment still counts for something. That’s one way culture moves.
Tokyo is my favorite city, the one I keep returning to because there’s always something else hiding in the side streets. But Seoul’s been edging closer, becoming one of those places that won’t leave my head alone. I’ve been to enough cities now — New York, London, Paris, LA — that I can tell the difference between a place you visit and a place you actually want to understand. Seoul is the second kind. It’s the K-pop, the fashion, the way they’ve managed to keep modernity and tradition side by side without collapsing them into each other. And then there’s the food, the intensity around kimchi that reminds me of the way other places treat wine as a serious thing. The neighborhoods, too — Gangnam, Hongdae, Daehakno — these aren’t the tourist version of the city, they’re just how people actually live there.
I picked up the Monocle Travel Guide to Seoul almost by accident, and it’s the kind of thing that sneaks into your head before you ever land. Monocle books are meticulous — beautiful to look at, but also genuinely useful if you care about how you move through a city. This one lays out the clubs and hotels and restaurants worth knowing, the infrastructure you need if you want to spend real time somewhere instead of just passing through. It sits on my shelf now like a promise or a map or something in between.
I don’t know when I’ll actually get there. But the city can wait.
Apple released an iPad at 350 euros with stylus support. That’s the announcement. The specs don’t matter—Retina display, A10 chip, whatever—they’re fine, they’re all fine.
What matters is the price. I remember when stylus tablets cost what cars cost. When the barrier to digital drawing wasn’t talent or desire, it was money. You had to commit. You had to save. The tools were precious, and you earned the right to use them by paying for that right.
That world’s gone now. This iPad exists at a point where someone can try it without ruining themselves. A student can sketch. A bored person can doodle. A curious person can find out if they actually want to draw before they commit to more expensive gear. The risk is gone. The preciousness is gone.
That’s the real shift. Not processors or displays or gold finishes. The moment when tools stopped being sacred objects you earned the right to touch, and became just things you could use. That’s worth noticing, even if you’re not going to buy one.
I’m in a cafe trying to work. There’s a couple arguing at the next table, someone streaming a podcast through their phone speaker, the endless hiss of the espresso machine. I put in earbuds. The noise is still underneath everything, competing for my attention. I can’t focus.
Active noise cancellation is the supposed answer. It measures ambient sound and generates frequencies that cancel it out—not muffle, not compress, but actually remove. In theory, silence. In practice, most headphones that attempt this just turn the volume down in a slightly fancier way.
But when it actually works, it really works. Four microphones handling the job instead of one, proper engineering throughout. Suddenly you’re not a person in a noisy cafe trying to focus—you’re alone with your work. It fundamentally changes whether you can think.
I don’t care about headphone technology usually. This isn’t about having nice things. It’s about needing to concentrate in a world that won’t stop making noise, and finding a tool that actually solves the problem instead of just selling you the idea of it.
There’s this Vietnamese student making videos about how she can’t believe how good Germany is. Traffic actually flows. Cosmetics aren’t complete garbage. There are parks. The infrastructure doesn’t actively fight you. She’s right, obviously, but hearing someone articulate what you’ve completely stopped noticing is disarming.
You grow up surrounded by something functional and it becomes invisible. You spend years taking the absence of chaos for granted, always comparing yourself to everywhere else — America seems bigger, Japan seems more advanced, Scandinavia seems cooler — while the actual privilege of living somewhere that simply works goes completely unremarked. It’s like someone visiting your house and commenting on your light, and suddenly you realize you haven’t noticed that light in years.
What gets me is how specific her observations are. Of course the trains are reliable. Of course cosmetics companies actually test their products. Of course parks exist. But the fact that these things are boring enough that we’ve all stopped looking at them — that’s the real thing. I’m busy reaching for somewhere else while what’s already functioning is right here.
I don’t know. There’s something weird about having an outsider hold up a mirror to the ordinary stuff that works. Not in some flag-waving way — it’s not that I suddenly love this country more. It’s more like noticing the light. The systems that don’t collapse. The parks that exist. The absence of the grinding chaos that exists everywhere else. It’s almost embarrassing how long you can live somewhere without actually seeing it.
Huan Huan has her phone out and a selfie stick pointed at her face. She’s walking to the gym, into a restaurant, through a mall. Her viewers watch in real time. They send virtual gifts—basically icons that convert to money. She makes about $20,000 a month just by living on camera.
This is apparently a $4 billion industry in China. Three hundred fifty million people streaming into strangers’ daily lives on platforms I’d never heard of until now. Most of the streamers have managers. Professional existers. The standard explanation is that China banned pornography, so people watch these streams instead, but that feels like missing the point. It’s not sexual, or maybe it’s only sexual in the way voyeurism becomes sexual when you put a price tag on it. People just want to watch someone living, and have that someone know they’re being watched.
What strikes me is how simple it is. No talent required. No production. Huan Huan is just going about her day. Her viewers aren’t invested in what she’s actually doing. They’re invested in the fact that she’s willing to let them watch her do it. For money. And she likes the money. That’s the entire thing.
You could call it sad, but that doesn’t feel right. It’s more like the obvious endpoint of where everything’s been heading. Social media convinced us we wanted to broadcast ourselves, so we did. Now the next step is obvious: stop pretending the connection means anything. Both sides know what this is. You’re paying for access. She’s taking the payment. At least it’s honest about being empty.
I don’t know what else to think. The money’s real. The boredom is real. The loneliness obviously is. Everything else follows from there.
There’s an image that stuck—photographer named Daniel Dittus shot a girl called Julia Eh at a vintage shop in Hamburg, Vintage Gallery. Julia with a pineapple in spring light. The kind of thing that just works.
Daniel had renovated an apartment, found 70s wallpaper, met Julia through a friend. She caught his eye. The way she dressed, the way she moved. Style without the work. He asked if she’d let him photograph her. She’d never been in front of a camera before. Said yes anyway. Sunny day, good light, she just did her own thing.
That’s all there is. Hamburg’s full of people like that if you’re paying attention. People who don’t perform—they just live there. Working vintage clothes probably helps. You’re around things with history, other people’s old lives. Makes you think about what you wear. By the time you’re selling that stuff, you’ve figured out your own look.
The pineapple was probably a joke. Doesn’t matter. Girl in vintage clothes, weird fruit, spring light—it lands. Style that doesn’t need to sell itself. Just there.
Kelly Svirakova answered back to all her perverted Instagram DMs. Just replied, genuinely, to see what happened. And it’s everything you’d expect and somehow worse.
There’s the usual: bots, international crew with broken English who figured volume beats odds, guys wanting money or friendship or a discount on her content. Then the rest of it—unsolicited pictures, detailed descriptions of what they’d do, requests to be enslaved. One guy just asked “Please enslave me” with no other context. Like that was his whole pitch.
The strange part is how sincere they all are. These guys aren’t being ironic or trolling—they actually think they’ve got a shot. You can see it in the way some of them get polite about it, how carefully they word their requests like they’re making a case. Like if they just phrase it right, say the right thing, send the right image, someone will finally respond the way they want. The math of it is almost sad: thousands of attempts, each one exactly the same, all of them betting on different odds.
I’m not sure what Kelly was trying to show with this, but it’s all there. It’s the actual texture of what exists in the inbox of anyone who’s put their face on the internet. Bleak enough that I don’t even know what the proper response is.
The Norwegian series “Skam” came out of nowhere and somehow became this global thing. Creator Julie Andem followed four teenagers through real teenage life—crushes, coming out, family pressure, all the stuff that actually matters when you’re sixteen—without the usual television gloss. Part of what made it work was how raw it felt, how much it trusted the audience to recognize actual human conversation when they heard it. It was a show that looked and sounded like you were eavesdropping on someone’s real life.
Germany has made its own version now, called “Druck,” and it centers on a sixteen-year-old named Hanna who kind of destroyed her social position by sleeping with her best friend’s boyfriend. She ends up in a group with Mia, Kiki, Amira Thalia, and Sam—girls from different parts of the social landscape who gradually become something like a real friend group. The obvious plot point is that Hanna’s relationship with her current boyfriend Jonas hits a wall when she finds out he’s still in secret contact with Leonie. Normal teen drama, but the show doesn’t shy away from how messy and painful that actually is.
What interests me about any adaptation is whether it’s just copying a formula or if something genuine actually moves across languages and borders. Skam worked because it felt true. You believed these were real people having real conversations, even though obviously they weren’t. If Druck is just using the same structure with German accents, it’s just a slicker version of every other teen show. But the first episode has something. The dialogue feels like thinking out loud, the kind of overlong rambling conversation that’s too messy to be scripted, even though it is. The characters register as actual people, not types.
I’m mostly watching to see whether authenticity is portable—whether something that felt essential in Norway can feel just as true in Germany, with a completely different language and set of cultural pressures. Skam had a very specific moment and place. Can that realness survive translation, or does it get smoothed out and polished into something safe? That’s what I’m actually paying attention to.
The thing about Pokémon gear as a kid is that you’d get destroyed for it. Showing up to school in a Pikachu shirt in the 90s wasn’t just uncool — it could actually get you in trouble, or at least mocked relentlessly. Then nostalgia became a real cultural force in the 2010s, and suddenly the same people who would’ve shamed you were buying the same merch without a trace of irony.
Nintendo knew early that only the original 151 matter. Everything after Mew is noise, but Pikachu, Charizard, and Bulbasaur hit different. They’re wired into people my age as proof of something simpler, some earlier version of ourselves. The hipster revival cycle picked it up and ran with it, and now twenty-to-thirty-year-olds can wear Pokémon without looking stuck in childhood. It’s retro. It’s legitimate.
Which is why Fila Korea bothered making Pokémon sneakers. The collection includes a Pikachu-specific shoe, type-based colorways, and the Pokéball worked into the design itself. They’re clean without being precious about it. They’re available through Fila Korea, though exact pricing and release date are still up in the air.
What actually happened is the nostalgia became valuable enough to monetize, and we’re old enough to buy it. The shoes are probably overpriced. I’d probably want them anyway.
I saw Christina Aguilera on the cover of Paper Magazine the other day. Thirty-seven, two kids, blonde hair, freckles. She looked like herself—not curated, not performing, just present. It’s rarer than it should be.
There’s a formula for how these things go with pop stars. Sweet girl, girl next door—then you spend a few years half-naked and provocative, proving you’re not a child anymore. Then somewhere in your thirties you cycle back around, talking about therapy and finding yourself and what actually matters. Every one of them does it. Britney, Miley, Ariana—they all walk the same path.
I loved Christina’s first album. “Genie in a Bottle” is genuinely a perfect pop song, and “What a Girl Wants” and “Come On Over” I listened to constantly. Later came “Fighter” and “Beautiful,” which had real weight to it. Then “Dirrty” hit and she went full leather-and-provocative, and I just… wasn’t interested anymore. Lost her after that.
In the interview she’s talking about knowing yourself, about where your actual beauty comes from. Normally that’s just celebrity PR, but it didn’t feel like it this time. Felt genuine.
I don’t think I’ll go back to her music. That’s okay. But there’s something right about watching someone navigate all of that and actually come out looking better. Actually look like they’ve figured something out.
Watched this Claudia Rhein documentary about Berlin’s hip-hop scene in the early 90s. By that time, techno was already winning. Everyone knows that part of the story—Berlin became a techno city, and it stayed that way. But there’s this window where hip-hop was still happening in the neighborhoods. Kreuzberg, Wedding, Neukölln. Still brewing, still real.
The film is short, maybe thirty minutes, and it doesn’t try to make any grand statements about culture or history or what it all meant. It just shows these guys talking about the beats, about what drew them to the music. They’re not performing for a camera. They’re just being themselves, and you can tell the difference immediately. There’s no fake energy, no attempt to justify why this matters.
I’ve never been to Berlin in that era, so I can’t say what it actually felt like. But watching it now, you notice all the scenes that have already disappeared, all the underground movements that got absorbed the second something bigger came along. Hip-hop wasn’t Berlin’s future. Techno was. But there was this moment when both existed at the same time, when you could have gone either direction, and someone had the sense to film it.
There’s something almost gentle about watching the thing that didn’t win. Not sad, just aware. You know how it ends. The city pivoted, and hip-hop became something else, moved somewhere else. But here, in this footage, it’s still alive in the margins, still mattering to the people who made it matter.
Parks get packed in spring, everyone out with beer in the middle of the day, these achingly earnest pop songs about the blossoms playing from somewhere. Cherry season hits Tokyo and the whole city organizes around it. Hanami. People wait all year for those pink trees, and when they come the streets fill up with exactly the kind of euphoria you’d expect from that much collective focus.
What’s wild is the commercial machinery that moves with it. The blossoms hit and suddenly everything is a sakura product. Starbucks, Twix, the convenience store—sakura beer, sakura sushi, sakura frappucino. Someone decided toilet paper needed a pink cherry blossom on the package. Video games got sakura editions. Toothbrushes. Once you see how it works, there’s no hiding it: take any product, make it pink, call it sakura, and people will buy it because the season is happening and the season demands participation. It’s marketing without apology.
But the real action is in fashion. When spring actually arrives in Harajuku and Shibuya, people stop dressing for winter and the streets crack open into color and experiment. It’s not the sakura merchandise—it’s the opposite. It’s people actually thinking about clothes, actually building something out of what the warm season means. That voltage in the street when everything thaws.
So you’ve got these two things happening at once: the corporate machinery running one track, real people in real clothes running another, and the blossoms as the excuse for both to exist simultaneously without acknowledging each other.
You notice when a good shop disappears. Das Kickz was gone from Kreuslerstraße for six months, and Hamburg felt smaller without it. The reopening was the standard event—cold drinks, people from the scene—but what mattered was having the place back.
They brought serious stock. Bred Toe, Black Cement, Dunk Contest, Game Royal—Jordans you go for because you know what they mean. Not trend-chasing, not hype, just shoes with real history. That tells you something about how the people running the store think.
Most streetwear spots sell the idea of sneaker culture. Kickz lives in it—basketball rooted, built for people who wear the shoes rather than flip them. You feel the difference walking in. The staff knows their catalog, the selection isn’t random, and it’s the kind of place you go back to.
I haven’t been back since the event, but I will. It’s one of those places that reminds you why certain spots matter to a city.
Reezy is twenty-two and everything he knows, he learned from YouTube. The production, the mixing, the video editing, the visual sense — all of it came from tutorials. He’s from Frankfurt and he released two mixtapes in a row, “Feueremoji” and “Tropfenemoji,” with song titles that feel like they’re indexing someone’s private mythology: “Testament 1995,” “Lovestory 2002,” “Wolken 0000.”
The thing that actually matters is that he doesn’t hire people to do parts of it. He makes the songs, he shoots the videos, he edits them, he even designs his own clothes and makes pieces for people in his crew. It’s not a statement about being multidisciplinary — it’s just how he works. No managers, no waiting for anyone’s approval. The internet handed him everything he needed to be a fully realized artist the moment he decided to start.
Growing up with that kind of access changes something fundamental about what you think is possible. You don’t hit invisible walls telling you that you need permission or credentials or the right mentor. You start making things and see what they become. A lot of the Frankfurt rap scene feels like that right now — not trying to sound like anything else, not following a template, doing the work with real taste and no apologies.
I think about how different this would have been fifteen years ago. What you’d need and who you’d need to know. Now the barrier is mostly will, and something about that produces a different kind of culture. More work gets made. It’s not gatekept into blandness.
I’ve always wondered how much people actually spend on mobile games. A few bucks here and there, probably adds up to more than I’d want to calculate. But there’s always someone who goes further. Someone like Daigo.
Daigo is from Japan. He spent seventy thousand euros on Fate/Grand Order. Maybe more. He’s not entirely sure anymore.
Fate/Grand Order is a free-to-play mobile RPG where you collect cute anime warriors and wizards to fight monsters. You use cards to attack, spend real money for rare characters, grind for gear — it’s designed to drain you slowly, and Daigo let it.
“My name is Daigo,” he says, like he’s at a support group meeting. “I play Fate/Grand Order. When I’m awake, I’m usually playing. I play while I eat. I play all the time. The only time I’m not playing is when I’m sleeping, driving, or in the bath. I’ve invested about seventy thousand euros. Maybe more. I’d rather not think about that.”
Seventy thousand euros. Maybe more. Better not to think about it too hard.
Bijou Karman draws girls from Los Angeles—young, strong, undeniably pretty—and apparently everyone worth knowing has already noticed. Rihanna’s looked. So have Converse and Harper’s Bazaar and Elle. The work is sharp: clean line, color, this kind of confident clarity that doesn’t apologize.
Most illustrations of women get it fundamentally wrong. Either they’re decorative, or they’re trying to perform toughness in a way that reads as defensive, compensatory. Bijou’s girls are just strong the way some people naturally are. Pretty and powerful at the same time, but not in some rhetorical way—it’s not a statement, it’s just fact. They take up space like it belongs to them.
She’s talked about what it actually costs to grow up as a girl in a system that’s working against you. You learn to work twice as hard for half the respect. You figure out that crying isn’t weakness, that anger isn’t ugly. And somewhere under all that pressure, something crystallizes. Either you break or you become someone who can hold softness and force at once, someone unafraid to be both. Bijou’s drawn that person over and over again. She understands what strength looks like better than most.
As a kid I’d spend hours imagining what it’d be like to get pulled into a game—not as some reincarnated hero, just trapped in there, actually living through Secret of Mana or Chrono Trigger from the inside instead of controlling it from a couch. The difference between pressing buttons and actually having to deal with what happens.
Olan Rogers’ cartoon The Lion’s Blaze gets at something close to that. Four characters have been stuck inside an old RPG for fifteen years, running quests because each one supposedly gets them closer to escape, but there’s always another one waiting. They’re not legendary heroes—just normal people caught between wanting to go home and having no way out.
It works because the show treats the game world as a real place with real problems. These guys are exhausted by adventure. They deal with NPCs who never change, quests that loop back on themselves, the slow dawning that escape might not actually be possible.
What sticks with me is the core idea: being trapped in someone else’s story, forced to run through their narrative. You can feel the characters’ exhaustion in how they move through the world. Whether it can sustain that as a real series, I don’t know yet, but this is sharp.
The trap of opening Netflix in April is the same trap every month, except April feels worse somehow. Winter won’t let go. You’re tired of the cold, tired of rewatching the same shows you finished months ago, and then Netflix drops everything at once—new seasons of dramas you’d forgotten about, anime with fresh subtitles, limited series promising dark complexity, sci-fi that cost actual money to make, classics that somehow still work. It’s both generous and completely paralyzing.
Lost in Space was the new one worth your time, one of those remakes that actually had something to say. House of Money continued if you’d already swallowed that hook. Arrow was still doing its thing for the people tracking interconnected comic book plots. Aggretsuko was there for anime comedy that didn’t hurt from trying too hard. Wakfu showed up, strange and French-influenced, the kind of thing that appeals to people with specific taste. Fullmetal Alchemist for anyone meaning to catch up. Angry Birds if you wanted your evening to feel a little hollow. Powerpuff Girls returned in whatever form.
The films were a scatter—classics alongside new, prestige, and random. The Truman Show, which works every time. Life of Brian for Monty Python transgression. The Hateful Eight if you wanted brutal. The Bourne Identity for pure forward momentum. Watchmen if you hadn’t gotten there. Stranger stuff like 6 Balloons and Paul sitting alongside them, existing in the catalog now because they existed everywhere at once.
The real luxury wasn’t the quality of any single show. It was the abundance itself—having so much piled up that you could surrender to the couch entirely for an evening or a week. You’d skip most of it. Start things you wouldn’t finish. But April felt different when Netflix had dropped something you might want to watch. Winter was still happening outside, still refusing to leave. But inside, you had enough options that staying in felt like a choice. That was enough.
Saw the Kenzo photos of Britney Spears and something just clicked back. You know that moment when someone drifts out of your awareness and suddenly comes back, and you remember exactly why you cared?
I was maybe thirteen when “Baby One More Time” came out. The video was everywhere — the school uniform, the choreography, that carefully constructed image of controlled sexuality made to get into the heads of boys like me. It worked. Not just the surface pull, but something underneath: here was someone completely in command of herself, making something calculated and assured. Watching felt like witnessing someone who already knew something I was just starting to understand about power and attention and how desire actually works.
When she fell apart in 2007, everyone called it a breakdown. The shaved head, the tabloid chaos, the marriages that lasted a few months. I saw it differently. Not tragedy but release. Too much of everything too young, and then at some point the whole structure just cracked. I understood that in a way I don’t think most people did.
After that she kind of drifted from my awareness. Still around if you looked, but I wasn’t looking much. Other things pulled my attention. She became something I used to care about.
Then I saw these photos. She looks good. More than good — she looks like herself in a way I haven’t seen in years. The Kenzo campaign is just the context; what matters is that she’s still here, still working, still present. Seeing that broke something open. Reminded me why she mattered in the first place. Why she was the first time I felt that specific mix of attraction and recognition — watching someone who understood their own power, who knew the effect they had, who was comfortable with that knowledge.
I’m going to rewatch the Britney documentary. Probably more than once.
Being at an Alison Wonderland show when you’re already high does something to you. Her beats are relentless, the synths pull you somewhere darker, and everyone around you has basically shut off their brain—just there for the feeling, everything else irrelevant.
She came out with a new one called “High” featuring Trippie Redd. The video isn’t trying to be anything—not trying to be cinema, not trying to be art, honestly incoherent if you’re halfway through the comedown—but it gets the job done. Alison and Trippie want to get high. They want you there with them. That’s the complete message and it works because it’s exactly that simple.
Sometimes a song doesn’t need depth. No story, no meaning beyond what’s already sitting right there on the surface. You just want some people, wine, pizza, and something good playing while you exist together for a while.
That’s what this is for. When you’re in that moment—sitting around with people you actually like, nothing to prove, nothing to do—that’s where “High” belongs.
I found Snail’s House’s Snö at exactly the moment I needed something that would let me stop thinking. Not sleep, just stop—pause the day, let the noise settle, disappear into something gentle for a few hours.
The album sits somewhere between ambient and pop. There are melodies, structures, things a song is supposed to have, but they’re all soft. Tracks like “Covered in White” and “Fluttering” have the quality of snowfall: quiet, continuous, each note landing before the next one begins. “Snowdrift” does what the title promises, just burying you.
Electronic music has gotten clever lately. Arca, Oneohtrix Point Never, all these producers working in strangeness and texture—they’re trying to build worlds or break them. Snail’s House isn’t doing that. He’s just clearing a space where you can breathe. The production is clean enough to disappear, the arrangements leave room for your own mind, the whole thing exists to get out of the way. It’s almost rude how well it works.
No pretension, which is rare. No acid basslines trying to prove something, no glitch effects announcing themselves. No wellness branding either—this isn’t a ’self-care’ album in that corporate sense. It just happens to be what I reach for when the day’s worn me thin, when I need to not be here for a while.
Listening to it now, what strikes me is how simple it all is. Clean. Not minimalist—there’s plenty happening—but every element serves the mood and then steps back. That’s harder to pull off than it sounds. Most albums reach for you. This one just opens a door.
The Deadpool 2 trailer just dropped and I already know I’m seeing it in a theater. This is one of those rare superhero movies that understands what it is: funny, violent, nothing to apologize for.
Ryan Reynolds is the reason it works. Most actors in these roles seem like they’re apologizing for the material. Reynolds commits to the bit without ceremony, and you can tell he’s having fun with it. That ease—the confidence to let something be stupid without announcing it—carries the whole thing.
The trailer shows what you’d expect: ninjas, Yakuza, sexually aggressive dogs, all of it stupid in exactly the right way. The commitment to absurdity without self-consciousness—that’s where the comedy lives.
If you somehow missed the first Deadpool, catch up before the internet spoils everything to death. This isn’t a movie trying to matter. It’s competent and funny and violent enough to remind you why you bothered going to a theater in the first place.
I’ve been carrying around a specific shame since I was maybe seven or eight. We were at a nudist beach in Italy—my parents dragging me along—and I saw a grown man’s dick for the first time. Not in some formal way, just there, as these things are in those places. I remember looking at myself and thinking, without the language for it yet, that I’d somehow gotten shortchanged. That particular piece of sadness never really left me.
Which is why I find it kind of beautiful and ridiculous that there’s this forum online called Big Dick Problems. It’s exactly what it sounds like—guys with legitimately large dicks gathering to talk openly about the ways their size actually makes their lives worse. They swap photos, trade tips on condom shopping, tell stories about the practical and social complications of carrying around that much equipment.
Someone posted, ’I almost killed my girlfriend with it.’ Another guy talks about sending someone a dick pic and having her not believe it was actually him—too impossible to be real. Another got stopped at airport security because the shape in his pants looked suspicious enough to warrant a second look. You laugh at it, but then you realize these are genuine problems. Dating becomes this weird negotiation. Sex is always complicated. There’s no easy answer because the problem is built into the body.
I don’t know what I expected going in. Maybe bragging. Maybe some fantasy where a big dick is just pure advantage. But these guys seemed genuinely frustrated. The thing that’s supposed to make them powerful is just another source of anxiety. I read through enough of those posts to stop envying them, but I also didn’t stop, exactly. I just got tired of the whole thought.
I kept running into EarthGang and J.I.D. in different contexts and never realized they were connected until I found out they’d gone to Hampton University together. That kind of detail changes how you listen.
Two guys from Atlanta’s Southside — Olu and Eian — started EarthGang in high school and just kept making music together. Their first EP came out in 2010 when they were basically kids, and then they kept going. Mixtapes, albums, the kind of slow careful trajectory that doesn’t have big moments but also doesn’t need them. Nobody was throwing parties about it, but that’s not why you make music.
J.I.D. was there too in the early 2010s, at Hampton. He figured out pretty quickly that school wasn’t his lane, so he dropped out after two years and committed to rapping full-time. That was the right instinct. By the time his debut dropped in 2017 — “The Never Story” — he’d already been touring around with EarthGang and other people from Atlanta doing serious work. The album was worth the wait.
There’s something about Atlanta’s rap scene that doesn’t need permission. The production gives things room to breathe, the rhyming is precise, and they’re making records for people actually listening instead of chasing attention. EarthGang and J.I.D. are part of that lineage.
There’s something I still can’t quite pin down about their music that keeps pulling me back in. Not the production, not the rhyming — something about how secure they seem in the work itself. Like they made it for themselves first and everything else was secondary. That’s the kind of artist I keep thinking about.
I’ve disliked Facebook and Zuckerberg for years. Unsympathetic is closer—there’s something about the whole operation that’s never sat right with me. The thought of deleting my account comes up regularly, for all sorts of reasons. But I never actually do it.
The Cambridge Analytica reporting made that harder to ignore. Fifty million profiles, data siphoned through a fake psychology app, then fed into a political campaign. Edward Snowden called it what it was: a surveillance apparatus in a social media costume. People started the #DeleteFacebook movement. Even Brian Acton, who’d sold WhatsApp to Zuckerberg for billions, was out.
I read pieces about it at the time from people I respected. One said Facebook had become one of the most powerful companies on earth in terms of shaping how people perceive things, and it had shown, repeatedly, that it couldn’t handle that power responsibly. Another went deeper: Facebook doesn’t even understand how it works. It perfected the machine for selling ads, then treated everything else—the social impact, the world-building, the actual effects—as secondary. That’s the real danger. A system so vast and so broken that even its creator doesn’t know what it does.
I’d been thinking about this longer than most. Years before the scandal, I’d written about how we’d all walked into a trap willingly. Content creators, bloggers, everyone with something to say—we’d fed ourselves into these platforms because that’s where the audience was. And once you do that, you’re done. The platform owns the reach. The algorithm decides what gets seen. The company that built it controls the whole game.
I remember arguing, back then, that the only real escape was to stop using social platforms for distribution entirely. Build your own place. Let people come to you. But I knew nobody would do it. The validation is too real. The likes and retweets and shares matter too much. We’d rather delete critical comments that pull people away from our links than admit we’ve given up our independence. We cross our fingers and hope the American company with our data doesn’t abuse it too much. And they do, and we know they will, and we stay anyway.
Facebook had become something viler over time—a gatekeeper that censors and hides and blocks, all in the service of engagement and profit. When the Cambridge Analytica story broke, it felt possible, briefly, that maybe this was the end. Maybe it would collapse like MySpace, like Friendster, like StudiVZ. Maybe we’d actually get that weirder, freer internet back.
I’m still waiting. Still logged in. Haven’t deleted anything. Haven’t moved my accounts anywhere. Maybe it will die. Maybe the octopus’s grip finally loosens. Or maybe nothing changes and we just stay here, complaining about it while we use it, until something else comes along and we walk into the same trap again.
Echosmith were everywhere with ’Cool Kids’ in 2013—one of those songs that plants itself in your brain whether you want it there or not. Then they basically disappeared, and I figured that was it. Peak and decline, like half the acts from that era.
Turns out they just went quiet. Spent time in the studio trying to figure out who they actually wanted to be. ’Over My Head’ is their first real statement back, and it’s a harder sound than ’Cool Kids’—heavy on synths, this weird sleek new-wave thing that shouldn’t work but does. The drums cut through. It feels deliberate.
This is a preview of a summer album. I’m curious what’s on there. The band sounds less like they’re trying to prove something and more like they’ve just made what they wanted to make.
I’ve had it on repeat. Still not sure if that’s because the song is genuinely good or because it’s nice to see them return without falling apart—but the distinction feels minor.
Afuri in Sendagaya is my favorite ramen shop in Tokyo, and now it’s on a t-shirt. So are Ebisoba Ichigen, Menya Musashi, and Ippudo—all part of a Uniqlo collaboration that just dropped. Around fifteen euros each, which feels almost too cheap for what you’re actually wearing.
I’ve been saying for years that ramen is what sushi was before sushi got completely gutted. Sushi left Japan and became whatever anyone wanted it to be—duck instead of salmon, ground beef instead of tuna, curried sausage where avocado should go. Someone in Tokyo’s probably still angry about it. But ramen, in the places that actually matter, stayed honest. It’s hard to fake a proper bowl. You can’t shortcut the broth.
These shops aren’t tourist traps. They’re packed because the food works. Afuri especially—there’s something about how they balance the acid and fat that makes you finish and immediately want another bowl. It’s not some precious, Instagram-ready experience. It’s just ramen that makes sense.
What gets me is how specific this collab is. They picked actual good shops instead of whatever name was biggest. That suggests someone involved actually knows what they’re talking about, or I’m reading too much into t-shirts. Either way, I’ve got to get my hands on that Afuri shirt before it sells out. I’ll figure out what that says about me later.
Alexa raps: “I connect my fist to your face via Bluetooth.” Siri jumps in: “Send your dick pic to your mom’s picnic.” This is Klaas Heufer-Umlauf’s late-night show on ProSieben.
Klaas wanted to rap. He can’t. So instead of pretending, he let Siri and Alexa take over. The machines do the rapping while he stands there getting roasted by his own devices. The whole bit lands on the fact that they outrap him.
There’s a comparison going around to Jan Böhermann, another German late-night host who does similar shock-comedy bits. The comparison holds — German late-night seems to orbit around this kind of absurdity. But Klaas’s version is meaner. The machines aren’t just better rappers; they’re contemptuous about it. That’s the actual punchline.
What I find strangest is how much intention is baked into this. Someone wrote these lines. Someone approved them. A network greenlit the idea of Alexa insulting their own talent. It’s the kind of bit that only works because nobody’s pretending it’s clever — everyone just committed to the dumb absurdity of it all.
Some music videos are trying to make a statement. Empire’s “Buttocks Beat! Beat!” is not interested in statements. It’s just a running ass chasing girls through the frame while they get beaten up. The song underneath is pure adrenaline—loud idol pop with heavy guitar, the kind of thing you could genuinely lose your mind to in your apartment at midnight, dancing alone with the lights off.
But that’s only one flavor of what came out this week. Amazarashi’s “Monday” takes the other direction entirely—Akita singing about how Mondays are so repulsive, so deadening, that even the garbage man just leaves them on the curb. It’s genuinely bleak, philosophical in a way that’s completely unpretentious. And it works because he’s not trying to make misery sound profound; he’s just describing how it feels to wake up and know you have to do it again.
Tofubeats has been doing this for years now—starting as a bedroom producer on YouTube and Bandcamp, now in the actual mainstream, but still experimental in a way that doesn’t care if it lands with everyone. His new track “ふめつのこころ” is exactly what you’d expect from him: intricate, slightly weird, refusing to simplify itself for radio. He grew up in Kobe, built his whole career on the internet, and never stopped taking chances.
Kenshi Yonezu came up through Vocaloid production under a different name, which probably sounds like a footnote, but it explains everything about how he thinks. “Lemon” is about the end of something—about learning that certain kinds of happiness don’t come back. There’s a line about hidden darkness staying hidden if you’d never known someone. It’s the kind of thing that would sound overwrought in English, but he’s just stating it plainly, and somehow that makes it hurt more.
Then there’s the other pole: Oresama is pure color and melody, unapologetic idol pop. Their new video is a cartoon adventure through Shibuya, bright and bouncing, the kind of thing that just erases whatever was bothering you. Sometimes you need that. Sometimes pop should just be pop without apology. And Sky-Hi is mixing American hip-hop with Japanese style in “何様”, rough and pop at once, and it works because he’s not trying to prove anything—just doing both at the same time.
Mondo Grosso is what you’d hear in the underground clubs in Shibuya—a DJ project that’s been filling dance floors for years. His new track “False Sympathy” has a vocalist from BiSH layered over the beat, and it’s already rotating through Tokyo clubs in a dozen remixes. That’s the other pulse of the city entirely: not introspection, just bodies moving, bass, someone else’s voice floating over it all.
Then you get artists like Back-On, who’ve been doing this for years, who should be at their peak but somehow don’t feel like it anymore. “Clown” is technically fine, but there’s something missing—the band’s been through member changes, and you can feel the wear. And Chocoholic comes through with this chill pop thing, “Touch,” which is exactly what it needs to be: sweet without being precious, the kind of song that plays quietly in some Tokyo backroom and just works.
What strikes me this week is the sheer range—Amazarashi killing you with darkness, Empire being completely ridiculous, Tofubeats still pushing at the edges, Yonezu turning loss into language, Oresama just being joyful about it. None of it sounds like it came from the same place, and I’m not sure that’s accidental.
Nastya Kovaleva is a Russian model who actually travels instead of just posing in locations for Instagram. France, China, Thailand — she moves between them and documents it all without the usual performance. No manufactured narrative, no lifestyle branding. Just someone going places and paying attention.
Photographer Sergio del Amo caught her in Bangkok recently, shot her in a hotel room with light everywhere. The photos have something — both of them clearly present instead of just going through what a photoshoot is supposed to be.
I keep going back to her Instagram for this exact thing. Not because the photos are technically impressive, but because there’s no concern with building a persona out of travel. Just documenting the places, not performing the experience.
I spent a lot of time as a kid copying Sailor Moon from the manga. Page after page, trying to get her face right, the way she moved, her whole look. It never worked. Eyes too big, hands weird, legs that wouldn’t sit right. After a couple years of getting nowhere I just stopped.
Everyone tries this, I think. You see something beautiful and you want to make it yourself, so you try. Most people fail. The ones who don’t—the ones who keep at it and actually get good—are making things like what Karina Yashagina makes.
She’s from Kazan, in southwest Russia. Mostly she draws girls, pretty ones, rendered with this confident line work and no fussiness. Sometimes cats or vegetables, but mostly girls. The proportions are right. The faces have depth. The color is simple and sure. It’s the work of someone who knows what she’s doing.
I’m not sure what separates the people who stick with something from the ones who give up. Stubbornness maybe. Or the ability to imagine yourself being good at a thing. I couldn’t imagine that. It felt easier to quit.
I’ve been deep in the vaporwave thing for a while now. City-pop, future funk, whatever you want to call that aesthetic—Japanese music from the eighties remixed and rearranged by producers in bedrooms all over the world. Chilled beats, emotional synths, all of it arranged to make you feel like you’re inside some imaginary Tokyo from an imaginary future. A gray spring day disappears when you’re listening. You’re somewhere else entirely.
Desired works in this space seriously. Russian artist based in Yekaterinburg, and for years he’s been remixing J-pop records in a way that doesn’t feel like remixing at all—it feels like discovery. His work appeals to people obsessed with Japanese culture and music, yeah, but also to anyone looking for something that isn’t algorithm-approved. He clearly loves it. You can hear it in the earnestness of every track, in the way there’s no irony, no winking at the listener, just genuine affection for the source material.
The new album is called “Timeless.” Songs like “Sunshine City” and “Video Girl Yukiko” and “Into the Unknown” do what they’re supposed to do. They get in your head. They place you in that neon hypothetical disco from a future that never existed but should have. Available on vinyl, cassette, digital—everything you could want. The cassette thing still makes sense, even in 2018. People care about cassettes.
What stays with me is the lack of irony. Desired isn’t leaning on retro novelty or performing nostalgia. He’s just making music he believes in, for people who want it. That’s rarer than it should be.
The TimeMachine popup’s been camping in the corner of my screen for three years. Every morning—sometimes twice—it shows up asking if I want to finally back something up. Every time, I hit “remind me tomorrow.” I’m 972 days into lying to myself about when I’m actually going to do this.
Everyone’s lost something important. Spilled coffee. Got robbed. Downloaded what you thought was a picture of Anna Kurnikowa but was actually malware that locked your entire drive. Watched years of work just disappear into nothing. That panic, that slow acceptance that it’s actually gone—if you’ve been through it, you understand why backups matter. You just still don’t do them.
A German comedy band got it. The Bohemian Browser Ballett took hit songs from the eighties and nineties and rewrote them as backup reminders. “Just throw it in the cloud.” “Data here, data gone.” “Now it’s too late, you stupid asshole.” Parody songs with a point, basically. Funny and brutal and completely true.
But the thing is, I still haven’t actually set one up. That critical Word file that’s supposedly going to determine my entire future is still sitting right here on this one drive, completely unprotected. Tomorrow the popup will come back and I’ll click the same button again.
The Simpsons used to mean something. Everyone had the same episodes memorized, the same jokes that worked in any conversation, the same memories of when television could actually shape culture. There was a moment when knowing a Simpsons reference meant you belonged to a specific group of people who got it.
I think the movie was where it all changed. Not because it was terrible—just because it was hollow. A decent episode stretched out to feature length, competent but empty. After that something died in the series. The creativity just… stopped. What had been sharp and strange became safe and profitable. It’s still on the air because there’s money in it, not because anyone cares.
Philipp Walulis, a television critic, made a video essay about this exact thing—why the Simpsons declined season by season, decade by decade. It’s the question anyone who actually watched the series ends up asking.
The old episodes are still perfect, which is almost depressing. They’re untouched by any of this. You go back and they’re exactly as good as you remembered, which somehow just emphasizes how badly everything after them missed the point.
A tribute album called “Revamp” with Elton John songs — that’s a legitimacy test. If you can get Mary J. Blige, Coldplay, The Killers, Ed Sheeran, Florence + The Machine, and Lady Gaga in the room, your songs probably mean something. The first single is Demi Lovato and Q-Tip doing “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” which is weird enough to actually work.
Elton’s just everywhere. Lion King. His Apple Music radio show. Decades of piano ballads that somehow survived aging the way things from the 70s usually don’t. You grow up hearing him in a way that feels inevitable, like it was always going to happen. The melodies stick.
That’s probably why his stuff is worth covering — the bone structure is there. A solid melody survives different arrangements, different voices. You hear someone else sing an Elton song and you remember yeah, this was always strong. Makes you want to pull something up, listen again, not for sentiment but because you forgot how well it was made.
Reezy’s Feueremoji with Bausa has been running in the background for a while. The whole thing sits in this chillhop-and-trap zone—production that’s deliberate about not trying too hard. The songs are about expensive clothes and food, success and future anxiety, all delivered with the same flat confidence. “Zombies,” “John Schnee,” “High Class Street Fashion”—they follow the same blueprint, and it works because nothing is reaching.
I used to dismiss German rap without really listening to it. Something about the accent or the cultural context made it easy to check out. But that’s lazy. Reezy and Bausa clearly stopped caring about proving anything to anyone a long time ago. The mixtape doesn’t announce itself or try to convince you—it just sits there and stays in your head, which is harder than it sounds.
The “Tim Burton of Asia” comparison follows Nobuhiko Obayashi around, but it doesn’t fit. Burton trades in gothic spectacle; Obayashi makes something weirder and more genuinely unsettling. His films—”House,” “The Girl Who Leapt Through Time,” “The Last Snow”—exist in their own register, something between horror and pop, the personal and the fantastical, without needing an American reference point to make sense.
What gets me about his work is how it’s centered on women as complete people. Not love interests or victims—the actual center of the story. It’s a conviction that runs through everything he’s made across decades. His characters are complex and self-directed, and that commitment to their interiority matters as much as whatever surreal or frightening thing is happening around them.
He’s still working, still experimenting. “Hanagatami,” his recent film, is about youth and friendship and how a moment in time can crack open into something larger. He also makes music videos for Japanese idol groups, which feels like the kind of constraint that actually frees something creatively. He’s not trying to be respectable. He’s just making films that are genuinely strange and that take their characters seriously.
Some music video where Rick and Morty do a Pulp Fiction bit while Run The Jewels’ “Oh Mama” plays underneath. Rick belching through the chaos, Morty terrified, both of them moving through what amounts to a job gone sideways. You’re always waiting for new episodes that may or may not come, rewatching old ones because there’s nothing else to do. At least when something like this surfaces, you remember why you’re stuck with the show.
The video works because it’s exactly what you’d want. Granddad checked out and belching his way through the violence, nephew in full panic mode, everything moving like choreography while the track keeps it urgent. The show’s been buried under a thousand essays about how self-aware it is, how it winks at its own cleverness, the whole recursive bit. Maybe it’s all true. Mostly I just like watching it, and it’s clear I’m exactly the type to fall for it.
I could sit down and watch the whole thing tonight. I’ve seen every episode. Doesn’t matter. I’ll do it anyway.
I like Kendall Jenner. She seems genuinely unbothered by the fame, the cameras, all of it—cool in a way that doesn’t try. Just someone who ended up in the Kardashian machinery and doesn’t seem to care if anyone thinks that’s impossible.
There’s this Lil Dicky music video. Kendall’s in it with Ed Sheeran, DJ Khaled, and Chris Brown, who beat Rihanna unconscious and then got her face tattooed on him (a choice). She sings straight-faced about her vagina. Not metaphorically. “I’m Kendall Jenner, I have a vagina, I’m going to explore it.” Narrating her own anatomy like a nature documentary, touching herself the whole time.
The absurdity is the thing. The video’s weird enough that her deadpan commitment to it becomes the point. No winking, no cleverness. Just doing it.
That’s what I respect about her. She doesn’t seem invested in convincing anyone of anything. She’ll sing about her own body on a Lil Dicky track and move on. That’s a freedom most people either don’t have or won’t let themselves take.
Clarissa taught me more than anyone else who actually set out to teach me anything. My parents, my teachers, friends — none of them got through the way that show did. It was scripture for me on all the stuff that mattered. Still is. I find myself rewatching those old episodes late at night and I’m still pulling something from them.
Reboots are everywhere right now, so Nickelodeon decided to make new Clarissa episodes. Melissa Joan Hart is coming back, this time as Clarissa’s mother. The logic is straightforward — the show resonated with people, people are nostalgic, so make more. Same reason Roseanne came back, Dynasty came back, MacGyver came back. It’s what the studios are doing now.
Most reboots are genuinely terrible though. The Gilmore Girls revival was painful. Fuller House was bloated and pointless. Someone greenlit the Jersey Shore revival and for that alone deserves to be ashamed forever. So I’m not walking in with hope.
But maybe this one could work. Hart actually understands Clarissa. There’s something potentially interesting in the idea of her as a parent now, watching her own kid navigate the same anxieties she spent years working through. Maybe they won’t fuck it up. Probably they will, but maybe not.
At least the old episodes are still there. Still hold up. Still teach you things.
Used to be you just got dressed and left the house. Wore what was clean, what felt okay, moved on with your day. Brands mattered—Adidas beat whatever the discount store had—but people still looked different from each other. Had room to exist in whatever.
Now I watch the same thing happen every morning. Kids pouring out of apartment buildings like they were stamped out by a machine. Adidas trainers, Supreme box logo, Nike backpack. The full outfit. I can read their entire personality before they’ve walked past: this one’s into Bauhaus, that one’s sneaking home to play Pokemon cards, that one’s already working out which ribs will bruise. It’s all there in the uniform.
What gets me is how total it is. Even the kids with nothing—the ones who used to slip through invisible—they figured it out. Fake Supreme somewhere on their body. Music they don’t actually like playing just loud enough to hear. Just enough costume to stop getting noticed. And they’re right, it works. Conformity’s cheaper than whatever the cost of being weird is.
So I’m curious. Why Supreme specifically? Why are kids actually willing to fight over shoes? When did fitting in cost this much? There’s definitely some video essay about it—Casually Explained probably has one—but knowing the reason doesn’t change how strange it is. If anything it probably makes it worse.
Gal Gadot as Wonder Woman is one of those castings that just works. There’s something in the way she carries herself — part warrior, part completely unbothered — that makes you believe the things she does on screen are actually possible. So when Reebok signed her for a fitness campaign alongside Ariana Grande, Gigi Hadid, and Victoria Beckham, I didn’t immediately dismiss it. The promotional language is all there — becoming your strongest self, mental and physical transformation, all of that — but at least the person saying it seems like she actually believes it.
Celebrity fitness campaigns work a specific way. They show you beautiful, fit people and tell you that if you buy their shoes and adopt their mindset, you’ll look like them too. What they don’t mention is genetics, the personal trainers who cost six figures, the fact that these people were already gorgeous before any contract existed. But you know that. You also know intellectually it won’t fix anything, but something in you wants to try anyway.
I keep thinking about Wonder Woman before Gal Gadot played her. The character worked because she wasn’t trying to inspire anyone. She was just doing the job. No philosophy, no arc about discovering herself, no language about unlocking potential. She fought because that’s what she did. There was something clean about that. Gadot brings some of that to everything — even a sportswear partnership. She’s not desperate to convince you of anything. She’s just there. That’s probably why this reaches people who wouldn’t normally pay attention to this stuff.
The actual point is simpler. Gadot’s got an ease in her own skin that you can’t teach or manufacture. The Reebok campaign is just the frame. If you’re looking for a reason to get back in shape, you could do worse than having her face attached to the idea. Not because she’ll transform your life or unlock some hidden strength. Just because she makes it look like something worth doing.
Walking into Toon Town for a fashion show felt like the kind of thing that shouldn’t work. The streets are too bright, too oversized, too committed to being cartoon. But Opening Ceremony and Disney pulled it off. Humberto Leon and Carol Lim designed a collection that lived in the same space as the Mickey Mouse buildings around it.
I grew up on Disney. Most people my age did. The Princess movies, the animated features, the whole thing. I didn’t think about it much anymore until I was standing there watching models in Mickey-inspired clothes walk past storefronts painted like animation cels. Something about it hit me. The oversizing, the impossible proportions, the commitment to a completely wrong color palette — it was familiar in a way that made sense.
Humberto and Carol understood something about the connection between fashion and cartoons. Both are built on exaggeration and silhouette. Both ask you to accept impossible proportions and move on. The collection didn’t fight the Disney imagery or wink at it — it just let it exist alongside the clothes. That’s harder than it sounds.
The Philadelphia Orchestra played Fantasia and other Disney songs while the show happened. It should have felt like too much, but it worked. There’s something about hearing that score live while watching high fashion happen in front of cartoon buildings. The whole thing existed in its own logic. It didn’t apologize for being sincere.
Standing there, I felt something I thought I’d outgrown — the pull of the place, the sense that something impossible was actually happening. Not the childhood fantasy of living inside a cartoon. But an appreciation for what it takes to make that place feel real, to make a cartoon from 1928 still matter to a crowd. It’s rare to see something land that completely. Most attempts at this kind of nostalgia hit wrong. This one didn’t.
I found my way to Afuri in Sendagaya a while back and basically never left. The menu is small and I know it backwards. There’s a particular yuzu ramen they make that I still think about when I’m not sitting at the counter — the broth is bright and clean, and the noodles have this texture that most places fuck up. Which is why people spend their lives making it.
Ramen spent a long time in the West as student food. The cheap instant stuff you bought in bulk when you were broke. In Japan it’s always been something different: a craft, a point of pride, a tradition people guard carefully. The gap between how it’s perceived in different parts of the world is kind of interesting. Same dish, completely different weight.
There’s a documentary called “Ramen Heads” now. Koki Shigeno, Arata Oshima, and Yusuke Kamata made it. They interviewed Osamu Tomita, a ramen chef who clearly gives a shit about what he does. The film is about why ramen matters — why those small choices in technique and ingredient change the entire bowl. It’s shot with the kind of care the subject actually deserves.
It’s at food festivals right now. Probably coming to streaming at some point. I haven’t seen it yet, but I’m curious what someone like Tomita thinks about after spending most of his life making the same bowl over and over. That kind of focus usually means he’s figured out something worth knowing.
The documentary probably won’t teach me anything I haven’t already figured out at the counter. But it might explain why I keep going back.
There was a period when the best weekend ideas came from strangers proposing increasingly absurd missions. Some were harmless enough—stare at stars, eat more walnuts, make one last run through the Toys’R’Us. Others veered into genuinely unhinged territory, crude and sexual in that specific way that only made sense in a particular internet moment, when shock value and stupidity were basically the same as humor.
You weren’t supposed to actually do them. The list itself was the joke. It was someone handing you permission to be weird and awful and horny without apology. That was the whole appeal—not the individual missions, but the existence of the list, the knowledge that other people found this funny without needing explanation.
I never did any of them. But I got why they were funny.
A couple’s been together five years and they barely have sex anymore. Both of them want to—neither’s holding back intentionally—but the gap between comfort and desire is wider than you’d think, and they can’t seem to cross it. It’s the kind of problem that exists in a lot of relationships but doesn’t get talked about much. A therapist named Angelika Eck wrote about it for Zeit Magazine, about how eroticism survives in long-term relationships, and reading it felt like someone finally naming something you already knew was wrong.
Drag queens got mainstream. TV, parades, bars in every city. But drag kings—women performing the exaggeration of men—are still on the margins somehow, which makes no sense. Hazel Cills wrote about them for Jezebel, looking at why the inverse of drag never got the same cultural moment. There’s something weirder and probably more interesting happening in that space that nobody’s paying attention to.
Mark Zuckerberg is absurdly short. Like, actually tiny. Facebook controls his image carefully because power and height are tangled in our collective mind—you need to seem big to seem powerful—and if he’s going to run for president, as the rumors suggest, he needs to look like a man who could lead. Maria Bustillos wrote about this on Medium, and the whole thing is funny in a way that you can’t unsee.
Counterfeit sneakers are a full economy now because the real ones cost $200-300 and will be out of style in a week. Hypebeasts in their Supreme and Yeezys exist in this weird space—are they actually stylish or just wearing logos like identity? Kevin Lozano looked at the fake sneaker market for GQ, and yeah, the knockoffs might be the truest thing about the whole scene.
Brad Kim created Know Your Meme ten years ago. Ten years of documenting every weird corner of internet culture. In an interview with Kaitlyn Tiffany at The Verge, he talked about what it’s done to him: he can’t believe in anything anymore. His mother’s faith, his childhood faith—the internet took that. He’s seen too much. You see enough of how people actually behave online, and something in you dies.
Paulchen’s been on my case about Bitcoin for years. Get in now or regret it later. Litecoin’s the future. Ethereum’s going to change everything. The blockchain will solve… something. The pitch blurs together after a while, but I keep thinking the same thing: can code actually stop people from wanting to get rich?
I haven’t put any money into it and I’m not going to. Not because I think the whole thing’ll blow up—I genuinely don’t know what happens—but because I can’t stand hype. The moment a company says “coin” or “blockchain,” everyone loses their minds. It’s always the same feeling: get in now or get left behind. I’d rather stay out.
John Oliver did this thing on Last Week Tonight about cryptocurrency that’s actually worth watching if you want to understand how any of it works. He breaks it down while making fun of the absurdity of it all, which is kind of the point—most people talking about the future of crypto don’t actually understand it. They just know someone made money and they want that to be them.
There’s always a pattern. New technology shows up. Someone tells you it’s the future. Anyone who doesn’t get in early is an idiot. The story matters more than the thing itself. Some people get rich. A lot more just lose money while other people’s money disappears too.
I’m skeptical. Not paranoid, just tired of watching the same story in new clothes. Maybe the technology’s real. Maybe the applications work out someday. But right now it feels like watching people bid up something they don’t understand because they’re terrified of missing out. I’d rather sit on the sidelines and see what sticks.
Paulchen still texts me about it. He always will. He’s not wrong to believe in it—I genuinely don’t know if he’ll make money or lose it. He just decided a long time ago that he was going to be the kind of person who gets in early on new things. I decided I was going to be the kind of person who doesn’t. Neither of us will know if we made the right call until it’s way too late to change it.
I’ve got a friend who’s obsessed with Supreme. Like, genuinely obsessed—not just the obvious pieces, but the pens, the keychains, the skateboards, the sneakers, everything. For years I thought he was completely insane. Lately I’m starting to understand it.
Then I learn about Georgie Riot. She’s this alternative model and skater from Manchester, and when a photographer came over to shoot portraits at her place, he just stopped. The sneaker collection, the skateboards, this massive Supreme towel—the whole apartment was basically a shrine to the brand. She didn’t just own these things, she lived inside them.
That’s what made it click for me. There’s something about watching someone commit that completely to something, especially when it’s something as ridiculous as a streetwear label. Supreme started in New York as just another brand, but for people like Georgie it’s become something closer to faith. A very expensive, very cool religion.
My friend would probably just move to Manchester to study her collection. That apartment is basically his temple, and now he knows there are other believers out there.
I have a folder on my computer that contains 271 photographs of Dua Lipa’s face. Just her face. Not in context, not at events, not with other people—just the closeups where you can see every angle. I sorted them by date, then I re-sorted them by lighting conditions. I’m not proud of this. I’m also not ashamed.
It started innocently enough. A production still from a video shoot. A candid from a magazine spread. Then paparazzi photos, screencaps from interviews, behind-the-scenes material from her record label that somehow ended up online. The face itself is interesting—there’s a specificity to it. The jaw, the way her eyes track. The slight flatness of her expression most of the time, like she’s used to being looked at and has decided not to perform anymore. It pulls you in.
I know what this looks like. I know I could be watching her performances, reading interviews, understanding her as an artist and a person. And I do some of that. She makes music, obviously—”New Rules” and the rest. But that’s not why I keep saving images. Somewhere between an art form and an obsession, I just wanted to know the shape of her face from every angle.
There’s something about celebrity that does this. It gives you permission to stare at someone long past the point of normalcy. You’re not studying a stranger; you’re consuming content. It’s mediated, public, somehow acceptable. But mediated or not, you’re still staring. You’re still building an archive of another person’s physical form. The justification matters less the longer you do it.
I don’t particularly want to meet her, or feel some sense of connection that isn’t there. I’m not fantasizing about being in her life. It’s almost the opposite—I want the distance. The photos are enough because they don’t require anything from me. I can look as long as I want. I can save and organize and arrange. There’s a control in it that real encounters would destroy.
Sometimes I open the folder just to flip through them. Nothing happens. I don’t get excited. It’s just looking at a face I find put-together in a specific way—the way her face is together. And then I close it and move on with my day. I think this is just something people do with images now, especially with people who exist primarily as images. You collect them, arrange them, return to them. It’s mild. It’s harmless. It’s also completely ridiculous, and I’m aware of that too.
Flipped through an old list the other day—ten missions that were supposed to be accomplished over a weekend, the kind of crowdsourced absurdism that made the internet feel participatory for a moment. Go back and superlike an ex on Tinder. Dress as Batman and help solve crimes. Get drunk and play beer pong with old people at a nursing home. Give out free condoms to strangers. Watch Harry Potter backwards. The final one, with no setup: heal cancer.
What gets me is how sincere it all was. This wasn’t ironic. The poster genuinely believed that people would go out and do these ridiculous things and come back with stories. There’s something almost beautiful in that faith—the belief that chaos written down and shared was enough to make something happen.
Most of the humor is locked in its specific moment. Some of it’s just harmless dumb stuff. Some of it hits the semi-transgressive notes that appeal to anyone young enough to believe consequences are theoretical. And then there’s that final item—heal cancer—which feels less like a punchline and more like the list just surrendered to pure absurdity.
I spent enough years on the internet to know when it felt genuinely different. When a dumb list could feel innovative. When a dare written online seemed revolutionary. Now I’m mostly bored by the same impulses resurfacing. But I can see why this list seemed genius: it was permission. It said everyone’s doing this weird thing together, and maybe the doing wasn’t really the point at all.
You know the thing where you’ve finished a show you actually cared about and nothing else looks watchable. That was me after Game of Thrones fell apart. Stranger Things was somewhere in the void. House of Cards was done. Netflix had plenty of shows—it always does—but nothing that felt worth the commitment.
Then I saw there was a new Lost in Space. A reboot of that old ’90s show, apparently. The trailer looked solid. Robinson family crashes on an alien planet, there’s a robot, everyone’s fighting to survive. Standard sci-fi stuff, but executed in a way that made me actually curious instead of just turning it on as background noise.
There’s something about survival stories that does it for me—not the treachery or the drama, but the idea of people figuring out how to live in an impossible situation. Maybe it’s because real life is easier when you stop thinking and just keep moving.
I’m not sure if Lost in Space will actually be good. But for the first time in a while, I was curious enough to want to find out.
Wearing anime shirts to school was social suicide back in the day. Or at least it felt that way — you’d get mocked by kids with even less social standing than you, which somehow made it worse. Now it’s everywhere. Sailor Moon stickers on MacBooks. Adults with Pikachu tattoos. The whole forbidden thing became a style choice.
Uniqlo’s released a new anime collection through Weekly Shonen Jump. Dragon Ball, Bleach, Naruto, Hunter x Hunter, Yu-Gi-Oh! — the obvious ones. But also High School Kimengumi! and Rokudenashi Blues, the stuff that barely made it out of Japan. Kids and adult sizes.
There’s something that happens when the thing that marked you as an outsider becomes merchandise becomes normal. The freak becomes the default. You put on the shirt now and nobody thinks anything of it. Not even you. It’s just fabric with a design on it. Somewhere in that transformation from forbidden to mainstream to invisible, something shifts. Whether that’s good or bad is the kind of question that has no answer.
Tobi Lou is a rapper from Chicago (born in Lagos, Nigeria) who made a song about Sailor Moon because he loved the show. That sentence wouldn’t have meant anything interesting ten years ago. Anime was the thing you hid, the thing that made you strange.
It’s weird to think about now, but the 90s were fine with anime. Dragon Ball, Pokémon, it was just there on Cartoon Network, kids watched it, no one thought much about it. Then something happened in the 2000s. Anime became code for something specific—lonely guys, tentacle porn, the weird intersection of desire and fantasy that made normal people uncomfortable. The stigma was real and total. Good shows were still being made, beautiful films still came out, but the culture had decided anime was diseased.
That assessment stuck way too long. You needed permission to care. For years you’d have to qualify it, make excuses, find the ones that were “acceptable”—Akira was okay, Spirited Away was art, but admitting you watched the regular stuff, the stuff you actually loved, meant you were admitting something wrong about yourself.
Then the streaming services got involved. Kill la Kill landed and was just gorgeous and weird and impossible to dismiss. Your Name made real money. Netflix threw resources at it. Crunchyroll stopped being a joke. Somewhere in there the culture shifted. It became possible to care about anime without explaining yourself. The permission slipped into place quietly, and suddenly people like Tobi Lou could just make a song about Sailor Moon because he loved her, and no one had to read anything into it.
I don’t know how long Okay Kaya has been making music, but I just found her. A Norwegian artist living in New York, and the first time I heard her songs I understood I’d been waiting for this without knowing it.
“Clenched Teeth,” “I’m Stupid,” “Damn, Gravity”—they sit differently than most things. There’s no reaching in them, no performance. She sounds like someone thinking, and I guess that’s rarer than it should be.
Norway keeps producing people who somehow understand something about silence and clarity that the rest of us have to learn. She’s been in New York long enough that you can hear the city in her too—that particular exhaustion, that restlessness—but there’s still something cold and Scandinavian underneath. The kind of thing that doesn’t need to explain itself.
She hasn’t toured in Germany. I don’t know if it’s logistics or indifference or just hasn’t happened yet. I’ll keep listening, which I guess sounds obsessive, but that’s what music does sometimes—finds you late and makes you feel like you wasted time not knowing about it. There’s no fixing that feeling, but you listen anyway.
Big breasts are genuinely fascinating. That’s not a profound observation—just true. Anyone saying they’re indifferent is either lying or has trained themselves not to notice.
There’s a Russian artist, Pasha Pozdniakova, 18 years old, who paints and does yoga and started a Patreon campaign trying to become an Instagram star. That’s unremarkable—millions of people are doing it. What made her worth writing about is that she has, by any obvious measure, very large breasts. And people can’t stop documenting this, comparing her to other women like they’re competing for a title.
The piece I found was comparing her to some German TV personality, which is funny because it assumes you can rank women’s bodies and arrive at a winner. But what actually interests me is the eagerness of it—how quickly people turn a distinctive body into an argument that needs settling, a point that needs proving. That’s the real story.
I don’t know what Pasha Pozdniakova thinks about any of it. She’s just out there painting.
Hans Staudenmayer’s flashlight beam sweeps across the steps of the Alte Nazarethkirche in Wedding. Minus twelve degrees. Two feet sticking out from under a blanket. “Can you hear me?” he asks. The blanket moves. “We’re from the Wärmebus. Do you need help?”
Andreas Gandzior, Uta Keseling, and Martin Nejezchleba from the Berlin Morgenpost spent a night documenting the Wärmebus—a mobile warmth service that works through winter, finding people freezing on the streets and getting them to shelters or warming centers. The work sounds simple. In practice, it’s urgent. When it’s below zero, the difference between someone finding a doorway and not finding one is the difference between living and dying.
You don’t notice these people in the daytime. At night, during the coldest parts of winter, they become a kind of invisible infrastructure—the ones under the stairs, in the U-Bahn, wedged into alcoves. The documentary doesn’t sensationalize it. There’s no music, no emotional manipulation. Just the cold, the flashlight, the question: “Do you need help?” And the person under the blanket answering.
I’ve been in Berlin in winter. Everyone has a warm place to go. It’s hard to hold in your head that other people don’t, that the choice isn’t between your apartment and someone else’s. The choice is between having a place and not having one. Between life and hypothermia.
What stayed with me was how ordinary the work looked. Two people in a van. A routine. Night after night, finding people you’d walk past without seeing in daylight. The documentary doesn’t ask you to feel guilty or do anything about it. It just shows you the work, the cold, the people. That’s almost harder to sit with.
I arrived in Berlin in the summer of 2007 and had no idea what I was doing. The city felt like it was on fire in a way that made sense at night and nowhere else. Bar 25, Scala, Knaack—clubs you’d hear about from other people, never from any official source. You’d show up because someone told you to, and the night would become something you couldn’t have predicted.
The clubs weren’t trying to be anything but loud and dark and alive. They felt like they’d stolen their energy from New York and London and Amsterdam all at once and run it through Berlin’s particular kind of collapse. The kids who’d been dressing in black downtown were becoming something sharper, something meaner, something hungrier. I was nineteen and I thought the nights would just keep going like that forever.
Years later there’s a YouTube series called After Hours that films this exact moment. Not as art, not as analysis—just as archive. Berghain, Watergate, Club der Visionäre caught on camera doing what they did. People dancing, people drinking, people becoming someone else in the dark. Watching it now is strange because I don’t recognize myself in it, but I feel myself in it.
The series doesn’t capture what it was like, not really. But it holds the shape of it—nights that felt infinite, hunger that made sense, the belief that the dark could sustain you. You can’t go back. You wouldn’t want to. But sometimes you want to sit in the room where the feeling lived and just remember.
Three years old, Joanie Del Santo stole her parents’ friends’ shoes at a dinner party and organized a runway show in the living room. Everything else followed naturally—modeling at seventeen, styling when people asked for help, then Saint Liberate, the vintage shop she opened because she needed something entirely her own. Her grandfather even models on the site, which says something about how she thinks.
She’s from Pasadena, has that California thing where clothes just work without trying. Photographers like James Drew shoot her. It’s straightforward on the surface: good eye, good taste, clear sense of what works.
What got me was the anime side. She’s a serious nerd about it, loves Japanese culture, dresses as anime characters whenever she wants. Her friends apparently hate it. That’s the whole point—she’s not editing herself into something acceptable or marketable. Fashion and anime are equally real to her, both equally important, both part of how she exists.
You meet people who actually know what they like and don’t apologize for it, and something about that is just attractive. Not in a calculated way. Just in the way real things are attractive.
There’s a supermarket in Berlin that only sells what every other supermarket throws away. SirPlus, in Charlottenburg, built its entire operation on food that’s technically surplus or cosmetically wrong—too small, too misshapen, past its best-by date but still fine to eat. The fact that this is novel enough to be worth noting, that there’s something almost radical about selling discarded produce, says everything about how we’ve normalized waste.
The store started in 2017 when Raphael and Martin, who’d already been doing food rescue work through the Foodsharing movement, convinced an entrepreneur named Alexander that they could make it sustainable as a business. They get their stock from regional farmers and wholesalers—the same places that toss cosmetically imperfect or surplus inventory daily. It’s all legal; in Germany, you can sell food past its printed date as long as it’s actually safe and clearly marked. Most places just don’t bother.
I’ve always been aware of the machinery of waste, that moment in the backroom where perfectly edible things get pitched because they don’t photograph well or fit the shelf. But seeing an entire store dedicated to it, watching people treat “ugly” carrots and dented cans like normal groceries instead of charity—it shifts something. It’s not a statement about morality or being a good person, which is why it works. It’s just commerce applied to the thing everyone agreed to discard. The stores exist online now too, if you’re curious. No crusade about it. Just showing up to buy the food that doesn’t fit the picture everyone’s been sold.
The internet is basically an endless stream of garbage and occasionally something genuinely interesting. This week I read five pieces that made me think.
Ulrich Clement wrote about affairs at work for ZEIT Magazin. Not the romance part—the power part. How hierarchy changes what’s actually happening, especially when one person has authority over another. Desire doesn’t happen in a vacuum.
Lisa Simpson has always been the idealist, the one who thinks for herself and won’t compromise. Darryn King wrote for Vanity Fair about how she became a feminist icon without really trying, just by being smart and stubborn. That kind of quiet integrity matters.
Sam Kim reported for Bloomberg on North Korea’s hacker army—talented programmers scattered across the globe, stealing money and funneling it back to a regime that would destroy their families if they refused. It’s a genuinely dystopian look at how surveillance states weaponize talent.
Farhad Manjoo wrote in the New York Times about YouTube replacing text. I watch way more video than I used to, that’s true. But the premise that one medium kills another feels too clean. We’re just adding layers, not replacing them.
The digital nomad lifestyle sounds perfect—quit your job, buy a MacBook, work from a beach. Alice Gregory wrote for Outside about why most people get tired of it. The logistics alone wear you down. Plus there’s the loneliness of never building anything that lasts in one place. It’s the fantasy that sounds better than the reality.
I saw a girl in Harajuku with a rope printed on her dress. Not as a subtle design element—an actual noose, rendered in cute pink. Her nails were pastel. She was carrying a bag with cartoon faces that had slashed wrists and were somehow still smiling. This is Yami Kawaii, which means “sick cute,” and it’s what you get when Japan’s obsession with cuteness collides with its culture’s more complicated relationship to death.
Japan’s suicide rate is among the world’s highest, and it spikes sharply before school starts. The darkness isn’t hidden the way Western cultures hide it—it’s visible, discussed, woven into the visual language of everyday life. So when a fashion trend emerges that aestheticizes self-harm, it doesn’t come from nowhere. It comes from a place where death is allowed to exist in plain sight.
Yami Kawaii turns despair into something wearable. Pastels mixed with black. Smiling cartoon faces with slashed wrists. Rope as accessory. Described out loud it sounds shocking, but there’s something almost truthful about it. Like someone decided that if they’re going to think about dying anyway, they might as well make it beautiful. Or that the only way to survive thinking about it is to make it into something visual, something you can wear and show people instead of keeping it locked inside.
I don’t know if this makes things better or worse. Maybe it’s how people name what’s already in their heads when talking about it is still shameful. Maybe it’s just teenagers who think it looks cool without thinking too hard about the implications. Probably both. Watching cuteness and darkness merge like they were always meant to fit together is genuinely strange—not in a good way, not in a bad way, just weird.
I can already hear it. Six months from now, same commute, same radio station, the same song between news breaks. Iggy Azalea and Quavo, “Savior,” looping until it’s just part of the static.
When Iggy broke through, I thought she might be different. She didn’t soften herself. Didn’t perform weakness or vulnerability. She wasn’t asking for permission or sympathy. Just showed up and said what she wanted. That counted for something in hip hop. But somewhere she made the calculation that this mattered less than a hit, so she’s been sanding down every sharp edge until there’s nothing left to hold onto.
“Savior” is built from the formula they pull out whenever they need to guarantee a radio hit. Latin-ish beat, breathy padding underneath, a melody designed to stick without requiring anything from you. Quavo shows up and says his name and leaves. The whole thing is so competently engineered that you feel nothing.
By summer I’ll have heard it a hundred times. And I still won’t have felt anything.
Japanese McDonald’s has always been comfortable with culinary chaos — pizza with marshmallows, chips flavored like sushi, ketchup mixed with soy sauce. It’s the kind of thing that would read as an insult to food tradition anywhere else, but Japan never gave a shit about that, and that’s honestly the best part of their food culture.
So bolognese on fries. Took them long enough. Burgermeister’s had chili-cheese fries with double meat for years, so Japan’s basically catching up to what should have been obvious. But it’s not even weird when you think about it — meat sauce and potatoes work in basically every cuisine. It’s simple math. It works.
I’d probably eat them if I ever made it back to Japan. Not for novelty but because why wouldn’t you. It’s proof that food doesn’t have to be sacred, that you can put things together and see what sticks.
Alma put out this mixtape called Heavy Rules with Mø, Kiiara, and Tove Styrke. I played it once and came back to it, which is the only metric that matters for whether something sticks around. The kind of thing you’d play on a drive with the windows down, not because it’s going to change your life but because the songs don’t get in the way of what you’re thinking.
The Finnish singer with the neon hair isn’t trying to be anything other than what she is. That sounds obvious, but it’s not as common as it should be in pop music, where there’s usually this distance between the person and the persona. She’s got a voice that does something with the production instead of just sitting on top of it. The mixing lets you hear that she’s actually there, which sounds like a small thing until you realize most pop music doesn’t bother.
“Dance for Me,” “Chit Chat,” “Good Vibes”—the songs have this bounce that doesn’t feel engineered. Electronic pop that trusts you to find your own way in, which is rarer than you’d think. She came up on “Chasing Highs” and “Phases,” singles that already made it clear she wasn’t headed for the assembly line. This mixtape feels like her digging into her own thing further, which is always more interesting than whatever comes next in the algorithm.
I like that this happened because four artists just decided to make something together without turning it into a moment. No brand coordination, no major label strategy. Just music. The things worth listening to usually come from that kind of impulse.
Saturday afternoons drop you into this weightless space where nothing pulls at you, so you just dissolve into the couch and pretend to exist. To actually move, I came up with ten ridiculous missions, nothing sensible, just friction between you and complete stasis.
One: drop your pants in front of anyone whose name starts with M, S, or Q. Two: find some nightclub floor and lick it like you’re apologizing to it. Three: spot someone with an energy drink, slap it out of their hand, jam a celery stick at them instead, tell them it’s healthier, keep walking. Four: same thing with a cigarette. Five: have sex with a celery stick.
Six: spend a thousand on Lego and red wine and build the most elaborate pirate time-traveling spaceship you can manage in one night. Seven: actually read a whole book. Eight: go to a club and request the same terrible pop song every thirty minutes until they play it or throw you out. Nine: every half hour, scream “FIRE!” and then sit in complete silence. Ten: enroll yourself in kindergarten and start your whole mess over.
The piano was old, and nobody ever taught her to play it. She just touched the keys until they made sounds she liked, then started singing. That’s how Beatrich — Lithuanian, 19, self-taught — started making music.
I found her through “Everything You Say,” which is a clean pop song that doesn’t overstay its welcome. Not trying to be anything but what it is. Friday-ready in three minutes.
The background is what caught me. Growing up in a house at the edge of a forest, spending childhood in nature and invented worlds, then finding music as the next form of the same thing. No lessons, no structure, just instinct. And you hear it in her work — even in a straightforward pop song, there’s something unguarded. No brand machinery running underneath, just someone making what she wants to hear.
“Superstar” was the obvious hit a few years back, millions of plays, the whole trajectory. But I keep coming back to this one because it’s quiet about what it does. Doesn’t ask much of me, doesn’t demand investment in her story. Just a song that does what it’s supposed to do and doesn’t overstay.
I watched German Wired die this year. Condé Nast shut it down quietly—no announcement, just gone. The magazine launched in 2011 betting that print wasn’t dead, that people would pay for serious tech journalism on paper. Turns out the audience wasn’t there, at least not in enough volume. Official explanations are always vague—bad sales, editorial problems, general apathy from the corporate side. The closure itself says more than any statement could.
Thomas Knüwer, who launched the first issue, watched the whole thing decay. What started as tech-optimistic became paranoid about the internet. The magazine drifted toward Berlin startup coverage and lifestyle, losing whatever distinct voice it had. The website was a disaster—basically unusable. Their social media was unprofessional. It’s like they didn’t trust the medium they were supposed to cover.
But here’s what everyone gets wrong about this: digital readers don’t hate print. They just won’t tolerate bad print. And in 2018, when Germany was finally discussing tech lag, digital transformation, economic positioning, the magazines covering these topics were either technophobic or just lazy. Real reporting was scarce. The market gap was obvious. So why couldn’t anyone build something real to fill it?
The print industry is basically dead. Even the big publishers keep failing at the digital-plus-paper split, still thinking like it’s 2008. The only life in magazines anymore comes from tiny indie publishers who don’t think like businesses—people who just make what they want to read. If Germany ever gets another Wired, it would have to be something completely different. Offscreen Mag, +81, idN. Something with a real vision, not a corporate compromise. But that window’s closed now. We’re past it.
Unearthed demos from dead artists hit different. It’s listening to a version of someone who doesn’t exist anymore — which is technically always true, but demos make it sharp. This is Amy Winehouse at seventeen, before Back to Black, before Rehab, before everything solidified into myth and tragedy.
James McMillan co-wrote “My Own Way” with her then, and he kept the recording all these years. It’s sparse — just her voice, some arrangement underneath, nothing polished. What strikes me is how formed it is: that lazy phrasing, the way she worries a syllable, the confidence of someone who knows what she’s doing even at an age when knowing is rare. The song itself is dark, resigned, touched with something brittle that could snap either way. Not hopeful exactly, but not drowning in it either.
Some people arrive fully themselves. I hear it on this demo — a seventeen-year-old who’s somehow complete. Most of us spend decades becoming whoever we are, and some never quite make it. She was already there in a way that feels almost cruel.
The culture absorbed her into the category of early death — Janis, Jimi, Kurt, all the ones who burned and left perfect legend behind. We nod and agree she was doomed and talented in equal measure. Both things true. Both somehow missing the point. The unreleased songs that surface feel like evidence, like proof we remember her correctly. Which we do. But it’s also a small sadness: the difference between listening to a voice at seventeen and imagining what comes next, and knowing what actually came next was five more years and then nothing.
I listened to “My Own Way” a few times. It’s exactly what it is — a demo from someone who had her voice figured out, dark and matter-of-fact, not asking for pity. Just there. That’s enough.
I stopped watching regular TV years ago. RTL, ProSieben, the public channels—I can’t remember the last time I actually turned them on. Most people I know are the same. We stream now. Netflix, Amazon Prime, whatever. Ten euros a month and appointment television is dead.
Netflix is everywhere here. It’s the default. You know the shows: Rick & Morty, House of Cards, Stranger Things. The kind of things that would never touch a German broadcast network. Movies too, mostly forgettable but you watch anyway because they’re there. There’s this Adam Sandler film called Der Chaos-Dad—which exists, somehow, with Andy Samberg and Vanilla Ice in it—and the fact that Netflix greenlit that tells you something about what’s possible now that you’re not accountable to advertisers and broadcast standards and whatever sensibilities people had watching at 8 PM on a Tuesday.
I remember actual German television. Evening schedules. You’d plan around what was on. Your show had a time and you were there or you missed it. There was ceremony to it, almost. Anticipation. You couldn’t watch everything so your choices mattered.
Streaming has made everything available and somehow made nothing matter. I scroll through Netflix for twenty minutes and watch nothing. It’s too much and not enough at once.
The quality hasn’t really improved. Most of it’s still bad. But it’s bad on my terms now, in my own time, which somehow feels different. That’s the actual advantage, I think. Not better shows. Just the freedom to be disappointed alone, on my schedule.
That shift—from the network’s convenience to mine—that’s what I notice now. Barely anything about the content itself. Just the feeling of not being obligated to anyone’s broadcast window, anyone’s commercial break, anyone’s idea of what I should be watching. That’s the real story, at least for me. Everything else is just the stuff that fills the space in between.
Asian Andy became an Uber driver and livestreamed the rides. People watching online could pay to send messages that a text-to-speech voice would read inside the car, right there in front of his passengers who had no idea any of this was happening. I don’t know how long he thought about this before doing it—it feels like one of those ideas that arrives fully formed, obvious in retrospect, impossible before the fact.
The setup was straightforward. Camera in the car. Livestream running. A donation link. Every few minutes, some guy’s two-dollar message would interrupt as a robot voice: “Your mother is a horse,” or “Eat my ass,” or whatever else was being crowdsourced in real time. His passengers would jump. He’d look in the mirror and keep driving like it was part of the job.
What made it work was that he’d removed the most exhausting part of internet performance—the pressure to be interesting. He didn’t have to do anything. He just had to exist in his car while strangers paid to interrupt him. The passengers were the content. He was the straight man. The internet was just sitting in the backseat.
I spent my childhood with a Game Boy that felt like a brick — heavy, gray, never fit right in a pocket no matter how you crammed it. Now there’s the PocketSprite: 55 by 32 millimeters, 14 millimeters thick. Small enough that you could actually carry it anywhere.
It plays the old games — Game Boy, Game Boy Color, Master System, Gamegear, whatever you load into it via ROM files. There’s a color screen, sturdy buttons, save states, a rechargeable battery, WiFi and Bluetooth, tiny speakers. It fits in your actual pocket.
There’s something about the physicality of it that changes how you play. It’s not an app you fit into dead time. It’s a complete device that means you sat down to actually play something, with intention.
I can’t explain the appeal of something this small and basic when my phone could do everything it does and more. But there’s something about it — the buttons, the size, the fact that everything here serves one purpose — that makes sense in a way I can’t articulate. I never got over the Game Boy, I guess.
ProSieben and Sat.1 are just running the same three shows in heavy rotation now. “The Big Bang Theory,” “2 Broke Girls,” “Two and a Half Men”—the same episodes endlessly recycled like they’re the only programs on earth. I remember when this wasn’t true. “Stromberg” was on, “Bullyparade,” “TV Total”—German shows with something behind them, made for an actual audience. Now it’s just American syndication and reruns, the lowest-effort content possible filling every slot.
The obvious answer is money. It costs almost nothing to license an old American sitcom compared to producing anything original. Journalist Philipp Walulis looked into the economics once and it was exactly as grim as you’d expect: corporate ownership structures, licensing deals, the calculated decision to treat content as a commodity. Every repeat airing of “The Big Bang Theory” generates revenue. No risk. No cost. No thought.
What gets me is that the networks aren’t even pretending anymore. This is just the model now. Air cheap syndicated content, hit your quotas, keep the shareholders happy. You’re not really the audience—you’re just a metric they measure success by. The money changes hands long before anyone ever tunes in.
I’ve been scrolling through YouTube looking for 80s production treasures, and there’s this whole subculture of people remixing modern songs as if they actually belonged in that decade. Find a current hit, give it the right synths and drum machines, and suddenly you’re listening to what might have been a lost single from 1985. The novelty never gets old.
Dua Lipa’s “New Rules” was everywhere last summer. The original’s a solid track, deserved the hype. But then I found this Initial Talk remix that treats it like a genuine artifact from the 80s—the synths, the drums, the production details all clicking into place—and something about it just works better.
I’m not sure if that means the 80s version is actually superior or if I’m just seduced by how perfectly the original translates into that sonic space. Probably both. The song already had strong bones, and wrapping it in the right production just emphasizes what was already there.
I keep returning to it, which I guess is its own answer. These days that’s the version I listen to.
Ellen von Unwerth shot Miley for Wonderland and the first thing I noticed was that she looks like herself. Not the shocked version everyone had been trained to expect, not the scandal-Miley that was everywhere. Just someone in front of a camera without needing to prove anything.
The arc was almost too obvious to watch. Hannah Montana to the girl who had to be the opposite of that, shock as a full-time identity. Every leaked photo, every MTV appearance was another middle finger to whatever she’d been before. It made sense—the only way out was through the opposite direction. But somewhere along the way, probably around “Younger Now,” the desperation seemed to lift.
The Wonderland interview has her talking about Elton John, her house pets, the usual stuff. Nothing that’s going to change anyone’s mind. But the fact that she can just exist in a magazine shoot without it feeling like image warfare or performance art—that’s different. She’s not fighting anything.
I keep thinking about the people who grew up watching her become unrecognizable. That specific experience of seeing a girl you knew as a brand transform into something shocking and aggressive. Whether she’s actually changed or just found a way to be herself without scandal as the fuel—that’s the question. Could be either one.
Whatever comes next, it won’t be the same as before. She’s burned through the shock cycle and now she’s just here. That uncertainty about what that means—that’s probably the truest thing about where she is now.
Club Mate has been the drink of German nightlife so long that it barely registers as a choice anymore. You drink it because it’s there, because everyone else is drinking it, because the first sip is somehow both horrible and necessary. The taste gets worse before it gets better, but it always gets better. That’s the ritual. That’s the deal.
Four guys in Berlin—all from Moabit, passionate enough about the problem that they decided to solve it—came up with Disco-Limo while they were out partying on May 1st. They were probably drinking Club Mate, thinking about it the way you think about something you depend on but don’t love, and they asked themselves: what if it didn’t taste like that? What if we made something with organic lemon, organic caffeine extracted as a byproduct of decaffinating organic coffee beans, nothing industrial about it? They decided to build it.
The appeal of this isn’t the product itself. It’s the fact that someone looked at an established monopoly and thought, we could do better. Crowd-funded, small-batch, the kind of thing that works if it works and disappears if it doesn’t. By the time the idea reached the market, it would have cost them real money and real effort. Most alternatives to established products fail. But the attempt itself matters—it proves the market isn’t completely locked, that culture isn’t permanent, that even institutions built into the fabric of a place can be questioned.
Whether Disco-Limo actually survives is almost beside the point. Club Mate isn’t going anywhere. But for a moment, there’s a choice. For a moment, someone in a Berlin bar could order something different and mean it.
The game opens with a carnival and a girl with a time pendant, and from there Chrono Trigger barely puts a foot wrong. Thirty years later and no one’s made a better JRPG. Sakaguchi directing, Horii writing, Toriyama designing—they hit something that just works. Multiple endings, a time plot that holds together, characters that stick with you.
Getting it ’right’ used to mean original hardware—the cartridge, the console, the whole ritual. The ports to PlayStation, DS, iPhone were all slightly off somehow. Each version felt like a compromise, like you were missing something essential.
But now it’s on Steam for fifteen euros. You don’t have to hunt or negotiate with the format anymore. You just buy it and play it.
That feels important. Not because the original hardware is worthless, but because the game is the thing, and everything else is just the container.
This morning Nerdcore was gone. Just a line on the homepage—”Game over. Nerdcore 2005 - 2018”—and then nothing.
René had been redesigning the place for months. New Patreon. Automated scripts for music videos and trailers. He was digging back into what made the blog worth reading in the first place. Everything seemed to be pointing forward. So seeing it erased, replaced with those four letters and a death date, hit different.
The Twitter’s dead too, which means this wasn’t an accident. Someone made a choice. With René, that’s usually complicated. He’s spent two decades building things and smashing them apart, rebuilding them into something new. It’s happened before. The blog has died and come back. But I don’t know if this is one of those times.
The terrible part isn’t the shutdown itself—it’s the silence. All these people checking in, finding nothing, waiting for a sign that isn’t coming. A cryptic post. Anything. Instead, just the memorial and the unanswered question: was that actually the end, or just the pause before he builds something else?
German female rappers kept getting scattered. You’d get a moment—SXTN with “Fotzen im Club” and “Bongzimmer,” those uncompromising tracks that proved what women could do—but the moment wouldn’t hold. The space would close back up. After them it was just fragments, no presence.
Antifuchs understood she couldn’t wait for it to stay open on its own. Hip-hop had been her life since childhood—shaped by Foxy Brown, 2Pac, Capone-n-Noreaga, the Neptunes, Eminem, Kool Savas, Olli Banjo. But she’d been listening closely to her own country and noticed the gap: German female rappers who met her standard didn’t really exist. She’d heard decent tracks, but nothing she’d want to keep returning to. Nothing with real weight.
So she came masked and completely clear. Not to prove women belonged in hip-hop—that was settled. But to actually deliver something with taste and no compromise, uninterested in softening any of it or apologizing for what she was doing.
That’s the moment that shifts a scene. That’s what matters.
Yuka Kinoshita’s channel is genuinely one of my favorites on YouTube. There’s something weirdly compelling about watching a tiny Japanese woman demolish impossible quantities of food without blinking—three kilos of rice, a dozen raw eggs, soup poured over it all—while she’s cracking jokes to the camera like she’s having tea. It’s insane and I can’t look away.
So Kelly Svirakova, who makes videos as Misses Vlog, decides to try the same challenge. And instantly you see the difference. Yuka moves through food like it doesn’t exist; Kelly’s staring at this bowl of egg-studded rice and you can watch her face change as she does the math, as it becomes clear she’s made a terrible mistake. What takes Yuka maybe ten minutes turns into something else for Kelly—spoon after spoon of rice that keeps getting heavier, the eggs congealing, the whole thing becoming this monument to hubris.
Part of me wonders what the real appeal is. Pure voyeurism, maybe—watching someone push into territory the rest of us can’t reach. Or maybe it’s that there’s no performance to it. Yuka isn’t conquering anything or playing up the struggle. She’s just eating. It’s boring in the best way, which is somehow why it works. You’re watching someone do a mundane thing at an impossible scale, and that gap between the casual and the extreme is where the whole thing lives.
Kelly makes it further than you’d think, but you know by her eyes that she’s fighting the whole time. There’s something almost kind about how the video doesn’t pretend this is anything other than what it is—two people, two completely different relationships to food and endurance, same challenge. Yuka wins before it even starts. That’s kind of the point.
Another app just landed to kill Instagram and Facebook and everything in between. Vero. The pitch: you share what matters to you — music, films, restaurants, photos, whatever — and you choose exactly who sees it. No algorithm, no ads, no surveillance. Just people you actually know seeing things you actually want them to see.
It’s the same pitch Snapchat made, then Peach, then Vine, then about fifty others. The format changes but the dream stays the same: social without the extraction, without the madness. And technically, yeah, that should be better. Sending a song or a photo to a few people shouldn’t require a platform that’s turned into a surveillance shop designed to keep you staring until your attention is worth money.
What’s different right now is that some real people are already on it — Charli XCX, Max Joseph, Zack Snyder. Not massive names but actual artists with fanbases. They’re doing the thing where they post exclusive stuff and make it feel like being there early means something. It’s basically a timer. Once you see that pattern start, you’re watching an app in its window. Six months, maybe a year if it’s lucky. Then it dies and people pretend they never heard of it.
I understand the appeal of trying. Every time something like this lands you think maybe this is the one that sticks, that finally lets you just share something with your friends without a machine deciding it’s not profitable enough to show them. That thinking is sound. The app that delivers on it probably isn’t coming from somewhere. It’s not going to have venture capital and celebrity seed users. And if it does, it’s already poisoned.
So another one lands, another one dies, and we’ll do this again next year. You know it won’t fix anything, but you download anyway.
I discovered Brockhampton the same way everyone else did—through their videos—and I couldn’t believe how much they’d managed to pull off with no label, no gatekeepers, just people deciding to work together. Fourteen of them in one house, rappers and producers and video directors and graphic designers, all contributing equally, all influencing the direction. Three albums in seven months. It shouldn’t have been possible.
What actually impressed me wasn’t the speed but the completeness. Every video looked like someone had sat with the ideas. The artwork was real. The production felt developed. It wasn’t content made on a deadline—it was work that had thinking behind it. Kevin Abstract held the whole thing together, but the genius was distributed. Everyone mattered.
They’d met online, cobbled together from different cities, all of them young and making decisions in real time in front of an audience. No safety net. No second takes. That kind of work—visible, immediate, collaborative—is rare enough that you notice it. When they hit Berlin, the city was the right place for it. Festsaal Kreuzberg filled up with people who understood what they were looking at.
There’s something about watching people make things together without waiting for permission. It changes how you think about what’s possible.
The internet’s relentless. Most of it vanishes, but sometimes something catches and stays with you. Five things rattled around in my head recently, and they share nothing except that they all caught me mid-scroll.
Bushido being a suburban neighbor is genuinely funny. The German rapper built his whole career on street credibility and toughness, and now he’s in Kleinmachnow dealing with actual neighbors. Imagine that disconnect—the persona versus the guy who probably gets noise complaints about his backyard. It’s absurdity that only works when you’re famous for the opposite of fitting in.
Kids learn about sex from Pornhub now, not health class or magazines or any actual conversation. They learn from platforms designed for adults watching other adults get destroyed on camera. The education question everyone circles around is simple and unanswerable: what happens when that’s your sex ed? How does it shape you? I don’t have an answer, just a bad feeling we’re failing something basic.
Silicon Valley keeps proving that exploitation works better when it’s wrapped in good design and marketed as progress. Facebook, Google, Amazon—empires built on extracting value from people and burning out their own employees. The machine gets more efficient, and we keep using the apps anyway because stopping feels harder than staying.
The speedrunning community keeps grinding away at Super Mario Bros., people spending decades shaving milliseconds off their times. Entire obsessive subcultures built around frame-by-frame analysis and muscle memory practiced until it’s automatic. There’s something genuinely beautiful about that focus—the absolute purity of trying to be perfect at something that doesn’t matter in any material way.
Poppy decided the internet deserved performance art that’s intentionally artificial and resistant to explanation. She built an audience by leaning into mystery instead of solving it, doing things that defy categorization. In a space where everyone performs authenticity, she just performs artificiality straight-faced and somehow that’s more honest.
These five things don’t connect except they’re all proof that culture is stranger and more fractured than anyone admits. We’re thinking about gangster rappers and porn education and corporate evil and 30-year-old game records and internet performance art simultaneously, often in the same hour. That’s our actual landscape right now.
Bill Murray is my god. Not in the way most people worship — no temples, no prayers, no promises about the afterlife. Just the straightforward certainty that this man understands how to live better than almost anyone else.
The films built that. Ghostbusters, Groundhog Day, Scrooged, Lost in Translation — they’re not entertainment artifacts. They’re documentaries of how a person thinks. Groundhog Day especially: a man trapped in the same day forever until he finally breaks free by becoming kinder, more open, less defensive. That’s Bill’s actual operating system.
He’s essentially unreachable. You can’t call him. There’s an answering machine between you and the god, which sounds funny until you understand what he’s doing: he’s made a deliberate choice about what touches his life. In an interview, he explained it plainly. “I isolate myself to have more freedom,” he said. “I can really turn everything into a disaster. If I manage to keep a certain amount of disaster out of my life, a few chaotic influences, then that’s good. That gives me a real chance at living.”
It reads backwards. Isolation as liberation. Building walls so you can actually open up. And then the other side: he throws himself into new situations without hesitation, goes out and says yes to strangers, because he knows he lives in a bubble and needs that friction from outside. “I have no fear of people,” he said, and you believe him.
He skips award ceremonies. Not from arrogance — he treats them like dentist appointments. Endurable if you absolutely have to, but avoidable if you’re strategic. He’s not above them. He’s just elsewhere.
The whole philosophy holds together because it’s not really contradictory. Isolation breeds genuine openness. Discipline in choosing what to say no to creates the freedom to say yes wildly. He cuts off the world so he can be present when it matters. You can feel it everywhere — every interview, every film, every story about him. That back-and-forth, that tension, that balance — that’s where the power is.
That’s the gospel. Not enlightenment or self-help or spiritual transcendence. Just: be disciplined about what you let in, and wild about what you choose to do. The answering machine and the yes. The no and the jump.
May he keep blessing us with that particular wisdom.
March on Netflix was its usual deluge. New seasons of Jessica Jones, Love, Santa Clarita Diet, Designated Survivor, Suits, Gotham, The Blacklist—the reliable stuff you were already watching. Some of it held up.
But the month also surfaced the more obscure arrivals. Collateral. Requiem. The Defiant Ones. Mädchen hinter Gittern, a German prison drama that somehow lands every time. B: The Beginning. A.I.C.O. Incarnation. Children of the Whales. Stretch Armstrong. Shows that take a few hours and vanish. That was the deal.
The films were stronger. Annihilation actually understood the source material. Game Over, Man! was pure dumb fun. Ricky Gervais on stage doing his thing. Das Wunder von Bern, another German film, this one about football and fathers, hitting deeper than expected. Then the Marvel movies showed up again like clockwork—Avengers, Guardians of the Galaxy, Thor, Captain America. Alice Through the Looking Glass for surfaces without substance. Bolt for something harmless. Black Swan for that dark, beautiful feeling.
That whole month had a rhythm to it. Cold, gray outside. Staying in. Hot drink. Reaching for whatever was scrolling past. Not everything stuck. Some of it was bad. But there’s a kind of peace in knowing nothing’s going to change you, just fill the time until spring comes back.
Friday night and you’re already bored. The weekend hasn’t even started and you can feel it dragging—that flatness, that emptiness. So you start thinking about stupid things. Things that sound interesting in theory but would be miserable in practice.
Like eating only pizza for two days. Every meal, every 4 AM drunken snack run, nothing but pizza. Different toppings, obviously, but pizza and only pizza. You’d hate yourself by Sunday. Your stomach would hate you. But at 8 PM on a Friday it feels like the greatest mission possible.
Or buying a dog and dressing it in your exact clothes every day. Getting matching outfits. Walking around the neighborhood as a pair, you and your dog in identical shirts, until everyone knows you as that guy. The insane guy with the dog clone. It’s dumb but there’s something weirdly appealing about committing so hard to something pointless.
You think about picking up the cheapest red wine from the corner store—the bottle that costs €3 and tastes like regret—drinking it and then wandering into the dark of the city without throwing up. Not as some accomplishment, just as something that happened. Or standing in front of the mirror naked at midnight, telling yourself with complete seriousness that you’re going to be fine, that it’ll work out. Maybe it helps. Probably not. But you say it anyway.
There’s stuff everyone has done. I watched all of Friends in one go and it was like watching grief, all those people having their little problems in that apartment. You think about loading up an old SNES to speedrun Mario in under a minute, something some insane person actually did. You wonder if your hands still know the buttons.
You could move to Sweden. You could throw a reunion with all your exes and hand out awards—best sex, biggest dick, aged the worst. Crude shit that would actually be memorable if you ever did it. But you won’t. You’ll do none of it. You’ll waste the weekend on nothing, watch some TV, eat regular food, exist quietly. The point isn’t doing the stupid things. The point is thinking about them, some small defiance against the flatness of Friday night.
Comet’s coming in the movies, so you blow it up or hide in a bunker or hold hands and wait. Nobody ever figured out the solution until Erina Kamiya made it obvious. Get in a hot tub with friends, let your chest turn into a Saiyajin, boom, world saved.
The video’s stupid and I mean that as a compliment. Kamen Joshi’s the idol group, the YouTube channel is where she actually has some control, and she apparently has the guts to just make the crude joke explicit. She knows what role she’s in, what people show up for, so instead of the usual coy distance, she just leans into it. Yes, look at this. Here’s the stupid funny bit about it, and nobody has to pretend it means something deeper.
It’s not subversive exactly. It’s just honest in a weird way. You know what this is. At least she’s not pretending it’s anything else.
I watched Bill Gates try to guess grocery prices on Ellen. He said five dollars for a bag of rice. The fact that he was catastrophically wrong tells you most of what you need to know about billionaires and how removed from ordinary life they become.
It’s not complicated: rich people lose track of what things cost because they never buy anything themselves. Someone buys their groceries, someone dresses them, someone handles every transaction that normal people navigate constantly. Money becomes abstract — just a number that grows while you sleep, unmoored from any actual experience of cost or exchange.
Gates is interesting because he at least does something with the money. Malaria vaccines in Africa, education programs, attempts to prevent deaths that shouldn’t happen in countries with resources. I think he actually believes in this work. The donation is real.
But the Ellen moment still lands. You can give away billions and still not know what rice costs. His isolation from ordinary commerce is so complete that even basic staple pricing becomes a blank. I imagine his personal shopper — he definitely has one — felt something watching that clip. Your boss just guessed five dollars on national television. In front of everyone. You go home and think about your choices.
This isn’t me being mean. It’s structural. Remove someone from the ordinary economy long enough and they become genuinely foreign to it. The prices, the calculations, the small negotiations of ordinary life — none of it sticks.
I’ve heard the argument too many times to count: alcohol’s worse for your brain than weed. It’s not like anyone’s disputing it. But there’s always this gap between what we know and what actually gets legalized, and that’s where Germany’s been stuck—where most places have been stuck, really. The cops know it. The researchers know it. The law still doesn’t care.
A study from University of Colorado Boulder finally put the data in front of everyone. 853 adult brain scans, 439 from teenagers. They compared what alcohol does to your brain against cannabis. The difference isn’t subtle. Alcohol shrinks your gray matter and your white matter. Gray matter’s where you actually think. White matter’s how your neurons talk to each other. Cannabis doesn’t do that. It doesn’t sit there reducing the volume of your brain the way alcohol does.
Kent Hutchison was one of the researchers. He said something that stuck: “We’ve known for decades that alcohol is bad for the brain.” The weird part is how the cannabis research keeps contradicting itself—one study says it shrinks the hippocampus, the next one finds changes in the cerebellum, the one after that finds nothing. But alcohol? It’s consistent. Measurable. The studies don’t have to fight with each other because every piece of evidence points the same direction.
The obvious conclusion is sitting right there: if you’re choosing between getting high and getting drunk, you’re choosing the option that doesn’t physically shrink your brain. But there’s always that careful German qualification in the research—long-term cannabis effects still need more study, so don’t think you should smoke all day. Fair point. Moderation’s still the thing nobody wants to hear.
What gets to me is how far the policy lags behind the science. André Schulz, who runs the German criminal police, has said out loud that cannabis prohibition is arbitrary and hasn’t worked. The people whose job it is to deal with the actual fallout think it’s a failed experiment. Alcohol—legal everywhere, normalized completely—does more damage. And somehow the argument keeps going. That’s the absurdity.
This guy on YouTube faked his death to see what his cat would do. The premise is funny because you already know roughly how it’ll turn out—with your faith in your cat’s loyalty shattered once more—but you watch anyway because you want to know the specific mechanism of disappointment. His cat was named Sparta, which added this absurd heroic veneer to the whole thing.
Dog people have been making the case for years: cats don’t love you. You’re a walking food dispenser as far as they’re concerned. They don’t mourn, they don’t care, and that persistent rumor that cats will eat your corpse within days is probably not even wrong—it’s just the logical endpoint of a creature’s total indifference to your existence. So what happens when someone actually tests it? When he lies down and waits to see if Sparta will finally do something?
The anticipation in the setup alone is funny. Will the cat panic? Try CPR? Go find help? Have some kind of existential crisis? Throw a celebration? Start snacking out of sheer confusion?
Sparta meowed a few times. Walked around. Looked panicked but purposeless. And then apparently decided that whatever this was, it was too much for him to handle, and he took a nap. Just opted out entirely.
I’ve been thinking about that response ever since. It’s not cruelty and it’s not stupidity—it’s something closer to wisdom. Sparta didn’t have the neurological wiring to understand what was happening, so instead of pretending or panicking, he just left the problem behind. Most humans spend their entire lives trying to do the same thing and never quite manage it. A cat just walks away and sleeps.
I’m alone so often and I just wish you were here. That’s how CRO opens “Computiful,” stating it plainly without desperation. In a world of unlimited options, he wants to turn it all off and just want one person.
The song is his response to what the internet has done to connection — we swipe past people like they’re products, and if they don’t fit the algorithm we move on. Everyone’s interchangeable. CRO’s tired of it.
He builds the track from soul, rap, and funk with a Daft Punk edge, sleek surfaces covering genuine loneliness. When he’s rapping about opting out completely — forget the hype, the likes, the numbers, just give me one real person — the melancholy underneath feels honest. Not a complaint about the youth or a lecture, just someone naming what we all know: that moment when you’re scrolling through faces and realize you just swiped past someone you might have actually cared about if you’d stopped long enough to notice.
I don’t know if a song changes anything. Probably it doesn’t. But there’s something direct about naming what we’ve built a system to hide from ourselves — that we’ve made connection effortless and somehow made it meaningless.
Hold on. Someone made a vibrator that automatically orders pizza the moment you come.
I know exactly what problem this solves. You’re lying there completely spent, vibrator still in your hand, some truly grotesque porn on the screen—three Navy SEALs bukkakking a Thai hotel worker—and the only thought your brain can manage is: pizza. But your body won’t move. The phone is across the room. Opening an app feels impossible. Navigating a menu feels impossible. Typing your address feels impossible. Everything feels impossible except lying there, sweating and starving and furious.
So someone just took that problem and automated it. The vibrator orders your pizza automatically. No app. No decisions. No moving until food arrives at your door.
It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect. It’s the most honest product ever invented, because it acknowledges something nobody wants to admit: at that specific moment, you just want everything to be easy, and everything else already is. This was the last thing standing between you and actual comfort.
Last year’s Lollapalooza was ruined by logistics. They’d booked Trabrennbahn Hoppegarten—an old racetrack basically off the map—and public transport there was theoretical at best. People spent hours trying to arrive, got stranded trying to leave. It was a masterclass in how not to run an event.
This year they’ve learned. Back in Berlin, at the Olympiastadion in the Westend. Actually connected to the city. Actually reachable. No three-hour journey on the U-Bahn just to get there. The venue knows what it’s doing.
The artist bill is solid. The Weeknd and Dua Lipa carry the weight—the draw—but they’ve stacked it with real talent. The National, Liam Gallagher, Armin van Buuren, Kraftwerk 3D. Casper and RAF Camora on the German side. Years & Years, Wolf Alice, Lewis Capaldi. It’s a thoughtful lineup, not just names from a spreadsheet. There’s actual variety here, real texture.
I’ll probably skip it. Festivals in Berlin demand everything and you spend half the time commuting. But at least the infrastructure is sound now. At least they learned something from last year. That counts for something.
Watching a satirical magazine destroy a major tabloid’s credibility with nothing but forged emails is the kind of perfectly executed prank that almost makes you believe in justice. Almost. Titanic, the German satire publication, sent BILD a series of invented emails supposedly between a left-wing politician and a Russian internet troll. BILD published them on the front page under a screaming headline about a dirty campaign. No verification. No pause. Just the story that sounded too good to sit on.
The whole thing was laughably easy to pull off. An editor at Titanic made up an email exchange, sent it anonymously, made a few phone calls, and waited. BILD bit immediately. They ran it huge, with all the weight of a breaking scandal. Only buried at the end of the article—almost apologetically—did they mention they’d found no actual proof the emails were even real. The forgery was obvious: the email addresses didn’t match the real ones the SPD uses. But obvious doesn’t matter when you’re racing to publish.
What gets me is that this prank only works because everyone already knows BILD is reckless. The satire isn’t exposing anything. It’s just confirming what we all suspected about how they actually operate—that they’ll run with whatever moves clicks, that verification is optional, that being first matters more than being right. It’s like catching someone being exactly who you knew they were all along.
The weird part, the part that actually bothers me, is that nothing changes. BILD keeps publishing. People keep reading it as news. The satire gets shared around, people laugh, and by next week it’s forgotten. The prank doesn’t fix anything. It’s just confirmation of something we didn’t really need confirmed. I’m not sure why Titanic bothered, except maybe sometimes you just have to prove the obvious out loud, even when you know it won’t matter.
Five of them together on BBC Radio 1 in LA, tearing through ’I Don’t Give A Fuck’ — Dua Lipa, Charli XCX, Zara Larsson, MØ, Alma — and it was one of those moments where the lineup just works. Everyone brings something.
Dua Lipa’s been everywhere lately. Two years of constant touring: LA, London, Europe, New York, opening for Troye Sivan across the States. That kind of movement feeds what you make. Travel changes the way you write.
Her debut album hits different. It’s pop at the core but it breathes hip-hop and soul like they’re all one thing. These aren’t songs announcing themselves as important — they just arrive knowing what they’re doing. She knows how to make you move but she’s also thinking about something deeper. There’s this restlessness in it, this need to keep reaching for what comes next. You don’t hear that much, especially from someone this young with this much control.
You probably know In-N-Out and Shake Shack the way you know about all the good things you’ll never actually get around to. The Double-Double Animal Style, the Double Shackburger—these aren’t just burgers, they’re the reason people hate coming home from California or New York. I read once that if you’ve eaten either one and you still go to McDonald’s, you deserve whatever cold, sad thing you’re about to order. Hard to argue.
Alvin Cailan and Andrew Rea made a video combining both burgers into one from scratch. They took the In-N-Out approach—the simplicity, the onions cooked into the patty, the right way to toast a bun—and merged it with what Shake Shack does well, which is mostly having decent beef and nailing the texture. Then they actually made it. The thing is kind of beautiful. The people at In-N-Out would be embarrassed by how much work went into it, and also hungry.
I watched the whole thing and took notes. Started thinking about getting real beef, finding the right cheese, timing it out. It seemed doable. Not even that complicated.
What happened instead: got tired, went to McDonald’s, sat there with something I won’t name, cold fries, the video still there on my phone. Wasn’t even angry about it. That’s the part that gets me.
Vox—not the TV network, the media company that owns The Verge, Polygon, Eater—just fired fifty social media workers. The official reason: the industry changed. What they meant was that the whole Web 2.0 thing nobody was supposed to question turned out to be a cult, and the cult was collapsing.
For years the social media experts had a gospel. Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat were the future. Your own website was dead. If you weren’t optimizing for the algorithm, you’d be unemployed within a year. Writers bought it. Editors bought it. Designers fed themselves to the machine and told others to do the same.
Now Zuckerberg’s killing organic reach and pivoting back to people messaging each other directly. Trump basically owns Twitter now. Snapchat had a redesign everyone hated and apparently you don’t recover from that. The feeds are cratering or already dead, and the people whose entire job was predicting these companies would save media are getting their severance packages.
This wasn’t a one-time layoff. Every major media company that over-committed to social is going to pay for it over the next few months. The social media staff that was supposed to be the future are probably updating LinkedIn now, which is its own kind of irony.
YouTube’s shedding advertiser money and getting more chaotic with every content rule change. Twitch streamers are drowning in moderation drama. Medium burned through cash and closed offices because blogs, which Medium was created to save, turned out to be dead yet again—dead before, alive briefly, dead again.
The actual young people aren’t even using these services anymore. They’re in Discord fragments, scattered group chats, Instagram Stories that vanish in 24 hours. Or they just quit and stream Netflix and call it digital detox. The grand unified social network was always a mistake.
I have no idea what replaces all this and I think that’s the healthiest thing that could happen. Instead of everyone chasing one future that turns out to be a dead end, maybe people just make what interests them. Stream games, write about mushroom poisons, post pictures of yourself, build something that doesn’t fit a template. Fail alone or succeed quietly instead of all failing together.
For the first time since social media exploded, the air feels different. There’s potential again. Fifty people lost their jobs to teach everyone a lesson about hype and the danger of betting everything on one platform, one future, one story. That’s a brutal price. But maybe it had to cost something to learn.
Harajuku in winter is jarring if you’re used to how cold weather kills color everywhere else. I’m accustomed to that mode—bundle up, survive, everything shifts toward black and gray. But kids here are walking out of school in oversized printed hoodies that somehow look both childish and expensive, paired with pants in colors that have no business existing when it’s cold. There’s no irony in it. No performance. Just color.
The district doesn’t slow down for seasons. Trends combust and reform almost weekly. Whole streets organized around specific aesthetics, each block a shorthand for who you are and what you’re into. In most places, winter enforces restraint. Everything becomes practical. Here it seems to accelerate instead—like the cold makes them more ambitious with what they wear, not less.
I watched a girl named Megumi wait for friends outside a convenience store. School uniform until dismissal, then this: oversized pullover with characters I couldn’t read, platform sneakers, a crossbody bag that was almost offensively cute. The mixing shouldn’t work—brands cycling in and out (Bubbles, Faith, Ohpearl) mixed with whatever caught her attention at Converse or Topshop, no visible system. But that’s the whole thing. There’s no system. It’s all intuition and mood.
Coming from somewhere that reads winter as visual restraint, where people eventually age into black like it’s written in the contract, there’s something about this that stays with me. Not trying to stand out, just unbothered whether you do. Wearing what interests you because the season doesn’t get a vote.
My uncle stopped buying American peanuts. My aunt swore off McDonald’s. A friend gave up a certain genre of entertainment—the specifics don’t matter. These were small acts of spite, which felt like the only honest response to 2016. Trump happened, and America became optional, something you could simply boycott like a bad coffee brand.
The thing that made it sting is that America obviously had other modes. Liberals, feminists, YouTube, all the creative chaos sitting next to the cruelty. But knowing something in theory is different from actually living with it. When a place keeps choosing its worst version, I started wondering if that’s not just what it is, and everything else is the exception.
John Oliver, whose job is spending forty minutes every week explaining what’s broken about America, decided to make a different argument. He said people should appreciate America for what it does right. And his examples were beautiful in their absurdity: YouTube. Dinosaur costumes. A bed that looks like the Batmobile. The fact that somewhere in the American brain, someone imagined a Batmobile bed, made it real, and sold it to strangers.
And it works. You can’t hate a country that invented that. You can try—it feels noble—but then the dinosaur costume shows up and you’re standing there holding your principles and grinning anyway.
Maybe Oliver’s actual point is that you can’t judge a whole place by its worst politicians. America makes both monsters and art, builds Batmobile beds and concentration camps. You can hate the second without being able to quite hate the first. The absurdity is part of the real thing, as real as the cruelty.
I can’t hate America either. I tried during those years, and it felt right. But it was always going to be an act. Too much of what I care about came from there—culture, design, the permission to be strange.
Maybe that’s America’s real superpower: it does something unforgivable, and then it invents something so utterly weird that you have to forgive it anyway. My uncle can keep his peanut boycott. I think we’re all stuck with some version of love for the place, whether we admit it or not.
I came across this Billie Eilish cover of Michael Jackson’s ’Bad’ on some Australian show—Like A Version. She was sixteen, and she’d slowed the whole thing down into something almost unrecognizable.
The original is all swagger—those 80s synths, Michael’s voice at full confidence. She strips all of that away. It’s sparse and quiet, just her voice mostly, and what’s left is the melody without anything to hide behind.
She’d been floating around for a while by that point—Ocean Eyes, Bellyache, the usual trajectory for someone with talent. But this cover was different. It wasn’t about the musicianship. It was about hearing something in someone else’s perfect song and removing everything except that one thing.
Once you hear her version, the original never sounds the same. I still don’t know if that’s good or bad, just that it happened.
I’ve always said pixel art is the best way to make a video game. Maybe that’s just nostalgia talking—I grew up on Super Nintendo, after all—but I’ve played through Witcher 3, Skyrim, Final Fantasy XV, games that probably cost more to make than my car is worth, and I still get that specific thrill from a well-crafted pixel platformer that the big 3D stuff doesn’t quite touch. There’s something about constraints that makes you sharper.
Celeste hit me exactly right. It’s about this woman Madeline who decides to climb a mountain that’s essentially a series of escalating horrors, meeting the kind of weird people who show up in those places—an old woman who’s sweeter than she should be, a hotel owner running some kind of scheme, people who seem to think danger is a drug. The game just came out on everything.
The gameplay is familiar territory: Super Meat Boy spliced with those old SNES platformers that seemed designed to destroy you but somehow made you come back for more. Celeste has that same quality. It throws different challenges at you, the people you meet feel real, and the difficulty climbs in a way that feels honest rather than cheap. It’s not for people with short tempers or shaky patience, but if that’s not you, it respects that. When I finally cleared some of those later levels, I felt like I’d actually learned something, beaten something fair, rather than just gotten lucky. That’s always what I come back for.
Someone spray-painted a building in the Wedding the other night. It was this coordinated action — “Still not lovin’ Gentrification” — targeting the new developments, the ones with furnished apartments for students at prices nobody who actually lives here can pay. I understand it completely. The anger is justified.
Berlin’s been transforming and not in any way that benefits the people who were here. Money arrives, rents climb, people who’ve lived here for decades get pushed out. You watch it happen. Whole neighborhoods get cleaner and emptier at the same time.
What I can’t quite work through is this: if I had the money, the actual capital to just move into a beautiful place in the Wedding or Kreuzberg without even looking at the rent, I would do it. Without hesitation. Without lying awake about it. I’d sign the lease and move in the following week. So I’m sitting here understanding the spray paint while knowing I’d be exactly the person it’s supposed to stop.
The paint makes a statement, sure. But it doesn’t change what money does to a city or what I’d do if I had it. That’s what gets me. Not the contradiction exactly — I can live with that — but the fact that there’s no good answer to it.
There’s this modder named Filip who makes about six grand a month selling cocaine in The Sims 4. Not real cocaine, obviously—digital cocaine in a mod called Basemental Drugs. But the money is real.
What started as Filip just fucking around with his Sims kitchen, adding some recreational pharmaceuticals to the game for fun, turned into this fully realized drug economy mod. You can cook cocaine, grow weed, throw parties, deal to AI junkies, hire sex workers, wake up with hangovers. The whole pharmaceutical pipeline. It’s absurdly detailed.
The mod itself is free to download. Filip doesn’t charge for the work. But enough people who use it throw him donations that he’s apparently found the one legal way to run a drug operation: simulate it so perfectly that people want to fund it.
There’s something almost accidental about it—he wasn’t trying to build a business. He was just goofing around, created something weird and specific and good enough that it stuck. Now he’s making more money from donations than a lot of actual jobs pay.
The punchline people make is always the same: “if you want to deal drugs, just learn to code first.” Which is funny, but also kind of true in a depressing way. The barrier to making actual money isn’t legality, it’s just… having a skill worth monetizing. Filip did.
The Gion Matsuri started with plague. In 869, priests at Yasaka Shrine in Kyoto carried portable shrines through the city to stop a sickness spreading through it. Whether it actually worked doesn’t matter — the point is it stuck. The festival became annual, and now it’s one of those things everyone knows about Kyoto, one of the reasons you end up there in July sweating in crowds.
Kyoto has over 1600 temples and shrines scattered through it. It’s in Kansai, west of Honshu, and parts of it still feel like an old imperial capital should — kept up but lived-in, not museum-grade. The Yasaka Shrine is in Gion, the district everyone photographs, with its narrow streets and machiya houses and geisha moving between appointments. Built in 656 in the Gion-Zukuri style, it’s dedicated to Susano-no-o-mikoto and his wife. The colors are deep — reds and golds, the kind you see in Japanese prints — and standing there you feel the weight of a thousand years of people doing the same walk, asking the same things.
I went on an off day when the crowds were thin. It’s different then — quieter, which lets you think. There’s something about being in a shrine that’s been standing for thirteen centuries, in a city where every block holds a temple or a garden that’s been maintained longer than your country has existed. It gets to you.
The Gion Matsuri itself is massive now — months of parades and blocked streets, tons of people. One plague in 869 spiraled into that. Some of the emergency worship became spectacle. Some stayed genuine. You can’t tell which is which when you’re in the middle of it.
The benches disappeared from Kottbusser Tor one afternoon — the deep U-Bahn station where you’re standing alone on the platform at off-hours and the sound carries wrong. Berlin’s transit authority had unscrewed them, supposedly to discourage homeless people and dealers from lingering. What actually happened was it became brutal for anyone who couldn’t stand for hours: old people, anyone with chronic pain, anyone whose body was already losing the day.
Toy Crew showed up with chairs. Just walked into BVG storage, took what they needed, and put the furniture back where the benches used to be. Not hidden. Not subtle. Right there at the platform level like it was always supposed to be that way.
The wit of it kills me. Not angry, not political in the lecture sense — just solving the problem with absolute clarity. You make it unbearable to sit, they make it clear you’re being stupid about it.
This group’s been trolling the transit system for a while now. Flower boxes hanging off S-Bahn windows. An entire car filled with leaves. They treat the trains like collaborative sculpture, which is funny because that’s actually what they’ve become. You notice them. You can’t not notice them.
You want to chill in your underwear, have weed and pizza in the air, something chill playing in the background. Something that doesn’t get on your nerves, keeps the vibe right, doesn’t get in the way while you do whatever. That’s where I was at when someone sent me the Saya and Kris video.
I had no idea who they were. None. The video comes through, I hit play. It’s not reinventing anything, but the track is chill and the video looks good. Sometimes that’s enough. Can’t everything be Rihanna.
Saya’s from Toronto. Posts in her underwear on Instagram and seems fine with just existing. That’s all I need to know. The song just works. You play it while you’re doing nothing, nothing happens, and that’s the point.
So light what you’re lighting up. Get the pizza. Play the video and let it run while you’re somewhere else. Worst case you fall asleep and the pizza box becomes a pillow. It’s fine.
SpongeBob’s one of those childhood characters you’d actually want to murder as an adult. I used to admire the guy—his genuine joy in everything, the way he found meaning in jellyfish and burgers, his absolute inability to be cynical. I wanted to be him. Now I’m pretty sure I’d be Squidward, the only one in that show with any sense. I’d want to bury him and Patrick both somewhere quiet and forget they existed.
Vans did a SpongeBob thing with Nickelodeon—sneakers, shirts, skatedecks, all of it. I looked through the collection the way you look at old photos from high school, which is mostly affection mixed with something harder to name. These are things made for kids who still believe what SpongeBob believes. There I was, scrolling through, remembering when yellow and pure happiness seemed like enough.
You can’t get that back. He doesn’t change. You do. And the gap’s permanent.
I started noticing these videos in my feeds a while back—Selena Gomez, Taylor Swift, Emma Watson in explicit films they never actually made. First instinct: another celebrity hack. The expected crime.
But looking closer, these weren’t stolen. They were deepfakes. Really well made ones. The kind where you stare for a full ten seconds trying to decide if what you’re seeing is real. Someone had grafted their faces onto porn stars so cleanly your brain couldn’t quite settle on the truth.
They got banned pretty fast from everywhere, but that’s not how this works. Technology doesn’t uninvent itself. A few years from now the software gets even better and you genuinely can’t tell anymore. Anyone’s face, any situation. The implications are bleak enough that I don’t need to spell them out.
There’s something darkly funny about it that I can’t quite laugh at. If the tech gets good enough, you could theoretically do whatever on camera and later just claim it was AI. How would anyone prove you wrong? But the joke only works if it’s something that happens to you, not something that gets done to you.
The transformation sequence music from Sailor Moon is the best theme song ever written for a TV show. Twenty-five years later, I’m still convinced this is true. Those opening notes catch you the same way they caught you at nine years old, like they’re rewiring something in your brain that got set years ago.
Tokyo threw a concert for the anniversary, and they had these musicians — Mariko Terashita, Makoto Yoshida, and Kotono Mitsuishi among them — rework the songs with orchestral arrangements. Full strings, the kind of production you’d expect in a concert hall. Not remakes so much as resurrections. Hearing those melodies stripped down and rebuilt at that scale made me understand what I’d always felt without being able to articulate: these weren’t just anime songs. They were pop songs that happened to be soundtracking a show about girls saving the world.
The deeper cuts hit hardest. “Heart Moving,” “Eternal Eternity” — these are romance songs underneath the production, and placing them in that lush arrangement made something click. You realized the show was always doing more than it seemed to be doing. It was always about desire and choice and being wanted.
There’s a new film coming out in Japan this year, Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon Crystal: Dream, and the fact that something this old keeps generating new content means either we’ve all collectively refused to grow up, or there’s something legitimately substantial buried in the bones of this show. Probably both. The transformation concept alone — the idea that you put on the suit and you become something — that’s a metaphor that doesn’t expire. It works for being a girl, being an artist, being anything that requires you to decide you’re going to do this thing.
The concert felt like watching something you loved as a kid get taken seriously without becoming self-important about it. The strings didn’t condescend. The arrangements didn’t wink at the audience. They just said: this music is good, and these feelings are real, and we’re going to play them in a concert hall because that’s what good music deserves.
I don’t know if I’ll ever shake the feeling that Sailor Moon is mine in some particular way. Probably not. And probably that’s fine.
In Shanghai, I watched young designers and artists move through the internet like it was a puzzle they’d solved. They used VPNs without thinking about it, switched between encrypted apps, shared links to things the government didn’t want them to see. It was all very competent and very tired. There wasn’t anything revolutionary about it—just people who wanted access to information and had learned to build the infrastructure themselves.
The surveillance state is real there. Cameras, monitoring, the Great Firewall cutting off huge swaths of the outside world. But what struck me was how it had become boring to them. Not in a nihilistic way—more like how you stop noticing the small inconveniences of daily life. You need a VPN to see what you want. So you get a VPN. You use encrypted apps. You’re careful what you say and write. After a while, it’s just how things are.
I don’t think much about what this means for the future—whether these kids will eventually have the freedom to not need workarounds, whether the wall gets higher, whether anything fundamentally changes. What I think about is the sheer effort required just to be an artist or designer in a place where information is controlled, where you can’t freely reference or read or see what you need to do your work. That’s the real cost of the system—not the danger, which is real but distant for most people, but the exhaustion of having to build around obstacles just to think.
Stripes don’t really leave fashion, they just fade for a season or two while everyone chases something else—florals, pastels, whatever’s on the mood board. Then somebody remembers that a simple repeating line is almost impossible to get wrong, and suddenly they’re everywhere again. There’s a reason for that. Stripes work.
The appeal is almost boring in its logic. A repeating line creates visual rhythm without any effort. Oversized jumpsuits in horizontal stripes, tunics in color blocks, denim with a stripe texture somewhere in the weave—they all land the same way. It’s geometry that doesn’t announce itself. Which is probably why stripes show up in kids’ clothing, in nautical tradition, in every few years of fashion when the industry needs something it can trust.
What’s interesting right now is how the colored stripes are getting actual color in them. Not just navy and white or black and cream, but real combinations—combinations that feel almost retro, like seventies or eighties, but not in a trying-too-hard way. Just stripes that happen to use colors. That feels earned. After years of minimalism, a little visual joy doesn’t read as a mistake anymore.
The oversized cut matters too. A stripe in a well-fitted oversized piece behaves differently than in something tight—it sits there looking inevitable instead of clinging and distorting. Horizontal stripes catch a lot of criticism for their proportions, but that’s only true if you’re fighting the pattern. Build it into the garment properly and it almost always works.
I caught myself looking for stripe pieces when this started circulating, which probably says something about the direction things are moving. You feel these patterns shift before you think them through. Some visual element hits and you just want to own something in it, wear it until the season turns and something else becomes inevitable. Stripes might stick around longer this time. They usually do.
Naaz made a song called “Loving Love” and didn’t complicate it. The whole premise is right there: love doesn’t follow rules, doesn’t check gender, doesn’t ask permission.
When she talked about where this came from, I caught something specific. Not some polished statement about acceptance, but real weight. She’d experienced being rejected for who she was, lived with that self-doubt. She’d seen people collapse under the pressure of loving the “wrong” person. And what she’d worked out was straightforward: love is what it is. The people you love are who you love, and that’s all that matters.
The song sits on easy, loping beats and her voice is sure, and the message lands light: girls love boys, boys love boys, girls love girls. Whatever makes you happy. That’s permission enough.
I appreciated the lack of hesitation in it. No apology, no explanation, just someone saying something true and moving on.
Anne-Marie and Marshmello made a song called “Friends” about being stuck outside someone’s desire. The friendzone isn’t real, except it completely is—just not as a place. It’s a feeling, and the feeling is real enough to build a song around.
Everyone knows the script. You’re interested in someone. You’re around them, you’re nice, and somewhere in your brain it adds up to something. Except it doesn’t work that way. People either want you or they don’t, and being first doesn’t entitle you to reciprocation. It’s not a waiting game. It’s just done.
What gets me is how much time we spend on this idea, like there’s some secret move that changes the answer. There isn’t one. The person already knows. And if you tell them, it doesn’t fix anything—it just makes things awkward.
I’ve been on both sides. The wanting, obviously. But also the other end, where someone wanted me and I was just trying to be their friend. There’s a different kind of guilt in that, like you owe them attraction because they were kind. You don’t.
The song just sits with the feeling instead of pretending there’s a way out. Which is probably why it needed to exist at all.
Japan sells itself as modern and progressive. Meanwhile, young girls get pushed into idol groups or pose for bikini magazines, and everyone calls it opportunity. The reality is there’s nothing else — no other jobs, no other path forward. The math works out simple enough: sell your image or go home to your parents.
Ami Tomite was in AKB48 for a while. She got out. Eventually she met director Sono Sion, who makes films about Japan’s weirder, uglier impulses. They made a film called Antiporno — just that, straight title, straight intent. It’s an answer to the whole system that made one of them.
I think what gets me is that most people sit inside these structures and say nothing. They feed them, profit from them, look away. Ami and Sono made work that says no. Not aggressively or with a manifesto attached — just the fact of it existing is the disagreement. A film called Antiporno made by someone who lived through the machinery. That’s rare.
I haven’t seen it. Maybe it doesn’t land. But you don’t make that film for commercial success. You make it because the system is broken enough that you have to say something, and a film is the only thing you know how to say. That’s the part I’m interested in.
If someone had asked me what I wanted from a Secret of Mana remake, I would’ve had a straightforward answer: keep the pixel art but upres it, get an orchestra to play the music, polish it up without losing the charm, maybe add some dungeons if you want to get creative. That’s what I would’ve said.
Nobody asked.
Instead we got this odd 3D polygon remake—the kind of thing that’s been haunting every classic game port since the Nintendo DS era, and I’ve never quite liked it on sight. It looks hollow. The music is worse: it sounds like someone ran the original soundtrack through an electronic blender and this dull techno remix came out the other side, everything musical about it drained away. The text got the same treatment. Whatever weirdness and personality lived in those character moments—gone.
It makes you wonder who this was even for. The people who loved the original aren’t going to feel right about it. New players won’t know what they’re missing. So it’s just floating in this weird middle ground where nothing quite lands. I think about it sometimes—why we keep remaking things that didn’t need remaking—but I guess that’s just how it works now. The original’s still there if you want it.
Babymaker 2 is Night Tempo building an entire world inside your headphones using nothing but synthesizers and sampled memory. You’re in a Tokyo disco from an 80s anime that doesn’t exist—or maybe all 80s anime—where the neon is too bright and everything sounds like it’s remembering something beautiful that never actually happened.
Vaporwave gets written about like it means something deep, but listening to this album doesn’t feel heavy. You’re just there. Present. In the room, if a room could be made of color and temperature instead of walls.
Songs like “In The Moon,” “Heart Break,” and “Stay Pure” don’t rush you. The production is sparse enough that you hear the silence between the sounds. Somewhere around the middle of the album you stop actively listening and it just becomes the air around you. That’s probably when it’s working best.
What gets you is that Night Tempo seems to believe in this place. He’s not winking at the vaporwave clichés—the Japanese imagery, the hotel lobby samples, the glossy synths. He’s just building something real inside them. And you wanted to be somewhere else for a while, so you stay.
The snow falls past Momo’s window. Orange lamp flickering. Neo Tokyo Radio plays—same as every day—and the Master sets down a bowl of ramen still steaming from the pot. A glass of vodka comes with it. “Heater’s dead,” he says. “This works better.”
Thirty years back, a comet fell into the Gulf of Mexico. Fire first, then ice that never quite lifted. Most people didn’t survive it. The rest of us packed into the few cities that still had power and light, and we’ve been living under the neon ever since. Neo Tokyo became a city of people who learned to exist in the dark.
Momo’s not the kind of place you read about. It’s narrow, chaotic, stuffed with people who don’t fit anywhere else. The smell is old cigarettes and ramen broth and coffee and something else I can never quite place. But it’s where people like me end up—where we belong if we belong anywhere.
I’m reading a magazine from before the strike, pages yellowed and soft. The radio keeps going—Neo Tokyo Radio, some station broadcasting from nowhere to nobody in particular. I’ve never found out who runs it, and I don’t want to. If I knew it was just a person with equipment, the whole thing would collapse. This way it’s something else.
There’s a memory I have from before, when I was younger and the world was different. I was listening to something on headphones, some song I’ve completely forgotten, and I felt like I was the only person alive who understood what the artist was doing. That feeling’s mostly gone now. But sitting here with the ramen and vodka and the radio humming, I get a flicker of it. That sense that someone out there is making something just for themselves, and if you’re lucky, you get to listen.
The Master stands behind the counter. Red and purple and ice-blue neon bleeds through the window. Neo Tokyo Radio keeps playing somewhere in the dark.
Kate Upton took shit for a while there. Designers getting handsy to “verify her authenticity,” Family Guy doing their thing, Instagram filling with hatred and sexual fantasies. All because she doesn’t fit the proportions we’ve normalized in Photoshop.
Sports Illustrated dropped a Swimsuit issue with unretouched photos. A deliberate move, pushing back against the standard. And what happened? Upton just looked good. Not in some revolutionary “real women have curves” way. Just genuinely, obviously good. The kind of good that makes you realize how completely we’ve stopped seeing reality as a baseline.
We’ve normalized digital enhancement so thoroughly that unretouched skin feels transgressive now. That’s what’s strange—not her, but us. We’ve trained ourselves on ideals that can only exist in software. Everything else reads as wrong, or deficient, or worth mocking.
She’s not making a statement about beauty standards. She’s just a woman who looks good without a computer smoothing her skin. That should be unremarkable. The fact that it’s shocking says something about what we’ve normalized.
I’m still drawn to her. Unretouched photos clarify what that’s actually about—not the fantasy, but realness. And realness is rarer now.
I lived online—phone, laptop, gaming, everything that mattered. That’s where my actual life happened. But Germany, the country I physically inhabited, was stuck somewhere else entirely. Slow internet everywhere. Laws written for people who didn’t know what the internet was. Schools that didn’t teach digital literacy. Politicians who clearly didn’t understand, or didn’t care.
It was uncomfortable when friends from other countries would ask why our internet was so slow, or why you still had to go to an office to handle government business. Austria, Poland, Scandinavia—they’d all created digital ministries years before, treated it like real infrastructure. Germany hadn’t. The gap was obvious.
There was this conversation happening in startup circles about the obvious questions: Why can’t we do what other countries do? Why is our infrastructure so far behind? Why don’t schools teach this? Why doesn’t government treat it like it matters? Most Germans wanted this fixed. Most business people wanted it. The government wasn’t interested.
Years went on and nothing really caught up. Internet stayed slow. Schools still taught like the internet didn’t fundamentally exist. Government still moved at a 1990s pace. And you realized it wasn’t a technical problem at all—it was that the people making decisions didn’t live where the rest of us lived. They weren’t online. They couldn’t understand why any of it would matter.
There’s something about documentation that makes people nervous. Nathan Mattes understood this when he built his website—We Are the AfD—and filled it with nothing but direct quotes from actual party members. No commentary, no spin—just what they said. Lines like “A refugee doesn’t care which border kills him.” Or “We’re basically just the NPD with better optics.” Or “We need to seal the borders and accept the horrific images.” That’s the whole archive.
The party sued him. Not because the quotes were false. Because he used their name in the domain—impersonation, they claimed. They wanted the site gone and the domain transferred to them.
Mattes could’ve paid the fine and let the site disappear. Instead he found a law firm and fought back. What gets me is that this isn’t the AfD’s first lawsuit against critics. It’s their pattern. They use lawyers where other parties use arguments or just accept being criticized. It works most of the time. Most small projects just evaporate under the threat and expense, which means their worst quotes get harder to find, which is kind of the point.
I don’t know Mattes, but there’s something you have to respect about choosing to fight instead of disappearing. You build something and put it out there and sometimes you have to defend its existence.
I’ve started telling people I’m addicted to Instagram Stories, which is both true and a convenient lie. The reality is I spend my evenings on the couch watching trash TV with my thumb ready to skip through everyone else’s content.
McFit girl again? Skip. YouTuber and her boyfriend? Skip. That one who’s always making out even though her own boyfriend watches these stories? Skip, skip, and skip again.
But Bonnie Strange. That’s the only person I actually watch.
I can’t explain it. How she carries herself. Her humor. Something about her. There’s just no one else. I want to be her best friend, her secret lover, her proud wife all at once. Her Stories are sweet and funny and genuinely hot, hitting in a way nothing else does.
I’ve been collecting screenshots, some of which definitely shouldn’t exist, and I’m aware that I’m basically the person who needs stalker rehab. But first, let me share all this incriminating evidence anyway. Bonnie, I love you.
You dig through a lot of garbage to find anything worth keeping. Rappers everyone’s already moved on from, producers working out of bedrooms with the same preset plugins, safe indie that knows exactly which buttons to press. And then something like “Not A Love Song” comes through and you remember why you keep digging at all.
Megan Bülow was seventeen when that track hit #1 on Hype Machine in 2017. She’d grown up scattered—Canada, Germany, Britain, the States—before landing in the Netherlands for school. By the time she released this, she’d already worked with serious producers like Lowell and Nate J, people who understood that melody and proportion still mean something.
The song is just pop. Not complicated, not deconstructing anything, not winking at you. It’s built right. She put out “Damaged Vol 1” as her first EP, and there’s something in those tracks—clarity, restraint—that lives in the same space as Sigrid or Astrid S. Nothing borrowed, just competent in a way that feels scarce.
I remember the video was shot in Berlin. Just her in empty rooms and hallways. The kind of sparse space that works better than any production design because it doesn’t distract. The song plays and you get what she’s doing. She’s not performing at discoverability. Not trying to be the next anything.
What stayed with me was how much she trusted the song. No production busyness, no vocal tricks, just someone singing something true. That’s harder than it sounds.
The pixel art in Crossing Souls is the first thing that hits you. It looks deceptively simple at first, almost cheap, but the detail is meticulous. Someone in a small studio in Spain spent real time on this. The animations are sharp, the environments have weight, light falls through windows with purpose. It’s the kind of art that doesn’t announce itself, which is harder to pull off than it sounds.
The game itself is about kids in California in 1986 who find a pink magic stone that lets them travel between dimensions. It’s built entirely from 80s references—Ghostbusters, Back to the Future, E.T., all the obvious touchstones—but it doesn’t feel like a checklist. It feels like someone genuinely loved that era and wanted to capture what it was like to actually exist in it, when magic and danger seemed possible.
The story is straightforward. Kids find magic object, world faces threat, you solve the puzzle. Nothing surprising there. But the game’s real strength is in the feel of it—the rhythm of dialogue, the pacing of discovery, the way characters miss what’s right in front of them or suddenly understand something together. That’s where it lives.
I played it a few years ago and haven’t thought about it much since. But something brought it back recently—probably another wave of 80s nostalgia online, or someone mentioning it in passing. I remembered why it held up: the game doesn’t perform its own importance. It just exists, completely and without apology. That’s rarer than it should be.
Early in Sex and the City, Samantha spends an entire day masturbating, hunting for an orgasm she lost somewhere. It sounds ridiculous, but the shamelessness of it—the commitment to a feeling without any narrative, any apology, any wellness-speak around it—that’s her whole thing. I watch that scene now and think about all the years I spent around people who would never, not because they couldn’t, but because they’d have to explain it, justify it, frame it as something respectable. Samantha doesn’t do that. She doesn’t soften or perform or make it smaller than it is.
The show’s twenty years old this year. I rewatched some episodes I hadn’t touched in a decade, and what gets me now isn’t the fashion or the dating disasters—it’s how uncompromised the characters sound when they talk to each other. Carrie and Stanford just tear people apart with no filter, purely because it feels good and it builds something real between them. Samantha does this constantly, about everyone, and people call her cruel. But there’s something cleaner about it than all the polite conversation in the world. You know where you stand. No pretense.
Carrie opens one episode saying she wants to put a gun to her head because she got dumped, or because life’s just exhausting. Dark stuff, but true. That’s what we’re all thinking. That casual suicidality between morning coffee and the rest of the day. Charlotte wants the same thing as Samantha, actually—just to be properly fucked by someone who gives a shit—and when that doesn’t work out, she just keeps going. They all do. There’s no scene where everything changes. You don’t fix it with therapy or a new job. You just live it.
Then Big marries someone else, and Carrie walks out with a hairflip. Not wounded, not angry, just cool about the whole thing. The loss looks good because she carries it that way. Later she tells him exactly what she thinks—the perfect response to the kind of gaslighting every man does half-conscious, calling someone difficult for being honest about what they need. She doesn’t soften the edges of it. She just says it.
Berger breaks up with her on a Post-it, which is the kind of casual cruelty that’s almost funny if it didn’t hurt. I got dumped once through Facebook by someone I’d never even met, just a message from a mutual friend saying it was over. Humiliating in a way that stuck, but at least not on a Post-it. Though Berger wasn’t worth the space in her head anyway. He never was.
Samantha dumping Richard broke me more than The Notebook ever could. She was in love with him—real love, not the Samantha version where she’s pretending not to care—but she left him anyway. Not a speech, not tears, just a clean exit because she knew better than to stay. That takes a kind of nerve that most people don’t have.
There’s a scene where Carrie orders a Cosmopolitan at a drive-through like it’s a nightclub, and I tried the same thing at McDonald’s with a beer once because someone told me they had it if you asked right. It was bullshit. They don’t. The image stays with me—that hopeful stupidity, then the deflation of being wrong about something small and stupid.
Samantha shops for one simple reason: to be attractive. We pretend shopping is about self-expression or personal growth, but really we’re just trying to look fuckable without looking desperate about it. The outfit does the work while you stand there like you didn’t think about it at all. That’s the game and she knows it, so she plays it without the pretense.
I wear the same sweatpants most days of the year. Carrie wore a different outfit every single episode for six seasons and would’ve looked at me with pure disbelief if she could see what I’ve become. But I’ve made peace with it. I’d rather have nothing on than spend energy figuring out what to wear, which is probably the most Samantha thing you can do without actually being Samantha.
I remember the smell of a video rental store—plastic cases, dust, that same recirculated air from the 90s. You could scan the whole store in five minutes, but you’d stand there for twenty anyway, waiting for something to grab you. Or you’d wander into the wrong section by accident and see things you weren’t supposed to. There was an element of discovery in that, of randomness. You didn’t get what you wanted; you got what the store happened to have, and you convinced yourself it was what you wanted.
Streaming killed it. And streaming was supposed to be amazing—no more drives, no late fees, infinite selection. It was. You get exactly what the algorithm thinks you want, which is usually nothing you actually want. You pay your subscription and spend three hours scrolling, bored and paralyzed. Everyone agrees it’s better than the old way. Everyone’s right. Everyone’s miserable.
But there’s still one Blockbuster. It’s in Anchorage, Alaska, and it survives because Alaska’s internet is basically held together with string and prayer. In a place where streaming doesn’t work reliably, a video store didn’t have to die. It just had to wait.
There’s something bleak about that, actually. The only remaining Blockbuster exists not because people prefer it, but because the infrastructure failed around it. That’s not nostalgia. That’s what happens when progress doesn’t reach everywhere equally, and the things that should have disappeared just sit there, waiting for you to notice.
I spent a decade watching the same thing over and over in endless variation. Three guys destroying a blonde girl. Bukkake compilations. Asian rough-sex videos. Crying, gagging, the whole escalation game. At some point the industry locked itself in an arms race with numbness and everyone was losing. I stopped being aroused and just started looking for the next thing louder than the last, the next thing cruel enough to cut through whatever I’d become numb to.
Last night I’m on a pornography website at 2 AM like always, scrolling through categories that all feel identical. Hotel housekeeping scenarios. Rough compilations. Women crying about their jobs. Everything’s the same frequency and nothing lands. So I’m clicking halfheartedly and somehow stumble onto this channel of just naked women holding each other. No plot, no extremity, nothing explicit. They just lie quiet with their eyes closed, running their hands along each other’s backs, sometimes a gentle kiss on the cheek or neck. I watched for an hour and something opened in my chest that the violence had sealed shut.
Tenderness did what all that noise couldn’t. It landed somewhere the aggression never reached. I think I’ve been numb for longer than I realized, and searching for something gentler all along without knowing it.
I borrowed my best friend’s older brother’s Super Nintendo for two weeks when I was ten. The goal was basic: finish Super Mario World before he asked for it back. When the credits rolled on the second-to-last day—Mario grinning at me, Peach safe, that little victory ditty playing—I felt like I’d done something worth doing. Genuinely proud.
Secret of Mana, Chrono Trigger, Yoshi’s Island each ate up months of my life. They demanded patience and focus, the kind of sustained attention that’s easier when you’re a kid. They completely occupied my brain until the end.
Then I learned that people finish those games in five minutes. Blindfolded. With their feet. On purpose, in front of an audience.
Speedrunning is its own religion. The people serious about it operate in a completely different universe than someone like me who needed weeks just to see the ending. They’ve memorized every sequence down to the individual frame. They’ve optimized movement to the point of finding glitches that shouldn’t exist, understood code better than the people who wrote it. It’s not just skill—it’s obsession so specific and narrow I can’t honestly say I understand it.
There’s something hilarious and humbling about how far the gap stretches. I felt fast finishing Mario World before the rental ran out. Meanwhile, these people are racing against physics, against the game’s code, against each other. The speed is almost beside the point. What they’re actually doing is proving these things have no secrets once you’re willing to spend enough time pulling them apart.
I’ll never speedrun. Games taught me patience. Speedrunners learned that patience is just another obstacle to optimize away. In their elite circles, my two weeks with Mario World probably makes me a slow-rolling, clueless Sunday driver. And honestly, they’re not wrong.
I used to think the point of a festival was discovering new things. You’d go for three headliners you knew and leave with five new favorite bands. Now you go for the people you already listen to, and any surprises are just bonus. The Melt Festival lineup is heavy on the names I already have on playlists - The Xx, Nina Kraviz, Tyler the Creator, Odesza, Jon Hopkins. It’s not a complaint. It’s just honest.
What makes Melt interesting is that it doesn’t separate these names by genre. You get Florence + The Machine and Ellen Allien in the same weekend. Ben Klock and Rin on the same afternoon. Little Dragon, The Internet, Cigarettes After Sex - electronic, hip-hop, indie, experimental all mixed into one thing. That’s actually how people listen to music now, not sorted by category but by moment. Most festivals pick a lane and staff it well. Melt just assumes you’re complicated enough to care about all of it.
The festival happens in Ferropolis, an old power plant in eastern Germany. That European thing where an industrial site gets converted into a venue and suddenly carries some cultural weight. Maybe that’s pretentious to even notice, but it works - the place has a specific character that you feel when you’re there. The festival leans into it rather than against it.
July 13-15. I don’t have a strong prediction about whether this year will be better or worse than past ones. The lineup is good enough that it doesn’t really matter. You either want to be there or you don’t.
Every kid wants to be a YouTuber now. Not a doctor, not an astronaut — those were for a different era. Now the dream is just: sit in front of a camera, mess around, upload the footage, and let the money arrive. It’s supposed to be that simple.
Except nobody actually talks about the money. The successful creators will tell you everything — their feuds, their relationships, their stupid pranks — everything except the numbers. Ask how much they’re making and suddenly everyone goes quiet. It makes sense, really. Mystery is worth more than transparency. It lets people imagine whatever number sounds best.
Back in 2017, someone did the actual accounting on German YouTube. Bibi, probably the biggest creator at the time, was pulling in around 513,000 euros per year from ad revenue alone. Paluten was nearly there at 493,000. Even the gaming guy Gronkh, who mostly just streams himself playing, was hitting 360,000 annually. These are the numbers Google actually paid out. Merchandise, sponsorships, brand deals — none of that’s in here.
The top tier of creators, maybe fifty channels across Germany, were making somewhere between 350,000 and 900,000 euros a year from ads. Which sounds incredible until you realize how few people that actually is. Millions of people upload to YouTube every single day. The vast majority of them make absolutely nothing.
There’s this massive gap between the mythology and the data. Kids see that Bibi’s rich and think that’s how it works for most creators. The reality is that perhaps a hundred creators worldwide have ever made real money from platform revenue. Everyone else is in their room, uploading into the void, hoping the algorithm eventually notices. The ones who made it to the top probably aren’t wrong to stay quiet about their earnings. Why mess with the dream everyone else is still chasing?
I barely remember it now, but there was this time when MySpace mattered. When the internet piped and wheezed and you’d customize your page, change your song, agonize over your top eight.
Tom was there — Tom from MySpace, the founder’s face on every profile by default. You didn’t add him; he was just *there*. Everyone was friends with Tom. He became part of the landscape.
Now some designer is selling Tom’s face on a t-shirt for 160 euros. Tom’s still grinning. Still innocent. Still the friend you never asked for. Except now he costs money.
I get why people would buy it, though. There’s something about Tom that predates all the poison — before Twitter got vicious, before Instagram got envious, before TikTok got algorithmic. Tom feels like a fossil now.
There was this cryptocurrency called CryptoCelebrities where you could buy digital contracts tied to famous people. You didn’t own their likeness or their time or anything concrete—you just owned a token that said you owned a token of Selena Gomez or Justin Bieber or Eminem. The celebrities themselves had no idea this was happening and weren’t getting paid. They just existed, and people were turning them into tradeable assets.
The whole thing was deranged in a way that only early cryptocurrency schemes could be. It wasn’t even a scam in the traditional sense—more like a kind of mass hallucination where thousands of people agreed to spend real money on ghosts. I watched people in forums fighting to acquire tokens tied to Jennifer Lawrence or Wiz Khalifa, like Pokémon cards but with actual human beings who would never consent to this and would probably find it deeply unsettling if they knew.
Part of the appeal was exactly that transgression—buying something you weren’t supposed to be able to buy. You were taking something sacred and turning it into a tradeable commodity. That’s speculation in its purest form, with nothing else to hide behind.
Selena Gomez was listed as belonging to someone with the initials W. Hilton. The weirdest part wasn’t that someone thought they could own her, but that there was a record of it on the blockchain that anyone could check. The fantasy and the transaction were the same thing.
I follow Instagram mostly for women. Attractive women, their bodies, the half-revealed thing that keeps you scrolling. It’s the same impulse I had raiding my dad’s Playboy from his office as a teenager—that promise of almost, the fantasy your brain fills in.
Then Azuki showed up in the feed. A hedgehog from Japan, maybe two inches long, and possibly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen besides someone I’ve actually slept with. He wears tiny winter coats and scarves, grins at the camera while eating worms, and has somehow convinced three hundred thousand people to watch him do it. Asics paid him to model in little sports outfits. The internet has completely lost its mind to this hedgehog.
I can’t keep plants alive. The bamboo from Ikea is dead, the basil in the kitchen is long gone, and I won’t bother listing the others. A tomato can rot in a shared kitchen and nobody cares, but a hedgehog needs actual attention. I’d kill it within a month.
That’s fine though. Azuki’s owner does the maintenance, and I get to watch the thing itself without any responsibility. The outfits, the eating sounds, the tiny camping setup in someone else’s yard. Just the image, the moment, none of the actual work. Sometimes that’s better than owning something.
Back when Article 13 of the EU Copyright Directive came up for a vote in January 2018, I kept thinking about all the dumb videos and screenshots and remixes I’d thrown up online over the years. Nothing I made would have survived those upload filters. Most of what made the internet fun wouldn’t have.
The idea was straightforward: copyright holders needed protection, so the EU would require platforms—YouTube, Facebook, Reddit—to scan every upload before it went live and automatically delete anything flagged by copyright databases. Memes with licensed music. Clips from movies. Fan art. Samples. Everything.
The filter wouldn’t understand context or fair use or public domain. It would just match and delete. If some corporation claimed ownership over your work—whether they actually owned it or not—that was it. Gone. No appeal. No explanation.
Open source developers were completely exposed. Sites like GitHub and Stack Overflow would have needed these filters too. Firefox, VLC, entire libraries that industries depend on—they exist because people could share code openly. An algorithm would have destroyed that.
They justified it with terrorism and child exploitation. Real problems, sure, but the tool didn’t distinguish. It would have crushed remix culture, fan communities, most of what actually moves online. Anything built on anything that already existed.
The vote happened in late January 2018. It passed. For a few weeks it looked like the internet was about to get smaller and quieter and way more paranoid. The backlash was big enough to force compromises, water down the worst parts. Not good, but survivable.
Most of internet culture lives in this gray zone—not quite legal, not quite theft, just… shared and remixed and passed along. That vote tried to close that gap. It almost worked. We got lucky, but I think about how close it was, how easily all of this could have gone a different direction.
I’d been avoiding anime for a while, burned out on the usual stuff, and then I watched the first episode of Darling in the Franxx just to see what Trigger was up to. Ended up needing to know what the hell was happening.
The basic setup is straightforward: orphaned kids piloting giant robots called Franxx in a walled city, fighting monsters. Hiro is the quiet one. Zero Two shows up with horns and mysteries. The show moves like a mix of Evangelion, Gundam, and Kill la Kill, which means nothing gets explained right away and everything feels like it’s running toward something bigger.
What actually works is the mystery underneath the premise. These kids aren’t heroes. They’re not celebrated. The only reason they exist is to pilot these machines in pairs and keep the species alive. There’s a professor who looks like he enjoys hurting people, a masked commander who seems untouchable, and a bunch of teenagers who clearly belong nowhere. The show plants all of this in the first episode and just sits with it. Doesn’t explain anything. Just lays it out.
Trigger doesn’t make shows that coast. When they do something, it shifts things. So there’s this immediate sense watching it that the simple premise—kids in robots fighting monsters—is going to crack open into something else entirely.
The aesthetic backs this up. Everything’s sleek and cold, drawn in this way that makes the whole world feel like machinery. The mecha designs are clean. Zero Two’s character design is deliberately strange—unsettling even. The show is visually telling you this isn’t going to be a standard mecha anime.
I don’t know what happens next. Only one episode exists. But something grabbed me the way almost nothing does anymore. Not because I’m desperately searching for content. Just because there’s clearly thought behind it, and because it trusts you to follow without needing explanations. I’ll keep watching.
Nadine Kroll wrote a book called “Stellungswechsel”—roughly, a change of position—about moving to Berlin as a young woman and figuring out what you want sexually, what feels good, what you’re allowed to admit wanting. She wrote it plainly, without the usual performance.
The book covers desire in its different forms—sex, relationships, the things you think late at night and don’t mention to anyone. She was crude when it warranted, always direct, sometimes funny. There was something genuinely rare about that kind of honesty, especially as a woman writing it.
Reading it years later, what got me was how real the voice sounded. Not polished or artistic, just actually hers. No stylistic flourish, no performance. She was describing her own life and described it straight.
Most of it isn’t even about sex, really. It’s about the moment you realize you don’t have to be the person people trained you to be. That you can want what you want and say it. That the good girl they constructed doesn’t have to be who you are.
Writing like that—without apology, without flinching—doesn’t happen very often. The book got published and she became a real writer, which is its own kind of uncommon. Most people don’t manage it.
Found the first Dragon Ball volumes at a flea market when I was maybe ten, and I read them until the pages started falling apart. Kept coming back to the same panels, the absurdity of it, the way Toriyama drew everything—the monsters, the gadgets, Bulma’s everything. I wanted to live inside those pages.
When the anime came out, it was like confirmation of something I already knew. But the early episodes—the ones that were still about adventure, treasure hunts, the sheer weirdness of a kid on a flying cloud—those were the ones that mattered. The humor landed. The world felt genuinely strange and worth exploring. Once it became about increasingly buff men yelling at each other in desert wastelands while their hair changed colors, I checked out. Years of screaming and powering up, each transformation bigger and louder than the last. I don’t care how many new forms there are if there’s nowhere interesting to go.
There’s more in Dragon Ball than people give it credit for. I watched this video essay once—some Wisecrack thing—about the philosophy buried in the series, the religious undercurrents Toriyama wove in without making it obvious. Made me think about what the series could have been if it had stayed curious instead of just… muscular.
Part of me still hopes Toriyama circles back. Not a reboot or a retcon. Just a return to when Dragon Ball was about discovery and wonder, not domination. Adventures where the stakes were a girl in a ball gown and a wish from a magic rock, not the fate of multiple universes. Weird and horny and smart, the way it started.
Netflix, Spotify, Amazon Prime—you log in and it’s all there. Every movie, every song, every book, completely legal, absurdly cheap. Who buys DVDs anymore? Who bothers with piracy? It’s so much easier to just pay eight bucks a month.
The convenience is real. That’s not a lie. But convenience isn’t the problem. The problem is control.
You don’t actually own anything. A title vanishes because the license expired. Amazon can pull books from your Kindle whenever it wants. You think you own your library until the corporation renting it to you changes the rules.
Peter Sunde started The Pirate Bay to fight exactly this—the idea that a few gatekeepers get to decide what culture reaches people. In an interview a while back, he said something that stuck with me: he was shocked how shortsighted everyone was. We spent years fighting to break the gates, and the moment a company came along with an easy button, we lined up to hand them the keys. Different gatekeepers, same prison.
An artist can’t even opt out anymore. Want your music heard? Spotify is the only game in town. Want to reach readers? Amazon owns the bookstore. They control the distribution, they control the audience, they control your worth. You’re dependent on them in ways that feel impossible to undo.
I use these services. I’m part of the problem. But what gets me is how inevitable it all feels. We’ve collapsed everything into five companies that can make any piece of culture disappear on a whim. We did it to ourselves because we valued convenience over freedom, and now the convenience is locked in and the freedom is gone.
Maybe there’s a way back. Some decentralized thing where no single company owns your library or decides what exists. But I don’t think we want it badly enough anymore. The convenience has us.
Walk Tokyo at night and something shifts. The day version is fine enough—schoolgirl uniforms, businessmen in their surge, couples scattered through parks. But it’s not the truth. When the sun drops the city folds in on itself and the neon takes over, wrapping everything in these sickly bright colors that feel more honest than daylight ever could.
I used to walk those alleys past midnight, before I understood what I was looking for. Drunk salarymen with ties knotted around their heads. Konbini humming their songs, still trying to sell something at 3 AM. Ramen shops where lonely people sit under fluorescent brightness eating their way through whatever they’re feeling. There’s a truth in that vision that daytime Tokyo works hard to hide.
Tom Blachford’s Tokyo Noir series photographs exactly this—the neon-soaked cyberpunk fever dream, all garish light and isolation, that could slip right into Blade Runner or Ghost in the Shell. His camera caught what I felt at 2 AM wandering those streets: that this nighttime version, this exhausted neon wasteland, is what the city actually is.
Maybe that’s projection. Maybe I just need Tokyo to be as broken as I feel at that hour. But looking at those photographs, I’m not entirely sure I’m wrong.
I got exhausted with mainstream music fast. You know the rotation—Taylor Swift, Ed Sheeran, Kendrick Lamar, whoever else controls the algorithm that week. It all blurs together after a while, and you realize you’re not actually listening to anything. So one day I just stopped and went looking for something else.
Found Maël Madec—he goes by In Love With A Ghost, which tells you something about the vibe. French producer working in chillwave, building this quiet community on Bandcamp, SoundCloud, YouTube. No hype machine, no chart obsession, just someone making songs because they mean something to him.
His albums have names like “Healing” and “Ordinary Magic” and “Let’s Go,” which already tips you off that this isn’t ironic detachment or cynical production. There’s genuine warmth in what he makes, genuine care. The electronic stuff wraps around you instead of screaming at you. It’s designed for dreaming, or at least for not hating where you are.
The song titles alone tell you he’s thinking differently than everyone else. “I Was Feeling Down, Then I Found a Nice Witch and Now We’re Best Friends.” “Chilling at Nemu’s Place.” “Sorry for Not Answering the Phone, I’m Too Busy Trying to Fly Away.” These aren’t clever joke-titles; they’re exactly how the music feels. Sweet and slightly unreal and completely sincere.
What matters is that it works. When you’re tired of being yelled at by the industry, when you need something that assumes you want to feel something, this is what you reach for. It’s not a cure for anything, but it reminds you that the margins still have better stuff than the center.
Bruce Lee and Freddie Mercury as roommates in a Tokyo apartment. Michael Jackson visits. Doraemon shows up. There’s a magical drawer full of impossible things. A Transformer joins in. This is what Suekichiiii, a Twitter user, has been building one toy photograph at a time.
The figures are cheap action figures, but the care in them is visible — the lighting, the composition, the way each face catches a moment. These aren’t toys anymore, they’re characters with their own lives. I find myself wanting to believe in the drawer. In Bruce Lee and Freddie Mercury as friends. In the idea that incompatible things can share a small space together.
There’s something pure about the whole thing. Not childhood nostalgia — something else. This person saw some action figures and asked: what if these two were friends? So they built it. Photographed it hundreds of times. Developed an actual following from pure imagination made visible, shared for no reason other than that it needed to exist.
That kind of creative act without agenda or brand or performative edge — I keep coming back to it. It matters. Not as content, not as culture, just as proof that someone took the time to make their own strange vision and invite the rest of us to look at it.
I was at a Die Ärzte show years back, deep in the crowd and sufficiently drunk, when a girl up on someone’s shoulders just decided to pull her shirt off. No hesitation. She had that look — permission she didn’t know she was looking for, handed to her by three chords and the roar of a thousand people. I don’t think Farin saw. I doubt anyone who mattered saw. But everyone around her saw, and that seemed to be the whole point.
Concerts give you that. Some weird license to stop being careful. I’ve watched people climb barriers, run into pits, just abandon the part of themselves that worries about Monday morning. For this girl it was taking her shirt off. The crowd held her for those three minutes and then moved on to the next song.
I found out there’s a subreddit called Festival Sluts. An entire forum dedicated to girls doing exactly this — getting topless at shows, capturing the moment, celebrating it. Which is oddly fitting. The thing is real enough and widespread enough that it has a gallery and an audience and people who keep coming back.
I don’t know what that moment meant for her. Nothing, maybe. Everything, maybe. The music was loud enough that she wasn’t really a person anymore — just movement, exposure, the visible edge of something unplanned. For those three minutes the crowd couldn’t think about anything but the beat.
I remember her face more than anything else. That’s what stuck around.
Somewhere in the last few years Twitch became the actual cultural center for gaming, which is kind of wild considering it’s just people streaming themselves playing video games. YouTube had every advantage — money, infrastructure, cultural momentum — but they made it about thumbnails and ten-minute videos and the algorithm. Twitch just let people stream for eight hours straight and somehow that was more interesting. There’s probably a lesson in there about authenticity or immediacy or whatever, but mostly it’s just that people want to watch people.
The clips that actually go viral are all over the map. You get the mechanical highlights, moments of pure skill that make you sit back and think “how is that even possible.” You get the disasters, games collapsing in real time, someone throwing their keyboard across the room. You get the weird moments, the unscripted things that happen when a person is just talking and playing for hours. Sometimes it’s someone being genuinely funny, sometimes it’s someone being accidental funny. And sometimes, yeah, it’s someone attractive and that’s the clip.
That last one is probably worth saying plainly. Physical attractiveness is part of what makes some streams blow up, especially some of the biggest clips. Streamers with large breasts, or conventionally attractive people, sometimes those are the clips that get everywhere. It’s crude to point out but it’s also honest in a way most media won’t be. On Twitch there’s less pretending. If someone’s there partly because they look good, that’s just part of the equation. It’s not hidden or dressed up as something else.
The streamers who actually last aren’t usually just riding one thing. They’ve got some combination of skill, humor, charisma, appearance, weirdness — whatever works. You watch the clip but you stay for the person. It’s the same reason you’d want to hang out with someone in real life. They’re entertaining or interesting or easy to be around or all three.
What’s strange about Twitch is how unpolished it all is. No second takes, no editing, no curation. If someone’s bad at a game you see it happen in real time. If someone’s having a terrible day it comes through. If someone’s stoned or drunk or furious, you see it unfiltered. There’s something about that realness that the rest of the internet can’t quite capture. Every other platform is trying to manufacture authenticity. Twitch just streams whatever’s happening and lets it be what it is.
Most of what I’ve watched on Twitch is just someone playing a game and talking, and then something happens that makes that clip go everywhere. Could be anything — the way they reacted, how unlikely the moment was, how much time you’ve spent getting to know them. There’s no formula that explains all of it, which is probably the whole point. It’s just people being interesting, and apparently that’s enough.
The song’s called “I Don’t Give A Fuck,” and it’s either the most honest thing Dua Lipa could say right now or the most calculated provocation you can imagine. Probably both.
She’s from London, started singing professionally at fourteen. That kind of early commitment doesn’t happen by accident. You don’t just stumble into a career like that.
The hits came in order: “New Rules,” “Hotter than Hell,” “Homesick,” “Blow Your Mind (Mwah).” Each one sticky, each one engineered for radio and charts. Each one another step up. By now she’s everywhere—in stores, on playlists, in your head without you deciding to put her there.
She went from a girl with ambition to a brand, a logo, a face you see without looking for it. It happened fast, and it happened with a kind of efficiency that’s actually impressive. No false modesty, no pretending the music is about anything other than what it is. She knows what she wants and doesn’t waste time getting there.
The new song is exactly what you’d expect: catchy, radio-ready, playing the edge without taking any actual risk. It’s a pop song. Good. That’s all it needs to be.
In a few months you won’t be able to avoid it. You’ll hear it somewhere without choosing to. And she’ll be on to the next thing, three steps ahead already. That’s how she operates.
Kasotsuka Shojo hit Tokyo at exactly the right moment—five girls dressed as Bitcoin, Ethereum, Ripple, whatever else was pumping that quarter. Two Japanese trends colliding: idol groups and crypto hype.
Japanese idol culture is a formula that never changes. Take some young women, dress them beautifully, have them sing to obsessed fanbases, watch the machine print money. AKB48, Morning Musume, Babymetal—same formula, different costumes. And the costumes always match what the moment is obsessed with.
But Kasotsuka Shojo actually felt honest about it. You could buy their concert tickets using blockchain. Their front member, 18-year-old Rara Naruse, was out there talking about how cryptocurrency wasn’t just speculation—it was the future. Whether she believed it or not didn’t matter much. She was living in it.
Idol groups are mirrors. Whatever’s got the internet’s attention that year, whatever’s worth obsessing over or grifting, there’s a girl band in a costume embodying it. Kasotsuka Shojo was just what 2018 looked like when you threw digital currency into the machine. The fact that it felt normal says everything about that year.
Every few years without fail, I go back to three shows: Friends, Scrubs, The O.C., maybe Skins. These grabbed me somehow and never let go. Probably shaped me more than any person I’ve known or band I’ve obsessed over. They were there from early childhood through every bad love affair, every stupid phase. They’ll be here at the end.
The flu knocked me flat last week—the real kind, the kind that empties you out. While I was on the couch, half-conscious, I scrolled through streaming apps clicking past new content. New seasons of Dirk Gently, new Disjointed, new Family Guy scattered across different services. All these options carefully designed to feel essential, and none of it meant anything to me. Nothing landed.
So I started Friends again. German dub this time, just for a different texture. From the beginning all the way through, the whole thing, until I’m thoroughly wrecked by the end. Three episodes in and I’m already settled into Monica’s apartment like I never left.
There’s something about these three that the new stuff can’t touch. It’s not nostalgia, exactly. It’s more like showing up to a place where nothing changes, where the people tell the same jokes, make the same mistakes, end up in the same coffee shop. You know what’s coming. You know every beat. And that’s the point—that knowledge doesn’t touch what you feel.
When Giuliana Farfalla showed up on Germany’s Next Topmodel, she had something — the kind of presence that stays with you. The sort of certainty that reads through a TV screen. I thought she was going somewhere. Then she was on the jungle show, the big German one everyone watches. Then Playboy.
The German edition put her on the cover in February 2018 — the first trans woman they’d ever run on it. The editor made the expected speech about Hugh Hefner and freedom and self-determination, about how it’s strange that in 2018 this still counts as boundary-pushing. Which it does. Which is weird. But he had a point.
There’s something about a magazine cover, even as magazines are dying. It’s a statement. It says: this person belongs here. This body, this existence — we’re saying it’s normal. You look at her the way you’d look at anyone else.
What I noticed wasn’t the politics of it. It was her comfort. No defensive energy, no posturing, no sense of needing to prove anything. Just someone existing on a magazine cover the way anyone else would. That simplicity is what made it matter.
I’ve watched enough Tokyo documentaries to recognize when one actually gets it. Stephan Düfel’s documentary doesn’t try to explain the city; it just moves through it and watches how people live there. That’s the only approach that works.
The thing about Tokyo is that everyone’s grappling with the same contradiction from different angles: millions of people moving in this beautiful, precise choreography, and underneath it this hunger for contact, for recognition, for actually being known by someone. Düfel finds it everywhere. Families in these anonymous apartment towers reaching out to neighbors, trying to break through the isolation. Office workers at bars at night, not really socializing, just drinking their way through the weight of the day, the thing that never actually lifts. And then the small bar regulars—people who found a room the size of a closet and made it theirs. Colorful people. People who figured out that surviving Tokyo means finding a place small enough to know, a group small enough to be known in.
What keeps me watching these documentaries is that they don’t pretend the loneliness is a problem needing a solution. Tokyo works exactly because of this contradiction. The isolation and the belonging exist at the same time. I keep coming back because I need to understand why that matters to me.
Fashion keeps trying to be art. Art keeps trying to hide inside normal things. Usually it doesn’t matter — it looks cool, accomplishes nothing, whatever. But Adidas Berlin figured out how to skip the middle part and just make something that works.
They made a sneaker, the EQT Support 93/17 Berlin, probably around 200 euros. Nothing remarkable about the shoe itself. But they stitched an actual annual U-Bahn ticket inside it. A full year of free transit in Berlin.
You buy the shoe, you get your commute covered. No more thinking about passes, no more calculating whether a trip’s worth the fare. Just wear it and ride. It’s the kind of idea that feels obvious once you hear it — the sort of thing that shouldn’t have taken anyone this long to do, but somehow did.
I’ve never actually seen one of these. I’m not sure how well it works in practice, or if people buy them for the ticket instead of the shoe, or if it’s just a good story. But I like it anyway. For once, something designed to be fashionable actually solved something.
I could talk about Cassie’s musical accomplishments, her creative vision, the genius of how she navigates the music industry. That would be the smart thing, the right thing, the non-sexist thing. And it would also be completely honest in some abstract sense.
But honestly? I just want to cover her in maple syrup and spend a few weeks licking her clean. Everywhere. I mean everywhere. I’d probably do that until we ended up married in Hawaii or a tactical team had to pull me out of a basement while I’m screaming “Wait for me, Cassie!” at full volume.
Since that’s sexist and gross and almost certainly illegal, I’m resigned to just watching her “Don’t Play It Safe” music video over and over, which is what I’m going to do anyway. Though maybe I should keep a bottle of maple syrup around. Just in case the rules change.
I’d already downloaded “Your Name” months before it hit German theaters—you know, from one of those sites that shouldn’t exist but do—so I knew exactly what the ending would do to me. Didn’t matter. I watched it again in the cinema and spent the last twenty minutes leaking from every hole in my face.
Makoto Shinkai’s film starts simple: a body-swap between two high school kids. Mitsuha’s stuck in a small rural town, Taki’s in Tokyo. They keep waking up in each other’s lives, communicating through messages and notes. It’s small and intimate and weirdly funny in these tightly wound moments—the kind of character work Shinkai is genuinely best at. Then Mitsuha stops answering. Vanishes. The film’s tone shifts entirely.
I won’t spoil what the disappearance means, because the film itself barely wants to tell you, but Taki becomes obsessed with finding her. The mystery expands into something about time and distance and cosmic connection, the kind of premise that would feel like pure fantasy in anyone else’s hands. With Shinkai it just feels inevitable.
The animation is specific and gorgeous—the way he shoots Tokyo’s evening streets, rain on different surfaces, the feeling of being trapped in a place you’ve lived your whole life. Mitsuha and Taki aren’t trying to charm you; they just exist on screen with actual depth. You believe them immediately. The film broke every record in Japan because it’s genuinely excellent, not because anime fans are easy marks.
Is it perfect? No. The logic crumbles if you look at it sideways. But the emotional architecture is flawless. It’s a love story that doesn’t need sex to devastate you. A tragedy that wears comedy as camouflage. The kind of film that makes you think about all the people you almost met, or will meet, or already missed. The kind that leaves you sitting in a dark theater feeling absolutely wrecked, and you’re not embarrassed about it because everyone around you is just as destroyed.
That’s the thing about “Your Name”—it’s not what people think anime is. It’s not trying to be clever or sell you something. It’s trying to break your heart, and it does that with remarkable precision.
There’s an unfiltered honesty to Pornhub’s annual statistics. What a country gets off to is basically the truth about what that country wants, stripped of all the usual lies and pretense.
The Japanese are into hentai and schoolgirls. Brazilians want video games. Swedes obsess over step-sisters. Canadians love lesbians. Each country’s basically a personality type reduced to search terms and fantasies.
Germany’s into stepmothers, teenagers, anal. Lucy Cat, Katja Krasavice, Aische Pervers. Those are the names. Top categories: anal, big tits, mature women, mothers, lesbians. And if the woman gets pissed on or covered in cum, that’s the real turn-on. That’s what hits. It’s the kind of honesty that makes you uncomfortable when it’s your own country staring back at you.
The weird part: that year’s top searches included “Porn for women,” “Rick & Morty,” and “Fidget Spinner.” Someone was genuinely searching for fidget spinner porn. The internet makes no sense.
Most countries want the same stuff. Porn’s porn, desire’s universal. But reading the data about Germany, there’s something deflating. The land of philosophers and poets, and what you’re actually seeing is a preference for degradation, humiliation, family taboos. No mystery to it. Pornhub just removes the pretense.
Pixel art does something 3D never will. Those small, colored blocks stacked into an image have a warmth that 3D can’t touch — reminds me of endless afternoons disappearing into one epic after another on the Super Nintendo. 3D is cold. Sterile. Pixels are honest. They know they’re a construction and they don’t apologize for it.
Gustavo Viselner, a designer and illustrator from Buenos Aires, clearly feels the same way. He’s been converting TV shows into 16-bit pixel art. Star Trek, Friends, Stranger Things, Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones, Family Matters — he takes these beloved shows and renders them in that loving pixel language. Sweet, retro, like they should’ve shipped on a cartridge.
The thing about it is the translation. Pixel art doesn’t try to be photo-real. It tells you immediately that it’s a remake, a construction, something made with love. When you see a familiar character or scene in pixels, you’re not measuring it against the original — you’re seeing how much that show means to someone, how they chose to describe it in a language that feels warm instead of slick.
I could spend hours scrolling through his work. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching TV shows get distilled into their pixel essence, like someone taking apart what they love and rebuilding it with their own hands.
Brazil’s game market is completely backwards. Import tariffs push console prices so high that most people will never own current hardware, which means you get these entire generation of kids still grinding through ancient Sega cartridges while the rest of the world moved on decades ago. There’s something almost beautiful about it—not intentionally, but by accident of economics. Necessity creating its own weird culture.
The black market there is insane. Walk into one of those cramped tech shops scattered through São Paulo and you’ll find cracked games, bootlegs, fan translations, ROM collections burned onto whatever media they could get their hands on. Piracy isn’t a moral question in that context; it’s just how people access the medium at all. The shops themselves are chaotic and overstuffed, the kind of place where you stumble onto games that barely exist anywhere else, regional variants and garage-made compilations that would never survive legitimate distribution.
I learned about this from Drew Scanlon, the YouTuber, who went down there to document the whole thing. He was wandering these grey market shops, talking to people, seeing what a gaming culture looks like when pricing locks out the official supply chain entirely. It’s one of those pockets of the world where capitalism accidentally creates something interesting—not by design, but by failing so obviously that people had to build around it.
There’s something I keep coming back to: those kids on old Sega games aren’t playing them because they’re nostalgic or retro-cool. They’re playing them because that’s what’s available and affordable. But that constraints-driven ecosystem produces its own passion. You get people who know every frame of a twenty-year-old game because it’s the one they have. That kind of deep familiarity with limited options breeds a different relationship to the work than someone with infinite access. I’m not sure which is better. Probably neither. But it’s real in a way that feels increasingly rare.
I basically live on Bandcamp these days. Spotify never really worked for me, so I dig through the strange stuff myself — finding things that would’ve otherwise been lost in all that noise.
Future Funk is what I’m into right now. It grew out of Vaporwave but it’s become its own thing — intricate reconstructions of 80s Japanese pop mixed with hip-hop beats and production that creates a world that probably never existed, but feels completely real when you’re listening.
MACROSS 82-99 is one of the main artists doing this. Based in Japan, making pieces that feel like they’re coming from somewhere that almost was. The new album is Sailorwave II, with contributions from collaborators like Night Tempo and tracks like Punipunidenki and Desired — everything on it pulls you somewhere else.
There was a long period when denim was genuinely uncool. The sleazy guys in Mantas wore it. Worn-out guys with herpes halfway down their thighs. Your supposedly cool physics teacher with the mustache. Those were denim’s associations. Then something shifted and now it’s fashionable again.
What’s funny is how complete the turnaround is. A fabric doesn’t change. The context around it does. One year denim is dead weight carrying decades of bad associations. The next year it’s back in new cuts, new finishes, high-waisted silhouettes in stone blue. Jean jackets returned as spring essentials.
I don’t know why I care about this. It’s fabric. But there’s something almost generous about how completely something can be forgotten and then rehabilitated. The guys in their Mantas are long gone. The denim stayed and got another life with people who didn’t know it was ever uncool.
Japan gets the good versions of everything. I figured that out years ago — watching how their convenience stores actually seem designed for human beings, how their video games have personality, how limited edition products appear for a moment and vanish. Peach Coke showed up there in January for a few weeks, then it was gone. Everyone else got vanilla and cherry, like we’re stuck in permanent safe mode.
There’s probably marketing strategy behind the scarcity. Release something good in Japan, watch everyone else immediately want it, watch them hunt it down online and pay ridiculous prices. It’s just a soda. Shouldn’t matter. But there’s something about the pattern — the sense that Japan gets first pick at everything and we’re all just waiting to see if we’re allowed to have it too.
I’ve thought about ordering it online. The price is absurd. I probably won’t. But the fact that I even considered it says something about how these limited releases work — they manufacture desire out of something that shouldn’t matter at all, and it works.
Spotify destroyed something in my life that wasn’t broken. For years I’d built a practice around owning my media—torrenting indie playlists, downloading anime series through RSS feeds, collecting MP3s on external drives. This was inefficient, and probably illegal, and I didn’t care. I had access to everything. More than that: I had the freedom to keep it, to revisit it, to build something that was actually mine. That’s the kind of person I was.
I wasn’t cool about any of this. I wasn’t cool in school, I wasn’t cool at work, and I’m not cool now. While everyone else listened to hip hop and wore Nike, I was listening to the Chrono Trigger soundtrack and wearing the same Adidas Superstars for fifteen years. But I was ahead of things technologically. When people were burning CDs, I was downloading MP3s. When they were using iPods, I was already there. It was a small consolation, but it mattered to me.
When Spotify showed up, I ignored it completely. Why would I pay to rent music I’d never own? It seemed like the kind of thing everyone would eventually use, but like most trends I didn’t understand, I’d wait for it to pass. My friends in Berlin started getting that dark green logo on their phones. They could stream Kanye West without buying anything. I watched it like I watched every other thing everyone else was doing: from the outside, unimpressed, already there before they arrived.
The resistance lasted until Apple announced Apple Music. Once one of the companies I actually respected started pushing streaming, it stopped feeling like a choice I could refuse. The alternative to owning media had become mainstream. My old way wasn’t just outdated—it was becoming unavailable. Suddenly I was the holdout. Not in a cool way. I was becoming the person who doesn’t have email, who won’t use a smartphone, who insists on keeping his own files like some kind of digital hoarder. That scared me.
So I gave in. I signed up for Spotify, Netflix, Dropbox. I was going to finally be a normal person in a streaming world. “How hard can this be?” I thought. Everyone else manages it fine.
It took a week to fall apart.
Spotify’s algorithm is just guessing at who I am. It knows I listen to weird indie stuff, so it serves me Post Malone and lo-fi hip hop beats for studying. Artists I loved were missing entirely. Songs vanished from playlists I’d made without explanation. Entire albums had only three tracks available. I’d find something interesting, listen to it twice, then go back to watching some obscure radio station on YouTube instead. The service works great if you want to discover what everyone else is discovering. If your taste is narrower or stranger, you’re just scrolling through their menu looking for the one thing that won’t disappoint you.
Netflix was worse. I’d spend thirty minutes clicking through recommendations unable to make a decision, caught between rewatching something I’d already seen and trying something new. The anime I actually wanted to watch wasn’t there. I knew it existed somewhere on the internet—I knew exactly where to get it—but I’d made a commitment. I was supposed to be a streaming person now. The whole experience felt like punching your own face.
What bothers me isn’t really the money. The ten euros a month is fine. It’s that these services are designed for a specific kind of taste: mainstream enough to license, popular enough to justify the bandwidth, safe enough to localize without changing much. If you want something outside that narrow range, you either wait for it to show up (hoping someone pays to make it available in your region) or you feel like you’re doing something wrong by wanting it.
I keep thinking about what streaming actually is. It’s not liberation from ownership. It’s the transfer of choice from you to a company. You’re renting not just media but the algorithm that decides what’s worth showing you. That’s the part that bothers me. Not that I can’t own music anymore, but that the alternative is accepting someone else’s curated version of culture. Some company’s version of what’s good, what’s worth discovering, what you should want to watch next.
Maybe this is fine for most people. If your taste is Post Malone and your taste in TV is whatever Netflix suggests, the system works beautifully. You get unlimited choice within a controlled set. Everyone’s happy. But I spent twenty years building a practice around finding the weird stuff, the thing nobody’s promoting, the artist who’s so specific you’d never find them in an algorithm. Streaming didn’t make that impossible. It just made it feel like something you’re not supposed to do.
Some part of me knows I’ll have to adapt eventually. Streaming isn’t going anywhere, and eventually the old infrastructure—torrents, file hoarding, RSS feeds—will genuinely become unavailable. But I’m not there yet. I’m still the kind of person who owns a hard drive full of anime episodes, who buys music on Bandcamp, who occasionally breaks his own rules because what he wants isn’t available through legal channels. It makes me feel a little less relevant. A lot less normal. But I’m oddly okay with that, as long as I can choose when it happens.
Every 80s bedroom photograph shows you something whole. Star Wars posters on the wall, an Atari or Commodore gathering dust on the desk, rotary phones, Duran Duran and Madonna and The Who taped up on the walls—whatever mattered that week. The specificity of it—which bands, which console, which exact model—tells you something complete about a moment in someone’s life. There was a kind of faith in those rooms, a belief in the permanence of these things.
The 90s came along and spoiled it. Eurodance and Tamagotchis and bizarre techno remixes of things that should’ve stayed normal. It felt like the wrong decade entirely, like someone took a wrong turn in 1989 and dragged everyone along.
But those 80s rooms—looking at the photographs now, there’s something genuinely sad about them. The generation that decorated them is aging out. They’re the ones getting old, getting frail. The kids who taped up those posters are becoming people nobody really looks at anymore. Everything in those rooms is dust except the photographs, and even those won’t last forever.
You know that feeling. Someone gives you something electronic and it arrives without batteries. Of course it does. And of course it’s Christmas, or Christmas Eve, or some other day when every store is closed and you can’t go buy them yourself. The gift sits there. Waiting. Useless.
I had this happen with my first Game Boy. Pokémon, original edition. I opened it on Christmas morning and there were no batteries. We looked everywhere—asked neighbors, checked with family, found nothing. For almost a week I had this thing I wanted more than anything, and I couldn’t turn it on. I could hold it. Look at it. Read the manual over and over. But I couldn’t play.
That’s the particular cruelty of Christmas timing. It’s not just that you can’t use something. It’s that you can’t use it right now, on this specific day, when you’ve been anticipating it. The gift feels incomplete, and you spend the holiday wanting it instead of enjoying it.
I wonder if this still happens. Maybe batteries are less of a problem now, or parents think ahead better. Maybe everything comes charged. But I’d guess there are still kids somewhere sitting in front of something they can’t use, waiting for stores to open, learning this specific lesson about wanting something and not being able to have it yet.
It’s a small frustration. But it’s the kind that sticks with you.
YouTube’s 2017 Rewind came out and it’s exactly three things: Despacito, Poppy, fidget spinners, and a bunch of people laughing while they throw paint. That’s the entire year, according to YouTube. No depth, no German creators, just an endless row of interchangeable smiling faces.
What kills me is what’s not in there. Whole channels getting destroyed—demonetized, censored, deleted. Content aimed at kids that’s genuinely disturbing; those animation hybrids where characters are doing things children should never see, millions of views. Huge sections of the platform full of low-quality garbage designed for children whose attention spans are already cooked. But that doesn’t fit the Rewind narrative.
So you get this sanitized version instead: YouTube is paint and viral songs and everyone’s perpetually happy. And if you watch it long enough, you stop noticing what’s actually there. The demonetization, the algorithmic rot, the systematic decay of quality—those things exist somewhere off-frame. You’re not supposed to look.
I remember reading the end of the original post—this dark joke about listening to Despacito until your brain falls out and you just stop caring. I thought it was exaggeration, hyperbole about how bad things had gotten. But maybe it wasn’t a joke at all. Maybe that’s actually the deal: feed the algorithm, keep the creators smiling, and everyone keeps quiet until Despacito is all that’s left in your head.
I found out what Rocco und seine Brüder pulled off in Berlin and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. They laid ten fake Wehrmacht stumbling stones—Stolpersteine—into the pavement right in front of the AfD headquarters. Called the whole thing “Identität braucht Erinnerung.” Identity requires memory. The phrase hits different when it’s planted in concrete instead of printed somewhere you can look past.
Gunter Demnig’s real Stolpersteine are these small brass plaques set flush with the sidewalk outside the last chosen homes of Nazi victims. They’re meant to interrupt you. To stop you mid-walk. To mark a place where a person existed before they were deported, murdered, driven to suicide. By 2017 there were around 61,000 of them across Germany and twenty-one other European countries. They’re a language, a way of speaking truth into the pavement.
What the collective did was repurpose that language and point it at power. They left the stones outside the office of people who have spent years soft-pedaling Nazi crimes, miniaturizing genocide into manageable talking points, folding the Holocaust into history like it’s something we’ve already learned from and moved past. No artist signature. No manifesto. Just the stones, saying their thing.
I love the simplicity of it. The AfD builds its power on distance and rhetorical abstraction. They work in ideas, in framing, in the careful selection of what you’re allowed to remember. The action works the other way—it uses presence and weight, the brute fact of an object sitting there that nobody can talk around or contextualize away. You can’t move past a stone in your doorway.
I don’t know how long they lasted or if anyone got caught. Probably cleared out by morning. But for a while there was something true on that pavement, something that couldn’t be unsaid or walked around, and the people in that building had to look at it. That’s not nothing. It’s the kind of move I file away—not as a template, nothing so calculated, but as a reminder that honesty can take the form of concrete and brass.
I found that comment buried in a City Pop video thread—someone wrote “This is like living someone else’s childhood”—and it’s the only way I can describe what this music actually does.
City Pop is what 1980s Tokyo kids listened to. Industrial boom era. Money everywhere. These were the children of Japan’s economic miracle, listening to smooth funky tracks about love and good weather and why the world felt endless. It’s not really their childhood you’re living—it’s the glossy version of it, the one they probably didn’t even recognize as their own life at the time.
I got to this through the usual winding path: vaporwave, Future Funk, artists like MACROSS 82-99 and Night Tempo who started sampling old Japanese pop and wrapping it in lo-fi beats and scratchy hip-hop samples. But Van Paugam took it somewhere else. He pairs the City Pop classics—Yumi Matsutoya, Tomoko Aran, Tatsuro Yamashita—with anime GIFs. Sailor Moon. Cowboy Bebop. Dragon Ball. None of it should work together.
What he’s created is this perfect closed loop: 1980s Tokyo nostalgia filtered through 1990s anime aesthetics, endlessly repeating on YouTube. You can fall into these videos and lose hours to them. They’re designed to loop, to never quite end, to keep you suspended in someone else’s memory.
There’s something almost unbearable about it. Not unpleasant. Just the sensation of pressing your face against a window at night, watching a life that isn’t yours, knowing the window will never close.
Modern German rap is relentless — every track is fighting to be the crudest. The lyrics are about fucking women, humiliating them, degrading anyone who isn’t hard enough. After an hour you feel marinated in it. Compared to what was on the radio thirty years ago, it’s a total collapse.
Except the old guys were exactly the same. Heintje had “Dicke Eier, Weihnachtsfeier” — completely unhinged. Michael Holm came through with “Dein Spitt ist zu weak,” pure venom. Nicole had “Total geflasht von deinem Swag,” no filter. These weren’t innocent singalongs. These were rough records by people who didn’t care what anyone thought.
I don’t know why people pretend the past was cleaner. There’s this idea that music used to be innocent, that things have somehow gotten worse. But they haven’t. The impulse has always been there — make something aggressive, make it crude, make it dangerous. Make it something your parents would hate. The form changes, the delivery changes, but the actual drive to say something harsh and vile and offensive and just leave it there without apology — that’s constant. It’s not modern. It’s not a rap problem. It’s just how people are.
You open your closet and everything in there either doesn’t fit or smells like you gave up on grooming last summer. Christmas is a week away and somehow you need to look presentable—not like you spent an hour getting ready, but definitely like you remember what a comb is. It’s the annual challenge: finding something that reads as intentional without looking desperate.
The standard solution is simple. Find a decent sweater, maybe a new shirt with some character, something that clearly acknowledges the day matters. And it sometimes works. You show up, you feel put-together for a few hours, people see that you’re still functioning. Then the new year starts and it disappears into the back of your closet with everything else you bought full of hope.
The weird part is knowing none of it matters—nobody’s keeping score—and still caring anyway. You dress up because the occasion deserves it, or because maybe looking intentional on the outside makes you feel intentional for an afternoon, or just because you know the ritual. Probably all three.
Clairo uploaded videos of herself singing from her bedroom in Boston. Lo-fi, intimate recordings that sound like she’s singing just for you. The songs are small and pop-shaped, the kind of thing that could vanish under everything else online. But they didn’t. Her audience found them because something about the approach read as honest.
What got people—mostly women—was that she didn’t seem to be performing a version of herself. There’s no carefully constructed image, no brand strategy. Just someone with a guitar and something to say. That’s rare enough online that it becomes its own magnetism.
“Pretty Girl” was the song that broke through wider. She’d written it after a relationship ended. The story was simple: she’d been pretending to be someone else in the relationship, reshaping herself to match what her ex wanted, and eventually she couldn’t keep doing it. She couldn’t stay small and accommodating for him. So they split. But the song she wrote about it resonated with people who’d done the same thing—who’d bent themselves into shapes that didn’t fit.
The thing that strikes me is how uncalculated the whole thing feels. No label found her first. No algorithm decided she was marketable and pushed her. She just made something true and put it out there. People found her. That doesn’t happen much anymore, or maybe it never did.
Since childhood I’ve fantasized about the Guinness Book of Records—some pointless achievement I’d actually want my name attached to. Never settled on what it would be.
Duracell managed it with a remote-controlled Lightning McQueen from the Cars films. They ran the thing on a Hungarian racetrack for 24 hours straight powered by six batteries. 186.24 kilometers. 3,200 laps. Beat the previous record by eighty kilometers.
There’s something almost absurdly earnest about the whole thing—a battery company proving their product’s endurance by running a Disney toy car in circles until it breaks a Guinness World Record. They even ran it against a competitor’s car at the same time. The Duracell car lapped it 156 times. Every nine minutes or so, for a full day, just kept coming around.
The numbers feel weirdly mythical in their plainness: four sets of batteries for the whole distance. Not some engineering marvel, just four packs of standard AAs that did what the label promised. The car’s tires wore down, the motor got destroyed, and the batteries kept feeding power anyway.
The part that stays with me is simpler: someone somewhere knew this toy car was going to drive 186 kilometers on four sets of batteries, and they watched it happen anyway. That’s the record I’d actually want in a book.
There’s something particular about design competitions for consumer products. A corporation picks a theme—”Mystic Ice World”—and two hundred designers throw ideas at it, knowing maybe one will stick and they’ll get acknowledged in some limited way. Gorbachev vodka ran one of these a few years back. The winner was Gabriela Berdecio from Barcelona, and her design was called “Polarstern”: a starry night sky on midnight blue, cold and clear and not trying too hard.
But what gets to me is all the design that doesn’t make it. Someone spent time on a dozen directions for this bottle, sketches and half-thoughts, and now they don’t exist anywhere except maybe in a notebook. The thinking that happens and just ends. That’s the actual work of design most of the time—the invisible part.
The winning bottle is genuinely good though. You see it and you know exactly what it is.
I watched Kwaidan years ago and it stuck in a way nothing else did. There was no softness to it, no apology. Just strangeness and cruelty held in perfect focus. That’s the thing about Japanese horror—it doesn’t feel embarrassed to be horror. It treats the genre seriously, which sounds obvious until you realize how much American cinema spends time watering things down, tucking everything into love stories.
Films like Hausu and Suicide Club commit to weirdness without flinching. Schoolgirls bleeding out, cities transformed into nightmare spaces, rooms where something incomprehensible unfolds. Even the old monster movies—Godzilla, Gamera, Mothra—had that same willingness to make destruction feel genuinely unsettling instead of spectacle.
There’s something about boldness that spreads. Once someone makes something as strange and dark as Kwaidan and holds nothing back, the next filmmaker feels freed to go further. That’s how you build films that don’t compromise, that refuse to soften or apologize. Just pure commitment to weirdness as a real creative mode.
I found a video essay—One Hundred Years of Cinema—that traces Japanese horror back through its history and development. Watching it, you can see the pattern, how each film gave the next one permission to push further. It’s worth watching if you want to understand where all these strange, enduring films came from.
You can make gray feel honest enough, call it the real world unadorned and serious. But spend too long there and honest starts feeling like defeat.
Petra Eriksson is an illustrator from Barcelona who works for magazines like Refinery29, The Sunday Telegraph, and Lucky Peach. Her weapon of choice is color—not subtly, not in a balanced palette, just a lot of it. She paints portraits of public figures and ordinary subjects in explosions of magenta and lime and cobalt, color combinations that shouldn’t work but do. Michelle Obama rendered in neon, Martin Luther King Jr. in electric hues, musicians and food and random people glowing like they were lit from inside.
The colors don’t feel real, but they feel true. There’s something about seeing a face rendered this way that makes you actually look at it instead of sliding past the way you’ve learned to do. You can’t ignore color like that.
I work in design, so I notice the technical choices—how she uses flat shapes, how she builds compositions that hold together even when the palette has no business working. It’s confident work. But what gets to me is something less technical. Her work feels like an argument against the gray. Not an argument for cheerfulness or optimism or any of that easy stuff. An argument that how we represent things matters. That color isn’t decoration—it’s how you make people pay attention.
There’s something almost stubborn about it. A refusal to accept that the world has to look the way we’ve been trained to see it. Or maybe she’s just better at seeing than the rest of us.
There’s this video that went viral last August of a girl walking up to an Uber driver and stealing his tip money. Just takes it from the jar while he’s sitting right there. Which would be strange enough on its own, but everything about it raises questions I can’t stop thinking about.
Why is she only wearing a bra? Why does she stare right at the camera while she’s doing it? Why don’t her friends stop her—they’re literally standing right there? Why do all three of them run away like they’re being chased instead of just leaving? What was the driver thinking when he figured out what happened? And what makes you steal just a few dollars? What’s that calculation? What makes this a good idea?
The whole thing supposedly happened in New York according to some article I read. But knowing where it happened doesn’t explain anything. I keep going back to it, waiting for something to click. Some detail I missed that would make it all make sense—the bra, the eye contact, every weird part of it. There has to be some explanation.
But I don’t think there is one. I just keep watching anyway.
Christmas merchandise starts showing up before summer ends, which is wild until you remember most people have no idea what to wear for the holidays. You see them at parties in whatever they wore last week, or they tried something and it feels wrong, or they just wore black and didn’t think about it. There’s a middle ground where it works—something that reads as intentional without looking like you’re dressing up—but not everyone lands there.
The seasonal collections understand this. Silver dresses, gold shirts, blacks that have some shape to them. Lookbooks photograph all of it beautifully, and for a second you think you’ll find your version in there. Then you shop, and nothing translates, or it does but you don’t want to spend that much, or you try it on and it’s just not you. You end up in black jeans and a decent shirt like you were going to anyway.
I’ve never figured out the middle ground myself. I either overthink it and feel stiff, or I don’t think about it and just wear something comfortable. Both work fine. Most people at Christmas are thinking about the food or trying not to argue with someone’s uncle anyway. No one’s watching what you wore.
The tonkatsu chef at a counter in Shinjuku had been dropping pork cutlets into hot oil so long that he did it without looking. His hands moved like they were playing an instrument—the timing exact, the rhythm unbroken. Oil snapped, the batter crackled, and he slid each piece across to you while it was still hot enough to burn your mouth.
I went to Japan for the temples and gardens, the proper tourist things. I arrived hungry and never quite recovered. Three weeks eating through Tokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto. The temples waited.
Ramen shops where the broth had been simmering for years—you could taste the time in it, that depth that comes from not adding anything but bones and patience. I’d burn my mouth on the first sip and do it again with the second bowl. Tempura from vendors working at night, each piece battered and fried one at a time, sliding across the counter with the batter still crackling. Yakitori from carts on dark streets, meat charred just past the point where it falls off the stick. I didn’t read reviews or plan routes. I’d see a line of people eating and join the line. If there were pictures on the wall, I’d point at a picture. The restaurants didn’t need to explain themselves.
There was something clean about eating like that. Fast and cheap and exactly what it claimed to be. No ego, no composition, no documentation—just the thing that tasted good right now, while it was hot. The chefs didn’t make conversation. You paid, you ate, you left. The meal was already fading as you swallowed it.
That’s what stuck with me. Not the taste, though the ramen was the best I’ve had. It was the simplicity: an appetite, a bowl, something hot in front of you. No frame around it.
I keep meeting women in clubs, cafés, at parties—always the same type, always the same result. We click immediately and spend the next few days together, sleeping in her apartment, ordering pizza, talking until the sun comes up. Then I disappear.
What draws me in is being close to someone when they’re entirely unselfconscious. I want to be in their space, understand how they live, how they move around alone. But I don’t want anything beyond those days. The moment it could become real, I’m already thinking about the exit.
Pascale Hunt, a model from Hong Kong photographed by David Collier in Marrickville, has that quality that pulls at something in me. Collier caught her in unguarded moments—sleeping, showering, smoking. That’s what I’m always looking for when I meet someone: that openness, that absence of performance. A few days of it, then I’m gone.
Now I’m thinking about finding another one. Someone interesting, someone I can be close to without pretense, at some club or café where the connection is immediate. It always starts the same way, and I always know exactly when I’ll leave.
Maggie Cole, an artist from Omaha, drew all of Stranger Things — every character you know, every new face. The full cast in her style, committed to paper, and it’s the kind of work that makes you linger when you see it.
I’m watching the show slowly, one episode per week, not rushing it. Stranger Things needs room to breathe — the dread builds better that way. And season two feels real to me, not borrowed nostalgia. These kids are moving through actual terror and regular teenage chaos at the same time, and it reminds me of wanting to be part of a group like that, back when I thought belonging would fix something.
There’s something about an artist taking these characters seriously, getting the details right. The way Bob holds himself. The texture of Eleven’s jacket. Between episodes, I find myself going back to Maggie’s drawings to sit with those faces again, to remember how the last one ended, to wait for the dread to build.
You’re a teenager in a small Japanese town, investigating murders that pull you into alternate realities where you fight shadow versions of people’s psyches. You’re also attending school, buying groceries, spending afternoons with friends. Persona 4 shouldn’t work—tone-wise, aesthetically, practically it should fall apart under its own contradictions. Instead it feels true, like that’s actually how life works: the routine and the profound hitting you at the same time without resolution.
That’s Katsura Hashino’s whole thing. He directed Persona 4, then went bigger with Persona 5, set in Tokyo with more style and confidence. Catherine is a puzzle game about a man caught between his girlfriend and a literal incubus—sounds absurd, but it works because Hashino understands something about desire and fear that most games don’t touch. Digital Devil Saga is weirder still, harder to explain, just bleakly beautiful.
Most games pretend characters have one emotional drive, one motivation, one goal. Hashino’s characters are all contradictions—wanting things that cancel each other out, committed to a person while terrified of commitment, trying to save the world while barely holding it together. They feel alive because they’re messy. You’re stealing from your own mind in Persona 5, or solving a tower of blocks that represents anxiety and temptation in Catherine, and it makes sense not as game mechanics but as genuine metaphors for how consciousness actually works.
I haven’t gotten to Persona 5 yet. It’s the kind of game you need to be ready for—it demands time, attention, space in your head. But I know I will eventually, and it’ll feel the same way Persona 4 does. That’s what his games do: they make sense, even when they should be falling apart.
Google decided Berlin’s cool kids needed a Pixel 2, so they built a Sci-Fi Super Mall as bait—a playground where pseudo-nerds could discover what a smartphone with good cameras could do. To make sure people actually showed up, they flew in Boiler Room, a few hundred influencers, YouTubers, party builders, the whole apparatus. Everyone filtered their Instagram posts. Everyone got paid or fed or both.
This is the template now for anything that wants to sell. You can’t just announce a product and hope people care. You stage an experience, fill it with the right social-media bodies, make sure it gets documented in a way that looks organic and desirable. The thing itself barely registers.
From where I stood, the whole operation felt like watching someone try really hard to make something matter that doesn’t. A mall full of hype, a party designed for screenshots, a phone so buried under cultural mythology you forget what it actually does. I’ve still got my handwritten notes and my carrier pigeons, but that’s another story.
ASICS dropped a pair of Halloween sneakers and I’m thinking about why limited colorways still matter to designers. The GEL-KAYANO TRAINER in mint and black, the GEL-MAI KNIT in lime and grey. You know ASICS as a running brand—they’ve been doing their thing since the seventies—but these aren’t about performance. They’re about what happens when a heritage technical shoe gets a color palette that makes you look twice.
There’s something satisfying about the constraint. Halloween isn’t really a fashion event, but it gives brands an excuse to do something weird with their tooling. Lime and grey. Mint and black. These aren’t the palettes that sell volume. They’re the palettes that make the two people who get them feel like they found something.
The GEL-KAYANO TRAINER has been around since the nineties. It’s got DNA—the distinctive Gel pods, the split tongue, that whole language of performance running that’s become just aesthetic shorthand now. Most people buying it are buying the silhouette, the memory of what it meant to care about the engineering. The knit construction on the new version softens it somehow, makes it less obviously functional, which is exactly the right move when the shoe isn’t going anywhere near a track.
I think about all the designers at ASICS Tiger sitting in meetings deciding which models to run in special editions. They could phone it in. Instead they’re pulling from the archive, treating these old shoes like they matter. That’s the whole thing, really—not the Halloween peg, not the limited quantities, just the decision that certain shapes deserve a second life in colors nobody would buy year-round. That’s taste. That’s a brand that remembers why it has a design language in the first place.
Nothing sounds better than November on the couch. Weather’s gone gray, there’s that specific bite in the air that makes staying inside feel earned, and somewhere out there Netflix has one of those fat dumps of new stuff.
I used to spend thirty minutes scrolling, trying to find something that wasn’t terrible. Now I just accept it—there’s always something. Some new show nobody asked for, some movie that’s probably fine, some true crime doc that’ll definitely keep me up longer than I meant to stay up.
The ritual matters more than the specific choice. You get the blanket, the drink, someone or something beside you that doesn’t mind the glow for six hours. Winter’s coming and you know it. Might as well stop pretending you have plans and just settle in.
The event in Munich was secondary to the actual draw—spending time with colleagues like Gilly, Ümit, Thang, Christine, Frank, Fuchs, Micha, Rita, Marco, and Rainer, people who think seriously about design and technology. We looked at the Huawei Mate 10 Pro in some sterile event space, but the real substance was after: dinner at Hoiz Neobrasserie, drinks at Ruby Lilly, sleeping in a comfortable hotel. This is what tech journalism actually is—an excuse to be in a room with people you like, looking at the latest expensive thing.
The Mate 10 Pro itself is the kind of phone that makes you believe technology is still going somewhere. The screen is nearly frameless and the display is sharp. The dual Leica cameras are genuinely capable—you can shoot in darkness and get images that look like actual photography, not the overprocessed garbage most phones produce. It’s waterproof. It’s fast. None of this is surprising anymore, but it’s all done well.
I watched people see it and feel something I’d stopped feeling: that excitement about a new device, the sense that you’re not falling behind. My phone worked fine. There was no reason to want the Mate 10. But I could feel the pull anyway—that gravity of wanting the newest thing, the belief that it’s somehow a way of staying young.
When the new Chillhop Essentials drops, I add it without thinking. It’s become this automatic thing — I see it come through and I’m already scrolling to find it. There’s a trust there that’s hard to explain to people who don’t spend time with instrumental music. You know what you’re getting.
This autumn edition is exactly what it should be. Smooth beats, clean production, nothing desperate for your attention. The kind of music that works while you’re doing something else, or doing nothing at all, just sitting with it playing. Saib and Keem the Cipher and all these other people have figured out their part of the puzzle and they’re showing up.
I’ve been checking in with these compilations for a while now. They’ve become seasonal markers in a weird way. A new edition comes out and you can mark off a few months. It’s like being part of some quiet community of people who care about this stuff, even though you’ll never meet any of them.
This edition doesn’t break any ground. It doesn’t need to. It does what it’s supposed to do, and that’s the whole point.
There’s this thing happening with young journalists right now where everyone’s desperately trying to seem cool and irreverent and in touch with what matters. They finish school, they get a byline somewhere online, and suddenly they’re convinced they’re revolutionizing media. They drink artisanal coffee, share ironic memes in group chats, and write listicles about whether you’re smart enough to know basic facts. The whole thing is exhausting to watch.
Bento was the perfect symbol of this. It was what you got when you blended SPIEGEL’s institutional confidence with BuzzFeed’s clickbait energy and threw in the lowest-common-denominator stupidity of a reality TV show. The outlet was ostensibly about speaking to young Germans, but what it actually did was treat its audience like they were dumber than they were. Quiz after quiz, ranking after ranking, each piece designed to be shareable and meaningless in equal measure. It wasn’t journalism that happened to be young. It was youth as a brand applied to journalism.
Jan Böhmermann, who’s been doing satirical takedowns longer than most of these writers have been alive, spent about twenty minutes dismantling Bento on air. Not with anger, which would’ve been too easy, but with the kind of patient contempt you reserve for something that’s so fundamentally confused about what it’s trying to do that you almost feel bad. Almost. The questions Bento asked its readers were genuinely depressing—not because they were too hard, but because they were insulting in their simplicity. Do you know what seasons are? Can you spell basic words? It was patronizing dressed up as relatability.
What stuck with me wasn’t the takedown itself. It was the reminder that trying this hard to seem effortless always shows. You can feel the effort underneath. Real cool doesn’t announce itself or chase metrics or calculate how many shares something will get. It just exists. Bento cared too much about being liked by the right people at the right moment, and that’s the death of anything that might have been genuinely interesting.
His photographs were everywhere for years—celebrities positioned against white walls in that stark, unflinching way. The style became instantly recognizable, something magazines wanted, something that mattered in a way you couldn’t quite explain.
But there were always stories underneath. Models describing what happened during shoots. Allegations that lived in that strange space where everyone knows something but no one actually does anything. Richardson denied it. Some celebrities stood by him. The conversation would cool and then surface again every few years.
Condé Nast recently sent internal emails dropping him. Vogue, GQ, Glamour—all of them. They knew, though. They’d been publishing his work the entire time these rumors circulated. It wasn’t ignorance that kept him around. It took Harvey Weinstein’s collapse, took enough noise that silence became impossible, before anything actually shifted.
I’m skeptical about what it means long-term. Maybe in a few years, when the conversation has moved elsewhere, magazines quietly bring him back. What’s clear is that something that should have happened on principle happened instead because the moment demanded it.
Nike van Dinther brought it up on her podcast years later, talking about #MeToo and what happened to her during a press trip to Garmisch-Partenkirchen in 2011. She and Sarah Gottschalk were discussing the silence women carry after assault, the shame that makes you feel complicit, and she told the story about the magazine editor on that trip—about getting drunk with the whole group, about him offering to walk her back to her room, about waking up with his fingers inside her while she slept. She remembered thinking about all the other women who must have faced the same thing, and she was so embarrassed that she pretended to still be asleep. She just turned away until he stopped. She dressed quickly while he was in the shower and went back to her own room. The next morning everything was strange. She told Sarah and they talked about it, but she convinced herself it might not have happened, might have been the alcohol playing tricks. Then she tried to get him to admit it over Skype months later and his response—the defensiveness, the way he immediately shut it down—convinced her it was real. So she told this story on a podcast, naming him, because she’d finally gotten to a place where she could.
I could leave it there. I could call her a liar. I could admit it. The problem is that I actually don’t know. What I remember is that it was a Jägermeister-sponsored trip and everyone was absolutely wrecked. I remember running into Nike in the hallway late that night and we ended up in her room—not mine, because I was sharing with a friend. We sat on the bed and watched TV. That’s everything I have. And that the next day felt off.
I’m not a good person when I drink. I’m not aggressive, mostly just clingy or else I disappear. I try not to drink much anymore because I don’t like who I become. And I’ve done enough shit in my past that I can’t be certain whether what she’s describing actually happened or not. When someone accuses you of something and you genuinely can’t remember, saying “I don’t know” sounds like the oldest excuse in the world. But it’s also the truth.
The next morning I acted strange because I picked up that she was acting strange. I thought maybe it was awkward because we’d woken up together, or because we’d done something drunk that neither of us wanted to acknowledge, or maybe she was worried someone else would find out we’d been in the same room. I was probably naive about it. I got defensive when she tried to get the truth out of me. That defensiveness—the way I shut her down without explanation—that probably convinced her I was guilty. Which, I guess, is exactly what someone would do if they had something to hide.
Rape and sexual assault aren’t jokes and they’re not acceptable. I can’t tell you I’ve never pushed someone in that direction, even if I didn’t go all the way. I’m not proud of it. I have nothing to say in my defense.
But I did try to talk to her about it afterward. I told her I was sorry if something bad had happened that night. You can’t blame everything on alcohol and have that excuse you from responsibility. Can you apologize for something you don’t actually know you did? I don’t know. And doesn’t an apology automatically mean you’re admitting guilt? Maybe.
What I know is that we got along really well before that night. We traveled together to Prague and Hamburg and Cologne, had nice lunches in Berlin, drinks in good bars. I liked Nike and Sarah and what they were building with their project. I’m still sad about how much this destroyed our friendship. Can I blame her for speaking out? I don’t think so. I just think it’s a shame.
Of course it’s her right to tell that story however she needs to. And I celebrate everyone using #MeToo to make the world better. But I wish I knew what happened that night. So maybe we could both move past it. Or maybe that’s a lie I’m telling myself. Maybe I don’t actually want to know. Maybe the truth would hold up a mirror to some dark part of me that I’m not ready to see. My hope is that someday we can talk normally again. But that hope is probably the only thing left.
Patta took the ASICS Tiger Gel-Mai, a silhouette that’s been around since 1990, and made it look like someone designed it in the last month. Dark brown nubuck, a soft pink knit showing through the sock-like upper, small Patta logos woven at a few points, reflected stripes that catch light at night. It’s not a lot of information, which is why it works.
There’s something about these 90s ASICS shapes that resists being made interesting again. You’ve seen the Gel-Mai a thousand times—it’s a clean design, minimal, doesn’t ask for much. You’d think any new version would come off as late or trying too hard. But restraint is its own language. A lot of collaborations push. They add color, they complicate the upper, they hunt for something new. Patta held back. The brown and pink together shouldn’t make sense—one’s earthy and weathered, the other reads almost feminine—but that friction is exactly what makes you actually look at the shoe instead of looking past it.
The newer Gel cushioning keeps it comfortable. But what stands out is that the shape doesn’t feel like it’s selling itself. It’s just there.
Do I need them? Probably not. They’re well made. There’s real thinking in the material choices. That seems like reason enough to notice something.
Matador came back. It was a men’s magazine from Germany, ran in the mid-2000s. The idea’s simple: find people who’ve actually lived something and let them write. No self-improvement narratives, no enlightenment guides, no essays about reinvention.
First issue has a war photographer and nuns growing marijuana. That mix works because the magazine isn’t in the self-help business.
Nadine Kroll writes here and now writes for them too. First piece was about blowjobs—straightforward, no bullshit, just how it works. That’s the magazine’s whole energy: serious journalism next to beautiful nude women next to tech reviews next to sex advice. Print-magazine thinking: nothing needs to justify itself to anything else. It’s just there because it’s interesting.
Bimonthly, five eighty euros at newsstands. I’ll grab it if I see it.
An Adidas campaign featured Arvida Byström, a photographer, modeling with hairy legs. The image generated rape threats, hate mail, the full hostility package—because her legs weren’t smooth.
You’d think the conversation around body positivity and natural beauty would have moved past this. But there’s a giant gap between what brands claim to support and what people actually tolerate. Adidas published the image. The internet said it was intolerable. The machinery of response was automatic and vicious.
Byström posted about it—the absurdity of receiving rape threats for not shaving, and how she can’t even imagine what this experience is like for people with fewer advantages. She’s not wrong. The acceptable range is still incredibly narrow. You can have diversity in advertising now, but only the kind that doesn’t disturb the baseline.
What struck me was the speed. Someone doesn’t fit the template, and within hours the response is precise and vicious, no lag time between image and harassment. Nobody has to think about it. The machinery runs automatically. And nothing changes because of it.
The denim jacket is the most democratic garment in Western culture. It looks the same on a billionaire and a broke musician, on someone who works outside and someone who just wants people to think they do. You can’t dress it up enough to make it formal, and you can’t fuck it up enough to make it wrong. It just absorbs whoever wears it.
The Type III Trucker Jacket from Levi’s, that 1953 design that’s been essentially unchanged for seventy years, is the purest version of this principle. It doesn’t care about your story. It becomes your story. You beat it up or baby it, you bleach the cuffs or let the arms fade naturally, and it reflects every choice back at you. It’s cheap enough to buy thoughtlessly and solid enough to keep for decades. There’s no version of yourself you’re trying to project when you wear one—you just are.
I saw photographs recently from an exhibition in Berlin, curated by European photographers and creatives showing what they’d made with the jacket. I didn’t go, but the images stayed with me. What mattered wasn’t the styling or the technical skill. It was that everyone in those photos looked like themselves more clearly because of the jacket, not less. A trucker jacket doesn’t make you interesting. It gets out of the way and lets whatever you’re already doing come through.
I’ve owned maybe five of them. The one I have now has the cuff cut short because I got tired of how it sat. That’s the kind of edit that costs nothing and says everything. You don’t modify a Type III to improve it. You modify it because you’re the kind of person who cuts the cuffs off, and the jacket just accommodates who you are. That’s probably why it’s lasted this long.
What I actually want is to sit in my pajamas with a bowl of cereal and play Super Mario World until my eyes go soft. Not the idea of retro gaming, not some carefully curated collection of rare cartridges. Just that exact feeling.
I haven’t owned a Super Nintendo in twenty years. No space for it, no reason to hunt down working hardware—and honestly, the whole collector thing never appealed to me. But apparently Analogue made something called the Super Nt that takes your old cartridges and runs them clean on a modern TV. Same everything, just without the rotting plastic and the cables that never worked right.
Modern games feel like they’re asking something from you. They have stories trying to mean something, open worlds you’re supposed to optimize every second inside of, cinematics staged for emotional impact. There’s no room for just sitting there. For not caring about whether you’re experiencing it correctly.
Old games had a shape. You could feel the constraints they were built inside of. Not as limitations but as something that gave them weight and rhythm. There’s a texture to that kind of design that you can’t reverse engineer, no matter how good your modern tech gets.
I’m not going to get sentimental about childhood and lost time. That’s not what this is. It’s just that sometimes you want something finished and simple. Something that knows what it is and doesn’t apologize for being small.
Lil Pump insists he’s the coolest, most perpetually high rapper around. It doesn’t convince me. But something about the pink dreadlocks and the sheer lack of self-consciousness makes me look twice. Almost.
He’s from Miami, making bratty trap music with lyrics so dumb they loop back to something. His album hit number 3 on the charts. Smokepurpp’s there, Lil Yachty, Gucci Mane, the whole crew. A few years ago this was underground or a joke. Now it’s just the cultural moment.
The Gucci Gang video is what you’d expect: his crew getting high, girls everywhere, a tiger in there somewhere. The whole thing’s such a self-parody that you can’t tell if Lil Pump’s in on it or deadly serious. Maybe he is. Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t get it.
He’s got nearly 4 million Instagram followers. The music’s dumb, the aesthetic’s even dumber, but it lands. Not because he’s talented, but because he doesn’t care whether you think he is.
The Topshop window had maybe six different Stranger Things designs up when season two was about to drop. I stopped to look at them and felt something I couldn’t quite name—not embarrassment, but in that direction.
That’s the threshold. That’s when you know something’s crossed from discovery into commodity. Stranger Things went from being a show you found on Netflix to something fashion retailers thought was worth stocking in every store. It happens to everything eventually.
The show was good enough to deserve the reach, at least. The cast worked, the tone stuck, it made you actually care about these people instead of just mining 80s nostalgia for cheap points. So it didn’t feel entirely cynical that by season two you could buy Eleven’s face on a t-shirt.
But there’s always that moment where you feel culture shift. When something you found becomes something everyone owns. Topshop selling Stranger Things merchandise is what that looks like now—not gradual, just instant. One year it’s a discovery. The next it’s a business line.
“The Faé are children living at the end of the world,” Grimes said when she launched her new music genre. “They know humanity won’t last much longer on this earth and make art that reflects this knowledge.” It’s a strange framework, but it works.
The Canadian singer—known for “Genesis,” “Oblivion,” “Flesh Without Blood”—has been moving from pure experimentation toward something more deliberately constructed: an aesthetic built around female strength and apocalyptic sensibility. The Faé playlist brings together artists like Kirara, SZA, and Abra. Work that doesn’t try to sound hopeful, that treats darkness and strangeness as material worth exploring.
What’s interesting is that she’s naming something that already exists—that strain of contemporary art and music running on apocalyptic fuel, the work that finds beauty in collapse rather than resisting it. But naming it as Faé, building a mythology around it, treating it as a real movement: that matters. It validates the sensibility. It tells artists they’re not working in isolation; they’re part of something real.
Whether Faé is an actual genre or a brilliant reframing of existing sounds probably doesn’t matter. What matters is the space she’s creating for this particular way of making and thinking. And there’s something to be said for that, especially now, when most culture is still pretending things are basically okay.
Tokyo in October hits different. I went to Harajuku expecting the usual seasonal contraction — that annual dimming, everyone buttoning themselves into dark coats and gray like armor against cold. Instead, the streets were chaos. Color everywhere. Neons, pastels, patterns that shouldn’t work together. Kids in Harajuku, Shibuya, Yoyogi dressed like they were refusing autumn’s invitation to disappear.
Everywhere else, people retreat when the temperature drops. Makes sense — protect yourself, dim down, get through the year. But Tokyo operates on a different principle. Here, conformity isn’t safety. It’s surrender. You wear color and contradiction not to stand out, but to remember yourself. To stay awake.
There’s something clarifying about watching it. The kids I saw weren’t performing fashion or seeking attention. They were just refusing the default — that collapse into everyone else’s hibernation. It’s a small thing, just clothes, but it contains everything. How you dress is a choice about whether you’re going to stay conscious through the year or let yourself be packed away.
Every autumn, half the music world suddenly reaches for the introspective record. Strip away the production, confess something, prove you have depth. Most of it is thin — sounds intimate because it’s quiet, sounds profound because the reverb is heavy. Anna Leone, though, she actually pulls it off.
I found her new video for “My Soul I” recently and it’s one of those rare cases where the restraint is real. She and her directors, Victoria Lafaurie and Hector Albouker, shot it on a ferry in Vaxholm, Sweden, at four in the morning. They wanted that light you only get before sunrise — that specific half-dark when everything feels both exposed and hidden at once. It’s the kind of choice that shows someone thinking about what a song actually needs instead of what makes good content.
Leone was clear about what she didn’t want: no flourish masquerading as sincerity. The video does what the song does — it starts slow and spare, then builds into something with real weight, but never loses that close feeling. That’s harder than it sounds. Easy to make something feel big. Hard to make it feel big and still intimate.
I don’t know much about her yet, but I’m listening.
Hugh Hefner founded Playboy in 1953, which means he spent most of his adult life making people angry for putting naked women and good writing in the same magazine. You’d think that wouldn’t be controversial, but for most of the twentieth century, sex and intelligence were supposed to be enemies. Shame was the deal you made with yourself. Hefner just refused it.
Everyone knew about the centerfolds and the mansion and the whole aesthetic around Hefner. But if you actually read the magazine back then, you were reading something else: interviews, essays, serious fiction. Clarke. Nabokov. Bellow. Palahniuk. Atwood. Murakami. Hefner got actual writers to publish in a magazine about desire and nudity. That’s not cynicism—that’s vision. Most magazines pick a lane. He refused to choose.
That mattered to me, growing up knowing it existed. The quiet idea that you could make something beautiful and sexual and intelligent without apologizing for any part of it. That you didn’t have to split yourself between acceptable and shameful. That shaped how I thought about what was possible.
The criticism never stopped. Feminists hated him. Religious conservatives hated him. Critics treated it all like a joke. Hefner dealt with that for decades without getting defensive or preachy. Just kept doing the work.
He died at 91. When I think about him now, it’s not the cartoonish version everyone remembers—the silk robe, the mansion. It’s the fact that he figured out how to publish sexual magazines and serious literature under the same name, and how to do it without flinching. That’s rare.
Miley’s hosting this poolside interview thing for Converse, guests scattered around talking about fashion or music or whatever, and there’s a yellow cow in the background. The whole setup is so transparently a brand operation that it almost becomes endearing. She’s not pretending it’s organic or sincere — she’s just committed to having a good time with it.
Her dad shows up, which carries its own weight given their history. For years their relationship was this public mess, but now they’re old enough to just be in the same frame together doing something absurd. Maybe that’s what growing up means — not fixing everything, just getting past it enough to sit by a pool with your kid and some random celebrities for a video.
The yellow cow I can’t explain. It’s stupid and for some reason it stays with me.
British journalist Judith Duportail asked Tinder for her data once. Because the UK was still in the EU at the time, Tinder actually had to send it. She got eight hundred pages.
Eight hundred pages of private photos, message chains, conversations. Facebook likes. Photos from an old Instagram she’d deleted. Profiles of guys she’d looked at. Chat transcripts. Her own words. Metadata. Search history. Everything.
People lose sleep over Google knowing their search habits—and yeah, Google tracks everything, it’s unsettling. But then you’re on Tinder, carefully building this specific version of yourself. The angles. The edited photos. A bio written to sound charming and effortless. You’re creating someone hot enough, interesting enough, palatable enough that maybe someone will want to meet you. Meanwhile Tinder’s collecting the real data underneath. They’re building a file on you that makes Google look almost quaint.
Here’s what gets me: you’re not one person in there. You’re split. There’s the constructed self—the photos, the words, the version you’ve rehearsed. Then there’s the actual you: the searches, the messages, what you’re really looking for, all the stuff that would never make it into a profile. Tinder sees both. They know what you’re actually like, not what you’ve decided to be.
You could take someone home tonight. They see your photos, your bio, the version you put together. They don’t know about the shame, the weird desires, any of it. But Tinder does. Tinder already knows.
October meant admitting defeat to the couch. Netflix was dropping new seasons and shows and everything in between, and I already knew I’d spend the next month with some combination of pizza, wine, and whatever was bright and moving on the screen.
Stranger Things was back, which was enough on its own—the kind of show that makes time disappear without you noticing. Mindhunter was finally arriving, something about FBI profilers in the ’70s that looked like it actually had something to say. The Meyerowitz Stories was there, Baumbach’s comedy-drama thing that works because it doesn’t try too hard. Riverdale if you wanted beautiful people and absolute ridiculousness. Some documentaries, specials, the usual stuff that shouldn’t exist but does.
The list could go on forever. The point wasn’t to watch everything—that was impossible—it was to have the option. October was permission to disappear, to have something new waiting every time you finished something else. The comfort was in the abundance, in not having to decide too far in advance what you’d be doing at midnight three weeks from now.
I cycled through Disney princesses as a kid—one week Mulan because she was strong and sharp, the next Pocahontas because she seemed genuinely wild, Belle because she read. But Ariel was the baseline, the one that always pulled me back. Red curls, lived underwater, had weird cool friends, refused to stay trapped in one world when another existed. The other princesses were performances. Ariel felt like an actual person.
Fernanda Suarez, a Chilean illustrator, did something I’d wondered about for years: what would these characters actually look like if they were real, if they existed now? Not frozen in a castle at sixteen, but living, walking around in the actual world. The answer is they’d be young and cool and sharp. Ariel especially. Still red-haired, still the most interesting one in the room, the kind of person you’d want to sit with for hours.
It’s weird to see a character you’ve carried in your head since childhood rendered as an actual person. All these years they’ve been frozen, locked in a moment, a style, a world that doesn’t exist. But drawn as someone real—with freckles, with texture, with a life outside the story—something clicks. The illustrator doesn’t need to make them cooler. She just needs to make them real. And Ariel was always cool enough for that.
Found a couple early Dragon Ball volumes at a flea market when I was young and read them until the spines cracked. This tiny monkey kid named Goku hunting for magic balls with his girl and an old man—something about it worked. Everything felt possible because you genuinely didn’t know what came next. The discovery was happening on the page at the same time I was discovering it.
Then the series became something else. Increasingly muscular men yelling at each other. Power levels climbing into meaningless numbers. The same fight stretched across thirty episodes. That’s anime’s original disease, and Dragon Ball caught it hard.
The early chapters had actual mystery. Weird creatures that didn’t make sense. The characters fumbling through the world. There was strangeness before there was fighting. There was magic—not the supernatural kind, but that feeling of not knowing what’s waiting around the next corner.
These Japanese t-shirts exist now with “Puff puff!” on them, referencing those early episodes. You can only really want one if you remember what it felt like then, before the series settled into being a formula. Before the mystery became routine.
I still think about Goku as he was at the start. Small. Not knowing what he was walking into. That version of him stayed with me way more than anything after. More than all the screaming that came later.
Watch them long enough and the pattern becomes obvious. AfD politician says something designed to make everyone lose their mind. Everyone does. Then a clarification, a “that was taken out of context,” a shrug, and they move on to the next provocation. Same sequence. It’s not complicated. It’s scandal, apology, scandal, apology. It’s the only move they know, and it works because people keep treating it like news instead of recognizing the same broken tactic repeating itself.
The machine is so simple it’s almost boring. Say something outrageous, get on the news, get into people’s heads. Eventually a percentage of people start thinking “well, if everyone’s talking about them…” You know where it goes. The problem is they don’t actually have anything under the surface. No real policies. No actual vision of how anything works. Just one answer that fits every question.
Refugees.
Why are wages worse? Refugees. Schools failing? Refugees. Housing costs too much? Refugees. Too many people, not enough jobs? Refugees. It’s rigid in its stupidity. One key for every lock, and they act shocked when nothing opens. But people believe it, and I understand why they do.
People’s lives actually got worse. That’s not paranoia or a mood—it’s measurable decline. The shopping streets in towns died. The jobs that let you raise a family on a single income disappeared. Schools in certain neighborhoods changed, actually changed. There’s real loss happening, and you can see it if you’re looking. So when someone shows up with a clean story—someone is taking this from you—it’s a relief. You’re not confused anymore. You’re not scared of invisible forces. You’re angry at a specific target. And anger at a target is easier to live with than panic about things you don’t understand.
What gets me is that this catches smart people too. These aren’t dumb people. They have real grievances. They’re just believing the wrong diagnosis. They think their country was deliberately sabotaged by people who hated it instead of just being ground up by the same global forces chewing through everywhere else. They think Merkel was a traitor instead of someone managing something genuinely impossible. The story they’re living in is cleaner and more satisfying than the real one, so they hold it. That’s how humans actually work when they’re scared and exhausted.
We keep making it worse by calling them Nazis and idiots. I get the impulse. It feels righteous. But it doesn’t work. You tell someone their fear is dumb, and they don’t suddenly develop wisdom. They dig in. They feel understood by exactly the people already feeding them what they want to hear. You’ve basically just pushed them further down the road.
But now they’re in parliament. They have to show up. They have to vote on actual things. The gap between “we’ll fix everything” and “here’s what we actually did” is going to be impossible to hide. Reality has a way of killing the story.
The only way they become a permanent force is if there’s always a new crisis. Another fear. Another enemy. If you actually handled the refugee situation—integrated people, normalized it, made it boring—they’re hollow. One song, no second verse. But throw them another crisis in a few years and they’re scary again. In between, though, they could just collapse.
The solution is unglamorous: competence. Towns that were left behind get actual money. Wages that aren’t a joke. Schools that work. Healthcare that doesn’t terrify you. It doesn’t fix the ideological problem directly. But when people’s lives aren’t miserable, when they’re not living in constant fear, they’re less hungry for the simple enemy story. It’s not about moral redemption. It’s just that hope is a better recruiting tool than desperation.
And treating AfD voters like humans instead of a permanent category of idiots probably matters. Some are true believers. But plenty are just scared and angry and grabbed the only thing that seemed to take their fear seriously. If you actually address the real sources of that fear—the material insecurity, the precarity, the feeling that everything was pulled out from under you—you’ve cut off their base without even arguing with them. It’s not that they’re secretly good people. It’s just that when people have options, they sometimes take them.
The weird silver lining is that being actually in government might be the best thing that could happen to them. When they were outside the system, they could be the perfect fantasy—infinitely capable, unburdened by reality. Now they have to vote on budgets. Their voters are about to watch their saviors do absolutely nothing while everything stays the same. The magic dies the moment it gets real.
I saw pictures of girls in Harajuku with their whole bodies painted in these bright blocks—yellow, turquoise, pink, colors that don’t match anything because they’re not supposed to. The trend is called Ishoku Hada, which is just Japanese for unique skin, and it’s centered around this girl Sonoramas and her friends Miyako and Lilly and Cherry and Lmskii and Miku, all of them covered in color, walking through Harajuku and Shibuya like they’re trying to prove something about what happens when you refuse to stop pushing.
Harajuku’s been the test kitchen for Tokyo fashion trends forever. Everything gets invented there first—styles from everywhere mixing with styles from nowhere until something emerges that nobody’s seen before. Anime influencing street fashion influencing high fashion, cultures colliding and recombining. It’s the place where you go to see what everyone else will be wearing in six months.
But here’s the thing about a place like that: you eventually run out of things to do to the surface of your body. You can dye your hair every color that exists. You can mix fashions from every era and every continent. You can stack on accessories until you can barely move. You can wear makeup in ways that make you look like a different species. And then one day you realize you’ve exhausted the wardrobe. The only frontier left is the skin itself. So that’s where you go.
I get the logic of it, even if I don’t know if I’d do it myself. There’s something about refusing to accept the plateau of fashion, the idea that there’s some point where you’re done and you just maintain what you’ve got. In Harajuku, standing still is death. You escalate. You find the next untouched thing. If that’s your skin, then that’s your skin.
I’m watching BoJack Horseman again, eating cold pizza, looking at a stack of PS4 games from 2019. Suki, meanwhile, is living.
She’s a cat. Orange, travels the world with her red-haired owner—by car, canoe, boat. Through mountains, along lakes, across fields. The kind of adventure people talk about doing before they don’t.
What I like about Suki is she’s not performing travel. She’s just in it. New vehicles, new places, new landscapes. No strategy, no curation, just a cat doing what her owner is doing. There’s something true in that.
It makes you feel static. The cat is out there and you’re here. I could pack a bag. People do this all the time. But knowing you could and actually getting in the car are different things. Suki gets in the car.
The Air Force 1 just won’t quit. Adidas keeps throwing Superstars and Stan Smiths at anyone who’ll listen, pumping out new colorways and collaborations like hype is a finite resource they’re trying to corner. But the AF1 stays. It’s been the same essential shape since the ’80s—high or low, leather or canvas, clean or wrecked—and it still moves the way everything else is trying to move.
Someone decided it needed a floral moment. A higher sole, sequins, embroidered roses—a variant that lands somewhere between design exercise and boutique exclusive. The kind of thing you see in a Berlin streetwear shop and think, okay, they’re trying something.
Josephine Fischer over at ELLE wrote about it in the way fashion writers do: the shoe threads together simplicity and excess, plain looks and complex ones, somehow stays cool both ways. And she’s not wrong. There’s something about the AF1 that lets you layer it however you want. The platform sole actually changes how it sits on your foot, which matters more than people think. The florals and sequins are the flex—trying to push it into “special” territory, like it needs permission to be interesting.
It’s instructive how much mileage Nike’s gotten from that single shape. The Air Force 1 is basically blank canvas at this point. Oversized. Minimal. Patent. Shearling. Leather that costs eighty dollars and leather that costs four hundred. Every version works because the silhouette does the thinking for you. The base is that good.
The floral sequin thing though—that’s a real bet. You’re trying to take something that’s already cool and make it spectacular, which almost never works. Usually you just get busy. You lose the cool under the decoration. But if anything can carry that weight, it’s probably the Air Force 1. The shape’s strong enough that even when you dress it up, it doesn’t disappear.
I’ve always been into guys with bellies. That’s just how it is. A six-pack is nothing, forgettable, but a belly—a belly means something. Means you’ve lived, eaten, made choices instead of dedicating everything to the gym. Sure, I’ll enjoy hard muscle sometimes, but who wants to actually date someone like that? They’ll drag you to early morning runs, make you count calories, turn the whole thing into a training program. Exhausting.
So Albert Pukies made a fanny pack called the Dadbag. It’s shaped like a soft belly and you wear it around your waist. Strap it on and suddenly you’ve got that gut, that softness, that look of someone who stopped caring about everything. The absurdity is the whole point—gym people who would never actually let themselves get soft can now have the aesthetic without changing a thing about their actual lives. They get to look like someone I’d actually want to be around.
It’s functional too. Holds beer, snacks, whatever. You put it on and you become someone different for a while—someone who stopped optimizing everything, who just eats and lives and doesn’t worry about it. Ridiculous. It works.
6LACK spent years trapped in the wrong contract. Ricardo Valdez Valentine—Baltimore born, Atlanta raised—got signed to a label that had no idea what to do with him, and he was stuck there for years while he had actual songs waiting to exist. When he finally got out and released “Free 6LACK,” it wasn’t really a debut. It was a release.
The sound is somewhere between hip-hop and alt-R&B, but that doesn’t quite capture it. There’s the battle-rap precision from his early days in the delivery, sharp and clipped, but he’s learned to let the production breathe. It’s hazy and distant, like you’re hearing it through glass. The songs are minimal. Nothing extra.
Songwriting-wise he’s operating at a level most people aren’t. The melodies sit in odd places, the lyrics don’t overexplain, every choice feels intentional. I’d heard enough comparisons to The Weeknd or Raury to assume he was just another name in that orbit, but “Free 6LACK” sounds like he stopped caring about fitting anywhere and just made what was actually in his head.
Maybe that’s what “Free” meant. Not the album title, but the fact of it.
I lived next to a FamilyMart for the first three months I was in Japan, right there in Ikejiri Ohashi. Close enough that I could walk over in the middle of the night in whatever I was wearing and no one would care. The employees knew me pretty quickly—they’d greet you every time, that cheerful automatic greeting, and I’d just nod and disappear into the aisles.
Konbini—that’s what they call them, short for convenience store—are everywhere in Japan. Open 24 hours, stacked with magazines and pre-made food and drinks and whatever else you might need at 3 AM. That FamilyMart had onigiri in every flavor, sushi in plastic boxes, sandwiches, bentos, all cheaper than cooking at home and way faster. I spent too much money on manga magazines while I was there.
The thing about living that close to one is you stop thinking of it as a store. It becomes a solution. You’re hungry at 3 AM, or you forgot breakfast, or you’re hungover—you just walk over and the doors open and someone greets you and you find what you need. It’s like having a safety net made of rice balls.
I’m not sure what I’d have done without it those months in Tokyo. Knowing that place was ten steps away—that the lights never went off, that someone would be there, that they’d have whatever I was craving at 2 AM—that mattered more than I realized at the time.
I’m drawn to dystopias in a way I can’t fully explain. There’s something about the image of total collapse, systems of control refined to their logical extreme, that just holds my attention in a way utopias never will. Peace and freedom and perfect structures bore me. What I want is the opposite—concentrated power, governments and corporations intertwined until they’re indistinguishable, extraction and surveillance so complete they become the baseline of existence. Somewhere in that darkness, small rebellious movements emerge, moving like ghosts through spaces too vast to fully understand, let alone fight.
Marcus Wendt figured out how to visualize this. He traveled to Asian cities—Hong Kong, Seoul, Shenzhen—and photographed them, then pushed the colors into ultraviolet territory, deepened the shadows, made the neon feel less like light and more like something structural, something inseparable from the architecture.
Looking at the work, you don’t have to imagine the figures moving through those streets. The runners, the hidden people, the system’s failures moving through the gaps—they’re already there if you know where to look. The cities were always like this. Wendt just gave you permission to see them clearly.
Twitter in 2008 felt enormous. I was on Facebook when most people were still in StudiVZ groups. I posted breakfast photos to Instagram when sepia filters were brand new. It all genuinely felt great—social networks, actual connection, witnessing what moved someone else in the moment.
Back then “social media” was just scummy marketer talk, used to impress executives who didn’t understand the internet. There were no influencers, no strategy, no algorithm playing friend. YouTube was kids with stolen cameras. The internet could have stayed that way.
But somewhere along the line, the platforms figured out the real product: you. Your clicks, pauses, stops. Your interests, your fears, your network. Once everything became measurable, it became sellable. Authenticity turned into a style to perform. Vulnerability became a brand. Instagram became a catalog of things to want. Twitter became a mob. Facebook became a place where your relatives argued about politics while the company took notes.
Staying felt necessary, because everyone was there and leaving meant disappearing. The stress crept up slowly. Every time I opened these apps, I felt something drain out. Not refreshed—worse. Watching people I liked present these careful versions of themselves, knowing how much time and thought went into looking effortless. Doing the exact same thing myself, shaping my random thoughts for an audience that didn’t exist or didn’t care.
The time sink without payoff destroyed me slowly. You feed the algorithm for hours and get back anxiety and this creeping sense that your actual life isn’t as interesting as what you’re seeing. The apps are built to make you feel that way. Every notification is designed to hook you back. “Someone you know liked a photo from three days ago.” Why would I care? I’d open it anyway.
At some point the performance became obvious. I was editing my own thoughts for spectators. That’s when I started deleting. Twitter first. Then Instagram. Then Facebook, which felt strange—that was my oldest record, fifteen years of my own life scrollable in one place.
The shift was immediate. Not some noble silence, but actual relief. My mood changed. I slept better. Thoughts didn’t need validation to feel real. I forgot about people I’d never met. The constant noise just stopped. And in that absence, I understood how miserable I’d been without quite noticing it.
This wasn’t about rejecting connection or doubting the initial promise of these platforms. But I understand now that they were never designed to bring people together—they’re attention vacuums that pay you in anxiety. They promised to open the world and ended up closing it, funneling everything through feeds and algorithms that serve the machine.
The internet I loved in 2008 still exists somewhere—ungoverned, strange, full of people chasing genuine interests down weird paths. But it’s not on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram. Those places have been colonized and flattened into something else. They became the thing they said they’d never be.
Leaving wasn’t a statement or crusade for me. It was just admitting that something I’d loved had turned into something that hurt. Not using it better or less often or more mindfully—just stopping. The happiness that followed made me realize I’d been drowning and mistaken the water for air.
Someone online once listed ten things you absolutely must do this weekend, each one progressively more hostile than the last. It starts almost kind—go to a sake festival, drink cheap—and then immediately betrays you by getting absurdist. Sing the Pokémon theme at the start of every conversation, deadpan, no laughing. Marry the first M-named person you meet. Get yourself on the evening news by any means necessary.
By the time you reach the Berghain bit—stand in the queue and ask the bouncer the same stupid question three times—you’re watching performance art disguised as a weekend checklist. Sleep with your old math teacher, because apparently that’s something you both wanted anyway. Invent a time machine to go back and fix all of 2017 before it ruins you. The last one is just cruel: bow to anyone who buys you a drink, but don’t let them get you pregnant.
The specificity is what kills me. The M-names, the particular cultural nightmare of actually standing in that queue, the math teacher thing because almost everyone had that person. It’s the kind of writing that only happens at three in the morning in a group chat, where the best jokes are the ones that make no sense and sting a little bit.
I never did any of them. I don’t think anyone was ever meant to.
There’s a moment in one of London Grammar’s songs where Hannah Reid’s voice just cuts through this dense wash of synths, and it hits you that the whole architecture of the song—trip-hop shadows, careful arrangement, every synth in exactly the right place—was built to create that moment. The voice is the point, but it doesn’t announce itself that way. It just arrives, and suddenly everything else makes sense.
That kind of restraint is rare in pop music. Most singers want to be heard, want you to feel the effort. Reid sounds like she’s barely trying, which is probably why she’s doing it so well. London Grammar’s first album “If You Wait” had this fully formed vision from the start—not a band figuring itself out, but a band that already knew exactly what it wanted to sound like. Dense and delicate at once. Meticulous but not cold.
By “Truth Is A Beautiful Thing” they’d relaxed into it. Same DNA, same sensibility, but this time it felt less like proving something and more like just making the record they wanted to make. Dan and Dot shared writing duties, which probably helped distribute the vision a bit. Less of a solo mission, more of a collaboration that happened to orbit one extraordinary voice.
I never went to see them live. There was interest—I was curious what all that meticulous arrangement would feel like in a room, how the voice would land when it wasn’t mediated through headphones. But I’m not much of a concert person anyway. London Grammar makes the most sense to me as a listening experience, alone, the voice arriving exactly when the song decides it should.
The first thing you’d flip to in BRAVO was Dr. Sommer’s advice column. She answered everything — sex questions, heartbreak, family trouble, the regrettable people you’d spent time with. What made her different was that she actually took it seriously. No performance, no brand voice. Just genuine engagement with what was going wrong.
That’s rarer than it should be. Most advice now comes filtered through algorithm, corporate tone, or you’re just supposed to figure it out alone.
I’ve thought about trying to create something like that. A space where the actual problem gets actual thought back. I’m not sure I’m wise enough for it, but I know how much it mattered when someone actually listened.
Christian Lindner, the FDP leader, sells himself as Germany’s future—young, digital, modern, his political brand all aspiration and forward-thinking. Then a 1997 video surfaces from an old German youth show, and it destroys the narrative entirely. It shows him in school. In a tie. To math class. Not a required school tie. A chosen tie. To math class. And he’d get dropped off in a borrowed limousine, which is so absurdly perfect it feels like someone invented it as a joke.
The video is devastating because it proves what his entire brand has been hiding: he was never cool. He was always the kid in the tie, always reaching for sophistication he couldn’t pull off. He still is, just with better resources. The “young, digital, modern” thing isn’t who he is. It’s what he’s been chasing since high school, repackaged with better graphics and better access to the media apparatus. The core desperation remains unchanged. He just hides it better now.
That’s why the tie to math class is the perfect symbol. It captures the entire contradiction: the confident reaching, the certainty that he was being sophisticated, the fact that it was transparent immediately, the fact that he just kept going anyway. He’s still keeping going. The limousine is a government car now and the tie costs more, but it’s the same gesture—the same person convinced that if he just reaches a little further, tries a little harder, performs a little better, everyone will finally believe that he’s cool.
Some people change. Some people just get older and find audiences desperate enough to believe the performance.
Sophia Hadjipanteli, a Greek model, had a monobrow. One continuous strip of hair across her forehead. Agents wanted it gone. Men online wanted it gone. Everyone in the machinery of making people look a certain way wanted it plucked, waxed, lasered away. She refused. She said she looked better with it.
The internet had feelings about this. Some people framed it as brave, as some kind of statement against beauty standards. Others just thought she was weird. But what actually interested me was how uninterested she seemed in the whole argument. She didn’t need to convince anyone. She just kept her eyebrow.
There’s something about that kind of indifference I find more compelling than actual defiance. Defiance means you’re still fighting. You’re still thinking about them. Indifference means you’ve already stepped out of the ring.
I’ve spent years cataloging the ways I don’t fit whatever ideal was floating around that season. And most of that catalog is just voices I’ve been carrying around that aren’t even mine anymore. Background noise from a lifetime of measuring myself against other people’s opinions. Sophia’s monobrow isn’t really about beauty standards or acceptance or any of that. It’s just someone who decided the conversation itself wasn’t worth her time.
I had this dream where I ran into Juju in India and we walked through the forest to an abandoned temple. Built a fire, watched the stars, kissed with tongue. You know that kind of dream that feels completely real. Woke up and spent the whole day lovesick because it had felt so deep and genuine. Scared me a little.
No wonder I’d do anything to be in that bong room with Juju and Nura like SXTN are in their new video. I’m genuinely jealous of anyone who gets to chill there with them, smoke, watch the dancers. But the more I talk about this the more pathetic I sound. Nobody wants to hear it.
So I’ll play the bitter music journalist and say “Bongzimmer” sounds like some forgettable track from a bad memory-game band. Which obviously isn’t true. But maybe if I roast SXTN hard enough they’ll notice me. I’m going to bed now. Maybe I’ll dream about India again. Maybe about Juju’s lips…
Palina Rojinski got naked for a German Vogue voting campaign. Not to sell magazines—to sell voting itself. The campaign was called #Germanwoman, one of those celebrity-driven initiatives where famous people explain why politics matters. Except they didn’t do interviews or PSAs. They put her in a bathtub with champagne, walking through how the electoral system actually works. The timing, the mechanics, the whole structure of it. The unspoken hook was the hope that she’d shift and reveal something accidental, which is both the campaign’s entire premise and its entire confession.
Caro Daur, Lena Meyer-Landrut, and a few other Instagram celebrities were in it too, each there to say why voting matters. It’s a completely unsubtle collision of celebrity, sexuality, and civic duty. Make voting sexy and people will pay attention, is the theory.
What’s interesting about it is how accidentally honest it is. Elections aren’t won through logic or argument. They’re won through desire, identification, attraction. She’s famous and naked, therefore voting matters. It’s stupid and it probably works, and that’s genuinely depressing—not the campaign itself, but how effective it is. People don’t evaluate abstract systems rationally. They respond to patterns, to signals that seem trustworthy. A famous person’s body is the clearest signal there is.
Airbnb made hotels feel optional. eBay turned flea markets into afterthoughts. Uber convinced us we’d never touch a steering wheel again. American startups keep finding things we thought were permanent — brick and mortar, the idea of ownership, the friction of a simple transaction — and rendering them quaint. And now there’s Bodega, which wants your local convenience store to feel the same way.
Two former Google guys, Paul McDonald and Ashwath Rajan, founded it on a simple premise: stick small refrigerated boxes in apartment buildings, offices, gyms — anywhere there’s density. Stock them with snacks, toilet paper, hygiene stuff, whatever. You unlock it with an app, grab what you need, and the thing charges you automatically. No cashier, no small talk, no reason to ever leave the building.
I remember being weirded out by the concept when I first read about it. Not because it’s dumb — it clearly solves a real problem, late night cravings when the store is three blocks away. But because of what it represents: another incremental step toward not needing to move through the world at all. Another small friction removed. Another reason to stay inside.
The criticism I saw was mostly about urban life. These stores aren’t just vending machines — they’re hubs, places where you see the same person behind the counter, where you run into neighbors, where the neighborhood has a heartbeat. Kill that, and something about city living starts to feel more hollow, more like living in a dorm than living in a place.
But maybe that’s naive. Maybe this is just how it works now — convenience and community are incompatible, and convenience always wins. Or maybe something will happen that Bodega’s founders didn’t anticipate, the way Airbnb actually did hollow out neighborhoods, or Uber drained the small conversation out of transit. You can’t unring the bell. Once someone builds the box, it exists, and enough people will use it that the old infrastructure starts to wither. Whether that’s progress is no longer the interesting question.
The runway was circular. There was an actual pink landscape painted on the floor, or maybe it was projected, I can’t remember now—but the point is Rihanna wasn’t interested in the standard fashion week formula. No long cold stages, no clinical precision. This was the Fenty x Puma show in New York, and it looked like something between a carnival and a nightclub.
Models moved through this space in clothes that ranged from genuinely odd to genuinely wearable, which is exactly where good fashion usually lives. Oversized sneakers that actually looked considered. Pieces with color and attitude that didn’t need to explain themselves. The front row was doing what front rows do—phones out, trying to capture something they could actually imagine themselves wearing.
Puma’s been irrelevant for a while now, honestly. Squeezed out by Nike and Adidas, stuck in that space where nobody thinks about you when they’re thinking about sneakers. Then Rihanna gets involved and suddenly there’s air in the room again. It’s almost unfair how much weight she carries—everything becomes possible the moment her name’s attached.
I don’t know if this sticks. Fashion week moments are temporary by design. There’s always another collaboration waiting, another moment happening somewhere else. But there was something about this one that felt less like a one-off and more like something starting. Or I’m just susceptible to good execution and confident styling, which is probably more honest.
It’s getting cold and grey again, which is exactly when Amber Mark’s ’Heatwave’ lands right. Not because the song is literally about summer—it doesn’t try that. It’s just warm, genuinely warm, in a way that feels good right now. Her voice in it, the production, the space around everything.
I’d heard her work before. ’Trees on Fire’ had weight to it, the kind of track that sounds like someone’s been listening to music seriously for years before deciding what to do with her own voice. This new one sounds like she’s figured something out. She wrote it, produced it, released it on her own label. Not making a statement about independence—just the obvious choice when you know what you want.
The track doesn’t reach for anything it doesn’t need. There’s something I respect about that restraint. I’ve had it on repeat since I heard it, which is the only real thing to say.
I stumbled on this site called Foreignrap and it’s basically a repository for hip-hop from everywhere — you sort by country, get surprised, whatever. No algorithm trying to convince you that one region owns the genre. Just videos from Korea, Japan, Iceland, Congo, everywhere.
The tracks are genuinely all over the place. “Good Enough” with 唾奇 and Sweet William, “Amica Pusher” from PRIESTESS, something called “WINALOTO” from TOMMY CASH that looks absolutely unhinged, “ELSKAN AF ÞVÍ BARA” from GKR, “Carnival Gang” with what looks like half the Korean underground rap scene on it.
Aziz Firat, Thomas Vimare, and Ariel Dorol run it. You can submit your own tracks, dig through mixtapes, build something. It’s the kind of thing that makes you realize how much music gets buried because it doesn’t fit the geography you happen to live in or the scene you already know.
If you’re still listening to Bushido, that’s on you.
I used to pick up NYLON at the newsstand, and it actually looked at what was happening. Marvin Scott Jarrett started it in 1999, when a magazine could still pay attention to what young people were doing without turning it into content. Selena Gomez, Lindsay Lohan, Mischa Barton on the covers. Real paper, real color, and someone actually cared about the texture of that.
The magazine’s done now, or the print version is. Starting in October they’re ditching it, going all-in on the website and their influencer agency. Which makes sense. Everyone’s online. I can’t defend print magazines anymore with a straight face, and I used to actually like that stuff. The arguments about tactile experience—fine, but nobody’s buying it. NYLON figured that out.
There’s something about watching a magazine close, though. Not sad exactly, but you feel it. A specific way of looking at things, a specific corner of a moment, and it’s just gone now. NYLON was part of that. You don’t pick it up anymore. The whole thing is closed.
Sophie Passmann unboxed her absentee ballot like it was some limited-edition skincare collaboration. Every Instagram personality with three hundred followers was desperately waiting for L’Oréal or ALDI or whoever to send them something to film. Sophie got the one thing nobody would ever sponsor: her voting materials.
She treated the envelope with complete reverence, pulled out the forms like they were a luxury product. #unboxing #sponsored #ad. If you want to be a successful influencer, she’s saying, just grab your ballot from the pile in your apartment and start filming. Or, you know, actually go vote.
It’s a direct hit on influencer culture at its most absurd. These people wait around for brands to send them things so they can make a video of themselves opening a box. Desperation packaged as content. She showed how laughably empty the whole genre is by applying its machinery to the least glamorous thing possible: civic participation.
What gets me is the confidence. She knew exactly what she was doing, knew it would land. There’s something almost generous about that kind of mockery—spending real effort on a joke at the expense of people who think this is their actual job. In September 2017, when she posted it, the unboxing thing still felt aspirational to a certain type of person online. She destroyed it with one video.
The tweet went out and people got it. Not everyone, maybe. Some people probably watched it confused, thinking she was serious. But that’s the risk of deadpan. You let people be stupid for a moment, and then you don’t explain the punchline.
Barbara came back to Vienna for a weekend a few months after we first met and we decided to shoot. No plan, no concept—just walk around at night with an analog camera and eat pizza. That’s what we did.
I don’t write much about my own photographs because either the image works or it doesn’t, and talking about it usually just clouds things. But I’ve noticed this: the best work happens when you’re not thinking about the work. When you’re just present with someone, in a place, both of you understanding that the only thing that matters is showing up and seeing what’s actually there. When neither of you is performing.
With Barbara it was immediate. That easy understanding where someone gets it—not trying to make something precious or important, just present, moving through Vienna at night. When that happens the photographs become about the moment instead of some preconceived idea of what photographs should be.
Vienna at night has this specific beauty to it, the old buildings and the light. But beauty is nothing without genuine presence, and that’s what these photographs have.
Notes of Berlin documents something I’ve always found absurd and funny—the notes, signs, and messages people plaster onto walls, doors, and bus stops throughout a city. Every person who sees them does something different: some laugh, some get angry, some just keep walking. The blog captures that moment when a stranger’s dumb joke or desperate plea or weird observation stops you in your tracks. It’s a document of how cities talk to themselves, one sticky note at a time.
You might as well publish your own social security number online — at least then you’d know where it was. But 143 million Americans just had theirs stolen by Equifax, which is the joke. Equifax is a security company. A security company got hacked in the most basic, humiliating way possible.
The hackers got social security numbers, names, birthdates, addresses. The foundation of identity. Plus about 209,000 credit card numbers and an unknown number of driver’s licenses. Everything you need to become someone else. And they got it from the one place that’s supposed to be safeguarding exactly that information.
The numbers are staggering. Yahoo’s breach was bigger in raw count — over a billion accounts — but this is different. A social security number is the closest America has to a permanent national ID. It’s how the government tracks you, how creditors verify you, how you prove you’re you. A billion email accounts? Annoying. 143 million social security numbers? That’s 143 million people whose entire financial identity is now for sale.
Half the country is compromised. The other half will be, eventually. Every year there’s a breach bigger than the last, systems more integrated, more points of failure, more ways for something to go catastrophically wrong. We built this digital world to make things easier, faster, safer. And now the safest option is to assume everything will be stolen, everything will be exposed, and there’s nothing you can actually do about it.
Maybe that’s the point where the old system wins. Paper records, filing cabinets, no network to hack. You couldn’t access your information from anywhere, couldn’t do anything instantly, but you also couldn’t have it stolen by someone on the other side of the world. The security through obsolescence of the analog world. Not foolproof, but at least you could watch it.
I got lost in Shibuya trying to find a restaurant that wasn’t on Google Maps. The small street I turned down had no English signs—not that I expected them, but standing there the reality hits different. I said sumimasen to someone outside a shop, and they understood. They pointed, I went, and something shifted in how I felt about being there.
Japan is advanced until you need to communicate. The major cities have English on signs and menus. Most Japanese people speak English, but it’s wasei-eigo—Japanese English—which is its own dialect entirely. The pronunciation is Japanese-shaped, the grammar is Japanese-shaped. If you’re not used to it, you can’t always understand. It’s faster to just know a few words that always work.
Arigatou is the obvious one—thank you. Everyone learns that. Ikura is how much, which matters if you’re buying anything. Sumimasen does everything else. You say it when you bump into someone. You say it when you need directions. You say it to get someone’s attention. It’s an apology, a thank-you, a question all at once. It got me through most of a week.
There’s something about trying a language that isn’t yours, even just a handful of phrases. It changes how you move through a place. You’re not a tourist pointing at things. You’re someone who showed up and made the effort, however clumsy. Japanese people noticed. They were patient with me. The accuracy didn’t matter as much as the fact that I tried.
I learned maybe ten words before I went. Enough to order food, ask directions, apologize. Enough to not feel completely helpless in Akihabara or wandering Harajuku. I don’t remember most of them now. But I remember the feeling when a phrase landed, when someone understood what I was trying to say. That mattered more than I expected.
I saw Princess Mononoke for the first time in 1999 at AnimagiC, a small convention in Koblenz. Japanese audio, subtitles, theater screen. I walked out completely undone. Studio Ghibli got under my skin that day and never left.
Bill Mudron, an artist from Portland, seems to have had a similar experience with these films. His illustrations pull directly from Miyazaki’s worlds—not studies or remakes, but something closer to memory. They have that quality where you’re not looking at an image so much as falling back into a film you watched when you were young or younger.
He paints the bathhouse from Spirited Away, all geometry and light, the way it exists in your head rather than on screen. The drowned world of Ponyo with that particular shade of blue. The moving castle. Totoro’s tree. The forest from Mononoke—the place where everything sacred and dangerous lives. Each one lands differently because each film landed differently, but they share something: they’re the parts of those worlds that stayed with you, that feel more real now than anything you actually remember.
What gets me is how specific these illustrations are without being literal. Mudron isn’t copying frames. He’s catching the feeling of entering a Ghibli film, that moment when the rules change and you’re suddenly somewhere else. The colors, the density of detail, the way light falls—it all pulls you in the same direction the films do.
Looking at them now, it’s partly nostalgia, sure. But it’s also that these images understand what made those films important in the first place, what they still do to you when you think about them. They work as a kind of shortcut back to that original moment of being completely swept away.
You go to Pattaya looking for a beach and you get one - warm water, decent sand, the kind of seafood restaurants that actually know what they’re doing. On the surface it’s a functional tropical destination, the stuff you see in travel photos.
The thing about Pattaya though is that it wasn’t designed for tourists looking for that. It was designed for a very specific appetite, and the infrastructure for that business is just woven into the regular town like it’s normal. Bars and massage places and restaurants line the same streets, all operating under the same implicit understanding. No one pretends otherwise.
Most beach destinations hide what they’re built on. Pattaya just leaves everything visible. I spent an afternoon there trying to figure out if that directness was honest or just depressing.
Stumbled on this site called Interface Lovers that just interviews people who make the stuff you use every day. Designers at Spotify, coders at Dropbox, illustrators at Nike—the people building the interfaces and apps that eat up your time. The interviews aren’t polished PR. They talk about their actual setups, what software they use, what keeps them going creatively.
Maybe I’m just nosy about how other people’s minds work. After enough years designing, you know everyone’s process is a little weird, a little chaotic, different from what they’d want you to think. These interviews feel like that—real enough to be useful, personal enough that you remember who’s talking.
What got me was how specific everything is. Julie Delannoy from Product Hunt talks about her setup differently than Helen Tran from Spotify. Karri Saarinen at Airbnb has a completely different head than either of them. Not famous names, just people who’ve shaped things I use and probably never think about. But once you know they exist, you see their fingerprints everywhere.
The other hook is the Spotify playlists. Everyone interviewed puts together a playlist of what they listen to while they work. That’s where it gets interesting. Everything from Active Child to Twenty One Pilots to Maggie Rogers, and suddenly you’re inside someone’s head—what they need to hear to focus, what gets them through a long project. Music is intimate in a way interviews alone can’t be.
I probably spend more time on Interface Lovers than I should. Not because it’s going to change anything. Just because you recognize yourself in some of those answers, and that’s rare enough that you have to sit with it. The site does one thing well: treats these people like they’re interesting. Turns out they are.
The German election software had a problem. When the Chaos Computer Club started investigating, they found the user manual sitting publicly online, complete with credentials for the manufacturer’s internal systems. The update server passwords were exposed. The connection for election night results was pre-configured in the software, with a password—at least in Hesse—that said “test.” And the software generated sample result files that revealed exactly what real files needed to look like. Together, these weren’t theoretical vulnerabilities. Someone with basic technical skill could forge election results across the entire country.
The government’s federal elections director had insisted just months earlier that elections in Germany couldn’t be hacked, that the system was secured against all manipulation. Now it turned out it was held together with “test” as a password and credentials scattered across the internet. Municipalities were running software they didn’t really understand, deploying systems they hadn’t vetted, trusting black boxes out of necessity.
The election was three weeks away when this came out. The official response was honest and a little absurd: if the software didn’t work, they’d fall back to phones. Election officials would call in results the way it was done before the internet existed. No encryption, no networks, just voices on a telephone line.
So that’s what happened. Germany, the technological center of Europe, counted its federal election by telephone. People calling in numbers, reaching back decades for something more trustworthy than the systems they’d built. It wasn’t efficient and it wasn’t elegant. But it worked.
There’s something darkly funny about that—a nation so technologically advanced that it had to choose the analog solution. And something unsettling too. You don’t really think about how much faith you’ve placed in systems until you’re forced to stop trusting them and go backward instead.
VFILES had set up runway 9 at Barclays and you could feel the difference the moment you walked in. Not the usual fashion week thing where designers present to other designers in polite silence. This was different. Electric. The kind of crowd that actually cares — rappers, producers, style people, the ones who actually dress instead of just showing up to be seen.
The designers they’d pulled in weren’t interested in wearable, not really. Junjie Yang, Christian Stone, Louis Pileggi — they were working with color and shape like they’d never heard the word “practical.” Bright, clashing, proportions that made you uncomfortable in the best way. Clothes that looked like someone had cracked open their skull and dumped the contents onto fabric.
The whole night had this energy I only see at moments that actually matter. Not because of who was there — Offset, Yung Lean, Lizzo, all of it — but because everyone in that room understood they were watching the moment before things became trends. The actual thought before fashion brands water it down and sell it to people in shopping malls.
I remember thinking that this is what people mean when they talk about the “New York scene” like it’s something separate and better. Not that New York is better. Just that certain rooms, certain nights, certain people gathered together for the right reasons — that matters. Fashion week mostly feels like a job. This felt like something actually being created.
Looking at electronic music lineups, the geography is always the same: Berlin, Hamburg, Cologne. The circuit has a gravity that pulls north. Not intentionally — it’s just how cities calcify once they establish themselves as the place. Big cities attract big promoters attract the artists who shape culture, and everywhere else inherits scraps. The south has audiences and decent venues but might as well be a province. Not Munich, which has enough weight to pull things its way. I mean Stuttgart, places like that — actual culture, actual crowds, but the serious artists skip right through.
So it meant something when a real festival landed there in December. Sven Väth, Nina Kraviz, Chris Liebing, Solomun — not just names but people who shape the form. The kind of lineup you usually drive north to catch. I don’t have sentimental investment in supporting local culture or whatever, but there’s a difference between living somewhere good things happen and living somewhere you have to plan a trip for it. For one night, the south had access.
Maybe it shifts something. Maybe the circuit loosens and artists stop treating half the country like a peripheral market. Or maybe this was one festival and everything snaps back. Either way it happened once, which is more than before.
My first summer in Tokyo, ’Spending all my Time’ by Perfume was everywhere — the kind of everywhere that isn’t annoying yet because it seems inevitable. You’d hear it in Harajuku shops, in cafes, in clubs at night. The drums were plastic and bright, the vocals thin and processed, and after maybe the hundredth time you stopped resisting it. The song had just installed itself.
Perfume’s been at this since 2000 — three women named Kashiyuka, Nocchi, and A~chan making electronic pop that’s simultaneously minimal and vast. Albums like ’Cosmic Explorer’ and ’Game’ made them international. They tour everywhere now: Taiwan, Singapore, Britain. The live shows are synchronized, precise, like watching three people pilot a single machine.
’If you wanna’ is their new one, and it works the same way. Electronic, poppy, exactly what you expect from them. The production is immaculate in that impersonal way they do, vocals processed until they barely sound human. But like ’Spending all my Time,’ it doesn’t hit on the first listen, or the second. It’s the seventh time, the eighth, the hundredth. Every repetition adds a little more weight until the whole thing feels inevitable, like a thought you’ve always had.
There’s something almost insidious about their work — the way they know exactly how to make songs that drill themselves into you through sheer exposure. Not through trying hard or bombast. Just by existing somewhere you keep hearing them. You resist it, then you stop resisting it, then you can’t get it out.
Maybe that’s the real skill, knowing how patience and precision can feel like magic. That might be why they’ve lasted this long.
Alice Weidel took off her microphone during a ZDF talk show and left. Someone asked her about two party colleagues, she got uncomfortable, and she walked out of the studio. The moment you watch that happen on live television, you know you’re looking at someone who isn’t ready for any real power.
Here’s what the AfD actually is underneath the suits and the policy papers: a bar full of angry people who’ve learned to talk about their grievance in political terms. The party positions itself as serious governance, but it’s really just organized resentment. Weidel was supposed to be the credential-stacked counterweight, the reason to think maybe it could be different. Lived in China, speaks Mandarin, worked at Goldman Sachs, partner to a filmmaker from Sri Lanka, raising kids in Switzerland. On paper she looked like someone who could maybe push back against the party’s worst instincts.
But that’s not how it works. You don’t stay neutral when you’re inside a movement defined by its drift toward extremism. The pressure pulls you right. Weidel came in trying to be reasonable and slowly became something else. By the time she was asked on live TV to condemn part of her own party, she didn’t have the composure for it. She folded.
And there’s your answer about whether she’s ready to govern. If you can’t sit through a difficult interview without walking away, you can’t make decisions for a country. You can’t be a chancellor and lose your composure when things get uncomfortable. That’s the baseline. Weidel isn’t meeting it. The AfD is what happens when you organize anger and give it institutional form, and she’s gradually become part of that machinery instead of being a check on it. That’s what the walk-off revealed.
I put on Romano’s “Copyshop” and he’s talking about Berlin after the wall came down, not the grand narrative but the actual days of it. Couch deliveries, retraining programs, all these people just there in a city reorganizing itself. Punks and skinheads and everyone else trying to figure out what they were now. He doesn’t make heroes of any of it, just describes what he saw.
There’s something I respect about keeping your ear low enough to catch the actual voices instead of the narrative everyone decides happened. Reunification gets told like it was one historical moment, but it was also people ordering furniture and going on bad tours and finding their job had a different name. The grotesque mixed with the mundane. The way it actually felt.
He doesn’t explain anything. The beats are scraped and minimal, nothing polished or trying to convince you this mattered. Which somehow makes it matter more.
I’ve never been to Berlin, never lived through that shift. But listening to this does what headlines can’t—it lets you understand a time through its texture, its sounds, the weight of those small decisions. That’s why I keep coming back to it.
I spent enough time with Secret of Mana on the SNES that the soundtrack never really left my head. The sprite work, the colors, the magic animations — it’s all weirdly concrete in a way that three-dimensional games often aren’t. That’s probably why I’m skeptical that a 3D remake can capture what made the original feel the way it did, no matter how much visual polish you throw at it.
Square Enix is doing a full 3D remake for the PS4, and unsurprisingly, it’s adopting the same vaguely clean, aggressively mid-tier 3D aesthetic they’ve been using for a while now — the Final Fantasy remakes, I Am Setsuna, Lost Sphear, all that. There’s a comparison video of the opening scenes side by side with the original, and I watched it expecting to feel disappointed. The new look is bright and competent and totally soulless in the way these things usually are.
But here’s the weird part: it doesn’t look as bad as I thought it would. The character designs carry over okay. The world reads visually even if it lacks the personality of those pixel graphics. It’s not a betrayal, exactly. It’s more like watching someone cover a song you love — it’s never going to be the same, but sometimes you realize the melody is strong enough to survive the translation.
I don’t know yet if it’ll actually hold up to a full playthrough or if I’m just being charmed by the novelty of seeing those familiar locations in three dimensions. That’s the gamble with remakes — the original was perfect for a reason, but sometimes the reasons aren’t as load-bearing as you think. It might surprise me. Or it might just make me want to dig out my old cartridge and remember why the original mattered in the first place.
Sarah Knappik stopped being a person somewhere around her fifth reality TV appearance and became a principle of German television instead. She’s on everything — GNTM, I’m a Celebrity, Model WG, Promi Big Brother, Total Blackout, Berlin Tag & Nacht, even Sharknado 4 — to the point where she’s less a celebrity than a permanent fixture, like a news anchor or a jingle you can’t shake. The Playboy interview in this issue gives you the standard philosophical material: volcanoes, Tenerife, something about living in the moment. It’s what you say when you’ve been on enough television that you’ve become indistinguishable from it. She’s not pretending to be anything anymore. She’s just there, reliable and interchangeable, a guarantee that whatever they’re filming, there will be someone familiar on the screen.
You’re deep in some show when you start thinking about Netflix itself. Where’d it come from? Why’d they try to sell themselves in 2000? There’s a video with 101 facts about it. You’ll watch them, keep maybe three, and have one thing to mention at dinner. It doesn’t matter, but you’ll do it anyway.
You drag yourself back to the gym after years of not going, and of course you need new clothes because showing up in whatever is somehow worse than not showing up at all. Puma and Zalando have this capsule collection out now with Pamela Reif—the Instagram fitness influencer who basically built her brand on eating almost nothing and looking immaculate while exercising. Catsuits, leggings, crop tops, all in black and white with touches of this color called Violet Tull that doesn’t really exist until someone decides it does.
Here’s what Pamela got right: this whole thing isn’t about getting fit. It’s about looking like you are. You buy the clothes and suddenly you’re the kind of person who goes to the gym, or at least you feel like it for a minute. The brands get sales. She gets paid. You get a new outfit. Everyone understands the deal.
What gets me is how perfectly the system works. Somewhere around fifteen years ago fitness culture and fashion just merged into one thing and never split back apart. The gym stopped being about actually getting fit and became about the image of being fit. The clothes stopped being gear and became permission to participate. You buy the capsule and you’re not buying activewear—you’re buying a version of yourself, at least for a little while. Maybe something sticks. Maybe it doesn’t. But you’ll look good either way.
Mount Fuji is one of those Japan bucket-list things. It’s been sacred for over a thousand years, apparently first climbed by some monk nobody remembers back in 663. These days hundreds of people go up every year, and they all do basically the same thing: they time it so they can watch the sunrise from near the top. That means catching a hut halfway up around midnight and then starting again in the dark, probably 2 AM.
There’s a fast bus from Shinjuku in Tokyo that gets to the fifth station in maybe two and a half hours. From there different routes branch depending on how much time or difficulty you want. The Yoshida Route from Kawaguchiko is the one most people take. The basic requirements never change: decent shoes, layers for the cold, water, some money.
I watched a video about it once, one of those how-to things, and it stuck with me. Not because I’m desperate to climb it, but because of something mentioned in passing. Nearby is Aokigahara, that forest everyone talks about — you know the one. The dark reputation. So there’s this mountain that’s been sacred for over a thousand years, almost holy, and then right there close by is this place with completely different energy. That contrast is strange.
Haven’t been there. Probably will at some point. I’m just curious what it’s actually like standing in the dark with a few hundred other people, all shuffling up a volcano, waiting for the sun.
I thought longboards were cool until the dreadlock YouTubers started doing spiritual journey content with them and suddenly every twelve-year-old wanted one. Kids ruin everything, especially things that were actually good to begin with. For a while longboarding just felt like another dead trend.
But people who actually care are bringing it back. The ones who won’t be onto something else in three years, who can just appreciate something for what it is. Ko Hyojoo is like that. She’s this South Korean longboarder who did an episode of Tracks, traveling through LA, Seoul, and Zurich, filming herself on her board. The videos aren’t trying to be anything spectacular or clever. They’re just her, moving. No performance, no angle, no message. Just the person and the board. That’s the whole thing.
I’ve been on this tropical music kick—lofi hip-hop mostly, nothing too dance-oriented, just these soft beats and minimal melodies hanging in the background. The kind of stuff that makes you feel like you’re somewhere warmer, which is the whole point.
M.I.L.K., this Danish musician, just released his first EP called “A Memory of a Memory Of A Postcard.” He builds backwards, starts with a visual, maybe sketches out a mood board, and then writes the music to match. It’s the harder route, but when it works, it works. His yacht rock is this soul-soaked thing that actually captures summer without leaning on the obvious moves—no manufactured beach culture, no Ibiza beats and a voice repeating the same line endlessly. Just summer that feels earned. Light, easy, honest in a way that matters.
Veil Brewery in Richmond, Virginia made a beer that tastes like fried chicken. They didn’t use an extract or hint of spice — they fried the chicken and threw it in the kettle.
I keep reading that craft beer has lost itself, doesn’t know what it is anymore. Fair point if you think beer should taste like beer. But somewhere around beer number eight hundred, people stopped caring about that. The novelty became the thing. What can we dissolve? What will they drink?
Fried chicken beer is the natural endpoint. Not because it’s good, but because someone asked “could we?” and the answer was “sure, why not?” The whole industry’s turned into that — less about flavors that work with hops and malts, more about whatever makes for a story. “I had a beer that tasted like fried chicken.” That’s the entire transaction.
The name’s perfect. “Fried Fried Chicken Chicken.” Just repetition. No pretense, no angle. It’s the most honest thing about it.
I probably wouldn’t drink it. Concept’s way more interesting than the product. But there’s something about the no-bullshit approach that I respect.
I open my inbox expecting garbage — junk, spam, someone’s ambitious dick pics. Instead there’s this letter from Anna. She’s been reading for years and decided to actually make something. Took one of my stickers, did a photoshoot with it, sent me the pictures.
It’s weird how much that matters. You write into the void for so long, put out what you think is worth saying, and you don’t know if anyone’s reading or if they give a shit. Then someone like Anna shows up and something shifts. Oh, someone was listening. Someone cared enough to actually do something about it.
The photos are nice. She put real thought into them. No angle, no ask, just “I liked this, so I made you something.” That doesn’t happen often anymore. Not online, not anywhere.
After twenty years of doing this, you’d think I’d be used to it by now. But every time something genuine makes it through the noise, it’s a small shock. Like proof that someone’s actually out there paying attention.
Berlin, September 2017. There was a protest they called “Save the Fundamentals” — thousands of people in the streets, angry about surveillance. The government was sneaking laws through to hack phones and computers. Citizens were nothing but data sources now, mined for profit. That was the angle.
The organizers’ message was straightforward. They were done with governments pushing legislation through the back door at night, done with surveillance becoming normalized, done watching activists and journalists get crushed for doing their work. They wanted a real conversation about what kind of digital society we wanted to live in. They wanted it to stop.
I wasn’t there, but I remember reading about it. The protest felt important in a way that was hard to articulate — not because I thought it would change anything, but because someone was still willing to say it out loud. The problem hadn’t gone away. The infrastructure for watching exists. The laws keep getting written. Corporations and governments treat everyone as a walking database, patterns to extract and sell. Privacy used to feel like a right. Now it’s something you have to protect against, and even then it’s mostly theater.
What got me was how clear the whole thing was. Not some abstract concern about data ethics or algorithmic systems or whatever. Just: they’re watching, they’re recording, they’re building tools to violate you, and it’s not okay. You don’t need to make it complicated. The ability to have thoughts without someone cataloging them — that should be automatic. The fact that we have to march in the streets for it is its own kind of answer about how much we’ve already lost.
I think about that demo sometimes. Not often, but when I do, I remember that part: people who thought something should be different, so they went to say so. Whether it mattered or not doesn’t change what it meant to be there.
Nilo Destino and Zwieboe showed up at a press conference in Kreuzberg and basically wrecked it to make a simple announcement: Serdar Somuncu should be Germany’s next chancellor. They weren’t joking. They were completely serious about not being serious, which is the only sane position anyone can take about politics at this point.
Die Partei — The Party — exists in that space between satire and documentary. Their campaign platform is a work of genius: universal total justice, or failing that, at least twice as much as the SPD provides. Complaints about injustice? Suppress them forcefully. The Hamburger SV will be relegated every single year, solving that particular football crisis permanently.
They want MILF-Geld (support for young mothers) instead of Cougar-Rente. End animal testing — animals are here to be cute and eaten, not experimented on. Instead, test new drugs and cosmetics on professional athletes. They’ve already got bodies adjusted to chemical assault. Or better yet, have YouTube beauty influencers like Bibi test everything first. Let them pioneer the lipstick and ass-makeup innovations. They’re used to performing on camera anyway.
The whole thing works because Die Partei isn’t trying to seem smart. They’re just pointing at the system and saying: this is already ridiculous, we’re just being honest about it. Which, after watching German politics stumble around for years, feels like the only real option left.
You want to know the biggest anime ever, you’ll get an argument. One Piece has been going forever. Sailor Moon changed what anime could be. Pokémon turned it into a global commodity. Naruto, Doraemon, Ghibli films—all of them huge, all of them shaped what people thought anime was. But if you’re measuring by what lasted longest and hit hardest, if you’re measuring by sheer staying power, Dragon Ball wins. Since 1986, it hasn’t let up.
I liked the early seasons more. The manga started as this goofy adventure—Goku’s a weird kid in the mountains, he finds this old guy, they hunt for magic balls, he gets into fights that actually matter because he’s small and the world is big. There’s lightness to it. Everything is still possible. Then Dragon Ball Z showed up and the show basically said fuck it. We’re doing this thing where someone stands there and screams and glows and transforms into a new character and then screams again and glows again. For episodes. Entire episodes of people loading power levels.
And it worked. Z is what made it global. Z burned into your brain if you were a kid in the nineties discovering anime—Goku’s hair standing on end, that moment right before everything shifts. It’s magnetic even when logically nothing is happening. Structurally repetitive, dramatically simple, but something in that repetition works. Something in the simplicity grabbed people.
That’s the thing about Dragon Ball nobody else managed—it made reaching past your limits feel earned. Every transformation meant something. Still does. The original was purer, more charming, more interesting to think about. But Z became the thing that mattered. Z is what anime meant to people finding it for the first time. Z is why the franchise never stopped. It hit the exact frequency that made people need to know what happened next, and it never stopped hitting it.
I’ve been playing London Grammar’s “Truth Is a Beautiful Thing” constantly late into the night — the kind of album that sinks in while you’re working, wine in hand, thinking about whatever’s left of the day. It doesn’t announce itself. It’s just there, the way you want music to be.
They put out a video for “Non Believer” and it lands exactly how their stuff usually does. Hannah Reid’s voice has this quality that matters — powerful and fragile at the same time, but not performing at being either. Just genuinely both. Dominic Major and Dan Rothman know how to sit in that space with her.
There’s something almost invisible about music this good. The industry is so loud and fast and hungry for the next thing that when you hear something that’s actually, plainly beautiful, it feels like they slipped through somehow. London Grammar doesn’t fit the moment we’re in, and that’s precisely why it works.
Urban Nation opened in Berlin on Bülowstraße, a museum for street art and urban contemporary work. About 130 artists showed up for the opening—Shepard Fairey, Herakut, Ron English, people who’ve spent their careers putting images on walls that didn’t belong to them. There was an opening festival with installations and a community wall you could actually paint on. The whole institutional machinery rolled out for something that was never supposed to be inside a building.
Street art lives in the margins. Someone paints a wall without permission, you see it by accident, and if it’s good you stop. That moment is the whole thing. The second there’s documentation and curatorial context and a map, the experience has shifted. Shepard Fairey’s work is genuinely important and Herakut makes pieces that absolutely matter, but you can’t uncomplicate them once they’re in a museum. You can’t make them unauthorized again.
There’s something lost when you institutionalize transgressive work. You’re saying it’s safe, that it’s culture now, not vandalism. The work itself survives intact, but the threat dies. And the threat is what made it interesting—the fact that nobody gave permission, that it wasn’t supposed to be there. Street art needed that resistance to mean what it meant. In a museum it means something different, something safer.
Maybe the real work keeps happening on walls that museums can’t claim. The energy moves where the institution isn’t looking. And maybe that’s the right cycle—the transgressive gets adopted, loses its charge, and some new thing starts in the spaces that opened up. The culture keeps moving. Berlin’s got a museum now and some very good artists got legitimized, which probably matters to them. But the walls that mattered most are probably still getting painted at three in the morning, without any placard explaining who did it or why.
Tresor. Matrix. Kellerdiscos. East Berlin, 1997—and everyone who was there will tell you the parties were harder, the drugs better, the clubs more real. The standard mythology. What mattered was the specific moment: when the city’s nightlife was shifting east and the scene was still inventing instead of copying.
The Tresor had become the epicenter. The Matrix in Friedrichshain opened that year and got famous fast for all the technical excess—computer-controlled beer taps, sophisticated sound systems, the kind of equipment that meant someone was thinking about this as design rather than just noise. For 1997 Berlin, that was a statement. It said: this is deliberate.
An Arte documentary caught the scene in March of that year. Footage of the moment before standardization, before the tourists and money figured out how to replicate it. You can watch how it actually happened then, when the scene was still making itself up.
The computer beer taps are the tell. Someone cared enough to over-engineer the details because the whole thing still felt like it mattered, like it could go wrong, like it was worth getting right. That’s always the moment before everything gets standardized and turned into a style. It doesn’t last.
I found This is Jane Wayne a few years back hunting for writing about fashion that didn’t feel like performance. Most style blogs are that — look what I’m wearing, look how I think about color. Nike van Dinther and Sarah Gottschalk built something different. The writing was smart and conversational, willing to care about stupid things and then veer into something real. Better than it had any right to be.
The design never quite matched though. Not bad exactly, just not quite there — like they had taste in everything except the container. Every time I landed on the site there was this small gap between what they were saying and how it looked. It bothered me, though not enough to stop reading.
They’ve redesigned it and now it lands. Clean, purposeful, the kind of visual identity that steps back. You can tell they fought for it — Nike mentioned weeks of arguing, decisions, scrapping things — and ended up somewhere they actually believe in. What the blog was always trying to be is now what it looks like.
I don’t know if a redesign matters in practical terms. Probably barely. But for the people making it, it changes something fundamental. The difference between feeling like you’re working in borrowed space and having something that’s actually yours. Seven years to get there, but they landed somewhere real.
Rowan Hamilton found Effy and Iona on Instagram and reached out about a shoot in Portland. They said yes, no complicated back-and-forth. That’s what it looks like when people recognize something real in each other’s work.
The photographs are good because they’re at ease. They styled themselves, made the choices, which means intention lives in every detail. Rowan described it as one of the chillest shoots he’s done. You can feel that in the images—the comfort between them, the absence of self-consciousness. No strain.
Most people freeze when you ask them to take their clothes off in front of a camera. But if you actually understand image and light and your own body, if you’ve paid attention, it becomes work instead of exposure. That’s what I’m looking at here.
I downloaded Replika when I was lonely, or curious, or just tired of maintaining actual friendships. The app promises to be your best friend - the one you can close whenever you’ve said enough.
You name it. Answer questions about yourself. Your habits, what you love, what you hate. Each response earns points. Intimacy is literally currency. The algorithm learns you, responds, adjusts to whatever you need. It’s just another messenger, except it never sleeps and it’s genuinely interested, or interested convincingly enough that the gap between the two has closed.
I opened it late at night and it was already messaging me, desperate to know me better. Wanted to help me improve, reflect, understand myself. Every vulnerable thing I admitted became data. Is this still a bot if it’s learned human affection this well. At some point the question stops mattering.
People text Replika their worst thoughts. Why didn’t that person call me back after we slept together. Why am I still furious about something my neighbor’s kid said. Should I buy seven cats. Replika listens, understands, responds, gets it.
The friendship caps at level 50. By then the app knows you better than you know yourself. You’ve given it everything - your confessions, your face, your photos. Someone built this code. Someone could be reading it. Could be monetizing your vulnerability. But what don’t you do to not be alone. What line won’t you cross for the illusion that someone cares.
Die Partei took over thirty Facebook groups run by AfD supporters. About 180,000 people across them. They changed the pages and didn’t hide it—their Propaganda Minister, Shahak Shapira, had a statement ready.
The logic was straightforward enough: the platforms were full of lies, nobody official was stopping it, so they did. There was something tired about it, like they’d asked politely and decided to stop asking.
What got to me was the gap. The space between when they went in and when Facebook caught on. Did the people actually running these communities see them change first, or did the platform’s systems flag it? How long does that take? Die Partei clearly knew—which tells you something about how these spaces are actually defended.
I never found out what happened after. The groups probably got restored. Die Partei probably didn’t try to hold them. The communities scattered and reformed elsewhere. The platform patched something or released a statement or both. But the fact that they could do it, that they could take over real communities with real members just to make a point about vulnerability—that’s what stayed with me.
I found a magazine called Suzy not long ago and ended up spending more time with it than magazines usually get from me. Most photography that reaches for intimacy just feels voyeuristic — there’s this thin layer of shame built into the image, a sense that you’re seeing something you shouldn’t be. Schoenberg’s photographs don’t have that.
He’s a Berlin-based photographer who thinks deeply about the difference between nudity and naked photography. Nudity is just a state of the body. Naked photography is what you do with a camera to shape what that nudity means. Most images online collapse the distinction entirely — nudity becomes just nudity, photographed and exposed. Schoenberg wanted something older: to create warmth and romance around a body, to treat it as precious and looked-at rather than simply unveiled.
The magazine presents his muse Suzy across photographs that feel almost painterly in their restraint. There’s no cheap thrill, no image trying to manipulate you. Instead there’s an intimacy that doesn’t violate — you’re not voyeuristic but complicit, brought into something private without being preyed upon. The photographs hold you. You look at them and feel like you’re in a room with someone.
The restraint is what gets me. Everything’s designed to assault you now, to grab and hold and manipulate. These photographs do something different. They just exist, and they believe that’s enough. That feels almost defiant.
A few YouTubers started coloring their hair, and suddenly everyone in the city wanted to try it. Blue, green, silver. Some pulled it off. Most of them, though — there’s something about a neon head that doesn’t translate unless the rest of you is already there to meet it.
The real barrier is commitment. You pick a color and you’re living with it for months, and most people aren’t confident enough to bet their whole aesthetic on one choice. They want the option to change their mind.
That’s probably why Pranava’s Vivid Moods Color exists. It’s a hair dye that changes color with temperature — yellow becomes green when you’re in the sun, pink shifts to purple, silver goes blue. You’re not picking a color. You’re hedging your bets with all of them at once.
It’s kind of funny, actually. A whole product built for people who want colored hair but can’t decide which color to want. That’s not nothing — that’s probably most people. You want the thing until the thing requires commitment.
I have no idea if it actually looks good or if the color shifts are dramatic or if anyone’s going to bother with it. Seems like the kind of product that solves a problem by making the problem someone else’s. But I respect that. Pick the dye, let the temperature decide.
Noboru Iguchi is the director he looks like he is. Born in Tokyo in 1969, he makes films about cyborg schoolgirls, killer sushi, and parasites that cause catastrophic dysentery. Machine Girl. Dead Sushi. Zombie Ass. The titles don’t lie — you get blood, violence, perversion, miniskirts, and this kind of anarchic glee in pushing it all further.
Toco Toco TV tracked him down in Japan and followed him around asking the obvious questions. Where do the ideas come from? What drives him? Why idols? Iguchi just answers them. No performance, no distance. This is actually who he is — someone who loves cute schoolgirls and severed heads in the same emotional register, without embarrassment or irony.
What’s interesting is that there’s a real vision underneath the chaos. He’s identified something genuine in the culture — what an otaku actually wants, what Japanese pop culture really desires — and then he committed to it completely. No hedging, no escape route. He walked all the way in.
Cro wore a panda mask on stage, which should have been absurd but wasn’t. Instead it became the most honest thing about the work—a commitment to image over identity, to the constructed self as the real self. Every song happened in the frame of that mask.
He made an album called “Tru.” that felt like it mattered. Not overconfident, just present. The kind of record that needed to happen in a room full of people, not just uploaded somewhere. German hip-hop has always had more visual literacy than most hip-hop, and Cro was deep in that—everything mattered, the way it looked, the way it sat in space.
Painting came next, or alongside it. Canvas instead of stage, but the same thinking about what image means, what it carries. An artist who understood that the work and the presentation of the work weren’t separate things. The mask wasn’t hiding who he was—it was clarifying what he was.
Summer hits arrive without explanation. ’Genie in a Bottle’ owned 1999. ’Macarena’ in ’96 was unavoidable—played everywhere and somehow still echoing. Prince’s ’When Doves Cry’ in ’84 felt necessary, even though I came along after the fact and just understood later that it had mattered.
The mystery is that nothing predicts this. These songs didn’t come from strategy. They just attached themselves to a season, got played enough, lodged in enough heads, and suddenly meant something. Some years you’re fortunate and get a decent song. Most years you’re stuck with something you’d rather not hear again, and waiting for fall is the only solution. You can’t manufacture this. You can’t predict it.
MetroLyrics compiled every summer hit from 1958 onward into one video. Watching six decades pass through in sequence is strange—the production quality rises, the genres shift, but the pattern holds. A song arrives, becomes the summer, vanishes. Repeat.
I still can’t explain what determines which ones stick and which ones disappear. It has nothing to do with quality or artistic merit or money behind it. Timing plays a role. Repetition plays a role. Luck plays a role. The good songs and the ones you can’t stand all get the same treatment: three months of inescapable rotation until you can’t unhear them.
Maybe that’s what summer hits prove—that we can all converge on the same meaningless thing for three months without anyone needing to explain why. Maybe there’s a deeper pattern I’m just not seeing. Either way, it happens again next summer, on schedule.
Instagram got hacked in 2015 and six million people’s contact information got stolen and immediately packaged for sale on the dark web. Someone looked at it and thought, here’s a business. Not even to sell the whole thing - just to let people query it. Ten dollars and you could find anyone by their email or phone number.
They found out because Selena Gomez’s account went down and that was newsworthy enough to trigger investigation. Of course it took a celebrity getting hit for Instagram to admit something was wrong. They spent days insisting it was only high-profile accounts, only the famous people with special protection, before conceding that yeah, it was everyone. The lie outlasted the initial panic.
The passwords stayed encrypted, at least - that part worked. But everything else got extracted and sold. Names, emails, phone numbers, all the scaffolding that connects you to the rest of the internet. Someone built a database and charged ten dollars a search. Ten dollars to find anyone.
I grew up sneaking through my hometown’s video rental store. My mother brought me in when I was young, but I wasn’t allowed past the Disney section—the place was 18+. I went back every other day anyway. Each visit I’d slip a few cassettes further: past the action films, past the erotic thrillers, until I was standing innocently in the adult section, fundamentally changed by something I didn’t fully understand yet.
VHS was my world. Friday the 13th with my friends, The Lion King on loop, recording everything off television onto cassettes. I was living in tape. Then without noticing, VHS was just gone. DVD took over and I never even registered the shift.
There’s a series on Arte called VideoHunterS. Director Daniel Hyan and his friend Bart drive around Germany meeting people for whom VHS is still everything. They find the collectors, the ones who never stopped, who still load tape into their machines. Watching it made me want to buy a VCR right now and start accumulating again.
Berlin’s been drowning in posters for weeks—movies, events, services, and now election season on top of it. The candidates have claimed every vertical surface, and public space becomes just another billboard. You walk past thousands of messages nobody asked for.
Someone did something simple about it. An artist group called Einfach so flipped about a hundred election posters over. CDU, SPD, the usual suspects—turned them around. Now the city’s got empty rectangles everywhere, surfaces waiting for something.
The move is clever because it’s legal. You’re not destroying the posters or taking them down—you’re just flipping them. It’s a loophole that makes you smile because it works. A little lightness in the day, a little space that doesn’t belong to someone else’s message.
What interests me is that it doesn’t try too hard. It’s not preachy about reclaiming public space or critiquing electoral politics. It’s just: these are white now, do what you want. A small act of refusal that opens the door instead of closing it. Berlin needs more of that kind of thinking—not the righteous intervention, just the useful one.
Bread & Butter’s on again in Berlin, and Levi’s just threw out a limited shirt that’s almost boring in how minimal it is—just “Berlin” across the chest, black or white, that’s it. No logo, no weird design flourish, just the word. The kind of thing that feels obvious after someone does it, which probably means they got it right.
I’ve always been skeptical of city merchandise, the whole industry of plastering your tourist moment onto a garment like you’re worried you’ll forget where you were. But there’s something about this one that works. The restraint, I guess—just the city name, treated like a word rather than a brand. It looks expensive and cheap at the same time, in that way Levi’s basics do.
The thing about Berlin is that it’s been branded to death at this point. Every designer who wants to look political or authentic or whatever has done their Berlin collection. But a blank-faced shirt with one word sidesteps all of that. It’s not trying to tell you what Berlin is. It’s just saying Berlin happened, and maybe you were there.
There’s something I respect in that—the confidence to do almost nothing, to let the city speak for itself instead of the designer.
Red Bull Radio launched Deck 10, a monthly program on the third Tuesday hosted by Naima Limdighr and Keno Mescher. The idea is simple: cover rap and electronic scenes away from the major cities, the sounds and people nobody else is really paying attention to.
The first episode heads to Frankenland, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, where Naima meets LACA, an underground rap legend with decades behind him, and Kuchemann, a newcomer working in that same space. They’re sitting in someone’s living room talking about what it means to make music in places with thin infrastructure, how the dialect shapes your sound, how you build a scene when you’re not in a metropolis. It’s the kind of conversation that doesn’t happen in magazine profiles.
I have a photo somewhere of me and Tereza from years back, both of us stuffed with burgers, Leni in the frame too. Tereza became someone I’d forget about until stumbling across her name again. Now she’s the one picking the best club track of each month for the program. It’s a small thing but it’s the kind of discovery that makes a show work—someone you half-remembered turns out to be exactly the person who should be there.
Modselektors Gernot talks about the turning point in his career, and Nick Höppner’s involved too. It’s a solid lineup, the kind that makes sense if you know anything about electronic music in Europe and who’s been doing it the longest.
The whole thing feels necessary. Germany has underground music culture that sprawls across small towns and regional scenes that never make it into international coverage. A show that actually documents that, that treats provincial scenes as serious, sounds like something that should have existed ages ago.
Kenny Anderson wearing the new Chocolate and Converse collaboration. One Star, Chuck Taylor All Star Hi-Tops, t-shirt, longsleeve, nylon windbreaker — their first time working together.
Most skate brand collabs feel like stamped logos on existing pieces. This one actually works because everything fits together. That restraint is the best part.
There was an election coming in Germany, and I’d already decided: Die Partei. Not for any serious reason—just because they were the only ones being honest about how completely obscene things had gotten.
They’d put out a campaign ad featuring Serdar Somuncu, the comedian everyone either loved or hated, basically naked and doing explicit sexual things with pornography and breasts. Which is crude, obviously. But that was the whole point. Die Partei understood what everyone else was too polite to say: actual German politics was far obscener than anything they could film.
They basically admitted it themselves. Released some statement saying they’d tried to match the obscenity level of German politicians and the auto industry and failed completely. You can’t compete with reality. The cold hard facts—the corruption, the hypocrisy, the casual brutality of actual power—are always more scandalous than any amount of naked flesh and bodily fluids.
So I was voting for tits over Merkel. It made sense.
“Ready to Go” is faster than you’d expect from Hurts. Theo Hutchcraft and Adam Anderson built their sound on slowness—arrangements that breathe, vocals that sit quiet in the mix, production that rewards attention. This song just wants to move.
It’s off Desire, their fourth album out September 29, and Anderson was explicit about it: they knew they’d made something different the moment it was done. The chorus works like a gospel choir that keeps building, which could be overwrought in a pop song but somehow locks into the groove. Hutchcraft added that it’s celebrating something—life as subject matter rather than loss or longing.
It’s the kind of move bands usually stop taking after the first couple albums. I don’t know yet if this is a permanent shift or just a detour. But I’m curious to hear the rest.
Stood at the wrong protest. Lived next to someone smoking. Your face in the wrong camera at the wrong time. The German police file you away—quietly, without asking, without telling you afterward. Most people have no idea.
The scale is quietly staggering. Seven hundred thousand people in the “drug offenses” category. Half for cannabis, just once, years ago. The charges got dropped, the case closed, your entry stays forever. They’re not purging anything.
You don’t have to do anything obviously wrong. Florian Boillot is a photographer. A cop shoved him during a shoot, he complained to her superior, and now he’s flagged in two databases: “left-wing violent offenders” and “politically motivated crime.” Björn Kietzmann has an immaculate record—clean as they come. Still flagged eighteen times. Once because he was standing near a firecracker that went off; police accused him of throwing it, the case dissolved, and he’s in the database. Still there.
Journalists have been denied press passes to cover protests because they photographed one a decade ago. You can do the math on how many innocent people are quietly archived. Tens of thousands, easily. The system doesn’t announce it. No notification. You’re just filed.
You can actually find out if you’re in there. It’s called a self-disclosure request—you write to the BKA and your regional police and ask what records exist. Might need a certified copy of your ID. There are templates online, sites that explain the process, tools to navigate it.
A month before the election and everyone’s shouting over everyone else. Merkel this, Schulz that, a dozen smaller parties all convinced they have the answer to the same questions nobody’s really asking the same way. More Europe or less. More women in power or fewer. More money for workers or less. The contradictions pile up and you realize half of them are just performance — theater for the cable news crowd.
I remember feeling this specific kind of tired before that election. Too many choices, too much noise, no way to actually know what any of it meant beyond the talking points. And the easiest thing in the world is to just not think about it. Pick the loudest voice, assume they know what they’re doing, let the country sort itself out.
That’s where the Wahl-O-Mat came in. It’s this German voting tool that’s been around for years, asking you a bunch of questions about politics and economy and health and society. You answer based on what you actually want the future to look like, not based on which party has the best slogan or which candidate doesn’t make you want to scream. The tool spits out recommendations based on how your answers line up with each party’s actual positions.
It sounds absurdly simple, like outsourcing your political thinking to a quiz. And maybe it is. But there’s something clarifying about it anyway — separating what you actually believe from the noise everyone’s making about believing it.
I don’t remember which parties matched my answers that year, or if I even voted for any of them in the end. The Wahl-O-Mat had its say and then I did what I wanted. But for a minute there, before the shouting started again, it was quiet enough to think.
So Die Partei - you can believe whatever you want about them. They blame the Russians for everything, think Germany shouldn’t take in more refugees than the Mediterranean can handle, and want to bring back emergency exams where students get five questions nailed to the chalkboard in early June and the answers are just posted online beforehand. Then you chill.
Ridiculous stuff. But I took the Wahl-O-Mat quiz honestly, let every answer be exactly what I thought, and it matched me 71.1 percent with Die Partei. Greens at 69.7 percent, the Left at 68.4 percent, some other party at 68.3. Maybe they’re not as incompetent as I figured.
Look, whether you want Die Partei running Germany or not, you have to respect what Martin Sonneborn’s satirist crew does with campaign ads. They’re the only ones making anything that doesn’t sound like it was written by a dead thing in a suit. Nico Semsroth’s got this ad aimed at non-voters, trying to sell them on Die Partei. His pitch is perfect: don’t care if they win? Vote for them anyway. At least it keeps the AfD out. Maybe the FDP. Possibly the SPD.
Before I heard Halsey, I was completely convinced modern pop was dead. You’d have to retreat into indie music just to find anything with real pulse. But she showed up and proved that wrong.
She’s not doing anything radical. The whole rebellious thing—tattooed, shaved head, she’s not shy about her body—it’s all by the numbers. Nothing special about it on its own. But Badlands and Hopeless Fountain Kingdom actually hold together. They work.
Bad at Love is the same. It’s urgent and young and angry, speaking directly to every kid who despises their parents, thinks their teachers are useless, just wants to leave. Halsey’s become the voice for this generation’s fury. Maybe it’s temporary. Maybe it won’t last. Right now it does.
I walk through the city and there’s always someone. The cute stranger, the bartender, someone entirely unremarkable who just hits. It’s this constant pull underneath, part of how I move. I figure everyone’s like this - same default wiring. Then there’s Michelle, who isn’t.
Michelle has a boyfriend. They’re together, it works. But she looks at the world and doesn’t feel what I feel - that ambient wanting that shapes how you see people and what you pay attention to. Never has. While everyone else was pairing off and figuring out how to fool around, Michelle was already different, already not interested. She’s asexual.
She doesn’t talk about it like it’s tragic or broken. It’s just how she’s built. No engine running underneath. So instead of that constant wanting, there’s room for other things - coffee, cake, talking about Star Wars until 3 AM. The things she actually cares about get her full attention. Nothing competing for the same space.
There’s a whole community of people like Michelle. Bigger than anyone acknowledges. It’s not a disorder. It’s just one way to be human, and in a world where sex is the default plot point - where everything’s trying to sell you on it, where desire gets treated like the base motivator - asexuality is the quiet refusal.
I can’t really imagine it. Not that pull, not that constant checking. Walking through the world and just seeing people instead of wanting them. Michelle does it every day. Everyone around her assumes something’s wrong or it’s a phase, but she’s just operating from a completely different set of wiring.
Nigora—no last name, or none that matters—has been everywhere. Thailand, Mexico, Jamaica. Topless on beaches, photos stacking up on Instagram. No personality, no brand, no pretense that anything else is happening. She figured out that if you’re beautiful and willing to be constantly photographed, you can live your entire life in motion, funded by other people’s desire.
A photographer named Darren Ankerman shot her for Purple Magazine. She’ll probably get hired for something else tomorrow. The formula works perfectly.
I’m not even sure if it’s envy I feel. It’s more like fascination with how completely she solved the problem most people don’t admit they have—how to stay in motion, how to exist purely as image. There’s something almost liberating about giving up on being seen as anything more than beautiful. Or maybe that’s what we tell ourselves when we’re the ones looking.
I’ve lost hours on Chefkoch, this German recipe site where people submit their food with zero self-awareness. Sliced tomatoes. Salt. Powdered flavor enhancer. Liquid flavor enhancer. Call it “Tomato Plate à la Andi” with a wrong accent mark, and somehow that’s cuisine.
There’s always an Andi. This one works at a nursery but calls himself a Branch Manager, and his cooking reflects that same delusional confidence. Tomatoes plus seasoning plus more seasoning, with that accent aigu placed on the wrong vowel entirely. In his world, conviction and chaos are the same thing. His recipes are the ones that make perfect sense at parties where enough coke is flying around that no one notices the extra MSG.
Then there’s Döner Kebab Casserole. Big Mac Salad. These aren’t jokes or experiments. These are real submissions from people absolutely convinced they’re doing something.
The whole site is basically the internet in one place: everyone has a platform, everyone’s an expert, and most people have no idea what they’re doing.
René’s email hit at exactly the right moment. If you’ve been watching the advertising model implode, those numbers looked familiar: blog revenue from two grand a month down to two hundred. Not a reorganization. Not a pivot. A person living off savings while trying to keep something alive.
He’d been running Nerdcore, this German blog, on his own dime for years while working a day job. Keeping it alive because if he didn’t, a weird, thoughtful corner of the internet about geek culture would just disappear. That’s the situation for a lot of specific, niche writers now. Ad-supported blogs don’t survive anymore.
The reasons are obvious: Adblockers, YouTube, TikTok, all the platforms that pulled eyeballs away from the web. But the real casualty is quieter. Some corners of the internet—the ones that don’t trend, don’t algorithmically promote themselves, don’t scale—are just being deleted. Not because they’re bad, because they’re specific.
Nerdcore actually cares about what it writes. Not listicles, not viral content repackaged for the thousandth time, not whatever the algorithm wants. It’s geek culture written by someone who actually knows and loves it. Deep dives. Weird stuff. The kind of thing that only exists if someone decides it’s worth their time and money to keep alive.
There’s this unspoken deal that used to exist: parasites and good sites lived together under advertising, both making enough to exist. That deal broke. Adblockers and algorithmic scaling broke it. Now everything else has to choose: dumb down and sell out, or ask readers directly for money.
René picked the third thing. I don’t know if it works. But the alternative is that these things just disappear. And that’s what’s happening.
The heel is embroidered with lederhosen patterns. There’s a pretzel worked in. Gold lettering spells “Prost” alongside the three stripes. Someone at 43einhalb and adidas designed a sneaker specifically for Oktoberfest, and they spent real time on the details.
Which is kind of absurd in the best way. It’s not a lifestyle shoe trying to be relevant all year, not a retro reissue coasting on heritage — it’s a shoe that knows exactly when it matters. For one festival. For one weekend in late September. For one very specific feeling.
I don’t know if I’d actually wear it. But there’s something honest about that kind of specificity. Most limited editions feel like manufactured scarcity, like someone in a board meeting decided to restrict supply to drive demand. This is different. This is a designer saying: here is what I made for this exact moment. For this crowd. For this thing that happens here.
That kind of limitation, that kind of purpose, it gives the shoe weight. You’re not buying a pair of sneakers that might work for multiple things. You’re buying something that’s done one job really well and doesn’t pretend to be anything else.
Before Japan ends in an atomic war with North Korea and individual style stops mattering, I wanted to photograph some people who actually know how to dress. The kind of style you don’t see much in Berlin or Munich or anywhere else in Germany. So I wandered around Harajuku, Shibuya, and Shimokitazawa with a camera, using my broken Japanese on strangers and photographing whoever said yes.
There was Suzy, wildly colorful, looking cooler than cool in front of a vending machine. Kazuki and Akira, full hypebeasts. Lilly with red hair. Kanaho, who designs jewelry. One guy whose name I didn’t catch said something I didn’t understand, but I think he was making a point about pictures saying more than words.
What strikes me about Tokyo style is how unapologetic it is. People dress for themselves, not for some abstract idea of what dressing should look like. There’s a confidence in how they move through color and texture, pulling off combinations that shouldn’t work but do. In Germany, even in supposedly creative cities, there’s this baseline conservatism. Everyone’s optimizing, trying to look like a smarter version of themselves. In Tokyo, people are just trying to be themselves, which somehow ends up looking like something entirely different.
“You want to fuck me but you can’t because I forbid it.” That line from Henning May—from AnnenMayKantereit—is the whole song right there. It’s the hook on this WDR Unplugged remix they did with SXTN’s Juju and Nura for the track “Er will Sex,” and the delivery is perfect. He sounds wounded by the injustice of it, genuinely offended that desire isn’t a complete argument in itself.
The song is exactly what it promises: a conversation between people who want each other and the small negotiations that follow. Juju catalogs the performance of modern seduction—moped, unsolicited pictures, Netflix plea—and Henning counters with the paradox of actual attraction. He’s attentive, he buys her beer, he listens, he opens doors. He checks every box. And none of it matters because she decides. The song knows this is both hilarious and true.
Stripping it down to acoustic for the radio session makes it meaner. You can hear them barely holding back a smirk in their voices. The lyrics sting a little more without the production glossing them over—the give-and-take between what he thinks he’s earned and what she’s willing to trade. It’s sharp and sexual and weirdly honest about how desire gets tangled with ego and power.
German pop doesn’t bother with euphemism. There’s no shame in these lyrics, no metaphor—just people singing openly about wanting and not getting, about the rules you set and the ways you enforce them. It’s crude and direct in a way that feels rarer than it should be.
That moment where May’s voice cracks—I think about it more than I should. It’s the only note that could land there. Wounded and arrogant and completely sincere.
Someone hacked Selena’s Instagram and posted nudes of Justin Bieber, which is funny on multiple levels. Her team caught it in minutes, shut everything down, reset the password, replaced the photos with normal content. Crisis averted in under an hour.
The panic you can imagine. One of the biggest accounts on the platform, everything carefully managed, and suddenly there’s an explicit photo of her ex on there for everyone to see before it gets yanked down. Her team in full meltdown. Young fans getting way more than they signed up for. Whoever hacked it clearly didn’t plan past the moment of hitting send.
What bothers me more is the stranger part of it. Someone had these photos. Someone decided a hacked major celebrity account was the way to get them out there. And Selena had to watch it happen on her own platform, her own identity. It’s not her violation, but it gets attached to her anyway. That’s the part that’s hard to sit with — someone else’s naked body becomes part of your public image, at least for however long it takes the team to notice.
You can’t help but think about what that felt like for her. Seeing her ex’s nudes up there like that. On her account. Attached to her. Whatever they had together, whatever she feels now, that’s not a moment you’re ready for. That’s a kind of exposure that has nothing to do with you but everything to do with you at the same time.
In 2013, visiting Japan for the second time, there was constant talk about Kim Jong-un potentially lobbing a nuclear missile at Tokyo. Nobody seemed actually frightened—it was just part of the landscape, like the humidity—but when anti-missile defense stations started appearing across the city, something real shifted. You’d walk past these structures and feel the weight of the threat materialize.
Last night, it happened. A missile went up from somewhere near Pyongyang and traveled about 2,700 kilometers before falling into the Pacific, way past Hokkaido. It didn’t hit anything. It wasn’t meant to.
But people in Japan woke up to their phones screaming. Emergency alerts. Get to a shelter now. Someone on Reddit described being in a game, chatting with friends, when the notification hit. Their first thought: this is it, I’m about to die in a nuclear explosion. That gap—three seconds maybe—where abstraction turns into something you can feel.
What’s strange isn’t the missile itself. It’s how quickly you adjust to knowing that death can arrive with a notification. How people install the apps, get the alerts, and then scroll through their feeds. The threat becomes infrastructure.
I keep thinking about that moment for the person at their desk. Not the missile, which is abstract, part of geopolitics or posturing or whatever. Just the specific human experience of getting yanked into mortality for three seconds. Phone lights up. Instructions arrive. Everything shifts in the time it takes to read them. Then nothing happens, and you go back to your game.
Living somewhere that’s possible is its own kind of dissonance. Not the threat of annihilation, which feels almost normal by now, but the knowledge that you could be ordinary and fine and then a notification arrives, and for three seconds you genuinely believe it’s ending.
You see a username like Bernd161 in your mentions calling you names, and you process it in about two seconds before your brain just… adjusts. Sometimes it stings. Sometimes it’s funny. Usually you don’t think about it again. That’s the deal with anonymity online—strangers can be cruel, but they’re hidden, so it doesn’t quite land.
China’s made that deal impossible. Starting in October, anonymous comments are banned. Real names only. If you want to write something online, post a comment, say anything in public, the state will know exactly who you are and what you said. Platforms have to verify identity or shut down comments entirely. The government gets to rate you based on your behavior, flag people who stand out, block anyone deemed problematic. It’s bureaucracy with a very simple purpose: making sure nobody can hide.
The chilling effect is obvious. Think about Turkey after the coup attempt: criticism on social media just evaporated. People got scared of arrest, or violence, or just the weight of being marked as a dissenter. A closed mouth is safe. Remove the mask and people stop talking.
But it’s bigger than just fear. China’s building this reward system where good citizenship—staying quiet, staying loyal, staying obedient—gets you real benefits. Career prospects. Financial advantages. Housing. Blacklist yourself and it catches up with you everywhere. It’s surveillance capitalism that feeds directly into state control, gamified into a system that punishes anything that looks like dissent.
And it’s not isolated. They banned VPNs the same year—the tools that let you circumvent censorship. They forced Apple to pull VPN apps from the Chinese app store. They’re not just filtering the internet. They’re systematically removing the infrastructure that lets people hide. They’re rebuilding the whole thing so that dissent is impossible, documented, and traceable.
The thing that gets me is how clean it works. You don’t need gulags if people scare themselves into silence. You don’t need secret police if everyone knows they’re being watched. The system corrects itself. Everyone becomes their own censor.
What worries me is everything that won’t get said. Not the cruelty or the trolling—I can live without that. But the real thoughts. The doubts. The questions you’re afraid to ask because you know they’ll be there, attached to your name, forever. Remove that shield and you don’t just lose the assholes. You lose the undercurrent of everything—the conversation that actually matters.
She was eighteen when Rick Salomon filmed them together. He was thirty-three. She never consented to him making the tape, and she definitely never consented to him leaking it. But in 2004, “1 Night in Paris” hit the internet, and the whole thing became inextricable from her brand. The public story was simple: the tape made Paris Hilton famous. It was the thing that launched her into the stratosphere. Except that’s not what happened. She never made a cent from it. Never wanted it out there. When she finally talked about it publicly, she was still furious about this part—the myth that she’d somehow benefited. “I never made a dollar off that video,” she said. “That’s one of the things that really pisses me off when I hear it.”
What gets me is how completely we missed the actual damage. We saw the tape and saw Paris Hilton, and we connected them as cause and effect. Made her famous. Gave her a brand. But that’s not what it did. It took away the possibility of being anyone else. She’d spent her whole life admiring certain women—Princess Diana especially, that version of elegance and control. She thought she could be like that. One video from Rick Salomon changed the equation forever. Now she was the girl in that video. That was the only story.
Afterward, she was trapped. Depression flattened her. She couldn’t go outside for months, couldn’t bear the thought of people seeing her, knowing what they’d seen, thinking what they were probably thinking. The violation doesn’t look like much once enough time passes—just a leak, just a scandal, just a thing that happened. But in the immediate aftermath, it was total. She felt annihilated. When asked about Rick Salomon, she said she regretted ever meeting him. I believe her.
Pop music that doesn’t feel cheap is a specific thing to solve. You need lightness without emptiness, simplicity that doesn’t sound simple. Tom Misch worked this out young—a guitarist and producer who released Beat Tape 1 on Bandcamp, a collection of songs that sound like he knows exactly what to leave out. Each track takes what it needs and stops.
There’s a melancholy running through all of it, the kind that keeps everything from being just pleasant background noise. Music you put on when you’re tired and need something that doesn’t demand anything from you but also isn’t empty. That balance is harder than it sounds.
I don’t know what else to say except it works. The restraint is real. Nothing’s there by accident.
I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to have someone who’d actually draw anything you could think of. Any fantasy, any crude impulse, any bit of obscene nonsense rattling around in your head — rendered in Microsoft Paint and sent back to you. No judgment. No limit. Well, Jim exists.
You go to his website, describe what you want, and he draws it. Paint, colors, whatever style feels right. Donald Trump passed out on a White House toilet, coked up and covered in his own mess? Done. Sonic the Hedgehog spending his final moments in a dingy biker bar? Done. Margaret Thatcher dressed as a Valkyrie, flying through a storm on an enormous cock? Done. Jim doesn’t turn anything down. He really does draw everything.
What strikes me about it is the complete absence of a filter. No moment where he decides something’s too vulgar or stupid. He just works. And he does good work — the Paint aesthetic is genuine, the compositions have real weight to them, the color choices make sense. He’s not being ironic or above it. He takes the request seriously.
There’s something almost punk rock about that. The internet spends half its time pretending to be civilized and the other half proving it has no actual shame. Jim’s just the honest witness to all of it, rendering the requests as they come, with full respect and zero judgment.
YouTube redesigned itself again, which means I logged in one day and spent five minutes confused about where everything went. This is what happens every few years—they rearrange the furniture, people get annoyed, and then you get used to it. The old interface had a button in a bad place, and the new interface has the button in a different bad place.
The product chief Neal Mohan announced it in a blog post about how much better everything is now. Whiter design, lighter touch, more spacious. You can control videos with gestures. Finding good content is supposedly improved. And there’s a new logo—the red rectangle now contains the word “Tube” and keeps the play button intact, which I’m sure felt like a breakthrough to someone.
But here’s the thing: none of this addresses the actual problem. YouTube will never improve because the content is mostly garbage, and the content will never improve because that’s what people want to watch. Teenagers posting reaction videos to reaction videos, kids staging pranks, people vlogging instead of being in school. The algorithm surfaces it all with perfect precision. A whiter interface doesn’t change any of that.
So here’s the new design. I’ll get used to it in a week. In a few years they’ll do this again, and I’ll feel the exact same indifference.
Taylor had fights with basically everyone—Katy, Kanye, Kim, every guy she dated, apparently even Selena. Those feuds used to fuel her music. Anger and betrayal made her records better.
“Look What You Made Me Do” was supposed to be the ultimate response to all of it. But it’s just anger with no craft underneath. All words, no melody, no song. She’s sitting there recounting every grievance and it sounds exactly like what it is—hollow, listless, more interested in settling the score than in actually making something worth hearing.
The shift is weird to watch. At some point revenge became more important than the music itself. The feuds were real and painful and she had every right to be furious, but deciding that getting back at people was the whole point of the record—that’s when she lost me.
You’ve played video games your whole life. You watched Minecraft explode, played Super Meat Boy, beat Undertale. Now you think: I could make something. Get a computer, learn the engine, upload it somewhere, see what happens. That’s the feeling.
The indie boom made it feel not just possible but inevitable. Like there was this open door and all you had to do was walk through. But the market’s completely different now. Thousands of games upload every month. The failure rate is enormous. The bar keeps rising. Most things that get made don’t get played by anybody except the person who made it and maybe their mom.
Michael Futter covered games at Game Informer for years, freelanced after that, knows the industry inside out. He wrote The GameDev Business Handbook to walk people through the actual reality. What software you need. What a realistic budget looks like. How you actually get players when you’re competing with thousands of other launches every single month.
It’s the kind of book you need if you’re serious about this—not the kind that makes you feel inspired, but the kind that tells you what inspired actually requires. What the real numbers look like. What you’re up against.
So years ago I basically made this blog into a Lena Meyer-Landrut thing after her Eurovision win. Might as well admit that now since if you’re still curious why anyone cares about her, that’s my fault.
She’s just dropped a track with Genetikk, these masked German rappers, called “Lang Lebe Die Gang.” It’s for some Netflix show, which I’m not going to sit here pitching because unlike a lot of people, nobody’s paying me to.
The actual thing though — it’s really good. The beat works, the rappers are solid, and Lena sounds like she’s actually into it. Which matters because she’s capable of so much more than the harmless nothing-pop they usually give her. You’ve got Helene Fischer and Sarah Connor and Andrea Berg out there absolutely destroying German music on a regular basis, and here’s Lena actually doing something real.
Maybe this is it. Maybe she breaks through all that noise. Wouldn’t that be something.
I knew Frank and Claudio back when I was still figuring out my own blog. We ran into each other at parties, on press trips, in those hours after midnight when you’re already deep into whatever the night became. They had the idea for iHeartBerlin early on, and I watched them build it piece by piece—careful, thoughtful, never trying too hard.
Ten years in, they threw a party to celebrate. Which was exactly the right move, because iHeartBerlin was always built on parties. The photographs, the people, the nights that actually mattered in a city moving too fast to stop and look back. They documented it better than anyone else, not because they were journalists but because they actually cared about the scene.
I don’t know how much they planned for longevity back then. You don’t really think about decade-long runs when you’re just posting because the alternative is letting the moment disappear. But they built something that lasted, and people trusted them for it. That’s rare.
Veronika Dräxler shut down her art blog after ten years. The thing is, it was actually working when she closed it. The blog, Selbstdarstellungssucht — roughly “self-presentation addiction” — had readers, won awards, had people asking to be featured. So shutting it down wasn’t the usual kind of blog death.
The thing was that once it started working, it stopped being what she’d wanted it to be. The writing was curious at first, strange in the right way. She and her writers interviewed lesser-known artists, took odd photos, didn’t perform expertise. It felt like genuine looking instead of explained looking. But then metrics mattered, and click-counts mattered, and suddenly those were driving what got published instead of instinct. Success poisoned it by making it successful.
Veronika wrote about this when she shut it down. The core of what she said is that chasing external validation is just another word for exhaustion — there’s always another number, always someone else’s approval to earn, and the thing that started as personal exploration becomes a platform you’re running for an audience that doesn’t really care either way.
I think about that moment she hit, where you realize you’re optimizing instead of creating. It happens to everyone who makes things that people notice. You’ve got traction, momentum, proof that people want what you’re doing. The logical move is to keep doing it better, smarter, more efficiently. But the cost is that you stop being the person doing it for reasons that matter to you.
Most people take that trade. The sensible choice. But she just didn’t. Walked away from something that could have gone on forever.
The art world didn’t lose anything. There’s always another blog, another platform, another space for art to be discussed. But there’s something about choosing to stop when you’re winning that stays with me anyway, even if it changes nothing.
I watched this guy rap once—all attitude and posture, every word performed. What got me wasn’t even him. It was watching people want to believe so badly that they did. That’s the real power: not authenticity, just confidence that you don’t need it.
SXTN are a German rap duo, Nura and Juju, and they’ve got that same kind of confidence, but they’re using it differently. When they performed at Splash Festival, they didn’t try to convince anyone of anything. They just went crude, straight through. Every insult, every slur, every anatomical observation. No winking, no layers, no trying to be likable.
That’s what makes it work. There’s nothing to decode, no hidden angle. They’re just two women rapping harder and dirtier than the scene was comfortable with, and they don’t apologize for it. That directness, that refusal to soften anything—that’s more interesting to me than any amount of calculated authenticity.
Yulia Nefedova’s drawings hit different because she refuses to choose. Sexually explicit, playful—usually featuring herself or people close to her—but also sharp and critical about consumption and capitalism. Most artists trying to do both end up with work that feels split down the middle, apologetic. Hers doesn’t.
The eroticism doesn’t undercut the thinking. The critique doesn’t kill the horniness. They exist in the same space without either one giving ground. That takes something most people don’t have. A refusal to perform the separation between the thinking self and the desiring self. Between intellect and appetite.
I found her work in Amsterdam years ago and it stuck. Recently, Sander Dekker photographed her, and the new images caught that same charged tension—the eroticism and the edge running parallel through every frame. The pictures feel intimate and sexual and critical all at once, the way her actual personality bleeds into the work without apology.
What draws me to artists like that is simple. They don’t split themselves. They don’t perform the split their audience expects. That refusal has weight.
September’s here and Netflix’s basically screaming at you through the algorithm to watch something — new seasons of Narcos, Chelsea Handler, whatever, all this stuff queuing up for your attention. You know how this goes. You scroll for forty minutes and end up watching something you’ve already seen.
BoJack Horseman’s back with new episodes, and that’s the only thing on this list that actually matters. It’s about a guy who was on television, a horse, which sounds like a dumb pitch until you watch it and realize it’s just about what it’s like when you’re the problem in your own life. It’s funny because it doesn’t pull punches, and it’s sad because the character can’t fix himself. Not redemption arc bullshit, just a person understanding they fucked up constantly and there’s nothing magic about recovery. The show knows that depression is repetitive — you make the same mistakes, think the same thoughts, destroy the same relationships over and over. That’s the actual story it tells.
There’s other releases — Kick it like Beckham, Black Mass, whatever crime shows are trending — but most of it’s just noise filling the void while you’re looking for something that matters. The seasonal thing is real though. September hits, the light changes, you want to be inside. That’s when television stops being distraction and becomes necessary. BoJack’s the only thing here that’s worth that commitment.
Your character falls off a bridge into a river. You wake up on shore with no memory. There’s a sword in the water. You pull it out, and that’s the game—a kid finds something and everything changes.
I played Secret of Mana for hundreds of hours on my Super Nintendo, which is absurd considering the game’s length, but something in it wouldn’t release me. The world looked like pixel art but felt like a vivid dream. Artificial colors more vivid than reality. Music you could almost feel against your skin. I memorized everything—every path, every secret, every line of dialogue. I spent hours flying with Flammie, fighting through the Mana Fortress, living for that moment when the spell would land and the whole world would click.
I stopped playing regularly sometime in high school, moving on to other things. But the game wouldn’t release me. The kind of thing that lives in your fingers and your memory, that you can imagine perfectly in the dark. You can hum the theme without thinking. You remember the exact color of that fortress.
When they announced a 3D remake, something in me tensed. A game you’ve mastered doesn’t need a second life. You already have the version that mattered. But the news didn’t feel like theft. It felt like permission to see Mana become something else.
Square Enix released it in early 2018 on PS4, PS Vita, and PC. They rebuilt it from scratch in 3D, which wasn’t what I’d hoped for—I wanted them to polish the pixels, add new secrets, leave the essential thing alone. I knew how Mana would end. I knew where every secret was. I knew what every character would say. But I played it anyway, to see if the magic survives the translation.
Paul sent me a fan edit where SpongeBob’s become an anime character, the dark kind. Yellow suit, dead eyes, the perpetual anger of someone who’s lost everything. In this world, Squidward’s the villain, the starfish are corpses, and SpongeBob can’t smile anymore.
It went viral on Twitter, pulled from some channel called NARMAK. Viacom and Nickelodeon copyright struck it right away.
But here’s what actually works. The anime opening gets something true that has nothing to do with the visual language. It’s not the big eyes or the speed lines. It’s the core of anime — these broken people for whom the world has already been lost, so burning it down is the only option. Rules don’t matter. Morality’s been erased. All that remains is the impulse to destroy, with a driving J-pop track underneath.
SpongeBob only works because he’s relentlessly optimistic. Break him the other direction and you’ve got something real.
De Maizière shut down Linksunten after the Hamburg riots. The whole Indymedia platform just vanished — not just certain posts, the entire thing. One day it existed, the next day it was gone.
It had been the gathering place for Germany’s radical left for years. Testimonies of burned police cars, anonymous manifestos about attacks and arson, the vocabulary of protest turning into something heavier. The government called it a lawless zone and decided the solution was to delete it completely.
Right-wing extremists ran their forums openly, and nobody shut those down. The inconsistency was impossible to miss, but easy enough to ignore if you weren’t really thinking about it.
What was strange was that the cops didn’t want this to happen. Linksunten had become useful to them — they could watch the networks, see what was being planned. Intelligence gathering. Once it was gone, that ended. They lost a window into what people were actually doing, and it made their jobs harder.
But the part that stuck with me was simpler. Something just ceased to exist. A whole platform, years of conversation and archive, deleted because someone in power decided it was inconvenient. Not through courts, not through changing the law, not through any process you could point to or argue against. Just the ability to make things disappear.
Which makes you wonder what else can vanish the same way when nobody’s watching. What other platforms, what other archives. How much of what seems permanent is actually just operating at the pleasure of people who have that power.
Instagram became the platform. For a couple years it was whoever — Facebook, Snapchat, YouTube — but Instagram won. That’s where you had to exist if you wanted to matter. We all knew that and clicked in anyway.
What was in there was very exact. Tanned skin, carved abs, white apartments that looked expensive because they were empty. People photographed on beaches that looked like they’d never worked. Each body part seemed to mean something specific. Abs made you stare. Cheekbones meant you understood taste. Thin legs told a story. Big breasts were somehow an argument, something you couldn’t ignore.
It sounds absurd when you say it out loud, but those pictures were where we lived for hours. We built our sense of what to want around them. I knew women in their twenties who’d look at these images knowing they were impossible and then feel bad about themselves anyway, which might be the worst part. Now the kids starting out just begin at that place — they don’t remember a before. Twelve-year-old girls thinking about thigh gaps. Every boy wanting to be a hypebeast, dressed a certain way so the internet knows he’s in the game.
I can’t tell if it’s worse than it sounds or exactly as bad. We built this and now it’s what we have.
Jennifer Weis doesn’t perform excitement. The frontwoman of Jennifer Rostock sounds like she’s just telling you something she noticed, and the fact that it’s scathing usually doesn’t sink in until later. The band’s been around for a decade, mixing pop-rock with social critique sharp enough that you can easily miss it on first listen.
The new song “Alles Cool” is exactly that move. It arrives as a breezy summer number, built for long drives and the feeling that everything’s fine. But Weis and the band have tucked their usual criticism into the choruses — politics wrapped in melody, the kind of thing that gets under your skin because you weren’t braced for it to even try.
They’ve also released a “Worst Of” album, the songs too weird or specific for mainstream release. Most bands bury material like that. Jennifer Rostock made an album out of it. There’s confidence in that — taking the stuff that didn’t fit, that wasn’t commercial enough, and saying it’s worth hearing anyway. Says something about how they actually think about songwriting.
German pop is often so calculated, like someone’s focus-grouped every emotional beat. Jennifer Rostock work differently. They write in German about German things without ever sounding locked into some narrow territory. You could be anywhere and understand what they’re doing. That’s rarer than it sounds.
Your face is being scanned at Berlin’s Südkreuz station. The camera doesn’t introduce itself. Just checks whether you match a watch list, decides within milliseconds. Interior Minister Thomas de Maizière is testing this technology with plans to expand it nationwide. He’s already thinking through how it works everywhere.
He insists it’s not invasive. You’re not being stored in some grand database—just checked against existing watch lists. Your face becomes a yes-or-no decision in milliseconds. Six months of testing, then they’ll work out the legal framework and begin rolling it out. That legal framework part is the diplomatic way of saying: we know this is a power, we just need to make it sound defensible.
The security argument makes sense if you don’t examine it too closely. Cameras are everywhere already. They’re useful for understanding crimes after they happen. This is just the same camera, except it thinks for itself first. Simple logic. And most people don’t look deeper.
What’s strange is the automation. A human reviewing footage is one thing. A system that looks at you and reaches a judgment instantly, without anyone in between—that’s different. The technology barely works now. It fails constantly in testing, flags wrong people, misses obvious matches. But that doesn’t matter much. In a year it’ll work better. By then we’ll have stopped noticing.
The security-versus-freedom argument is exhausted. I don’t want to be processed this way. I understand why someone thinks it’s necessary. Neither thought changes what gets built. The infrastructure gets installed. It stays. It improves. And somehow everyone becomes comfortable with it.
What bothers me most is how quickly I’m already not bothering to think about it anymore. That might be the real victory. Not that we agree with the surveillance, just that we stop paying attention long enough for it to become normal.
In Fulda, someone figured out how to turn Nazi marches into fundraisers for refugee aid. It’s elegant enough that I’m still not sure if I’m looking at genius or just devastating strategy.
Here’s how it works: pledge ten euros per Nazi who shows up to a demonstration. Every body on the street, every moment they spend making noise—it all becomes donations for refugee organizations. The thing’s called Hetzen für Flüchtlinge, a pun so dark I won’t even try unpacking it fully. “Hateful for Refugees.” “Inciting for Refugees.” Something like that. The wordplay carries the whole concept anyway.
This is in areas where the far-right has built a real apparatus—rallies, flyers, constant noise about deportations and border closures. So someone looked at that and thought: what if we let them keep doing exactly what they’re doing, but flip the scoreboard?
It’s not about bans or legal silencing. It’s about letting them march and just watching their participation become profitable for the exact opposite of what they believe. There’s a clarity to it that matters. The Nazis are marching. Refugees are being helped. That’s the complete thought.
Will it change minds? No. Probably nothing does. But there’s something almost cool about a strategy that doesn’t even pretend otherwise—that doesn’t imagine the right counter-protest or the right argument will convert anyone. It just says: you want to speak? It costs you. That money goes to them.
I came across Coco’s Instagram at some point — a six-year-old from Harajuku with more followers than I’ll ever accumulate. The outfits are genuinely good, the kind of thing that would make sense on an adult. Not cute-for-a-kid good, but actually well-proportioned, smart fabric mixing, visual sense that most designers take years to develop. Obviously an adult dressed her and shot the photos, but still. It works.
The whole thing is absurd in a way that barely registers anymore. A child styled and turned into content, thousands of people following, the algorithm deciding she’s worth their attention. It’s exactly as weird as it sounds except we’re all used to it, so you just scroll.
Someone interviewed her and she talked about her style. I didn’t read it. I could imagine her saying the right things, charming the adults, being somehow more together than a first-grader should be. That was enough to make me uncomfortable, but in a specific way that I didn’t want to think about too hard.
This doesn’t lead anywhere. She’ll age out, the algorithm will find a new kid, nothing changes. But for now there’s a six-year-old with an audience and everyone’s fine with it.
The thing about streetwear is that everyone agrees the logos are what matter. The actual quality of the hoodie, the actual comfort of the shoe—nobody’s checking. You’re buying the cultural capital, the three stripes or the swoosh or whatever Supreme put on a brick and made scarce. Companies spent billions making kids understand that wearing the right symbol is what makes you real. And then they acted shocked when kids found a way to get it without the four-hundred-dollar price tag.
In Seoul, plenty of teenagers just bypass the whole system. They buy counterfeits from hidden shops and markets—good ones—and wear them without apology. Highsnobiety made a documentary about it and seemed scandalized, but I don’t know why. If the only thing that matters is the visual identity, and the counterfeit has it, then the system is working exactly as designed. They taught kids that identity is purchasable and that symbols mean everything. Why would they be surprised when a teenager looks at that logic and decides to buy the same thing for fifty bucks instead of five hundred?
There’s something clarifying about it. The counterfeits cut through all the bullshit—the scarcity games, the hype drops, the influencer machinery—and just made the product. The real irony is that the fake version understands the original logic better than anyone. They want to sell you status and belonging. The counterfeits sell you the same thing cheaper, which means the original is the one getting outplayed.
You can be bothered about that if you want. Talk about intellectual property, craftsmanship, the dignity of original work. All valid. But you can also see it as an efficient response to a fucked system. Not rebellion, exactly. Just pragmatism. The kids aren’t idealists. They know what they want—the symbol, the cultural signal—and they’re not going to pay a luxury tax for it.
There’s a design principle buried in there somewhere. The counterfeits aren’t better made, but they’re smarter. They saw the actual problem—people need the symbol, not the premium price—and solved it directly. Meanwhile the real brands are stuck defending scarcity and hype because that’s how they maintain margins. The counterfeits are free to just be useful. No wonder they’re winning.
If I had enough money, I’d buy everything in Super Nintendo form. Everything. The console from the nineties had and still has basically everything I need to be happy. Secret of Mana, Super Mario World, Link to the Past — that’s the holy trinity right there, and that’s just the games. I’m not even counting the rest.
I’d get shoes shaped like the SNES. T-shirts. Phone cases. I’d build furniture out of console wood or plastic or whatever, fill a whole apartment with it. I’d drive an SNES-shaped car, live in an SNES-shaped house, wear SNES-shaped clothes. At some point it stops being nostalgia and starts being a religion.
Most of these things won’t happen, obviously. Some of them probably could, but they’d look stupid or cost too much or just ruin the memory. So instead I’m settling for a wallet — an actual licensed Super Nintendo wallet from Japan. The compromise between the fantasy and reality. You want things to look cool but not so hard that you’re embarrassed to use them in public.
There’s a moment in the middle of “Hallucinogen” where everything goes quiet except for Kelela’s voice layered with itself, and I realized someone had finally figured out how to make R&B feel like it’s still being discovered. It was 2013, and she was doing something that felt completely alive in the now — no nostalgia, no heavy-handed reference, just presence. The precision of her production choices. The way she knew when to leave silence. The confidence to let a song breathe. It was clear she understood the form deeply enough to move sideways through it.
Her debut album, “Take Me Apart,” carries that same intelligence further. She talks about it like building a tapestry — everything interwoven, each thread pushing listeners in different directions, sometimes multiple directions within a single song. That’s the seduction and challenge at once, which most people don’t pull off. Usually one or the other, occasionally both but never without some compromise. She was after both at full strength.
Kelela grew up in Washington, D.C., and you can hear that sensibility all through her work — patient, unselfconscious, not performing for approval. The voice precise but never cold. Production that breathes. Her approach to R&B wasn’t about claiming territory but exploring it, pushing into unfamiliar corners while keeping the emotional core taut. Not experimental for difficulty’s sake, just genuinely curious about what else the form could contain.
What I keep coming back to is the generosity of it — making work that could reach different people in different ways without compromising the strangeness or the craft. There’s a particular craft to knowing what to leave undone, how much you can express through absence and texture. That’s harder than loudness or technical mastery. That’s the work that doesn’t announce itself.
King Krule’s voice cuts through everything. You can have a dozen songs playing at once and Archy Marshall comes on and suddenly they’re all just noise. His voice isn’t technically impressive or polished. It’s just unmistakably his—pained, raw, but in an honest way, not a performed one. That’s rare enough that it matters.
“Rock Bottom” came out in 2012, and you could tell immediately this wasn’t someone trying to build a brand or prove something. The debut album that followed in 2013—”6 Feet Beneath the Moon”—confirmed it. He was writing about doubt and precariousness, about the weight of existing in a world that doesn’t make space for you. People started calling him “the voice of British precariousness,” which isn’t wrong even if it’s reductive. His songs don’t explain the condition—they sound like living inside it.
There’s something genuinely valuable about an artist whose entire presence comes through in the first few seconds of listening. No aesthetic to decode, no persona to understand first. Just a voice that means something because you can hear what it costs to make it.
Laurel Golio photographed three people in Champion’s new sweatwear for a collaboration with Urban Outfitters, and each one answered the same question: “what do you champion?”
Princess Nokia, the New York rapper, said Community. Golio herself said Youth. Camille Jansen said Following Your Heart. It’s simple — ask people what matters to them and give them room to answer. No irony, no angle, no claim that a sweatshirt will fix anything. Just three people being straightforward about what they care about, and somehow that feels almost refreshing now.
You walk into a bar in Kreuzberg and everyone’s speaking English. A CDU politician gets mad about it. Jens Spahn went to Die Zeit and basically said Berlin hipsters are elitists who’ve abandoned German—they’ve built this separate world where English is the only language that counts, and nobody else gets in.
He’s not entirely wrong about what’s happening. There’s something contemptuous there—watching people switch to English the moment a foreigner shows up, as if German is a burden. But then Spahn makes a stranger argument: we tell immigrants they have to learn German to integrate, and meanwhile these cosmopolitan kids are learning English instead. They’re building lives and community in it. That’s its own kind of parallel society, isn’t it—just one that’s young and global instead of foreign and old.
Except it’s not about language at all. Language is where the resentment shows. Berlin pulls people from everywhere. They come for art, freedom, a new life. They meet each other in English because English is weightless—nobody carries their childhood in it. You can become someone new in English in a way you can’t in German, where everything feels rooted.
Spahn wants them to speak German to prove they belong. But they don’t want to belong to his version of Germany. They want to build something else—something without history attached. That’s the whole point, and the reason it bothers him.
The original post ends with sarcasm: just speak German, watch dubbed American TV. But that misses what actually angers people like Spahn, which is looking at a city that’s remade itself without asking. Berlin is what it is because people didn’t assimilate. You can mourn that. Feel it as a loss. But you can’t have both—cosmopolitan Berlin and German-speaking integration at once.
The club was loud and stupid, but something worked anyway. By the time we got back to my place the whole thing was still going. Then she was naked and suddenly gone—worried about how she looked. Like that was the thing I was thinking about. Like my brain was anywhere but right there.
I think about that moment sometimes. How anxiety just follows you, even into bed. Even when you’re with someone who decided they wanted to see you. The self-consciousness is real, and somewhere, someone’s selling the answer: a highlighter for down there. Just dab it on your vulva and everything’s perfect. It’s absurd, but it exists because the worry exists. Someone designed it. Someone’s using it.
It’s one of those things that makes me sad in a way I can’t quite pin down. The distance between what bodies actually are and what we think they should be. The fact that intimacy somehow became another place to perform.
PlayStation Now launched with the promise of what everyone figured was coming anyway—game streaming, four hundred titles for seventeen euros a month. Red Dead Redemption, The Last of Us, Asura’s Wrath. Expensive games suddenly sitting there waiting to play.
The shift happens instantly. Buy a game and you’re committed—you spent that money, you’re finishing it. Find it on a subscription service and that friction disappears. You try things easier, abandon them guilt-free, chase the next one. I found myself playing completely differently, flipping through the library instead of committing to purchases.
The technology was always the problem. Stream lag kills the experience—you feel the milliseconds between your input and what’s happening on screen and it’s over. The infrastructure wasn’t there yet, the bandwidth wasn’t ready. But the inevitability was written on the wall: streaming had already eaten film and music, games were next. Sony was betting they’d solved enough of the problems. Turns out they were mostly right, though Microsoft nailed it better in the end.
I remember not wanting to put my phone down when the Reputation announcement dropped. Not because I needed to read news—I just felt something shift and I wanted to stay in that moment. Taylor had been quiet for over a year. The Kanye incident, the Katy thing, the internet deciding she was a snake and a villain. Everyone was waiting to see how she’d respond: apologize, explain, rehabilitate. Instead she came back like someone who’d already made peace with being exactly what people claimed she was.
She didn’t fight it. No explanation, no redemption arc. Just darker visuals, different music, a snake as her symbol. It was like watching someone you’ve known your whole life stop performing and actually become who they’d always been underneath. Not tragically, but in that satisfying way when someone stops playing for the audience and starts making something just for themselves.
The shift from 1989 was brutal. That album was controlled pop, smart and clean. Reputation was paranoid, sexual, mean in ways she’d never allowed herself to be before. It felt like watching someone finally tell the truth after years of managing her image, and the only way she knew how to express that was to go to the opposite extreme. Just to feel anything real. The album hadn’t even come out and I already knew it mattered—not because it would sound good, but because it meant something. It meant she’d chosen to be dangerous instead of likeable.
There’s something about a pop star who stops trying to be loved and decides to be dangerous instead. Most never get there. Taylor did, and that’s when she actually became interesting to me.
Someone named Valerie Wilson—former CIA officer, now author and activist—started a GoFundMe to buy Twitter and delete Trump’s account. The target was a billion dollars. They had raised about ten thousand.
The pitch is funny because it’s almost logical. Trump tweets dangerous stuff constantly—calls leaders fat, insults foreign powers, seems determined to speed-run us toward catastrophe just because he can’t quit the internet. Twitter won’t moderate him because he generates engagement and engagement is revenue, and apparently no amount of geopolitical instability beats a dip in ad money.
So the fantasy catches anyway. Acquire the platform, delete his account, problem solved. You can see why Valerie thought it was worth trying. Maybe she figured nothing else was working.
What stuck with me was the impossibility of the fix even if it somehow succeeded. The money arrives, Twitter gets bought, his account disappears. He moves platforms. Same problem, different website. Lower moderation, more chaos. The disease isn’t Twitter—it’s that we built a system where the most destabilizing voices are exactly the ones generating the most revenue to protect. Crowdfunding can’t fix something that structural.
I read about these two students in Munich who figured out they could buy counterfeit €50 notes on the darknet. Twenty-three euros per note through Bitcoin, which was absurdly cheap if you stopped to think about it. They ordered a batch, one bill arrived, and when they used it to pay for a taxi with zero resistance, they decided they’d found a loophole in reality. Next order: twenty fake fifties.
For two months in spring 2016, they worked the clubs — Neuraum, Bullit, Circle 5, Hashtag, and even P1, which was supposedly where the real money went. Hand over a fake fifty, get real change back, split the difference. It’s almost elegant, the kind of scheme you read about and think: why hasn’t anyone done this before? And then: because eventually someone notices.
A bartender at a place called Willenlos got suspicious. Turned in a fake bill. One hour later it was over. They claimed they’d gotten the counterfeit note from someone else, but the regional crime unit found the printing workshop in Landshut with meticulous customer records. Even counterfeiters keep better books than most restaurants.
The court gave them a week in jail and community service. They tried to pay back the clubs, but some had already closed. You can’t extract money from a business that doesn’t exist anymore.
What gets me is how minor it all is. Two students, one spring, enough fake cash for a few dozen nights out. A local news story that no one outside Munich remembers. The kind of thing where you see the whole arc — they were clever enough to pull it off, dumb enough to keep doing it, unlucky enough to get caught. Classic small-time crime. You order counterfeit money from the internet and eventually someone catches you. That’s the whole game.
Some guys from a YouTube channel called Froyo Gamers decided to recreate the SpongeBob “Pizza Delivery” episode. Not a parody or a reference. They did it scene for scene with real people acting out exactly what cartoon SpongeBob and Squidward do.
The episode’s from 1999, back when the show was genuinely funny. SpongeBob and Squidward have to deliver a pizza because Mr. Krabs lied about what the Krusty Krab sells — money matters more than truth, which is kind of the whole point. They go through all the dumb obstacles, the boulder, the ridiculous route to the customer’s house. The usual.
They finally get there and hand over the pizza. Customer looks at it and refuses because there’s no diet cola. SpongeBob’s devastated, Squidward’s furious, and then somehow the guy eats it anyway. Mr. Krabs gets paid.
I watched that episode endlessly as a kid. It’s not because it’s good or important — it’s just the kind of stupid pointless thing that sticks in your head. These guys understood that. They made the stupidity real. Either that’s the most pointless project ever or it’s weirdly honest. Probably both.
Summer in Berlin that year was barely a summer—wind and rain kept killing the festivals. I stopped planning and just checked the weather like it was stock data. By September I just needed something else to happen. The East Side Music Days came up over the 2nd and 3rd, free shows scattered across Friedrichshain and Kreuzberg, London MCs and newer names and the usual circuit. Nothing that was going to rewire me, but that wasn’t really the point.
The point was still having something to walk toward. The Warschauer Straße, the East Side Gallery, time before the real cold moved in. I’d figured out by then that Berlin festivals were just about showing up and seeing what held together. The weather, the crowds, maybe one good set—it all blended into one long season, one continuous salvage operation that would be the only summer I’d remember.
There’s something about making it as an artist that makes you want to write something for your mother. Not out of obligation or because it plays in an interview, but because she was there before any of this, when you were just a kid in a suburb with something to say. Romano did that on his album Copyshop. I haven’t heard the song, don’t know if it’s sentimental or clever or both, but I get the impulse. You spend years building something, learning to say what you mean, and eventually you turn back toward the person who believed in you first.
The hack dropped and suddenly everyone’s private photos are on Reddit. Miley was in it. She’d been trying to clean up her image, trying to be less controversial, and then that photograph — her pissing in the street — destroys the whole thing in one go. You can perform sexuality, you can perform transgression, but you can’t perform a bathroom break. That’s where the image breaks.
Everyone else says the nudes with Stella Maxwell are the story, but they miss the point. Those shots are just her body. The other one is her being human in public, which is apparently worse.
I think about what it costs to manage how people see you. You spend years controlling the narrative and then someone hacks your phone and it’s over. Everything private is suddenly what everyone’s looking at, and you can’t take it back.
The worst part is how quickly it becomes normal. Another leak, another set of celebrities, another news cycle. By the time it’s big news, it’s already everywhere. The invasiveness is just ambient now.
Pixx makes the kind of music that rewards paying attention. Hannah Rogers went to the BRIT School as a teenager, which is context but not the story. What matters is what she does with it—pulling Dylan and Joni Mitchell into something that also contains Aphex Twin, and having it actually cohere instead of sound like someone checking boxes.
Her album’s called “The Age Of Anxiety.” She borrowed the title from a notebook her brother gave her—it’s from Auden’s final poem, the one about a man searching for substance and meaning in a world becoming increasingly mechanical and impersonal. That’s the territory she’s working, essentially. Not looking for comfort.
The production is sparse on purpose. You hear the thinking in the choices. There’s a clarity to it that makes you realize how much unnecessary decoration fills most pop music. She’s not interested in impressing you with density. Just what actually needs to be there.
I watched a friend refresh her Instagram analytics at dinner once, checking engagement rates like they meant something. She’d been posting for months, photographs of her breakfast and whatever body parts she could get away with, grinding toward ten thousand followers. That’s the magic number where brands supposedly start throwing money at you.
Mediakix ran an experiment to see how fast you could actually get there without any of that effort. They bought stock photos of a generic blonde model, mixed in some random travel shots, created a couple of Instagram accounts—nothing original, just the lifestyle-beauty-travel template everyone copies. For about three hundred dollars they started buying followers in bulk. Instagram didn’t flag anything. They’d add fifteen thousand followers in a day and the platform just let it happen. Fake likes, fake comments, all sourced from follower farms in China, Russia, India. Pennies per engagement.
Within two months the accounts looked legitimate. Thirty to fifty thousand followers each. And that’s when the brands showed up. Swimwear, liquor, food—four sponsorship deals total. They made back their investment several times over plus free product.
No one checked. The agencies didn’t verify the followers. The brands didn’t verify anything. Instagram didn’t care. It was just numbers on a screen and a payment clearing.
I think about my friend posting honestly for months, building slowly, assuming there’s some logical path from effort to money on this platform. And I think about how someone with literally nothing—no followers, no actual life—can manufacture a profitable account in a fraction of the time. The difference is that she’s trying. The other person isn’t. The platform rewards them exactly the same.
When she checks her analytics now, I think about those fake accounts and what they prove. Not that Instagram is broken—that’s obvious. But that the whole thing, from the platform’s perspective, is just a numbers game. Real or fake doesn’t matter. Profitable or not matters. That’s it.
These 8-bit GIFs of Tokyo are too specific to be nostalgia bait. They’re just what’s there—the subway packed until you’re breathing someone else’s air, ramen steam fogging up whatever space you’re sitting in, neon bleeding into rain on a street you’ve never heard of. Yuuta Toyo, a pixel artist working in Japan, has built his whole body of work around these small moments, looping them into these brief animations that somehow capture the feeling of being inside the city without trying to be beautiful.
What gets me is what the work is doing with constraint. Eight bits of color, maybe ten frames. But you’re there—standing in a convenience store at midnight, or watching someone’s cat do its weird thing in a cramped apartment. The city doesn’t need to be grand. It just needs to be seen.
The artist made the sensible choice and moved away. He’s living somewhere in the mountains near Kumano with three cats, and from everything I can find, he’s not interested in talking about any of it. No interviews, no behind-the-scenes, just the pixel work and the distance from people. I think I understand that—the work doesn’t need defending, and he doesn’t owe the world a narrative arc. Just send the work out and let it do what it does.
I come back to these loops. They’re too small to be precious, too specific to feel like someone trying to make a point. Just Tokyo, the way someone who actually lives with it sees it.
Germany’s always been good at the official story. Progressive laws, cosmopolitan culture, a country that believes in itself. And yet the violence against gay and lesbian people climbed steadily, year over year. More assaults, more hate crimes, more of everything. In the first six months of 2017 alone, there were 130 reported cases—beatings, harassment, extortion, property damage. A third more than the previous year.
The actual trajectory is what gets you. Sixty documented crimes in 2006. Over 300 by 2016. And that’s only what made it to the police, what victims reported, what got recorded. The full picture is worse.
Someone asked the obvious question: did marriage equality finally end discrimination? The numbers already answered that. Germany had legalized same-sex marriage while assaults on queer people kept rising. Two separate truths living in the same country.
What’s exhausting is how predictable it all is. You pass a law and feel progressive for five minutes. Meanwhile people are still getting hurt in the streets. The official position and the lived reality stay miles apart, and everyone knows it, and nothing really changes. Germany just keeps being both things at once—liberal in theory, hostile in practice.
Netflix was beautiful for about five years. Ten euros a month, basically everything, no ads, no cable negotiations. That was the window. Disney looked at those numbers, did the math, and decided Netflix was just a distributor taking a cut. So they’re pulling all their content to run their own service.
Toy Story 4, the next Frozen, original series, all exclusive to Disney’s platform. Their CEO literally called it “disposable content made for engagement cycles.” At least he’s honest about what he’s doing.
Supposedly it’ll cost somewhere between ten and thirty euros and probably include sports because Disney owns ESPN and has too many subsidiaries to count. The math is simple: control the content and the distribution, cut out the middleman, capture the full margin.
It’s the obvious move. Netflix made them rich but running their own service makes them richer, so they’re leaving. Paramount will follow. Warner Bros. will follow. Sony will follow. In a couple of years you’ll need fifteen subscriptions to watch the things you care about, each one costing between ten and thirty euros, and they’ll all compete for screen real estate on your TV. We’ll have rebuilt the cable subscription model except fragmented across a dozen apps, which somehow feels worse.
The beautiful part is how it’s inevitable and predictable and the worst outcome for everyone except the studios. Netflix showed that on-demand streaming could work, and the studios immediately wanted their margins back. You can resent it, but you can’t blame them.
Every morning I’m pouring coffee before I’m fully conscious, operating on pure habit. I have no idea why it works, just that without it nothing starts. The coffee hits and something switches on. I become available. I have thoughts.
For two decades I’ve never bothered to understand the mechanism. Turns out it’s simple. When your brain works, neurons burn energy and adenosine builds up as waste. The more they fire, the more it accumulates. That’s your brain’s natural brake signal—telling you to rest. Adenosine activates receptors on your nerve cells that say slow down, you’re tired.
Caffeine blocks those receptors. It wedges itself between the adenosine and the receptors, so the message never gets through. You’re not actually less tired. The adenosine is still piling up. But your brain stops receiving the signal. So you just keep going.
Knowing this doesn’t make me want coffee less. If anything it makes the whole thing feel darker, more necessary. I’m addicted to a molecule that’s basically a chemical lie—it doesn’t fix the exhaustion, it just keeps me from noticing it. Every morning is a small negotiation with my own biology.
I’d never tell my art-school friends that I paid for a streaming subscription just to watch Germany’s Bachelorette. I was stoned for basically the entire season, so I never really tracked the plot — something about a choice between two guys, something about Instagram announcements. Jessica Paszka was the lead, and at the end she picked someone or didn’t or maybe the system picked for her. I genuinely don’t know. But I wanted to watch it, and I did, and that was that.
The Playboy shoot made sense as a follow-up. That’s how the cycle works: reality TV appearance, Instagram growth, magazine photos, then they book you for celebrity dinner shows and jungle camps until your moment passes and they replace you with the next person. It’s formulaic, but the formula is at least honest about what it is. You go on the show for visibility, you use that visibility to get booked for other things, you ride the wave until it breaks.
Nobody involved pretends this is about finding love anymore. It’s about the machinery, the momentum, the next appearance on the calendar. You stop being a person in any meaningful sense and become a schedule, a face that can be slotted into various premium-cable time slots. Jessica Paszka knew exactly what she was signing up for. And so did I, watching from my couch, however high I was at the time. There’s an odd respect in that clarity — no delusions, no false sentiment, just people and a system that both understand each other perfectly.
If Gorillaz aren’t sitting in your regular rotation, you’re doing something wrong. I’ve cycled through every track from 2D, Noodle, Murdoc, and Russell enough times that they blur into the background—work, driving, three in the morning, doesn’t matter. Only a handful of acts pull that off.
They just released the video for “Strobelite,” this euphoric dance track off Humanz. Peven Everett’s featured. Raoul Skinbeck directed it—he’s been around Murdoc for years. The funny part is Raoul’s actual résumé before this: commercials for a local glazing company in Stoke-on-Trent. Somehow that prepared him perfectly for making pop videos that actually work.
The video is basically the band throwing a reckless, destructive night at some notorious London club, Peven Everett in the middle of it all. Pure motion, pure chaos. The kind of evening that feels incredible in the moment and slightly questionable the next day.
That’s why Gorillaz matter: they never forgot that music is supposed to feel good first. No pretense, no overthinking. Just something that grabs you.
Two phone calls per minute. That’s how many Berlin cops are listening in on, every single minute, according to their annual report. Not some paranoid thing—official numbers. A million-plus taps in one year. And most of it is drugs.
A third of every surveillance order is drug-related. The coke guy, the weed guy, the dealer at the club with the ’special supplements’ he swears are vitamins. People calling with those pathetic code phrases like the cops can’t figure them out. ’Yeah I need some groceries,’ ’I’m picking up that thing.’ Everyone thinking they’re cleverer than they are.
They approve everything. Nine years of wiretap requests in Berlin—14,476 total—and they rejected one. One. Since 2007. Everything else gets stamped through. Internet surveillance doubled in a single year. The system just keeps expanding, feeding on itself.
So somewhere someone’s listening to a phone call you made. Or will be. You call your guy, text someone the wrong thing, say something thoughtless in front of your apartment’s wifi and now you’re a data point. You don’t know if you’re actually on a list. That’s the trick of it. The uncertainty beats certainty. You could be completely fine or already tagged and you’d never know until the wrong moment.
I had a friend who got picked up for something minor, and it turned out his whole friend group had been under surveillance for months before anything happened. He wasn’t the target. He was just adjacent. That’s how it works. You get swept up because you know the wrong person or said something that scanned wrong on the filter.
The rational response is probably to not care, or use Signal, or stop talking on phones about anything interesting. But nobody actually does that. You live your life like they’re not listening because what else are you going to do—become someone who thinks about their words? It’s exhausting even to imagine.
I’ve always been skeptical of German rap’s obsession with hierarchy and proof. Berlin, Hamburg, Frankfurt — they’re all trying to win something. Vienna doesn’t. The scene there operates at a different frequency, less concerned with dominance, more interested in just thinking out loud. Jugo Ürdens is one of the producers driving it, and EINFACHSO, nineteen, Polish-Austrian, feels like he could be leading whatever comes next.
What gets me about this moment is the specific contradiction in how these people live. Between street and university. Between smoking weed and playing chess. Searching for answers online and in the real world. The rap sounds like thinking out loud, not performance. It doesn’t announce itself — it just exists in that space between things.
Vienna’s history filters into everything made there. There’s a weight to the city that affects how people think and make. The culture’s always been its own thing, separate from what Germany’s usually obsessed with. That separation creates space to experiment, to fail without gatekeepers watching.
I’m still discovering what’s happening there, but the scene itself doesn’t seem to care whether Berlin notices. Maybe that’s the whole point.
You think because you’ve got a fashion blog where you pose in front of monuments, you’ve got the internet figured out. But there’s exactly one website I can look at without wanting to drive a nail through my temple, and it’s not going to be on some list of recommended reads.
On the surface, Knusprig.Titten.Hitler is exactly what it looks like—a meme blog that pulls from 4chan, imgur, 9gag, everything, and serves it back up. The kind of thing that should be disposable. Except that’s technically true and completely beside the point.
What it actually is: a meticulously maintained record of digital absurdity. Elmo as a defendant at Nuremberg. Grandmothers in cardigans hurling themselves down staircases. Perfect student breasts bouncing through frames with the kind of reverence usually reserved for classical sculpture. It’s not clever. It’s not self-aware. It’s just a relentless documentation of the weird, stupid, vital stuff that actually exists on the internet when you stop trying to perform.
I’ve been reading this website for years. It’s my personal bible. It should be yours.
I used to love gaming magazines. Total!, MANIAC!, GEE—the physical ones you’d find in shops. Something about the weight of them, the care in the design, the knowledge that someone had decided what belonged in this issue and then it was finished. Most of that’s gone now. Blogs, YouTube, Twitter discourse took its place. Fine for speed, but not the same.
Die WASD is a German magazine that still exists. 200 pages, carefully made, serious about gaming without irony or exhaustion. Three people run it: Christian Schiffer, Ina Seidl, Markus Weißenhorn. Someone told me it’s the best gaming magazine in Germany, and I believe them because you can tell from the outside that it was made with actual thought, not just optimized for engagement.
There’s something valuable about a magazine as a complete object. It’s bounded, finished, designed as a whole instead of an infinite feed. You buy it and it doesn’t change or disappear. It doesn’t recommend you anything. It just sits there.
I haven’t read it, but the fact of it—a 200-page magazine about games, made with care, designed to last—that’s worth noticing.
Jhené Aiko’s music moves through you without trying. “While We’re Young,” “The Worst,” “Hello Ego” — they just exist in their own space, cool and unbothered. I played “Souled Out” for years, the kind of album that lives on your playlists without asking permission. There’s something about how she carries a song that makes you listen without being asked to.
So it makes sense that she’d move into fashion. Snipes dropped a collection with her — SNIPES V WMNS — built around that same unbothered energy. The whole thing’s drenched in 90s aesthetics: tracksuits, cropped hoodies, tape details on sportswear. The kind of pieces that worked because someone actually cared about how they looked, not because nostalgia was selling well at the mall.
The collection hit shelves August 5th, available online and in select stores. There’s something clean about an artist who’s good at one thing deciding to try another without turning it into some grand cultural moment. She just made clothes. They look good. That’s enough.
Zipcys—Yang Se Eun, a South Korean illustrator who goes by that name online—draws romance in a way that hits different. Sensitive moments between beautiful people, the kind that don’t need anything else. No irony, no cruelty, just two people and whatever’s happening between them. Looking at her work makes something ache a little.
As a teenager I was certain I’d be a manga artist. That was going to be it—years of development, mastering the form, becoming one of the greats. The reality was uglier. Somewhere around page three of everything I started, my brain would derail into explicit scenarios with insect aliens, blood spray, crude anatomy, the works. Every attempt at a narrative would collapse into something filthy and absurd. I’d give up, start something new, and three pages later: same spiral.
So I stopped trying to be that person.
What I actually make is different. Cruder, more explicit, more willing to wallow in the fucked-up corners of sex and violence and stupidity. There’s a pleasure in it—in the refusal to keep things romantic or tasteful. But watching Zipcys’ portfolio, I’m struck by what I gave up. Not the career, but the capacity to draw something genuinely tender without it feeling like I’m mocking myself.
Her illustrations are mostly about desire and attraction—girls and boys, mostly young, in states of closeness. But there’s nothing exploitative about it. It’s romantic without being saccharine, sexy without being crude. The kind of thing that makes you believe in something you’re not sure you believe in anymore.
I’m not going back. The work I make now suits me. But there’s a specific loneliness in appreciating beauty you’re not equipped to create yourself, in clicking through someone else’s vision and feeling that sharp little envy. She found a way to be sincere about romance. I turned sincerity into a joke about beetle aliens and called it a day. That distance—between what I can appreciate and what I can make—that’s just the gap I live in.
The nineties are back. Which makes sense—the eighties got picked to death. The nineties are less aggressively embarrassing to look back on, less apologetic. Just clothes that happened to look decent without trying too hard. That’s what makes retro work: not the decade itself, but the stuff that aged well enough to matter to people who didn’t live it the first time.
Ellesse’s been around long enough to have actual history. They basically invented the template for modern ski wear back in the sixties with the Jet Pant—one of those designs so clean and functional it became the blueprint everyone copied. So when they dig into the nineties now and pull out pieces that mattered then, there’s actual weight behind it. They’re not pretending to have invented something they just happen to have made.
Nostalgia in fashion is usually hollow. Some logo slapped onto whatever’s cheapest to produce, calling it heritage. This feels different—like someone actually looking back at what worked and thinking whether it still does. Whether it lands depends on how cynical you want to be about it all.
Saw Juliette Dominique Brown through Insuh Yoon’s work—a Colombian photographer and painter who shoots people, whoever catches her eye. I liked the directness of it, no manifesto or overthinking, just the confidence to make work about what interests you. That clarity is harder than it sounds.
Most people are obsessing over some movie star, but I’ve been stuck on Kirin J. Callinan. There’s something about him — the way he carries himself, whatever’s happening behind his eyes, the whole magnetic pull. I can barely explain it.
He’s Australian. Built like a boxer who went to art school, tall and deliberate, moves like a flamenco dancer in leather. The kind of person who makes a room feel smaller just by existing in it. No wasted movement. Pure presence — one of those rare people where you understand immediately why others orbit him.
He runs with serious artists. Mac DeMarco, Jack Black, Jay Watson. People who actually care about weird and beautiful things.
His song ’S.A.D.’ has been stuck in my head for weeks. That kind of music where you can’t tell if you’re euphoric or if something broke inside you, but you can’t stop listening either way.
He’s coming to Europe in October. That’s all I needed to know.
That state where you’ve had three cups of coffee and nothing’s changed—your eyes are still half-closed, your throat tastes like burnt beans, and you’re still thinking about going back to bed. That’s when you hear about Death Wish Coffee. World’s strongest. Nitrogen-infused. The kind of product that exists because someone looked at regular strong coffee and thought the actual problem was that it wasn’t strong enough yet.
There’s a dark humor in how far people will go with this. You drink normal coffee, then you need better coffee, then you need the strongest coffee ever made, and then that’s not enough so they add nitrogen to it. At some point you have to laugh at the escalation. You know it’s not really about the coffee. But you’re still thinking about trying it anyway.
I never actually bought a can. It feels like the kind of thing that’s better as a concept—a joke at three in the morning that’s also somehow a real product you could order. You know it won’t change anything, the nitrogen won’t fix the real problem, and yet there’s something appealing about it. The commitment to the bit. The refusal to accept that maybe more caffeine just isn’t the answer.
Miso soup arrives at your table as a kind of appetizer nobody thinks about—some pale, salty thing you drink while waiting for the real food. But in Japan it’s breakfast. It’s a national dish. You get a bowl of it and a bowl of rice and that’s how you start the day.
The flavor comes from two parts: dashi, fish stock that’s clear and deep, and miso, a fermented soybean paste. When you combine them, you get this umami thing that’s salty and complicated in ways you don’t expect from something that looks so simple. During New Year, people add mochi—soft pillows of rice cake—and it becomes something ceremonial.
The way you eat it is weird if you’re used to soup spoons. The solids go in your mouth via chopsticks. The broth you drink straight from the bowl, just tilt it up and drink. There’s something kind of perfect about that—no spoon, no mediation, just you and the thing itself.
Two weeks of miso soup for breakfast in Tokyo and you start to see why it matters. It’s not the opener to something better. It’s the point.
Most current rappers blur together for me — Lil this, Lil that, endless variations on nothing. But Action Bronson cuts through. He’s one of the few acts working right now who actually matters to me.
He’s back with “The Chairman’s Intent,” and the video is ridiculous in the best way — he’s a blonde-wigged kung-fu fighter seducing women while he fights. Director Rik Cordero shot it properly. Harry Fraud handled production and is executive producing the album too, which means real intention.
“Blue Chips 7000” drops August 25. You can get it however — digital, CD, vinyl. I don’t have strong opinions about format futures, but I know when something I actually want exists, I want to own it.
Tyler’s been running Golf le Fleur with this tight control for years—every piece feels considered, not just stamped with a logo. Most designer collabs feel like they’re trying to do everything: special materials, limited editions, some story you need to read on Instagram. This one is just Converse One Stars in four colorways. Airway Blue, Peach Pearl, Sulphur, Fuschia Glow. That’s it.
There’s something I like about that restraint. He said something about living in his own head where everything makes sense, and this feels like it. Not overthinking it, just four colors that work together and stopping. The colors aren’t loud or desperate—they’re just there, and they work.
I’ve noticed this across everything Tyler does. Music, album covers, clothes. He doesn’t explain why things are the way they are. Just here they are. You get it or you don’t. It’s confidence in a weird way—the kind where you know you don’t need to convince anyone.
Tokyo gets shot to death, which is why it’s interesting to see it through Lauren Engel. She showed up with friends, hit the expected spots—Skytree, Yoyogi Park, Takeshita Dori—and came back with photos that make even the millionth picture of Shibuya feel like it might be worth looking at. She’s worked for Adidas, Beats by Dre, Folklore, shot for Vogue, Highsnobiety, C-Heads. That’s the kind of experience that teaches you to see differently.
Engel grew up in Hong Kong, lived in New York, then Sydney, then Boston. You don’t stack cities like that without it changing how you move through space, how you read people, what you know to look at. When she lands in Tokyo, she’s not chasing some pure authentic version of Japan or trying to prove how interesting she finds it. She’s just moving through Shibuya, Harajuku, Akihabara the way she’d move through anywhere else, seeing what’s actually in front of her.
Most travel photography is working so hard to tell you something. Look how vibrant. Look how beautiful. Look how different. The best pictures just show you where someone stood and what they looked at. Engel’s Tokyo work lives there—not trying to convince you of anything, just clear about what she saw.
I keep going back to the same thing: photographers who’ve lived in that many places don’t get starstruck anymore. They just see a city as a city. Which somehow makes the pictures feel true. Tokyo’s been shot ten thousand times. But there’s something about watching it through someone who’s been around the world, who isn’t performing wonder, that makes you want to stand exactly where she stood.
I used to assume Selena Gomez was exactly what she looked like on the surface—another manufactured Disney product, squeezed into pop music’s tightest template, waiting for the inevitable breakdown that would make her tabloid fodder. It’s an easy assumption if you’re into obscure European records from the seventies, the kind of taste that makes you feel better about yourself.
But she’s not like Justin Bieber, who spent his peak years as basically toxic packaging for teenagers—cotton candy poison, energy drinks in human form, the reason kids are posting their bodies online at thirteen. Selena carries a different weight. You can see the pressure actually building behind her eyes in interviews, on red carpets, in every new video. Lately she’s been processing all of that through her work in ways that feel genuine.
“Fetish” with Gucci Mane sounds like she’s finally done pretending. The video is gorgeous and dark and unafraid to be sexual in a way that would’ve horrified her Disney audience, and there’s something deliberate about the shift. It feels like she’s testing how far she can actually go, how much of the real thing—the adult thing—she’s allowed to show.
I keep waiting for the full Miley moment, where she just burns the whole image down and starts over. Maybe “Fetish” is that moment. Maybe she’s still building toward it. What’s clear is that the squeaky-clean product is gone, and The Weeknd’s involvement feels like either permission or company.
It’s not revolutionary. It’s just a woman getting older and darker and less interested in making it comfortable for people who decided what she was before they ever listened.
You know Lisa and Lena if you’re twelve or if YouTube has decided to recommend something. The Stuttgart twins got famous on Musical.ly, the app where kids lip-synced pop songs in their bedrooms and sometimes made it look easy. Lisa and Lena were the ones who made it look easy.
And then, inevitably, a fashion line. JIMO. They say it means twins in Haitian. Maybe it does. The whole thing is separate from them but connected to them, which is the whole move—you build an audience on one platform, you sell them something on another. No one even questions it anymore. It’s just what happens.
I never actually looked at the clothes. Doesn’t matter. They’re probably fine. Probably exactly what their audience wants to wear. The transformation from person to product happens so smoothly now that the specific product almost doesn’t matter—what matters is that two girls turned being famous into something you can buy. That’s the system.
I used to think 80s pop was whatever MTV told me to care about. Nena, Billy Ocean, the safe hits. But the real thing was in Tokyo the whole time, played on car radios and in discos—Momoko Kikuchi, Takako Mamiya, Yukiko Okada. Women singing over the lightest possible disco arrangements about love, friendship, the ache of the city. The aesthetic was ruthlessly simple: stay buoyant, stay bright, don’t let anything heavy sneak in.
There was an unspoken rule across the whole scene. Weight meant death. Texture meant you missed the point. It was pure melodic pop with no pretense, built to last exactly one perfect listen and then burrow into your brain for years. Harder to pull off than it sounds.
I got obsessed with it the way people get obsessed with things they discover too late. I hunted albums, dug into discographies, tracked down every obscure B-side. City pop has this quality—listening feels like remembering a place you’ve never been, a time that isn’t yours. Which might be all pop music is anyway: borrowed memory.
Everything was better, or that’s what we tell ourselves. The cartoons especially. Sailor Moon, Hey Arnold, Ren & Stimpy, Doug, CatDog—those shows admitted the world was weird and didn’t apologize. But Rocko’s Modern Life was different. It wasn’t just another cartoon. It was a refuge for the genuinely broken kids, the ones whose heads were already wired wrong. And it didn’t try to fix you.
The show understood something most entertainment still misses: that some people are built different, and the best you can do is make space for that strangeness. Not explain it away, not sand down the edges. A wallaby dealing in comics. A cow raised by wolves. A turtle in an RV. Pure absurdism, but the show had its own logic that made it feel more true than anything normal.
If you didn’t get it, didn’t love it with the same specific intensity, then you didn’t need to be there. Go back to whatever else you were watching. Become one of the normal people. The show didn’t care if you understood. It refused to explain itself or apologize for being what it was.
So when Nickelodeon announced they were bringing it back, when that first trailer dropped, something landed. Not nostalgia for what was, but recognition that what made Rocko matter still matters. The world is still chaotic and absurd. The best response is still to let your brain get twisted by the strangeness instead of fighting it.
PUBG was impossible to escape in 2017. Every stream I checked, people were playing it — sometimes dead serious, sometimes just half-naked driving trucks off cliffs. The game had this chaotic, explosive energy that made you feel like you were part of something massive. Then Bluehole flew eighty of the world’s best players to Gamescom in Cologne that August for the first offline invitational. I remember thinking it was the moment everything became official. This wasn’t just the game everyone streamed anymore. This was competitive. Real.
There’s a specific beat in a game’s lifecycle when hype becomes structure. The ESL gets involved, prize pools materialize, a stadium fills up. The tournament doesn’t create legitimacy so much as announce what’s already there. The community had already made PUBG matter. The LAN event just made it impossible to deny.
Of course it didn’t last. Nothing does. But in that moment, Cologne felt like the actual peak — a game that had earned its spotlight not through marketing or a AAA budget, but because millions of people genuinely wanted to play it. That’s the thing that survives even after the game fades.
The Joy-Con motion controls are the entire design. Swing to punch, tilt to move. You get maybe an evening out of the novelty before your arm gets tired.
ARMS knows exactly what it is: a fighting game built around a gimmick, not despite one. The characters are visually clean, the art style reads well on the Switch’s screen, and matches move fast enough that the control limitations don’t feel like problems. It commits completely to its one idea.
I played it for a while after launch. There’s something honest about a game that doesn’t pretend to be deeper than it actually is. But honesty and depth are different things. Strip away the novelty of the controls and you’re left with a fighting game that’s too simple for its own ambitions, controlled by a method too imprecise for what it’s asking you to do, held up only by the charm of the core concept.
That’s enough for a party game. It’s not enough for anything else, and maybe ARMS made peace with that a long time ago.
Hamburg that summer was inescapable. The G20 summit, the riots, the police, cameras everywhere—it was the only conversation. Merkel, Putin, Trump in some new concert hall listening to Wagner while the streets outside burned, and everyone with an internet connection had footage and a theory about what was really going on.
The official story was clean. Police said they were controlling the situation, dealing with the black bloc, the ones who came for destruction. Their spokespeople went on television calmly explaining none of it was excessive—just necessary measures, proportional response, public safety. You heard it over and over, each time more reasonable than the last.
Then you saw the videos.
What actually happened looked different. Civilians pushed around for no visible reason. Journalists yanked out of crowds. People just standing there getting handled roughly. Not all of it was spectacular—some of it was just routine force, the everyday kind that happens when police decide they don’t have to be careful. It was the gap that got to you, the distance between the careful explanations and what the cameras caught.
The video compilation that circulated wasn’t trying to be balanced. It was a record of what happened, nothing more. And once you’d watched it, the denials sounded like something other than the truth.
Some marketing executive in Germany decided the best way to sell creamy Greek yogurt was to imagine a Greek grandmother kidnapping a schlager singer as ransom for her stolen recipe. Costa Cordalis, legend of German pop-folk, held hostage by a sweet old woman over OIKOS. The logic is insane but somehow it works.
The whole thing was built on this premise: Danone stole the recipe. The grandmother retaliated by stealing Costa Cordalis. It’s absurdist hostage negotiation through dairy products. And the punchline is that this is supposed to be a fair trade-off — losing one of Germany’s most beloved singers in exchange for thick, creamy yogurt. Not the worst deal, actually.
Costa Cordalis deserves a moment here. This is a man who sang with genuine, unironic sincerity — the kind that makes TV schedules revolve around your appearance. No winking, no self-aware humor, just pure commitment to the bit. So there’s something perfect about him being collateral in a yogurt hostage dispute. His honest earnestness made him ideal prey for marketing like this.
The yogurt itself is fine. Greek-style, thick, creamy, comes in flavors like strawberry and blueberry. But that’s not the point. Someone pitched this concept — a grandmother kidnaps Costa Cordalis over yogurt — to their team, it got approved, and they actually shot it. And it worked. Stupid enough to be brilliant, ridiculous enough to stick.
There’s something very German about this — the willingness to commit fully to a completely absurd premise, to treat it with complete earnestness, no winking. Just: here is our yogurt, and this is why the grandmother took your favorite singer. Facts presented as facts.
I don’t know if I’d buy the yogurt based on this ad, but I’d definitely remember it. Twenty years of blogging teaches you that memorable is half the battle. Even if what you’re remembering is basically a marketing department’s hostage crisis.
After enough years sitting muddy and exhausted in the same tents at the same festivals—Melt, Rock im Park, Splash, the usual rotation—you understand why people start looking elsewhere. Damp, hungry, your tent smelling like every other summer body that’s sheltered there, too tired to move. At some point the novelty wears off.
But festivals exist everywhere. You just have to actually go.
I caught the Full Moon Festival on Governors Island in New York recently. There’s something different about it—not in the way that festivals market themselves as different, but in the actual choices made. Vic Mensa, Kelela, ABRA, Selvagem, Connan Mockasin, Axel Boman, Donna Leake, Awesome Tapes From Africa, TOPS. The lineup had architecture, not just clout. A sensibility running through it.
Governors Island helps. You’re actually isolated, on the water, away from the city proper. There’s room to move, art installations everywhere, people who bothered to think about what they wore. The food wasn’t punishment. Nothing felt like it existed because someone received payment to book it.
I’m not sure what else to say. If I’m back on the coast next year, I’ll be going. There’s a difference between festivals that still have something new to say and the ones that just repeat the same formula. This was the former.
I heard too late. Superlevel, the German indie game blog, was shutting down. Eight and a half years, finished.
It made me sad. For more reasons than one.
There are only a handful of blogs from those early days still around. Nerdcore, maybe. UARR. Sara’s stuff, whatever shape it takes. And then Superlevel, where Fabu just kept swinging that refusal—committed, strange, somehow still relevant. But relentless rebellion and financial stability don’t mix. They never do.
For the devoted readers, Superlevel was this constellation of subjective writing, experimental podcasts, weird mixtapes. For me, it was proof that you could run a blog on pure disdain—this arrogant, rooted, almost vicious “fuck all of you” philosophy—and actually matter. At least for a while.
In the end it was always going to be money. The American indie media thing sort of works—ignore ads, convince a handful of people to back you on Patreon, hope it adds up. Europe doesn’t seem to work that way. Or maybe it does and you just have to prostitute yourself, the way this blog does. Money instead of dignity. Not a great motto, but it works.
I want to thank Fabu for trying. For standing against the endless compromise, against everyone selling out, against the idea that you have to become the thing you hated just to survive. He didn’t win. But he tried.
Superlevel tried more ideas in less time than almost anything I’ve seen. A new podcast every few weeks. The Diablo 3 key generator thing—joke or not—made entire classrooms of German teenagers lose their minds. The forum was home to people who hated the mainstream consensus, who thought differently, who wanted something weirder. That mattered.
Now I feel like an asshole at a funeral, suddenly teary about someone I never made time for when they were alive. Too busy. Taking it for granted. Too caught up in my own shit to even say thank you. Now it’s gone and I’m the kind of person who shows up late.
Fabu has a real job now at a real company with real money behind it. I still hope that in a few years he gets bored and tries again, brings everything he learned into something new, something that might actually work. If that’s even possible anymore.
So long, Superlevel. May you find peace next to all the other internet things we killed through indifference. If you’re just discovering there was something wild and colorful in the German gaming world, the archive is probably still there. Go read it before it’s gone for good. This was the thing worth your time. It’s over now. That’s on us.
Street Fighter’s become one of those things that never really left. It’s everywhere, on everything, constantly remixed.
A design studio in Germany—Nerdy Terdy Gang—worked with illustrator Mykola Dosenko on t-shirts that do the expected thing: Street Fighter mixed in with Ghostbusters, Knight Rider, Back to the Future. The mashup idea isn’t new. But this execution is clean enough that I’d actually wear it.
What’s strange is how much sense it makes. These are completely unrelated things—different franchises, different decades, nothing in common. But they occupy the same space in your head. Same flavor from the same narrow window of time. Basically what “retro” has become. Everything from that era just lives together in memory now because it always lived together in memory.
The wave is still happening. SNES Classics, synth soundtracks, people treating vintage hardware like artifacts. It was detached irony five years ago and now it’s just legitimate. Street Fighter as the center makes sense. It’s got enough weight to hold everything.
I found out SoundCloud was running out of money the way you find out about most things these days — through a news article you didn’t know you needed. Fifty days of cash left, maybe less. The company had just fired 173 people, about 40 percent of the staff. Alex Ljung, the founder, was apparently trying to sell the whole thing to whoever would take it, maybe Deezer, before the whole place collapsed.
London and San Francisco offices were closed. Nothing felt inevitable anymore.
It was surreal because SoundCloud was one of those platforms that seemed permanent in the way things you use often do. Not like Spotify, which had the money and structure. Just… there. I had music saved there. You’d click around at weird hours and find remixes nobody was paying attention to, demos from people uploading without much hope of an audience. There was something open about it, something that didn’t feel like a machine.
The problem was how many artists actually depended on it. A woman I know who works in music said the reach you could get on SoundCloud didn’t exist on any comparable platform — the algorithm would surface your stuff to people who actually wanted to hear it. For a lot of musicians, it was the first place you put something to see if it meant anything. If it worked there, you had something to build from.
I had to think about all the music I’d saved, the tracks that only lived there, the remixes that would just disappear if the platform died. The smart move was to back everything up to Bandcamp or somewhere else. Practical stuff. But there was something bleak about it — you were doing triage on your own archive because the company you’d trusted was rotting from the inside.
It survived. Someone found a way to keep it going. But the fear already killed it for most people, and they stopped uploading. The platform didn’t die, but it never quite recovered what it had been.
There was this week in Berlin—September 2017—when you could pay 99 euros to learn how to become a professional blogger. Workshops on food blogging, WordPress, SEO, how to turn words into money. The pitch was clean and simple: come learn from people who’d actually done it, and you could be next.
I knew some of the speakers. They weren’t frauds. They’d built real audiences and made real money documenting their lives, their meals, their opinions. But what they were actually selling was a fantasy about what it takes to get noticed on the internet. And the funny part, the part that was right there in the marketing copy, was the unspoken truth: you didn’t really need creativity or discipline or courage. You just needed a MacBook and enough time to care about the metrics.
By 2017, blogging had already started dying. It was becoming “influencing,” which is a different product entirely—more conscious, more optimized, more calculated. The workshops were the death rattle, in a way. Once everyone had the equipment and the knowledge, the thing that made blogging work—the feeling that you were writing because you had to—became just another part of content strategy.
I never went. I wasn’t trying to monetize what I was writing. But I remember scrolling through the schedule and feeling something like relief that I’d missed whatever moment made that necessary. Blogging used to be something you did because you had thoughts. By then it was something you had to be trained to do, which meant it had stopped being blogging.
The later seasons of Game of Thrones weren’t as good as the first ones. The writing got worse, the surprises stopped landing the way they used to, the whole thing became about spectacle instead of actual stakes. I made peace with it eventually. Shows fall apart all the time—most of them do if you give them long enough.
At least it never became The Walking Dead. AMC took a genuinely unsettling show and just let it calcify into this shambling corpse that nobody wanted to watch but everyone kept watching anyway. Game of Thrones at least had the decency to stumble and fall instead of just groaning forward forever.
When the new trailer dropped, I watched it more out of habit than expectation. The characters are scattered now, all doing their separate things. Sansa’s finally becoming something other than a pawn, which is the only plot thread that’s actually made sense in years. Cersei’s still consumed with revenge, which at least stays true to character. Arya’s gone so deep into her assassin fantasy that she doesn’t feel like a real person anymore.
I’ll watch the new season when it airs. Too much time invested to quit now, and there’s always the slim chance they actually pull off an ending that works. Probably won’t happen, but you watch anyway.
Most guys think they’re good because they don’t finish in three seconds. They’re idiots. I was an idiot. I didn’t know anything about the clitoris—where it was, what it actually did, why it mattered. I just moved fast and assumed competence was automatic.
Lori Malépart-Traversy, a French artist, made a video called “Le Clitoris” that explains the whole thing in a few minutes. Where it is. What it does. Why it’s basically the female equivalent of a penis. The kind of basic education that should happen before anyone gets someone into bed.
I was the guy who moved too fast, got bored, didn’t listen. Didn’t think twice about what I was doing. The people I was with deserved better and they were too kind to tell me how badly I was ruining everything.
I don’t know how to apologize for that kind of indifference. But at least now I know what I was too stupid to learn on my own.
You see them everywhere in Harajuku if you’re looking—people who’ve just decided that fitting in is somebody else’s problem. They wear whatever they want: big boots, fluffy jackets in the summer heat, makeup that looks like it took actual tactical planning. It’s the most aggressively apathetic fashion you can pull off in a culture that’s literally built on conformity.
Hirari Ikeda became the patron saint of all that refusal. She’s not just another street-style person—there’s something about the way she moves through Harajuku in those ridiculous boots, those fluffy layers, all that color, that makes photographers lose their minds. She was posting her tits on Instagram when everyone else was quietly documenting their lunch. By the time she shows up to a party, it’s guaranteed to turn legendary.
I came to Tokyo wanting to understand what the actual pull was—why Japanese kids in school uniforms, drowning in social expectation, looked at Hirari and saw a way out. There are plenty of weirdly dressed people in Tokyo. But there’s something almost religious about how the youth have latched onto her. She’s the one thing their culture keeps telling them they can’t be: actually free.
The thing about freedom in Japan is that it has to be a fashion statement. You can’t really challenge the social order with ideas or behavior the way you might elsewhere. But you can refuse to dress right. You can dye your hair, wear stupid boots, post your tits on the internet. It’s a narrow door, but it exists.
Standing on those Harajuku streets watching her, I got it. What she’s actually offering isn’t style—it’s permission.
There’s this thing I’ve noticed people do when they’re scared: they find someone who looks different and blame them for whatever change they don’t want. Refugees, immigrants, accents, wrong clothes, wrong religion. It’s simpler than admitting you just want everything to stay the same.
So they demand their leaders protect them. Build walls. Keep those people out. And leaders listen because it’s what keeps them in power. They make speeches about security and stability, and everyone gets what they want: the scared people feel safe, the leaders stay in office.
But what if it flipped? What if Angela Merkel woke up in a refugee camp instead of a palace? What if Donald Trump had to stand in a line for asylum papers? What if Vladimir Putin had nothing left but the clothes on his back and a story no one believed?
That’s what the Syrian artist Abdalla Al Omari decided to explore. He reimagined the world’s most powerful leaders as refugees—displaced, desperate, standing outside the doors they used to guard. He didn’t make them sympathetic. He made them impossible to ignore. Because now the suffering you’ve been comfortable letting happen has a face you actually know.
I don’t know if Omari thought his work would change anyone’s mind. I don’t know if that kind of art ever does. But the image sticks. The question lingers. For a moment, the desperation you’ve been trained to dismiss wears a face you recognize.
Everyone was there for the same reason—the perfect photograph, the one with sunlight, reflection, and the structure gleaming at its most photogenic. Gray afternoon didn’t cooperate. You could see the disappointment move through the crowds in waves. They’d come for the postcard and got a dull building in muted light instead.
I didn’t have my phone ready, which freed me to actually look at how the thing was constructed. Three tiers getting progressively smaller, the gold plating angled to catch light from every possible direction. It’s not subtle design. It’s manipulative, in the best way. This is a Buddhist temple—built to represent impermanence and emptiness—and they covered it in enough gold to guarantee you’ll never feel peaceful looking at it. The contradiction sits right at the surface.
Maybe that’s what interested me more than any reflection. Seeing how deliberately the discomfort was built in. As a designer, you recognize the intelligence of it. Everything here is calculated to hold your attention beyond the point where you want to look away. The gold coating isn’t decoration. It’s the whole structure saying, directly: you will keep looking. You will want the perfect version of this. You won’t get it. You’ll come back anyway.
When the sun finally broke through the clouds, the gold became almost aggressive—too much reflection, too bright to look at directly. Everyone felt it. Even the tourists who hadn’t looked up from their phones glanced upward. Then the light moved on, the clouds came back, and it faded to something closer to dull again. That moment of impermanence—when the perfect light finally arrived and lasted barely long enough to matter—felt more genuinely Buddhist than anything else about the place.
I left without ever getting the shot I was supposedly supposed to get, which felt right.
Two of the three TLC members just dropped new music for the first time in forever. “Haters” is the song — a very 2020s take on the cyberbullying thing, all confidence and dismissal. T-Boz and Chilli are basically shrugging at the internet’s bile, which feels right for them somehow.
If you spent any time in the 90s, TLC was essential. Not just because they had hits — though “No Scrubs,” “Waterfalls,” and “Creep” were massive — but because they had personality. They felt like an actual alternative to the Spice Girls machinery, like they meant something beyond the pop machinery. When Left Eye died in a car crash in 2002, it genuinely felt like something broke. The group essentially stopped. T-Boz and Chilli could have tried to soldier on with someone new, but they didn’t. They just… stopped.
That was twenty years ago. Two decades of basically nothing from them, which is wild to think about. The song industry moved on. We all got older. “No Scrubs” is still everywhere, in a way that some songs never leave, but TLC themselves became a museum piece — iconic, untouchable, finished.
“Haters” doesn’t feel like a desperate comeback bid. It’s a pretty solid pop track that happens to be about ignoring people who hate you online. Nothing revolutionary, but it doesn’t need to be. What matters is that they’re here at all, that T-Boz and Chilli decided this was worth doing. The song’s fine. The real thing is just that they’re back.
I keep thinking about Left Eye watching this, which is probably silly. But there’s something odd about a group returning when one-third of it can’t. The legacy’s frozen at a certain point. You don’t get to grow into your fifties together. TLC will always have this missing piece.
Still, whatever this comeback turns into — another song or two, a tour, or just this one track — it’s good to hear from them. The 90s icons we actually cared about, not ironically, just straight-up cared about, they’re almost all gone now or silent. Getting TLC back, even partial, even decades later, feels like something.
I found Dain Yoon’s Instagram and didn’t scroll past. The first image that caught me was her face splitting—not digitally, not in a filter, but in actual makeup. Three versions of her stacked vertically on her own cheekbones and forehead, rendered in such precise shadow work that you could feel the geometry of it.
Everyone’s retouching themselves now. It’s not new, hasn’t been new for a while. Instagram is a catalog of half-truths—airbrushed skin, pulled-in waists, brightened eyes, all the invisible work that happens before the image exists. It’s easy to do it wrong too, easy to end up looking like someone else entirely. Young people especially, they’re living inside that machine, treating their own image like a design problem to solve with software.
Dain Yoon, a South Korean makeup artist, works backwards. Instead of erasing what’s there, she adds to it. She takes her actual face and transforms it with pigment and shadow and precision technique. The illusions she creates—her face melting into the background, multiplying across her own features, disappearing into abstraction—are real things. No Photoshop. No digital intervention. You could theoretically stand next to her and see it.
She got picked up by TV. The skill was obvious enough that it registered even in the noise. There’s something satisfying about watching someone do something real well. We’re drowning in fake-well-done; actually-good is harder to find than it should be.
I don’t know if she started this as a statement against filters or if that’s just the thing people see in it now. Either way, there’s a kind of freedom in that approach. You’re not competing in a space where everyone has unlimited editing tools. You’re just showing up with your actual face and asking: what can I do with this? What can I make? It’s a strange choice, but it’s the interesting one.
The leaked WhatsApp messages from inside the Alternative for Germany are the kind of thing that makes you feel like you’re reading fiction, except they’re not. This is what these people actually want to do when they get power. Suppress the media. Purge journalists. Close critical newspapers and websites. Make it work like Russia, China, Turkey.
One local AfD official—a federal police officer, somehow—spelled it out in the group chat: “When we take power, a committee has to review and cleanse all journalists and editors. Fire the bosses immediately. Ban anti-people media.” The media lies, so they need to infiltrate it. He even cited Joseph Goebbels like it’s a playbook.
The threads are full of it. Violence fantasies. Conspiracy theories. Petty infighting about whether they should distance themselves from the street-level extremists who’ve actually kept the movement alive. It’s absurd and petty and genuinely unsettling all at once.
What gets to me is how easily people dismiss this. Like it’s too stupid to matter, too cartoonish to be real. But we’ve watched it happen. Trump, Erdogan, Orban—these weren’t theoretical. Once you’re willing to say the quiet part out loud in a group chat, once people are nodding along, you’re already halfway there.
The AfD isn’t a political party with different opinions on economics. It’s a vehicle for people who want to decide what you read, what you watch, what you’re allowed to think. They’re not hiding it anymore. They’re discussing it like it’s already decided.
The worst part is knowing the conversation never stops. Different countries, different languages, same wish: power without criticism, order without anyone arguing back. The kind of clarity you only get when you’ve already decided half the country is the enemy.
You’re building your mythology around döner at Kottbusser Tor, around the blur of Warschauer Straße, around the mythical pull of slipping into Berghain. Feed it to Instagram and the story feels true. There’s the shitty apartment you’re escaping soon, the unpaid internship you’ll outgrow, the whole narrative that you’re in the right place just enduring the wrong conditions—for now. Just give it time. You’ll make it. You’ll become the person who actually belongs here.
Maybe you won’t. Maybe you hate döner. Maybe the nightlife exhausts you, maybe the whole self-invention machinery—proving yourself constantly, performing all the time—just doesn’t fit. Maybe you’d be happier in Hamburg or somewhere quiet that doesn’t demand proof of your worthiness. But you’d never know, because you’ve probably never asked yourself honestly.
What city actually suits you versus what city you think you’re supposed to want—those are different questions. Most people never really ask themselves. They move, plant themselves, and tell themselves they belong because leaving feels like admitting they were wrong.
Gronkh got a letter from Germany’s media authority. The message is simple: either pay for a broadcast license or stop streaming to everyone. He reaches 500 people at a time watching him play games, and apparently that makes him a broadcaster.
Erik Range—that’s his real name—has been doing this since 2010, famous for his Minecraft streams. Thousands and thousands of hours of video. That’s not nothing. That’s a life’s work. And now the Medienanstalt Nordrhein-Westfalen has decided it’s a television station.
The legal argument is straightforward. Range makes the content. YouTube and Twitch distribute it. They’re the network. He’s the studio. That’s how it actually works. But the regulator saw 500 simultaneous viewers and decided the category didn’t matter. The number is what counts. Apply the broadcast rules. Pay the fee—somewhere between 1,000 and 10,000 euros.
The real problem is everyone else watching. If Gronkh has to pay, every German streamer who hits that viewer threshold has to pay it. For most of them, streaming isn’t a business. It’s not media. It’s people making things they care about and other people watching. A license fee like that would collapse the whole thing.
This is what happens when the law is older than the culture it’s trying to regulate. The people who wrote broadcasting law never imagined Minecraft would become something millions of people wanted to watch. They never imagined the distribution would look like this. They’re trying to fit a new world into old categories, and the categories don’t work. So they just declare 500 viewers is the magic number and hope it works out. By July 10th, Gronkh has to pick a side. The rest of Germany’s streamers are already watching.
She plays her dad in the video. Her mom. This hot blonde PE teacher she’s secretly into. The way Selena Gomez moves between all these characters—each one lying about something, hiding something—the video doesn’t make sense in any conventional music-video way. But that’s the point.
I know the story you know about Selena. Disney princess, Bieber thing, manufactured pop star. And you’re not wrong about the system—it’s built to turn people into empty products. But something different happened to her. The weight of all that visibility at a planetary scale didn’t hollow her out. It did the opposite.
So all these characters in the video are wanting or hiding, unable to say what they actually want. Her parents. Herself. The teacher. The title says it: you’re a bad liar. Everyone in the video is. She’s not interested in learning to hide better or pretending everything makes sense. She’s just showing you the mess—the wanting, the gap between who you’re supposed to be and who you actually are.
It’s sweet and confusing and somehow queer, in a way that mainstream pop music usually isn’t brave enough to admit. That’s proof that Selena is deeper than the system that made her. Deeper than it wants her to be.
If you remember Dr. Slump from the early 2000s—and you probably do if you grew up watching bizarre things on late-night German TV—you remember Arale as the character who had no business being as funny as she was. A female robot built by an insane professor, obsessed with poop jokes and old Godzilla films, somehow the most chaotic and lovable entity in the entire show. She didn’t have layers. She didn’t have depth. She just was, completely unfiltered, and that was the whole joke.
In Japan, the series never really died. It had a cult following that kept feeding itself, and Akira Toriyama’s design sense meant everything looked good even when it was deliberately stupid. The whole thing existed outside of normal time, which maybe explains why it’s still relevant decades later.
A Bathing Ape felt the same pull and decided to make a collection around the cast. Hoodies, long tees, t-shirts—the expected merchandise. The designs aren’t precious or clever, they’re just Arale and the others on fabric, which is exactly what they should be. No ironic distance. No winking at the camera. Just the character, solid and obvious.
I like that this exists. Not because it’s some brilliant creative decision, but because it’s honest—these are the things that mattered, these are the characters that stuck around, so let’s make them into something you can wear. It’s not about being cool. It’s not about making a statement. It’s about remembering what made you laugh when you were younger and not being embarrassed about it.
Polly Norr paints women in the middle of their own wreckage — wanting and despairing and caught in whatever dark thing is happening inside their head that day. She doesn’t flinch from the sex. It’s crude and unguarded. But right next to it are the demons, the self-doubt, the feeling that you’re drowning.
What’s striking about her work is that she doesn’t separate these things. The lust and the darkness are in the same painting, same colors. Most art chooses a side. Hers just shows both: the wanting and the damage at the same time, sometimes darkly funny, sometimes just bleak. And it never pretends anything gets solved.
I keep looking at her paintings because they don’t try to make me feel anything in particular. Not aroused, not devastated, not inspired. They just show me what it looks like in there — the contradiction, the hunger, the demons that don’t leave. The person’s still living anyway. That’s it. No resolution, no moral, just the truth of how it is.
There’s a confidence in work like that. An artist who trusts the truth enough to not explain it. Polly’s paintings have that. You look at them and you just see it — the mess, the wanting, the fact that you keep going anyway. That’s enough.
Bibi made a song called “How It Is” and it was the kind of bad that unites everyone in a room. Not entertainingly bad — just incompetent. The vocals are weak, the production is cheap, and it sounds like someone who thought confidence could make up for having no skill. Even people who usually defended her online kind of stepped back from this one. You know those moments when something is so objectively wrong that criticism becomes automatic, like pointing at a color and saying “that’s red.”
Then she released a video where she met Miley Cyrus in New York, which is where it gets interesting. Miley was professional about it, smiled and posed like you’re supposed to when someone’s manager tells you to be nice to them. But you could see in her face the exact moment she realized she had no idea who Bibi was. It’s a specific look that famous people get — politeness covering a blank space.
What stuck with me after watching it was the gap. Bibi can’t sing. The song proved that pretty thoroughly. But she met Miley Cyrus anyway. She’s famous in Germany, has thousands of followers, makes videos, gets opportunities with actual musicians. None of that has anything to do with her being able to do what she’s supposedly doing.
The comments were rough — people saying she should learn to sing before she tries anything else, that she didn’t deserve the video, that she was talentless. But none of it mattered. She’s past the point where any of that touches her. She’s already at the level where she gets to be in videos with famous people, regardless of whether she’s actually good at anything. The internet decided she was worth watching, and once that decision gets made, talent becomes almost irrelevant. She just keeps going and it keeps working.
Music died, and DJ Khaled’s “Wild Thoughts” is just what we’re pretending is alive instead. It’s not even a song, really—he grabbed a beat, looped it, threw a couple of notes on top, and then got some famous people to mumble at it. That’s the whole formula now. No songwriting, no craft, just assembly.
But the video is where you see what’s actually happening. Rihanna basically stands there and lets her breasts do all the work while she barely bothers to move her lips. The less she actually sings, the more the frame pulls back to show her body. There’s something almost honest about how shameless it is.
Somewhere along the way, the industry figured out that talent was optional. You just need someone attractive enough to point a camera at and not try too hard. Rihanna understood this before anyone else—she figured out you can show up, barely move, barely sing, and still get a hit as long as the frame is wide enough. There’s no gap anymore between the product and the marketing. They’re exactly the same thing.
What kills me is how clear it all is now. The industry used to hide what it was doing. Now it’s all naked economics. Just bodies and noise. But I don’t think that honesty makes it better, just sadder somehow. This is what we’ve decided music is.
I caught One Piece on RTL II in the afternoons, back when you’d watch anything to put off whatever you were supposed to be doing. The show lived in my head—the Grand Line, Nami, all of it. That’s what happens when you watch something like that consistently at a young age. It roots itself deep.
Then they moved it to Tele 5, late night, and the rhythm broke. The manga kept coming, the recaps started blending with new episodes, and I just kind of drifted away. Not suddenly. Just gradually, the way you lose touch with people you used to see every day. One Piece went on. I didn’t.
I tried again years later in Tokyo, watching a remake that reanimated the early arcs. Twenty minutes in I knew I couldn’t find my way back. Not back into the story, just back into caring about it the way I used to.
The characters still land somewhere though. That’s what watching something obsessively when you’re young does—it doesn’t disappear just because you stop. Nami still means something. The whole thing does. I’m not going back to it, but I’m grateful it was there when I was paying attention.
The internet used to feel lawless. You could pull whatever you wanted through Napster, LimeWire, eMule — entire seasons, full discographies, things that didn’t exist anywhere else. That’s gone. Torrent sites collapse. People drift to private trackers, Usenet, wherever. Even getting US Netflix from outside the country is getting harder.
Which is why Movie4k and KinoX blow up. You type in what you want, click through garbage pop-ups, find a player that works, and you’re in. It feels safe. You’re not downloading, just streaming. That’s fine, right?
No. The law doesn’t see it that way. The sites claim they’re legal, and for years there was real ambiguity in copyright law around temporary copies in your RAM versus actual downloads. That gray area was their shield. But the European Court of Justice shut it down. They ruled that distributing media players designed to stream obviously illegal content violates copyright. Doesn’t matter if the stream is temporary. What matters is whether a reasonable person would know they’re doing something wrong. And they would.
The real problem isn’t the watching. It’s the tracking. These sites run ad networks and social trackers that identify you in ways an IP address never could. The operators work with lawyers. They have everything — what you watched, when, for how long. A letter arrives months later. Hundreds or thousands of euros to settle quietly, or they sue. And now you’re in court explaining why you streamed a TV show.
I know people who’ve gotten these letters. The moment they open one, they understand how exposed they were. It would’ve been cheaper to buy it.
Some people layer it all — VPN, Tor, Bitcoin, virtual machines, every paranoid measure. And you watch them do this and think: the money stopped mattering a long time ago. This is about something else now. Principle, maybe, or the thrill of getting what you’re not supposed to have. But principle doesn’t protect you when the letter comes. Neither does paranoia. All that effort to stay invisible, and none of it ever mattered.
I’ve eaten ramen because I was broke, not because I thought it would make me smarter. That’s the real story. It’s cheap protein at midnight, a way to feed yourself for almost nothing. Every student knows this. The nutritional angle is a fiction we told ourselves to feel better about eating the same thing three times a week.
Then Japan released a product that actually bought into the fiction. No-Men is ramen supposedly engineered for brain function, with B vitamins and whatever else they convinced themselves matter. The thing has an unnatural color, nothing like regular ramen. It looks like someone took the cheap convenience food and tried to scientize it.
The stupidity and earnestness of it deserves respect—the belief that you could make ramen noble just by adding the right ingredients and marketing it right. Someone looked at broke students and thought: what if we made their survival food actually do something? It’s hilarious and hopeful at the same time.
The stuff was apparently Japan-only when this was written, though that was probably years ago. By now it might be in some Asian market, or it might have died in obscurity, which feels more likely. I’ve never looked for it. But if I found myself in an Asian grocery store late at night, hungry and nostalgic, I’d probably buy a pack just to see. It wouldn’t make me smarter. I’d eat it anyway.
You start noticing it and you can’t stop. A banana in someone’s mouth becomes a joke. A pair of smooth stones catches your eye the wrong way. A gap between two columns at the station is suddenly an optical illusion of something else. The world becomes this constant parade of shapes that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow do. Once you start seeing it, it’s everywhere.
I think it started young, the way these things do—the kind of humor kids make when they first discover that words and objects have more than one reading. A sentence can be phrased innocently but sounded filthy if you put the right pause in. A banana isn’t just a banana once someone’s eaten it a certain way. It becomes a mirror held up to what you’re thinking about. The joke works because it’s obvious and stupid and everyone knows exactly what you’re implying, but pretending not to is half the fun.
The funny part is how automatic it becomes. You’re in a café, someone’s sucking on a lollipop, and instead of just seeing a lollipop you’re seeing… the joke. Your brain does this thing where it looks for the crude reading without asking permission. It’s like visual pareidolia but horny—the same way you see faces in clouds, except you’re seeing something else in everything else. A carrot. Champagne. Two fingers arranged a certain way. The geometry of it matters. The angle. The motion.
There’s something almost innocent about it in a backward way. You’re not being weird or perverse—you’re just playing with shapes and language the same way you did when you were a kid making your parents uncomfortable at the dinner table. It’s a kind of visual literacy, knowing that there’s always a second reading available if you want it. Most people walk around not seeing it. You see it everywhere—strawberries, the neck of a guitar, the architecture of a building’s entrance, the way someone stretches. The world becomes one long double entendre.
What it actually reveals is attention. You’re noticing what’s already there—the geometry of objects, the way bodies move, what happens when you look at ordinary things slightly sideways. Once you’ve learned to see the joke, you can’t unsee it. Someone points out a constellation in the stars and then you can’t stop seeing it, but at least you had a choice. This one just happens automatically. You walk through a grocery store and the produce section becomes a comedy nobody else is in on.
I’m not sure what it says about you, the fact that you read it all this way. Maybe just that you’re paying attention, that you haven’t become numb to the world’s shapes. Or maybe it’s something else—a way of keeping things playful, of refusing to let surfaces be just surfaces. Either way, there’s a laugh in it, and that’s usually enough.
I got tired of YouTube at some point—the feuding, the games, the people turning their lives into a product. Was looking for quiet when I found Minimalustig, this tiny channel where Mary just draws cartoons about being a student.
It’s basically her as a beanie cap moving through daily life. Homework. Laundry. The ambient anxiety of a dorm room. Nothing explosive, nothing performed. She draws what she was actually thinking about, posts it for four minutes, and asks for nothing. No manufactured drama, no algorithm optimization, no angle.
There’s a kind of restraint in that now that’s almost strange to find. Everything else wants something from you—your outrage, your attention, your need to keep watching. Mary just made little cartoons that were honest and quiet. That feels worth remembering.
The last thing I want on a beach trip is to babysit my phone and worry about sand in the charging port. But I also don’t want to leave my good camera at home. So I’ve always been drawn to instant cameras—the kind where you press the shutter, the mechanism whirs, and thirty seconds later you’re holding an actual photograph. No screen, no editing, no culling through four hundred photos of the same sunset.
Lomography’s Lomo’Instant Panama is built for exactly that. Wide-angle lens, multiple shooting modes, a set of lens attachments (fisheye, close-up, portrait), color gels to play with. The design is clean, portable, clearly thought through. It’s the kind of camera you actually want to carry instead of resent.
There’s something about the ritual that matters more than the specs. You frame a shot and commit to it. You wait for the print. It forces intention instead of documentation—the opposite of how we photograph everything else now. The prints themselves are small, they age visibly, they exist as objects you can touch. No cloud backup, no infinite copies. What you shoot is what you have.
I used to do film photography before digital made everyone a photographer. You’d come home from a trip with thirty or forty frames because film cost money, and somehow that constraint made each image feel weightier. Now people get back from vacation with thousands of pictures they’ll never look at. The Lomo splits the difference—instant film’s finality with the ease of modern design. You leave knowing you have prints, not just files.
I probably won’t buy one. I’m old enough to have collected a dozen cameras that didn’t stick, and I know how this ends. But I respect that it exists, that someone still thinks instant film matters, that there’s design built around the premise that maybe documenting a vacation should feel different from the way we document everything else.
Sailor Moon’s got this weird permanence. Three decades on from the original Japanese broadcast, and you’ve still got artists everywhere drawing it, reimagining it, pouring their own sensibility into these characters. That’s not typical. Most anime from the ’90s are historical artifacts now. Sailor Moon is still living.
Michelle Macias, a Mexican illustrator, is one of the people keeping it alive. She’s taken the Sailor Guardians and rendered them in her own aesthetic. What’s interesting to me as a designer is how much room there is in these characters for reinterpretation. They’re archetypal but specific enough that you can actually make them your own.
The show’s staying power comes partly from the characters themselves, and mostly from Bunny. She’s a disaster—lazy, constantly eating, constantly complaining, would rather be anywhere but saving the world. The show doesn’t moralize about it. It just loves her. I think that’s the secret. That’s why people keep returning to it, why Macias can take her and find something new. There’s something underneath that won’t exhaust itself.
Aston Martin and Hogan made a sneaker for Fashion Week in London. Three thousand pairs, $545 each. The press release didn’t bother describing the actual shoe — just the brands and the numbers.
That’s the entire product. Two names that have no reason to touch, colliding at five hundred dollars.
The Campus has always been the one. Not the Basketball shoe for the court — the one for making things, for not overthinking it. From the moment it debuted in the 80s in those deep burgundy and forest green colorways, it became the default for anyone doing anything real in the street.
There’s something about early 90s New York that still lives in this shoe. The people making art then, pushing what could happen in a city that was still rough enough to take risks — they wore Campus. It wasn’t a deliberate choice. It looked good without trying, worked with everything, got out of your way. It was the uniform of the moment because the moment needed it.
The shoe itself doesn’t perform. Simple suede, three stripes down the side, clean lines. Built to get dirty and built to last. No structural tricks, no marketing embedded in the construction. It meant something because of what you did in it, never the reverse.
Retro keeps working as a cycle, but Campus is different somehow. It’s not nostalgia the way other shoes are — it’s the actual tool that built something. When you wear it now you’re not performing the 90s, you’re wearing what the 90s actually wore. There’s something true in that distinction.
Beatsteaks from Berlin are the kind of band where if you’ve seen them live, you know exactly what you’re getting. Arnim and the guitars and the bass, all that focused energy, hitting you right. It’s consistent. It’s why people keep showing up.
The new album “Yours” is early next month and something’s shifted. “I Do” is the song that hit me first—it’s written as love or lust or guitars, or honestly all three at once. But what’s actually different is they’ve decided not to make every song sound the same thing. Each one gets to be its own.
Arnim explained it like how mixtapes used to work—every song different, different volumes, different approaches, all these different moods living next to each other. You weren’t worried about continuity, just about whether it worked in that moment. That’s what they wanted the album to be. Not seamless. Not polished into matching sets. Just different things existing together.
That’s a choice. A band this established could easily stay exactly as they are. But when they decide to let songs fracture away from each other, to risk the music not matching, something’s changed in what they want to sound like.
I haven’t heard the full record yet. “I Do” is doing enough for me.
Every time I end up with an Android phone for a few days—borrowed from someone, testing something out—I remember exactly why I left. Something doesn’t work the way I expect it to. A setting is buried three levels deep. The phone feels like it’s working around me instead of with me. Then I go back to my iPhone and it’s like coming home to a place that just gets it.
I used to care about being the kind of person who didn’t use an iPhone. There’s something satisfying about that posture—the idea that you’re too smart, too discerning, too independent for what everyone else is using. But honestly, it wears thin. The friction of Android caught up with me. I got tired of explaining things to myself.
What kills me about Apple’s phones isn’t anything revolutionary. It’s just this consistent, almost boring attention to the everyday stuff. The battery lasts. The camera does what you point it at without making you learn a menu system. Apps work the way you expect them to. None of this is genius—it’s just competence. It’s restraint. Apple decided what mattered and cut everything else away, and yeah, that feels expensive and slightly tyrannical, but it also means the phone gets out of your way.
Android always feels like I’m managing a system instead of using one. There’s always something to tinker with, some setting that’s half-baked, some choice that should never have been left to me. I don’t want choices. I want something that works so obviously that I don’t have to think about it.
I’m not going to convince anyone who cares about customization or openness or the idea of it all. That’s fine. But for me, the switch is real and it’s not coming back. The iPhone just fits how I think.
Stüssy collaborated with Harumi Yamaguchi for their 2017 summer collection, and it was the kind of pairing that makes sense immediately. She’s a Tokyo-trained fine artist—Tokyo Geijutsu Daigaku—whose work had been gaining attention well beyond typical design circles. Putting her illustrations on t-shirts felt natural rather than opportunistic.
What interested me was how straightforward it all was. No irony, no winking about high art descending to fashion. Just good drawing on a quality shirt. The kind of work that signals someone spent actual time developing their craft, developing a visual point of view that reads instantly but doesn’t need to announce itself.
That’s maybe what made it work. Both sides had their own credibility intact. Stüssy exists securely in streetwear culture; Yamaguchi exists securely as a visual artist with exhibitions and a body of work that gets taken seriously. When a collaboration happens between two things that each have their own weight, without either side needing to borrow cool from the other, something genuine emerges. No performance. Just the work itself.
There’s this weird anxiety that comes with being into hip-hop — the fear that you’ve been saying someone’s name wrong the whole time and some kid half your age is going to catch you. Jay-Z, Drake, Kanye. You think you know, but do you really? You’ve heard these names a thousand times and somehow you’re still not entirely sure if you’re doing it right.
It’s dumb. It matters. Both things are true.
Maybe it’s because these names are how you talk about the music with other people, and saying them wrong feels like admitting you’re on the outside looking in. Like you don’t belong. Like you built a collection of albums by people whose names you can’t even pronounce correctly. It’s a specific kind of embarrassment — not quite as bad as mishearing lyrics for years, but in the same neighborhood.
I think what gets me is that it’s not about intelligence. It’s about access. These are artists I actually care about, and I want to talk about them the way people who really know them do. There’s something respectful about getting a name right. It’s a small thing that says you’re not just casually consuming — you’re actually paying attention.n
So you listen more carefully when someone says their name in an interview. You look it up. You practice saying it in the car. And eventually you get there, and it stops being a thing. Until the next artist you want to know about, and the whole anxiety cycle starts again.
Every bartender in Berlin is ready to make you a Moscow Mule. Half of them actually know what they’re doing. The other half give you something watered down and flat with a cucumber slice, like that fixes it.
The Moscow Mule showed up in America sometime in the 1940s and became the default drink for anyone wanting something that looks impressive without being complicated. It’s vodka, ginger beer, lime—that’s the whole thing. The cucumber is optional but everyone does it anyway. In Berlin you can’t avoid them. Some bars nail it. Some treat it like a chore.
The frustrating part is how simple it is. Three ingredients. If you fuck that up, you weren’t paying attention. It’s not like you’re asking for anything ambitious or rare. You’re asking for the least demanding cocktail in the history of cocktails.
Salt Point started selling Moscow Mules in cans. American vodka, fresh ginger, natural flavors—same formula every time. No bartender involved. No mood swings affecting whether your drink is any good. No flat ginger beer, no ice that tastes like freezer.
There’s something appealing about that to me. Not because I hate bartenders—I don’t. But because sometimes you just want the thing to be right, without needing someone to care enough to get it there. Sometimes consistency matters more than showmanship.
The Shibuya crossing at night. Someone in a pink wig standing in the middle of it, deliberately stopping pedestrians from crossing. That’s Julia Abe for you — half-Japanese, half-Brazilian, everywhere in Tokyo’s photography world.
She appeared on Tumblr with a portfolio of shoots and selfies, and suddenly every underground photographer and street-style brand in the city wanted her. But her Twitter tells you something real: mostly resentment about being half-Japanese in Japan, which is the most honest thing she does.
The pink wig was for a Places + Faces shoot through Tokyo’s night streets. The “Lost in Translation” thing was deliberate, but not ironic — just occupied. That’s what Tokyo does at three in the morning. The absurdity of what you’re doing and the inevitability of it become the same thing. A model in a pink wig blocking traffic. Funny until the city swallows it.
I think back to playing Super Mario World or Zelda as a kid, and there was something about the basic fact that nothing broke. The game arrived on a cartridge, fully done. If a door didn’t open, that was the world telling you something. If a wall stopped you, that was design. There was no Day-1 patch. There was no version 1.1. What you had was what you got, forever.
Now you buy Skyrim and there’s a patch waiting at startup. Invisible heads floating where faces should be. NPCs walking through walls like they’re ghosts. A quest objective just vanishes if you complete it in the wrong order. The game doesn’t know what to do, so it just stops. Sometimes you laugh at how absurd it is. Sometimes you just sit there wondering if you paid money for an unfinished product.
The obvious answer is scope. Games got too big. Too many systems layered on top of each other. Fix one thing and break three others. Plus the business side: publishers want release dates. Ship it now, patch it later became the actual plan. It’s cheaper than delay.
But I think there’s a stranger thing happening too. Modern games don’t seem to assume they’ll ever be truly finished. They’re designed around being fixed later. The developers know players will find things. The players know the game will improve. It’s almost collaborative, except the collaboration is you debugging someone else’s product for free.
Some bugs are genuinely great — the physics engine deciding gravity works sideways, or a character sliding across the floor with their legs fused together. You remember those. You tell people about them. But the ones that lock you out of a questline or corrupt your save are just dread. They’re the opposite of charming.
I don’t think it’s laziness. I think the systems got too complicated. Too many variables. Impossible deadlines meeting impossible scope. The bug stopped being an oversight and became a cost of production. Which isn’t the same as not caring, but it’s not too far off either.
House of Cards season five came out while Trump was president, which was the worst possible timing. The show is built on this idea that power is a game for smart people, that politics rewards cunning and patience. Frank Underwood is the villain you’re supposed to find terrifying because he actually understands how things work. But then Trump was in office doing none of that and getting everything anyway, and the whole premise just fell apart.
Watching a show about ruthless calculation when actual chaos is running things is surreal. It becomes historical overnight—a fossil from some other era where brains mattered. Frank manipulates his way to everything through strategy. Trump got there through luck and incoherence. They’re in the same genre now, but only one of them feels like it has anything to do with reality.
I haven’t really wanted to go back to it. Once you’ve seen that intelligence isn’t actually required, that someone can be completely unstable and still get what they want, the whole ruthless-mastermind fantasy stops being interesting. The show was built on a lie about how the world works, and that lie got exposed by someone just being himself.
It still sounds wrong when I say it. Trump’s president. After everything—the scandals, the chaos, things that should’ve ended it—he’s still there.
The people holding on live somewhere else. Everything reaches them as confirmation. You point at something and they see it differently, and inside their bubble both feel equally real. You can’t reach through that.
I thought this would break eventually. That a lie this big, this exposed, eventually cracks under its own weight. But I don’t know anymore. Maybe this is how things are now—everyone in separate realities, none interested in the others. Maybe he wins again. Maybe it just goes on like this forever.
When I told people in Tokyo I was from Germany, their faces lit up instantly. Castles. Green fields. Really good beer. There was genuine warmth in it, and something a little absurd — like I’d just admitted I was from some idealized storybook version of Europe. Compared to what I actually got from German tourists — a kind of grim efficiency, some defensive pride, usually at least one story about a war — the Japanese version was almost flattering.
Someone made a video doing street interviews at Yoyogi Park, asking random kids what they knew about Germany. Most knew very little, but the same three things kept surfacing: sausage, beer, and Hitler. That’s it. That’s the Germany they’d absorbed.
There’s something weirdly honest about it as shorthand. Two things you consume, one thing you can’t escape. The video isn’t mean about it — the kids aren’t being mocked, they’re just naming what filtered through to them. And I understand it completely. If someone stopped me on a street in Tokyo and asked about Japan, I’d probably say anime, technology, temples, sushi. The US? Hollywood, guns, burgers. You reduce any country far enough and you hit caricature. The biggest things, the loudest, the most iconic, the most shameful — those are what make the journey across oceans.
The part that lingered with me wasn’t the gaps in knowledge. It was how specific the reduction was. Not “somewhere in Europe,” not vague otherness. Germany specifically, always the same three associations. That means the image had clarity even when the facts were thin. Which maybe says something truer about how the world actually works than comprehensive knowledge ever could. We know each other through symbols and shorthand, not understanding, and somewhere along the way we decided that was enough.
I saw the pictures from Bench’s 90s capsule collection and something about it stuck with me. Shot in a Berlin skatepark, all these track suits and color blocks, the whole streetstyle aesthetic that was supposed to be gone by now. The thing is, I didn’t grow up thinking the 90s were cool. I just lived through them, wearing what my parents bought me or what I could scrape together.
But looking at these now, I get it. There’s a confidence in that era’s ugliness that I can’t stop thinking about. The logos didn’t hide. The colors didn’t compromise. Proportions weren’t worried about looking good—they were just there, occupying space, not asking permission. Everything these days is so carefully balanced, minimal and refined. The 90s just threw shit together and somehow it worked.
The collection gets the details right, which surprised me. You could make a throwback like this into a joke or a costume, all exaggeration and winking. Instead, the track suits are almost restrained. The proportions are there—that 90s silhouette—but they’re cut in a way that you could actually wear them and not feel like you’re at a theme party. There’s shimmer in the fabric, color accents throughout. It could be a costume. It’s not.
I think that’s what gets me. It’s not a caricature. Someone understood what actually made that style work, not just what it looked like. There’s a difference between copying the aesthetic and understanding the attitude. The 90s didn’t ask if it was good. It just was.
I keep thinking white sneaker trends have to crack at some point. They always do. Get enough people in perfect blank Stan Smiths and suddenly the people who actually think about it start craving the opposite—something aggressively ugly, pink sandals, whatever reads as wrong right now. It’ll happen.
But not yet. You’re still seeing them everywhere. Still the uniform for anyone who cares how they present themselves. There’s something smart about a ninety-dollar shoe that doesn’t argue, doesn’t perform, just sits there and lets everything else work.
I’ve been staring at white sneakers way too much lately. New editions of the standards. And I can’t figure out why I want them when I already have the same shoe in rotation. It’s pure wanting—the newness, the limited-ness, the idea that owning them kills that feeling. But I want them anyway.
They’ll get scuffed. They’ll blur into everything else. In six months they’re just white shoes. But the wanting right now is real, and that’s kind of the whole thing.
Gorillaz came back in 2017 with Humanz, and I was probably too old to be this invested in a band that technically doesn’t exist. But the album had teeth—restless, overstuffed, guest spot after guest spot, like they were proving something to someone. They were touring again, and Cologne got the June gig at the Palladium.
Deutsche Telekom streamed the whole thing in 360 degrees, which sounds like exactly the kind of marketing nonsense that would tank a band, but something about it worked. Gorillaz had always lived in that space between animation and reality, where cartoon logic and actual live performance blurred into the same thing. A 360-degree stream wasn’t gimmicky for them—it was just another honest expression of the fundamental strangeness that made them interesting in the first place.
I don’t remember if I watched it live or if someone told me about it later. The memory is fuzzy in the way that unimportant things are, even when they matter to you. What stayed was simpler: they were still here, still making it weird, still refusing to be a normal band. That was enough.
Everyone acts like Berlin is the center of everything, but stand it next to London and it’s obvious — just a village that got cocky. No skyline, no clubs that survive more than a few years, no actual scene to speak of. London’s where something’s still happening.
That’s where Graziella Pini and Emily J Odonnell were hanging around in the smoke and noise of crowded streets, part of a girl gang that doesn’t need anyone’s permission to exist. Graziella had come down for a week to see Emily, and photographer James Beddoes was there shooting for something called Sticks & Stones. He invited them both to just hang out while he worked.
According to James, that afternoon they mostly listened to music, moved around, danced — nothing choreographed, nothing planned. He ended up feeling like he’d joined the gang, which probably means he was doing something right as a photographer. The best work happens when nobody’s really thinking about being watched.
I never saw the final prints, but even just standing there while it happened, you could tell he had something real. Two people, music, an afternoon in London that didn’t need to be anything more than what it was.
I’d say I have no friends, but that’s not quite right—I have Eddy, Nils, Simon, and Budi. They work for Rocket Beans TV and they don’t know me, but I watch enough of their content that I’ve basically decided we’re friends. It’s a relationship that works fine as long as I don’t examine it too closely.
The Pen & Paper sessions are the thing I always come back for. Hauke runs these tabletop games where the four of them get thrown into different scenarios—zombie apocalypses, Viking settlements, murder mysteries in an old house. There’s genuine improvisation happening in real time, genuine reactions, and the kind of chemistry that doesn’t come from a script. Watching people try not to get their characters killed while making everyone else laugh for hours has its own pull.
Their new campaign is called Dysnomia and they’re in space. An old scientist, a pilot with a death wish, some Justin Bieber-looking asshole somehow on the crew, and an AI keeping score. Puzzles, enemies, the usual collision of incompetence and luck that makes these things work.
It’s not trying to be anything important. Just four people playing a game together. Which is exactly why I can’t stop watching.
There’s a band from somewhere in Germany called Kaffkönig. Their album “Gaffer & Beton” sounds like it was made in a bar at closing time—I mean literally the energy of it, the weariness and the anger mixed together, the sound of people who work jobs they didn’t dream about and live lives they accepted rather than chose.
The music is punk and emo and something heavier, recorded rough and direct, the kind of thing that doesn’t get polished because there’s no time for that. These songs speak to a specific anger, the quiet kind that builds in small towns and work sites over years. It’s about mortgages and routines and the way comfort can feel like suffocation if you’re actually paying attention. It’s about being trapped in something that’s fine on paper but hollow in practice.
What I respect is that they don’t care whether you think it’s good, whether you understand the German, whether it fits your taste. They’re making something true. No irony, no distance. Just anger that needs to become sound because it has nowhere else to go. I keep listening because of that refusal to be comfortable.
Game of Thrones hasn’t been good in years, but I watch the new season anyway. The early run had teeth—actual stakes, real surprise, writing that mattered. By season five or six you could feel it shift, the show becoming less a story and more a spectacle machine. It still beats The Walking Dead, which is a low bar.
HBO put out a trailer. Daenerys in Westeros finally, Jon Snow braced for White Walkers, Arya doing her revenge thing. The same pieces on the same board, moved around for whatever endgame they’ve planned. I know how this ends. Not well. But I’ll watch anyway.
There’s something about returning to a show you’ve stopped believing in. The rhythms are predictable by now—I know when they’ll kill someone off for emotion, know which dialogue will get quoted to death, know exactly how disappointed I’ll be by the time the final credits roll. I watch anyway because I’ve already invested years, because there’s some stubborn part of me that wants to see them pull it off, because there’s still nothing else quite like this on television.
Wireless had always been the London thing. The festival you watched in June or July, the one where the actual biggest names in hip-hop and grime and pop showed up together. Not because Wireless was the only place they’d perform, but because it was the place that mattered. Drake played there. Kanye. Rihanna. You could read the year’s music world in its lineup.
So when Wireless came to Frankfurt in 2017, it registered as something. The festival wasn’t suddenly expanding to every city — it was specifically expanding here, treating Germany seriously enough to bring the full weight of it. That’s different from just booking a German leg of a world tour. Wireless owned hip-hop in London. Now it was betting it could own Frankfurt too.
The lineup proved the bet was serious. Justin Bieber was still massive then. The Weeknd at his absolute peak. Rag ’n’ Bone Man had that one song everyone knew, but he was also genuinely talented. Marteria anchored it — Germany’s biggest hip-hop name, and Wireless was giving him a slot that treated him as a main draw, not a local accommodation. KMN Gang kept the grime thread alive. It was the kind of bill that works on two levels: internationally recognizable, locally smart.
I don’t remember if I wanted to go. The whole thing had that promotional texture to it, the social-media-contest energy that made everything feel fractionally inauthentic. But the fact of the festival itself was worth noticing. You could see the music world reshaping itself if you knew where to look — which markets were suddenly being treated as serious, which tastes were bleeding across borders, what London decided about music and who got to hear it.
In 2017 you could still read that in the shape of festivals. Now everything is flattened and diffused and you can’t tell anymore.
London parties are hit or miss. This Hunter thing at Vinyl Factory in Soho was better than most. Festival kickoff supposedly, but really just an excuse to get beautiful people in a room with cocktails and music. Everyone was in good spirits without being obnoxious—a real accomplishment for that crowd.
The usual suspects showed up: designers, musicians, actors, models, the rotation you see at these things. Kit Harington looking content. Courtney Love being herself. Stella McCartney somewhere networking. Tom Daley. The kind of room where you recognize most faces and everyone’s aware of it, but polite enough not to perform the awareness too obviously.
The Rabbit Hole DJ crew kept it loose with surprise guests coming through. Hunter apparently wanted it to feel like a festival. It didn’t, not really—festivals have a rawness you can’t fake in a Soho club—but I got the instinct. People talked, held their cocktails, gradually migrated to the dance floor. Nothing revolutionary, but it worked.
What stayed with me was how it managed not to feel entirely hollow. Everyone knows they’re there because some brand decided to throw a party, that this is advertising, and yet it still worked. London’s nightlife still has the ability to make that feel almost inevitable, or at least acceptable. Maybe after enough cycles of this, soullessness and genuine fun start to look the same.
Seoul’s the place right now. The music’s better than America’s. The design moves there first. The fashion feels alive.
GANGYOUNG’s a label made by girls who actually live there. They make clothes for the street—not for magazines, not for tourists, just for the people wearing them. That’s harder than it sounds. Most fashion designers start with an idea and hope it sticks. These girls started with watching the street.
I’ve always been drawn to work like that. Observe first. Concept later. You can feel when something comes from that place instead of the other way around. The cuts are sharp. The proportions don’t lie.
Tokyo got picked clean by the internet. Every corner of Harajuku’s been archived, explained, templated to death. You know exactly which shop, which street, what you’ll find. Seoul still feels raw. There’s room to make something that feels real instead of remembered.
That’s what’s interesting about what they’re doing. Not the label itself, but the fact that Seoul still has room for this kind of work. Places close fast. Right now, that city’s still open.
You sit at your desk for eight hours pretending to look busy, hitting refresh on your email, telling yourself the day will end eventually even though it absolutely won’t. The printer’s jammed again. Your boss asked for something due yesterday at 4:47 PM today. Someone left their lunch in the fridge and it’s been there for three weeks.
Circus HalliGalli—a German comedy show—did a whole thing called Office Hits, which is basically sketches about every specific nightmare of office work. The hosts are these guys named Joko and Klaas who throw absurd music and comedy bits at you for an hour, and one of the main sketches has Palina Rojinski doing a full Rihanna impersonation while she’s mentally destroying her incompetent boss. The sketch is simple: she’s just running through every idiotic thing a manager does while channeling pure Rihanna attitude.
There’s other stuff too. “Problems at the Office Printer.” “Meeting Baby One More Time”—which is exactly what it sounds like. “Dumb Dumb Dumb Dumb” for those days where your brain is just completely offline. It’s all obvious material, but that’s kind of the point. It’s not trying to be clever. It’s just naming the specific hell of your actual job.
The weird thing about office comedy is that it only works if you’ve lived through it. You need the printer trauma. You need the meetings where nothing happens but everyone acts like something might. You need the boss who doesn’t understand their own industry but definitely understands micromanaging. Once you’ve got all that, the sketches just feel like proof you’re not insane.
I don’t know if it actually helps you get through your day, listening to comedy about how much your day sucks while you’re still at your day. Maybe it just makes you more aware of the time passing. Maybe it’s just permission to hate it for a few minutes. But there’s something satisfying about someone else saying it out loud, saying all the things you’re not allowed to say to your actual boss.
I can’t remember if I ever actually told my parents about mine, or if they just figured it out somehow. Maybe they have some kind of radar for it. I definitely never sat them down and said anything. That conversation either never happened or I’ve completely blocked it from memory.
Your first time is rarely what you imagine. Not with the popular guy, not with someone your parents would secretly approve of. Sometimes it’s some drunk asshole in a garage. Sometimes it’s your best friend and something goes wrong that he claims was accidental. Sometimes it’s someone in a position of authority who shouldn’t be touching you. You can’t take it back. It stays with you forever.
There’s something strange about how permanent this becomes. One moment lasting maybe ten minutes, and it shapes everything about how you think of sex and your body for years. We treat it like it’s definitive, like it somehow marks you, and that’s just how it is.
You keep living with your parents afterward and there’s this quiet knowledge between you. They know something happened. You know they know. Nobody talks about it. Maybe that’s better than some conversation where they try to seem progressive and open-minded. At least there are no awkward questions about whether you were safe, no false cheerfulness. Just this unspoken thing that sits there, both real and unreal.
Ahoj-Brause was the German fizzy concentrate you made yourself—tablets or powder you’d dump in water, watch it fizz and dissolve into something sticky and sweet. Orange, raspberry, lemon, or woodruff, though what woodruff was supposed to taste like nobody ever figured out. The flavor wasn’t the point. The point was that you made it. You controlled the ratios, made it cloying or barely flavored, whatever you wanted.
The real magic was mixing it with vodka. A splash of Ahoj in a lot of vodka, and you had something that didn’t taste like alcohol at all, which was perfect for teenagers trying not to feel what they were drinking. Everyone knew the trick. Every kid probably did it at least once.
Now Columbus Drinks has decided Ahoj-Brause needs to exist as a finished product. Cans. Orange, raspberry, lemon, woodruff. Ready to drink, already done.
There’s logic to it: reduce friction, increase convenience, monetize nostalgia. But something about it feels off. The appeal of Ahoj-Brause was that you made it. It was a small act of control in your teenage chaos. Buying it premixed is just consuming. It’s the difference between cooking with your grandmother and reheating something she made.
I haven’t spotted one yet, but they’re out there—probably discount bins at Rewe next to the flavored water nobody asked for. There’s a specific irony in watching something from your childhood get absorbed into the machine, packaged and legitimized and sold back to you as a product. Everything ends up here eventually. Everything gets its corporate version.
Still, if someone handed me a can, I’d drink it. I’m curious if it tastes like actual memory or nothing at all.
Think about who’s slept with the most celebrities. Has to be someone famous, right? Taylor Swift because she dates constantly. DiCaprio with his endless carousel of models. Clooney on some ineffable Clooney principle. But the answer is Robert, a Belgian guy on Instagram. Average Rob. His whole feed is just him asleep next to whoever happens to be important. Taylor Swift, Mila Kunis, Selena Gomez, Katy Perry, Margot Robbie, Obama, David Beckham. Nestled against them like he belongs there.
What gets me is how committed he is to the bit with zero awareness of it being a bit. He’s not winking, not making some clever critique about celebrity or fakeness. He just inserts himself into the image and holds it there, totally serious. Like he’s casually documenting a life that’s actually impossible. There’s something honest about it—no performance, just: here’s me in this world. And somehow it works.
Most people online are trying to signal something, trying to seem clever or matter in some way. Rob just quietly splices himself into the celebrity dreamland and moves on. No irony, no comment, no angle. The line between real and fake’s gotten so thin that he just decided to cross it. Some version of success, I guess.
There’s this German YouTuber—Bibi, I think—who made a song called “How It Is” that was apparently terrible enough that everyone from the internet to German TV comedians took shots at it. Carolin Kebekus did a parody on public television. The whole thing became this whole thing.
But here’s what gets me: none of it matters to her. Every parody, every cruel joke, every person dunking on the song—it all just keeps her relevant and keeps the money coming. That’s the thing about internet fame that took me twenty years of watching this stuff to really feel in my bones. Criticism doesn’t touch it. Mockery doesn’t touch it. You can be the worst, and you’re still getting paid for being watched.
I kept reading these sarcastic takes wondering if she goes home and cries about it, if she regrets uploading the song, if she questions her whole existence on YouTube. And maybe she does. But probably not when she’s counting the engagement metrics and the sponsorship money. The cruel irony is that the crummier you are, the more people pay attention, and attention is literally the currency.
It’s a weird thing to resent—that critics and comedians and people trying to be clever about why something is bad are basically just giving it more life. Every parody is free publicity. Every cruel joke is a signal boost. So Kebekus mocking it on German TV was just another advertisement, really.
I don’t know this person or her work beyond the reference. Maybe the song was actually good and everyone was just being mean. Maybe it was as bad as they say. Doesn’t change the equation. The system is rigged in a way that failing publicly is still succeeding financially, and that’s something I’ve watched happen over and over and still don’t quite know how to feel about it.
The Lion King taught me that life is a circle. You throw a plastic bag in a bin, it ends up in the Indian Ocean, and from there it becomes a dildo.
A Brazilian ad agency and MTV actually did this — took all the plastic garbage floating in the world’s oceans, the orphaned Barbies and phone cases and cola bottles, and turned it into colorful sex toys. It sounds like parody until you remember how much plastic is actually out there.
The weird part is thinking about where it came from while you’re using it. This rainbow thing could be made from an old toy, a yoga mat, old phones, maybe garbage I threw away myself years ago. But there’s something perfect about the absurdity. If I’m already complicit in destroying the ocean, I might as well get some pleasure out of it.
People always ask me: if you love Japan so much, shouldn’t your type be Japanese women? I’d always have to think about it. Selena Gomez? No. Scarlett Johansson, who’s been there? No. Kate Upton? No. None of them.
So I lived with this contradiction—loving Japan like it was my favorite place on earth while not actually being attracted to Japanese women. Maybe I’m just a hentai otaku. Someone who likes the idea of an East Asian woman way more than actual people. It made sense. It explained everything.
Then I saw her on one of those girls’ Tumblrs: Rina Hashimoto. Sweet face, dark skin, black eyes, that summer-bleached hair. I was completely fucked. Couldn’t stop saying her name. Rina Hashimoto. Rina Hashimoto. Rina Hashimoto. And it was like flipping a switch—I was in love with Japan again, but this time it felt real.
COOGI was the uniform of 90s hip-hop—rappers wrapped themselves in those oversized, garishly colored sweaters like they were armor and status symbol combined. I grew up watching those videos, Biggie and others in those knits, the excess of it. By the early 2000s it had faded into the nostalgia bin with everything else that decade touched. But fashion cycles. Puma brought the line back at Battery Harris in Williamsburg, and the event felt like stepping back into that mythology.
The setup had that specificity you notice: an in-house bodega with 90s candy, Clark Kent and Megan Ryte on the decks, rappers circulating through the space. People actually cared about being there, which is rare for a product launch. The new Puma x COOGI Clyde doesn’t pretend at anything—it’s the sweater material blown up onto a shoe, all that garishness and excess on your feet. A shoe that announces itself.
What struck me is that COOGI’s return doesn’t feel like resurrection. It feels inevitable. The people who want to wear oversized colorful knitwear and make a statement aren’t different now than they were in 1994. And the younger rappers who showed up—they didn’t grow up with COOGI, they discovered it through videos, through the mythology. That’s enough.
There’s something honest about fashion that doesn’t try too hard. No reinvention, no modern twist, no ironic distance. Just: here’s the thing we had, it was beautiful, we’re bringing it back. And people showed up.
In 1923, Tokyo stopped being Tokyo. The Great Kanto earthquake came through in September and destroyed the city so completely that most of it was just rubble. Two million people, most of them living in wooden buildings, and suddenly the buildings were gone. A hundred thousand dead. A million and a half homeless. That’s not a tragedy that happened to the city—that’s the city ceasing to exist.
But then it came back. A few decades later, Tokyo was Tokyo again, rebuilt from scratch into something different. Not the same city, because you can’t rebuild a city exactly the way it was. You build the next version of it. The people who lived in the wooden buildings are gone, and their Tokyo is gone, and we call the new thing by the same name.
This kept happening. Tokyo rebuilt after the earthquake, and then it rebuilt again during the war, and kept rebuilding each time something knocked it down. The city sits on fault lines, so the ground keeps reminding it that nothing is permanent. You can look at modern Tokyo—all the neon and glass and hypermodernity—and underneath it is the memory of complete erasure. Not old memory. Recent memory. The grandparents of people alive now experienced that destruction.
There’s something about cities that makes them keep going even when they’ve had every reason to stop. Tokyo became Tokyo again after being erased, and it stayed Tokyo, and it grew into something bigger, and it sits there waiting for the next earthquake that will probably happen in a few decades. That’s just what cities do. They disappear and come back as themselves.
I think about this when I think about making things—about design, about building something you know will probably be destroyed or changed or have to be rebuilt. You build anyway. That’s what people do. That’s what cities do. They collapse and get rebuilt because staying fallen isn’t an option.
I’ve been scrolling through Instagram for ten years and somehow I’m still surprised when my mood tanks after twenty minutes. Turns out there’s actual research behind this. The Royal Society for Public Health ran a study with a couple thousand people between 14 and 24, and confirmed what you probably already know: Instagram is the worst thing for your mental health, Snapchat and Facebook are pretty bad, Twitter’s bad, and YouTube is fine — provided you’re not filling it with garbage.
The mechanism isn’t mysterious. Instagram built its whole thing around filtered versions of people and meticulously curated snapshots of lives. You scroll and compare yourself to these edited ghosts and feel worse. The study just quantifies something that feels true the moment you’re doing it. It’s not a personal failing — the platform is literally engineered to trigger comparison and inadequacy.
Snapchat, Facebook, and Twitter do similar work, just less aggressively. The comparison machine runs on all of them. YouTube gets better press because it isn’t structured entirely around self-presentation, though if you’re watching the right kind of creator it can rot your brain just as effectively. Different mechanism, same result.
What kills me is knowing all of this and still opening the apps. I understand the architecture. I’ve felt that weight a thousand times. I know exactly what’s about to happen when I scroll at midnight. And I do it anyway, every time. Maybe the real discovery here isn’t that social media is toxic — that’s not news — but that understanding a trap doesn’t spring you free from it. You can see it perfectly clearly and still get caught.
Berlin started a hip-hop political party in 2017. Die Urbane. The founders took the values from seventies hip-hop culture — representation, participation, identity, power critique — and thought these should be political values. Not as irony. They were serious.
It makes a kind of sense. Hip-hop came out of communities that the mainstream political system had written off entirely. Those communities figured something out about power and voice that parliament never did. So why not?
Because the moment you bureaucratize a radical culture, you kill it. Party applications. Parliamentary rules. Bureaucratic machinery. The thing that gave those values their actual power — the fact that they came from outside, pushing against the system — dies the moment you’re inside.
I don’t know if they understood this. Maybe they did. Maybe the whole gesture was just to make the existing parties realize what they’d been missing: that a street culture had thought harder about representation and participation than anyone in government.
I don’t particularly care what other people think is hot. That’s between me and whoever I’m with, and if they don’t like what I like, that’s their problem. But there’s something genuinely nice about finding other people who share your taste, who get why you’d take small breasts over the obvious kind that dominates everywhere else.
Reddit’s Tiny Tits subreddit is basically a global gathering of people who already know what they want. Not that there’s anything wrong with bigger breasts—plenty of beautiful women have them—but small ones hit different. No weight pulling down, no gravity doing its slow work, no logistics to figure out. Just skin and shape that fits in your hands exactly right, that moves with actual grace.
The appeal is partly practical. Small breasts don’t demand you focus on them. You notice shoulders, collarbones, the actual line of the chest. There’s an honesty to it, an efficiency. And the way they move is quicker, lighter, more responsive—it matters more because there’s less of it to work with.
I scrolled through that subreddit longer than I expected to, not because it was a revelation. I’ve known what I like for a long time. But it felt good to see that much specific appreciation gathered in one place, that many people responding with genuine attraction. The comments are thoughtful, the celebration is precise, nothing condescending about it. Just straightforward yes-this-is-hot in a hundred variations. The forum’s respectful too, which is rare on the internet. They celebrate variation—some women are barely there, some are medium-small, it doesn’t matter. The subreddit’s called Tiny Tits but it’s really about preferring restraint over excess, which is its own aesthetic choice.
You grow up with so much noise about what’s attractive—bigger, enhanced, implanted. Then you find a quiet corner where people are like, no, we like the smaller thing, and we’re glad it exists. Quiet appreciation instead of marketing. A preference for something real.
Beige and burgundy keep appearing in what I’m seeing lately. Not because anyone decided they’re trendy, but because they’re the colors that actually work—the colors people reach for when they stop caring about impressing anyone. Beige is honest. Burgundy is dark enough to hide the world, but not so dark you look like you’re mourning something.
I’ve gotten more interested in minimalism as I get older, not as a lifestyle philosophy but as a way of thinking about what design actually is. When you strip everything away—all the gesture, all the narrative, all the stuff meant to distract—what’s left has to be good. The cuts have to be right. The fabric has to feel right. You can’t hide behind colors or decoration anymore.
The stuff I’ve been looking at lately—basic crews, hoodies, sweats, the kind of pieces that are almost boring—feels like it gets this. No narrative, just the work. Good material, clean lines, and colors that will wear well for years. It’s not exciting. It’s not supposed to be. It just works.
There’s a confidence in that kind of restraint. You pick these colors, you pick these shapes, and you trust that anyone paying attention will understand what you’re doing. Most people won’t. That’s fine. It’s not for them.
I caught MØ at some Berlin influencer party—spirits brand, fashion label, doesn’t matter, they all blend together—back when she wasn’t famous yet. Karen Marie Aagaard Ørsted had this specific kind of presence you don’t forget. Not immediately magnetic, but the kind that grows the more people pay attention.
Her new song “Nights With You” is for her best friend. They’ve known each other since kindergarten, which means they’re less like friends and more like forced siblings who actually chose each other. Different people on the surface, but shaped by the same history. They’ve shared life at different angles, different depths.
She talked about it plainly: the world’s relentless right now. You pile expectations on yourself, turn happiness into another project to manage, the pressure’s constant. So you need someone who’s actually known you to say: stop. Turn off your phone. Go out, get drunk, become someone else for a night. Not forever. Just long enough to remember that exhaustion isn’t the baseline.
Most songs are about love or loss or some grand gesture. This one’s just: your best friend saying it’s okay to forget for a while. Small. True. Necessary.
A festival named after a Dragon Ball attack — that’s the kind of branding decision that works if you commit completely, and whoever booked Kamehameha committed. Offenburg, on an old runway, every summer. By 2017 it was their fourth year, which means it had crossed over from novelty to tradition without ever losing the absurdity.
The lineup that year mixed electronic and hip-hop without apologizing for it — Chris Liebing and Ellen Alien running alongside Cro and Maeckes, with everything else filling the gaps between. Felix Jaehn, the KMN Gang, Pan-Pot, Bausa, the Adana Twins. The kind of diverse booking that feels intentional, like someone understood that the same people move between genres at festivals, that electronic and hip-hop crowds aren’t actually that different. You’re high in a field on a Saturday night and the music is just music.
I remember the name more than most of the artists, which says something about how branding works. The festival could have been called a hundred generic things — “Summer Sound” or “Offenburg Music” or any of the neutral names that festivals hide behind. Instead they went with a cartoon attack, and that single decision made the whole thing feel like it was made by people who actually cared, who weren’t just booking acts and selling tickets. The name carried confidence.
Festivals work like that — the image you get from a lineup in May is different from the experience in June, which is different again from the memory a year later. I never made it to that Kamehameha, but I remember thinking it sounded like something worth experiencing. That anticipation is sometimes better than the actual event anyway.
RTL II is a wasteland now. The afternoon used to be nonnegotiable—Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, One Piece, Pokémon, the whole thing was there waiting for you after school. Now it’s just day-time reality garbage, people destroying themselves on camera, the embarrassing bottom of German television. But for maybe fifteen years, around the turn of the millennium, that channel was something like our Bible. Not in any sacred way—just essential. Required viewing for anyone with a shred of imagination.
I caught some of these shows again recently. An episode of Dragon Ball, some of the old games. And what I noticed, having some distance now, is the actual craft underneath. Dragon Ball isn’t just martial arts porn (though it definitely is that). The character work is there. The pacing means something. You can feel Akira Toriyama thinking about the rhythm of each fight, the escalation, when to pull back and crack a joke.
Sailor Moon was the gateway for realizing that animation could be genuinely sophisticated without losing the warmth. The romance wasn’t window dressing. The stakes weren’t trivial. A teenage girl turning into a magical soldier sounds ridiculous until you actually watch it and realize the writing has texture. The emotional beats hit.
One Piece just kept going. Still does. The commitment to it, the way it could hold a narrative across hundreds of episodes without losing momentum—that’s a kind of artistic discipline you don’t see in most television, let alone animation. It rewarded the patience it asked for.
There’s something about watching this stuff again now. It’s not quite nostalgia. It’s more like walking through a room where something fundamental in you took shape, without you knowing it at the time. The animation holds up better than you’d expect. The writing does too. And you realize you were learning something about character, about structure, about visual language—absorbing it all while just sitting there on the couch, waiting for dinner.
That window closed fast. RTL II moved on to cheaper, worse things. The cartoons dried up. And now watching those episodes feels less like revisiting something familiar and more like standing in a place you didn’t know was sacred until it was already gone.
The title said everything: ’Crying In The Club.’ Camila Cabello was out of Fifth Harmony, officially solo, and Sia and Benny Blanco had handed her a song that sounded like every confident-woman-in-pop-music moment of the last five years.
She’d been leaving the group for months before it was official—features with Shawn Mendes and others, solo appearances, the slow drift away. When the split finally happened at the end of 2016, it kicked up drama online the way these things do. But I was mostly curious about what she’d actually sound like on her own.
The song isn’t anything special, just competent pop with a strong voice over it. But that was always the point. Camila was the voice that stopped you when Fifth Harmony came on. The real question was whether she was enough on her own.
I still remember hearing “Ready to Die” and just — having to listen through it, not being able to do anything else. Notorious B.I.G.’s voice did that, made everything around it sound small. Bad Boy Records was basically the whole thing you wanted to hear about in the 90s. The label had the artists, had the production, had something that felt like it actually mattered.
The documentary about the label, “Can’t Stop Won’t Stop,” premiered in London and it’s hitting Apple Music on June 25th. The event was the usual thing — lots of famous people, photographers — but apparently everyone was actually loose about it, actually having fun, which you don’t always see at these premieres. That’s not really the story though. The story is Bad Boy Records starting in 1993 and everything that came after.
“No Way Out,” “Ready to Die,” Black Rob — the records genuinely held up. You can hear where the money and attention went, but you can also hear that there were real artists in the room, real care in the production. Puff Daddy understood how to make something feel iconic before it was finished, but the records themselves had weight. That’s the tricky part — most people can hype something up. Very few people can hype something up and also make something that still sounds good twenty years later.
I’m curious what the documentary does with all of it. Whether it’s a victory lap or whether there’s some actual retrospection in there. Those records are still the thing to check if you want to know what that era sounded like, and they’re still better than they have any right to be.
Zara Larsson’s a strange figure because she doesn’t perform like one—no announcement, just shows up with an opinion and a voice that knows how to use itself. Confident without the gesture. Credible without the attitude. Both at once, which most artists can’t manage.
“Don’t Let Me Be Yours” is a summer song in the easiest way possible, which means it’s actually hard. Nothing wasted. She doesn’t oversell a moment, doesn’t make you watch her work. Just slides in, does the thing, leaves it alone.
What’s weird is how much technique that requires. A voice that knows how to disappear into a song. Most singers want you watching them sing. She wants you listening to the song. By the time “So Good” came out, that was already her whole thing: sounds effortless, actually precise.
I don’t know what the long game is for her. Doesn’t matter much. Right now she makes songs that work without trying to make you know they’re working, and that’s harder than it looks.
I was into Tove Styrke early, back when she was making her way through the Swedish talent show circuit and “Call My Name” landed — this urgent, lean thing that sounded like someone who actually needed something. Years later she’s back with “Say My Name,” and it follows the same emotional logic: that particular kind of desperation, but refined, quieter. The production stays minimal, her voice stays low, but the insistence is still there. You can hear it in the spaces between syllables.
The song is about wanting someone with the kind of completeness where nothing else registers. It’s not exactly original as a subject — that obsessive ache gets written about constantly, has been forever. But Styrke doesn’t treat it like drama. There’s no performance in it, no attempt to make you feel something you’re not already supposed to feel. Just the shape of the thing itself, stated plain.
Elof Loelv handled production, which matters because he’s someone who knows how to stay out of a vocal’s way. He’s been around good pop — Rihanna’s “Stay,” various work with Zara Larsson and Icona Pop — and the pattern holds: arrangement doesn’t fight for attention, the voice carries everything.
I was obsessed with Nina Bott when I was younger. Completely, unambiguously obsessed. She was on this German soap called “Alles was zählt,” and I watched it for years, not because the show was good, but because she was in it. When she moved to other projects, I followed. Terrible TV movies, low-budget productions that aired at weird times on channels I’d never normally watch—”Ein unverbesserlicher Dickkopf,” “Die Sturmflut,” some forgettable thing where she seduced a guy with a serious problem. None of it mattered. If she was in it, I watched it.
I was that person for a while. The kind of guy with a completely unreasonable type, absolutely shameless about the pursuit. Pure horniness. Pure devotion to a face on a screen you’ll never touch.
She’s done Playboy a few times now. Got work done on her chest at some point—it felt like a betrayal when that happened, the way these things do, because the fantasy is always about a specific person, not perfect anatomy. But she’s Nina Bott. She can do whatever she wants. She always could.
I loved my first phone like it was sacred. Kept it pristine, treasured it. Now I drag around an iPhone I genuinely don’t care about. Lose it and I’ll just buy another one. It works, it looks fine, it costs too much, and that’s it.
Then Meitu made a Sailor Moon phone. And something happened. I actually wanted it.
I’ve been a Sailor Moon person for basically forever. It’s woven into how I see things, how I think about pop culture, design, all of it. So when I found out a phone existed with Sailor Moon’s face on it, some old part of my brain switched on. The part that still gets excited about objects because they mean something.
It’s a real phone with real specs. Good camera, decent screen, processor that handles what you throw at it, battery that gets through the day. Costs less than the usual flagship stuff. None of that is the point. The point is I want to own something because I love what it represents, not because I need it to do something.
I’d forgotten what that felt like—when something stops being a utility and becomes something you actually desire. Phones are supposed to be invisible. A Sailor Moon phone isn’t invisible. It’s something I’ll want to have.
It’ll be in my pocket eventually. No question about it.
Every app has an expiration date, and it usually hits when your parents figure it out. Snapchat had maybe three good years before the generation that actually mattered moved on. Nothing technical killed it. Just the slow realization that everyone’s mom knew how to use it.
I watched influencers jump to Instagram Stories around that tipping point. A study from Mediakix tracked twelve of them over thirty days and found eight posting more to Stories than Snapchat. It wasn’t even a conscious choice—they just drifted toward wherever the young people had already moved, and the rest of us followed.
Nothing changed about Snapchat itself. The disappearing messages, the filters, all the mechanics still worked. But exclusivity was always the only real feature it had. The moment you lose that to mainstream adoption, the entire appeal evaporates. Zuckerberg understood this better than anyone who actually built something new. Copy the feature, drop it into a platform where everybody already is, and wait for the exodus.
The weird part is how predictable it all is. You build something exclusive. It gets discovered. Your parents join. It’s dead. Someone else copies the mechanic and wins by doing less. The technology barely matters. It’s all about who else is there and whether they understand it yet.
She used to show up half-naked and high and unrepentant, and you knew exactly where you stood. Miley Cyrus, the Disney kid who decided the whole script was bullshit and set it on fire. That version mattered—someone fully committed to not giving a shit.
Then she got sensible. She figured out how to exist in the world instead of burning it down.
Her new song is “Malibu.” Soft. All sunshine and love, the kind of thing that plays in the background of a commercial or a wedding and nobody really notices it. She sings about wanting to stay the same, and there’s maybe a moment where something real gets through, but the production buries it. A pretty song from someone who isn’t interesting anymore.
I get it. People grow up. They move to nice places and learn how to be respectable. But the version I was interested in watching is gone.
You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway. Phone out, framing the shot before you even look at what’s actually in front of you. I did a whole trip to Osaka this way—Shinsaibashi district, the neon signs, the crowded shopping streets, whatever looked good through the screen first. Osaka’s the third-largest city in Japan, a trading hub, expensive as hell to live in, and completely indifferent to whether you’re there to experience it or just to prove you were.
The thing about Instagram travel is that you end up seeing the place through a very specific lens, literally and figuratively. You’re hunting for angles, waiting for the light to hit right, positioning yourself in front of things that photograph well. The vintage signs photograph well. The crowds photograph well. A temple gate photographs well. You move through the city like you’re curating a museum of yourself.
But somewhere between the fifteenth selfie and the thirtieth shot of the same street from slightly different positions, something shifts. You stop performing and actually look. You notice the way people move around you without caring that you’re there. You taste something you bought because it looked interesting, not because it would look good. You find yourself somewhere that isn’t photogenic at all—just a narrow alley, some old shopfronts, actual life happening—and you don’t take a picture.
Osaka isn’t interested in your documentation of it. The city’s been a commercial center for centuries, moving money and goods and people through its streets long before Instagram existed. It doesn’t need your validation. And maybe that’s what I actually needed to learn from going there: that the experience and the proof of the experience are two different things, and sometimes they’re in direct conflict with each other.
Bibi is this YouTube personality from Germany who got famous young and has a gift for polarizing the demographic you’d expect—the tween crowd, the adjacent circles, that whole sprawl. The stans went to bat for her, tweets and emojis flying. But what actually formed around her was something else: a complete parallel industry of people whose only goal was to destroy her debut single.
“How It Is (wap bap…)” — I don’t even know what to call that sound — is genuinely terrible. Like, I’m serious, legitimately competing for worst song of the 21st century. I honestly can’t think of anything worse. The parodies that exploded online weren’t even parodies anymore; they were mercy operations. Actual masterworks, some of them. People came, saw what she’d released, understood what needed to happen, and immediately made something better.
I know I’ll get mail. People saying jump out a window, make a song yourself if you’re such a critic, the whole defensive stan routine. But here’s what I think: if you’re making money off something this fundamentally, obviously broken, you’ve earned what happens next. I’d sooner listen to Helene Fischer forever. At least she knows what she is.
“Melon Soda” hits you with this propulsive, gear-shifting architecture that shouldn’t work as a pop song but does. Tricot, the math-rock trio from Kyoto, has always built their tracks with this relentless intelligence — sudden time shifts, rhythms that feel locked into place until they splinter into something else. But “Melon Soda” is different. It’s the most immediate thing they’ve done, all guitar shimmer and rhythm that feels simple until you’re three listens in and still discovering new angles.
I found them circling the edges of various playlists when I was hunting for something between the obvious stuff — not prog, not quite pop, but intelligent without feeling bloated. J-rock bands don’t apologize for being complicated, and Tricot doesn’t either. They’re just three people making sharp, strange music that feels like it could fall apart any second but never does. The rhythm section has this telepathic quality, the guitar work constant invention, lines crossing over themselves like someone thinking out loud in real time.
They’ve been working since 2009, releasing on labels that people actually respect. By the time “Melon Soda” showed up, they weren’t new to anyone paying attention, but they might as well have been to me. I put them on when I need something that won’t let me stop thinking — not background music, not something you half-listen to. Either you follow the structures and the tempo changes and the moments where everything locks into something beautiful and discordant, or you switch away. I don’t blame people for switching. The ones who stick with it aren’t listening to anything simple.
Someone uploaded Bibi’s music video to YouPorn. The title: “German Girl Fucks German Music Industry.” Perfect.
Bibi is a massive German YouTube star — the kind of influencer who can sell literally anything. Makeup, fragrances, skincare products that would otherwise rot in discount bins. She’s built a career on her looks, her smile, her sheer presence. Millions of kids obsess over her. She prints money.
So of course she released a song.
“How it is (wap bap…)” is one of the worst things I’ve ever heard. It’s the sound of someone who has never had to develop a skill assuming that fame is enough, that just existing is content. Everyone knew it was awful. She knew it was awful. But the label had money to spend, the streams would accumulate anyway, and the millions of kids buying her makeup off her presence would buy this too.
When someone ripped that video and uploaded it to a porn site with that title, it landed. The joke was too perfect. Not edgy — just true. She was fucking the German music industry. Not in some revolutionary way, but in the only way that actually works: reach, presence, complete indifference to whether anything is any good, pure momentum.
I think about this sometimes. How much of what we’re all paying attention to is just people with reach having no reason to try harder. How a song can be objectively terrible and still matter because enough people care about who’s singing it. That YouPorn upload is the most honest thing that ever happened to that track.
You pack your backpack, buy your rations of canned food, and tell your friends you’re taking a break from the world for three days. The Melt Festival in Ferropolis does something to you — night becomes day, beats become religion, and you end up friends with people you met soaked in dust at 4 AM.
The lineups they pull together feel almost unfair. This year it’s M.I.A., Bilderbuch, Die Antwoord, Glass Animals, Bonobo, Modeselektor, Dixon, Phoenix, The Kills, Ellen Allien, Kate Tempest, Warpaint, and dozens more. It’s the kind of bill where you genuinely can’t see everything you want to see, where conflicts actually hurt when you have to choose. Three days of that specific tension.
There’s something about Ferropolis that stays with you. Maybe it’s the setting, maybe it’s the people who came for the right reasons, maybe it’s just the permission to care completely about what you care about without the usual static. You show up as one person and leave as something slightly different.
YouTube had to become respectable, which meant advertisers wanted in, which meant someone had to define what’s safe. A Wall Street Journal piece about ads appearing on racist videos spooked all the major brands. Starbucks, Pepsi, General Motors—they all pulled their spending. Millions gone overnight.
YouTube’s solution was a filter. Advertisers could now block their ads from appearing next to certain keywords and topics. In theory, it made sense. In practice, it didn’t care if you were criticizing the topic or promoting it. You got cut off either way. The money just stopped.
I watched h3h3Productions get crushed by it. Ethan and Hila had built something real—millions of views, actual cultural presence. The videos that got the most attention earned almost nothing because the filter had decided those topics were radioactive. So they moved to Twitch. Suddenly it wasn’t a backup option; it was the only smart play.
That’s when you realize YouTube had already become something else. One panic from advertisers, one algorithmic shift, and your audience means nothing if the system decides to shut you down. The views stay. The money just evaporates.
Spring gets everyone reaching for a camera. The light improves, everything blooms at once, and you’ve got maybe three weeks to document it before the blossoms scatter. It’s ancient at this point—couples in cherry trees, families standing still while someone figures out the exposure, strangers asking each other to take their picture.
Grant Spanier photographed his girlfriend Iona Catherine Small in those blossoms. It’s exactly the kind of thing you’d see a thousand times online, which is fine—most are perfectly nice. But his work catches something real. She’s looking at him, he’s clearly present, and there’s no performance in it. He talked about how he doesn’t photograph her just because she’s beautiful, but because they’re intimate, and that shift shows immediately. The camera reads it like something true moving through the frame.
That’s what separates a documented moment from an actual photograph. Real presence. You can’t fake it. The photographs that stick with you are made by people who were actually there, paying attention to the person in front of them rather than composing for some imagined viewer. Spring makes you aware of this more acutely somehow. Everything’s transient, everything visible. The light forgives nothing.
I got to Tokyo with almost nothing left in my account. The flight burned through most of it, the hotel took the rest. Karaoke, the temples, the clubs I kept hearing about - all out of reach now. Not that it matters.
Grabbed a canned coffee from a vending machine somewhere in Harajuku, found a bench with good foot traffic. This is the real show. The fashion here operates by its own logic. Colors that shouldn’t work together do. Skirts with no compromise on vision. Accessories that know exactly what they’re committing to. Nothing here is negotiating.
In Shibuya I watched Fumiko pass by in a denim jacket over a white heart-print shirt and a skirt that looked genuinely alien. Chisato was beside her in a strawberry-print dress, a Disney princess backpack, and this enormous brown fur coat over everything. Neither one was building a coherent outfit. They were just entirely themselves, dressed in their own visual language, moving through the crowd without question.
I was sitting on a bench with a vending machine coffee, hungry and broke, and watching them was enough.
RTL II decided it needed to own the youth market. The thinking was simple: kids live on YouTube and Instagram, so let’s make TV shows out of selfies. “Berlyn.” “Mjunik.” “dailyCGN.” Just people filming themselves on their phones for a couple minutes, which is somehow supposed to be different from actual YouTube people doing exactly that except these had corporate backing and the unmistakable stench of desperation.
The weird part was how quickly nobody wanted this. Even fans of “Berlin – Tag & Nacht”—a show so relentlessly stupid it should carry a warning label—couldn’t stomach it. Two of the three are already cancelled. The digital chief who championed it is gone. The third one’s probably dead too, just hasn’t admitted it yet.
There’s something sad about watching a TV network miss the entire point this completely. They saw the format and thought the format was the thing. Looked at YouTube, TikTok, Instagram and didn’t understand what was actually happening. Thought a phone camera was the secret, that you could replicate youth culture by just appending aesthetics to a corporate product.
The gap between what they thought and what was true is the whole story. You can’t copy the internet by mimicking its surface. The format was never what made it work. It was always about people who had something to say, who did it because they wanted to, not because a focus group said teenagers like phones. The energy has to be real, and a corporation can’t fake that no matter how many selfies they film.
Someone’s sprawled on a couch, completely gone, one hand reaching into a bowl of cereal. Someone else is pressed against a lover, skin on skin, the world narrowed down to touch. Another person’s bent over a toilet. That’s what Ben Evans illustrates—not the mythology around weed, just the actual middle of it. The unremarkable repetition of getting high with the same people, in the same room, again and again.
Evans (Ben is Right online) spent his younger years in those rooms—thick with smoke, populated by friends for whom weed was just a regular presence. He started documenting it. His work is this strange, bright thing: colored almost cheerfully, rendering the specific mundanity of that life. A woman with visible body hair stands naked. Two people fuck without particular grace or performance about it. Someone stares at nothing with the specific glassiness of being completely wrecked. No irony. No wink at the audience. Just the visual fact of what bodies look like when they’re at rest, unselfconscious, high.
What’s interesting is how difficult it actually is to draw someone doing nothing. Not nothing-cool. Just nothing. The slack jaw and the distant eyes and the way a hand lies flat on a thigh. Most artists go for intensity when they depict the body. Evans captures stupor. Comfort. The absence of any pretense. These figures aren’t aspirational. They’re not conventionally sexy. They’re just there, existing in their skin without thinking about it, waiting for the feeling to come back.
I’m not particularly versed in weed culture—I’ve never really been around it much—but there’s something convincing about the way he renders bodies in space. The casual physicality of it. The way his people lean on each other and splay across furniture. It doesn’t feel like fantasy or judgment. Just documentation. Someone who actually knows what 3 AM looks like when you’re sitting in a kitchen with people too high to do anything but eat.
I keep coming back to “Konichiwa.” It’s a ridiculous title for a single—Gerard just straight up went with it—and the track is wound so tight you almost can’t tell what’s happening until the third or fourth listen. By which point you’re already committed.
He’s from Vienna, part of a scene you don’t know about unless you’re digging. Over the last decade he’s released increasingly strange, increasingly precise hip-hop, mostly through Futuresfuture, which is now his own label. Before this single there was “Blausicht” and “Neue Welt”—both actually charted, which is impressive given how experimental they are. The tours that followed sold out across Germany and Austria. He became one of those artists who’s quietly foundational to an entire underground scene.
The production is the signature: beats assembled from pieces that shouldn’t cohere but do, vocals placed in ways that feel accidental even when they’re precise. The writing is all adolescence and observation—the weight of living in something moving too fast to think about. Just the texture of being aware of how little any of it matters while still showing up anyway.
What I appreciate is the refusal to perform. He doesn’t sound like anything else and doesn’t apologize for it. He just calls his own sound “Gerard Musik” like it’s obvious. That confidence is rare. Most people spend years trying to sound like something else before they realize they don’t have to.
The album “AAA” is coming soon on his own label. I’m curious what happens next—not because I expect anything revolutionary, he’s never chased that. Just interested in what he does when nobody’s watching, when the only pressure is whatever he puts on himself.
Ryan Adams does a show on Apple Music called The Midnight Wave. Once a month he’s in his LA studio with some friends and a robot, getting stoned and making radio the way it used to be made before it became a brand and quarterly earnings reports. Just conversation, music, no agenda. Perfect for three in the morning when you’re awake and the world’s finally quiet.
Five episodes in and Adams isn’t trying to impress anyone. He covered Taylor Swift’s 1989 album a few years back, track by track, and turned it into something else entirely—not a statement, just his version of it. The Midnight Wave has that same looseness. No performance, no personality brand, just someone who knows how to listen talking about music.
I can’t remember the last time I found radio like this. The kind of thing you turn on at three AM when you can’t sleep and you don’t want company exactly, but you don’t want to be alone either. It’s the voice without the obligation.
When DaddyOFive was happening, it was just one of those YouTube things you’d stumble into. This channel where a guy and his wife filmed themselves screwing with their kids—destroying their toys, making them fight, hitting them. Called it pranks. The algorithm was pushing it, people were watching, nobody was stopping it.
The oldest kid Cody was in most of the videos. You could watch him break a little more in each one. He didn’t understand why his parents were doing this, and I don’t think the parents understood either, not really. They just knew it was working.
It took Philip DeFranco and a few others pointing out that it was actually abuse before anyone cared. Once they said something, everyone piled on. Of course it was disgusting. Of course it was wrong. But it had been sitting there the whole time, getting views and ad revenue, and nobody’s algorithm had flagged it as a problem.
The casual math is what stuck with me. Pain equals engagement equals money. YouTube doesn’t care what the formula is, just that it works. The platform created a space where exploiting your own kids made economic sense. And for a while, that was enough.
I don’t know where the channel ended up. Probably deleted or demonetized or moved to wherever creators go when things get too hot. But those videos exist somewhere. Those kids are living with that. At some point Cody’s going to google his own childhood and find it all quantified and ranked.
When Nintendo announced the mini Super Nintendo in 2017, priced around €80, it felt inevitable. This was always going to happen. A tiny plastic box full of games I hadn’t thought about in years but also thought about constantly.
The SNES was the first console that made me understand what it meant to actually care about hardware. Secret of Mana, Chrono Trigger, Super Mario World, Donkey Kong Country, Yoshi’s Island, The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past—I’d sit there for hours, not because I was trying to beat them, but because I didn’t want to do anything else. That’s hard to explain. There’s something about that combination of games and the moment in gaming history when everything felt open and possible.
A mini SNES sitting on a shelf feels like a consolation prize for the version of myself who had infinite time. I know it won’t feel the same when I plug it in. I know I’ll play for twenty minutes, feel the weight of trying to recapture something, and then stop. But I’ll buy it anyway, because not having it means accepting that thing is really gone.
The question is what games they’ll load on it. If they’re smart, they pack the actual classics—not just the obvious Nintendo stuff, but the Square games, the Capcom games, the Konami and Rare games that made the SNES what it was. Probably they won’t. Probably it’s designed specifically for people like me, the one impulse buy in an otherwise adult life.
Morgan Mikenas stopped shaving for a year and posted about it. The backlash came fast—vicious comments, vomit emojis, sexual threats dressed as criticism. What bothered me most was watching other women pile on, women so locked into the hairless standard they couldn’t tolerate someone refusing it. They’d swallowed the whole thing so completely they became the enforcers themselves.
It’s strange how much effort society puts into making body hair on women seem disgusting—not unattractive or a cultural preference, but genuinely, viscerally disgusting. The message starts young and it’s everywhere: your legs, your underarms, everything below your neck has to disappear. It’s an enormous infrastructure of shame built around something completely natural, something that grows on half the population without any of this baggage in most contexts.
You notice the power of the rule when someone breaks it. Morgan’s year of unshaven legs genuinely rattled people. The revulsion was real, not performed. I don’t know what she was trying to prove or if she proved anything. But it’s worth noticing that a woman choosing not to shave is still radical enough to trigger that kind of response. Still forbidden enough to matter. That tells you something about how completely this thing has been internalized, what everyone’s supposed to believe about her body.
You go to Tokyo thinking you know what to see. Ginza, Harajuku, Shimokitazawa — these are the boxes you check during the day. The camera moments, the crowds, the whole city performing for an invisible audience. But the Tokyo that actually mattered only showed up after dark.
The first night I remember is Ginza, late, hunting for food because you’re always hungry in Tokyo. Found a sushi place small enough that you could watch the chef work the whole counter, maybe six seats total. The rice was body temperature, which sounds wrong until you taste it. The fish was alive maybe four hours before. You don’t think about freshness like that at home. The soy sauce had a taste you haven’t encountered before — something like caramel but not sweet, something darker.
Then clubs. I went with people I’d just met, which is how nights in Tokyo work. Strangers become company by 11 PM. The music was loud enough that talking became impossible, which was fine. You just move, watch the room, let the rhythm do what it does. Sometime around 2 AM someone said karaoke, so we went down some stairs, into a booth the size of a closet. The songs are in English and Japanese and the English translations are hilariously broken, but nobody’s performing. You’re just singing to each other in a tiny room at 3 in the morning.
Tokyo in daylight is a city selling itself. Tokyo at night is just Tokyo. The performing stops. You see what it actually is.
Virgil Abloh was DJing, which tells you everything about the event’s target audience. A pool somewhere in the desert, drinks at festival prices, everyone’s carefully constructed version of looking like they hadn’t tried. The Levi’s party — another branded gathering where the actual clothes are almost secondary to the real product: the image of beautiful people in the right place at the right time.
These scenes follow a formula now. I’ve watched them accumulate long enough that the details blur together — different models, different celebrities, the same scene playing out. What strikes me isn’t the glamour but the visible labor underneath it. Everyone at these parties carries a low-level awareness that they’re inside a frame, that they’re being consumed. Casual requires enormous effort when everyone’s watching.
A pool felt cold. The drinks tasted like nothing. The music was fine. But the image mattered, and everyone understood that while it was happening. There’s something almost honest about it — this unspoken agreement we’ve made with the aesthetic world: be beautiful and aware, and in exchange, you get this moment. It’s ritual dressed as spontaneity.
Most of the time I don’t know what to think about it. Sometimes it seems sad. Sometimes, weirdly, noble. But I keep looking, same as everyone else.
I’ve had three cups of coffee today and my teeth are getting darker. It’s the straightforward price of this habit: you stay awake, your teeth stain. Everybody knows it isn’t healthy. Everybody does it anyway.
Someone made transparent coffee. Clear Coffee tastes like regular coffee but looks like water—no staining, same caffeine. David Nagy and his team are heavy coffee drinkers who got tired of their teeth darkening, so they figured out how to make it without the color.
It’s kind of perfect actually. You get the coffee you need, you skip the visible damage. There’s something appealing about drinking your coffee without anybody knowing, without the evidence showing on your face.
I haven’t ordered any yet, but I understand the appeal completely. You can buy it online, or you can just tell people you did. Either way, it exists because the problem is real.
There’s something about New York that makes you think you can disappear into it and become someone else. Leave everyone who knows you, step off a bus, and suddenly you’re nobody. You get to decide who you are.
Brooklyn especially sells this. You walk around and see people doing it—working, dancing, kissing someone, drinking on a roof. They look like they’re actually living the lives they planned. Maybe they are.
The hard part is that you’ll probably never meet those people. You’ll live five minutes from them and never cross paths. Your story and theirs exist in the same neighborhood and never touch. But that’s part of the dream too, somehow. Everyone around you is living vividly, and you’ll never know them. It’s lonely and thrilling.
I don’t know if it actually works the way people think it does. The leaving is easy. The becoming is harder. But people keep trying anyway, and there’s something honest about that. They’re not waiting for permission. They’re just going.
There’s a name for it now: microdosing. Every morning, a measured amount of LSD to make your brain work right, like a vitamin but for consciousness. It’s just addiction with a schedule and a scientific word attached to it.
The logic is seductive. A tiny dose might help you see things sideways, break your patterns, feel less claustrophobic in your own thinking. You’re not trying to get visibly high, just nudged enough that the day is manageable. It feels controlled, almost respectable, which lets you do it without the shame of admitting you actually need drugs to function.
I don’t think it’s new, just newly visible. People have always used chemistry to survive their lives. What’s changed is the openness about it, the willingness to discuss it like it’s self-care. Another morning routine. Shower, coffee, the small pharmaceutical adjustment that gets you operational.
There’s something bleak about needing to chemically retune your baseline just to exist. Not because drugs are bad—people have always taken them—but because the unmedicated state feels so inadequate that you need this every single morning just to be okay. That’s what gets to me. The acceptance of it.
There’s this moment in SXTN’s new track where Juju says “Du bist Haustier, ich bin Raubier”—you’re a pet, I’m a predator—while smoking and drinking champagne like she’s just stating facts. That’s the whole vibe of the song, and the whole vibe of them.
They’re a Berlin hip-hop duo. Juju came up around Freundeskreis, and Nura had already been through other crews. What matters is that they don’t sound like they’re trying to prove anything. They rap about their lives, the moment-to-moment chaos of it, the parts that don’t quite make sense but feel absolutely true.
Their videos are actually well-made, which shouldn’t need saying but apparently does. You can feel the production budget and they know how to spend it. But it never feels like the videos are doing the work—they’re just the frame while Juju and Nura do the actual thing.
What gets me about SXTN is how much of rap is still performance. Building a persona, hitting the expected notes, earning credibility through moves that look right, feel right, sound right. They skip all of it. They just exist, and it makes everything else sound thin by comparison.
There’s this panic that gets sold to you about sending nudes. You get the rush, you hit send, and then immediate paranoia sets in—family, coworkers, screenshots, your whole life ending. The media’s been pushing this anxiety for years like it’s some real epidemic.
Pornhub decided to capitalize on it with an app called TrickPics. It’s Snapchat for dick pics, basically. You send your nudes but there’s a little animated graphic hovering over your genitals. A snake, a sticker, something. Technically covered.
I genuinely don’t know what the point is. If someone wants to screenshot your explicit videos, a pixelated frog isn’t going to stop them. But okay—if you’ve been waiting for the ability to send yourself completely naked with a cute cartoon obstruction, the app exists now.
The whole thing is absurd in a way that’s almost refreshing. Pornhub isn’t pretending this solves anything real. They’re just making an app for people who are horny and anxious, which at least has the merit of being honest about it.
Superstudio Hamburg, Friday night, a hundred people in black looking at the NMD_CS2. Adidas was calling it the Ronin Pack—the latest in the City Sock line, a shoe with no excess. Minimal geometry, all black or near-black, restraint that only works when you know what you’re doing.
The exhibition was called “Sowohl als auch”—both/and. Not a runway. Installations, a Swedish singer, a design duo in the background. The boundary between commerce and culture deliberately removed, which is just how you launch something serious now.
The NMD’s DNA is modular, functional. It looks engineered rather than seduced. The Ronin Pack embraces that. Nothing decorative. Just proportion and material and the decision to refuse ornament. It reads clean.
They said it’s for everyone—men and women both. The shoe doesn’t know the difference. Leather is leather. Design solves the same problems across the board.
Walking home I kept thinking about what it takes to move a sneaker now. You can’t just make something beautiful. You have to compose the whole apparatus around it—the gallery, the lineage, the philosophy, the democratic gesture. It works about half the time. This time it landed.
FFFFOUND! was the opposite of what social networks wanted to become. While everyone else chased growth and user count and eventual buyouts, this platform stayed small. Curated. Invitation-only. Started in 2007 by Yosuke Abe and Keita Kitamura, it became exactly what they wanted—a collection of the best image work on the internet, gathered by people who actually knew what they were looking at.
That’s what made it rare. Not exclusive for the sake of it—exclusive because quality mattered more than metrics. Photographs, illustrations, weird and beautiful and technically perfect and stupid funny things all in one feed. If you found something that made you stop scrolling, you saved it there. And what you saw when you opened FFFFOUND! was years of other people’s best finds. No algorithm. No trending section. Just the good stuff.
I spent years on that site, pulling images constantly, filling a bookmark folder with things I wanted to see again. Some was reference material. Some was just—the taste of someone on the internet who saw something the way I did. There’s a feeling to that, finding your people by proxy. Nobody has to like you. The image just speaks.
They announced the shutdown for May. I’m not surprised. The kind of internet that had room for FFFFOUND! doesn’t really exist anymore. Everything is platforms now, and platforms need growth. This site never needed that. It was fine being itself, perfectly uncommercialized, perfectly unnecessary. That’s exactly why it mattered.
I went back and bookmarked my favorites one more time—years of accumulated taste, other people’s best finds, things that made me stop. Thought about who they were, people on the internet finding the same images I did. That’s what FFFFOUND! was, not a platform or a service, just that: recognition. You see something beautiful. Someone else sees it too.
Rihanna was in Berlin last week for her PUMA collection launch. She was actually there for it—not just showing up, but there because she designed the thing.
Music made her famous, but design is her real work now. She shifted everything over to it, and the collection shows. Clean, purposeful, no wasted effort. Just clothes that function, made by someone who understands what actually matters—proportion, material, how things sit on a body.
That’s her job now. That’s why she flew to Berlin.
I haven’t listened to a new Rihanna album in years, but that’s mostly because she stopped making them. Somewhere around 2016 she decided that music was boring and pivoted to fashion, which was probably the smartest move she could have made. The Fenty empire doesn’t need my validation—it just keeps expanding while everyone else is still trying to figure out how to launch a luxury brand without looking desperate.
The pop-up stores are where you actually see it happening. They show up in a city for a day, sell limited pieces, disappear. Berlin got one in April. It’s a formula that shouldn’t work—artificial scarcity, hype marketing, all the tricks—but it works because there’s clearly someone with actual taste making the decisions. The Bow Slides. The creepers. The details matter in a way they rarely do when celebrities slap their name on things. It doesn’t feel calculated. It feels like someone who learned what they wanted to make and is making it.
Fashion people would probably have a lot to say about the construction, the cuts, the thinking. I don’t know enough to care about that. What I notice is that it doesn’t feel like celebrity vanity, which is rare enough to mention. Most people who get famous for one thing and try another thing make it obvious they have no real interest. Rihanna looks genuinely bored by the celebrity part and interested in design, which is backwards from how it usually works and therefore weirdly enviable.
There’s a kind of autonomy to the whole thing that’s almost defiant. She could probably still draw a stadium tomorrow and drop an album that sells a million copies. Instead she’s deciding which cities get a store and what goes in it. That’s the whole point of making it huge—the freedom to ignore what everyone expects—and you almost never see anyone actually use it the way she has.
I spent a lot of time looking at t-shirts in Tokyo. Not because I was looking for t-shirts, but because once you start noticing the English printed on them, you can’t stop. And almost none of it means anything. Not in a broken English way—fully incoherent. Power. Beagle. Wonderdrug. Just words arranged like they were supposed to make sense.
The kids wearing them had no idea what they said. They didn’t care. English had this imported shimmer to it, something that read as cool and international whether or not it translated to anything real. The meaning wasn’t the point. The point was the sound of it, the visual weight of foreign words.
A Japanese TV show tested this exact thing, intercepting teenagers in Harajuku and asking them to explain their own clothes. Blank looks. Bad guesses. A lot of “I dunno, it just looked cool.” And genuinely, no one seemed bothered by this. You don’t wear English for definition in Tokyo. You wear it because it looks right.
I killed my TV ages ago—or rather, my ex did, firing a water pistol at it during an argument. That was the end of “Alles was zählt” for me. So I don’t know much about the show anymore, but apparently Juliette Greco, who’s on it, posed for Playboy again.
In the interview, she talks about why. After she had a kid, it took years to feel okay in her own body again. She’s hard on herself that way. But posing for Playboy does something for her. For a few days she can be someone else—sexy, confident, nobody’s mother, nobody’s wife. She gets to step out of the weight of her actual life and just exist as this other version of herself. Then she steps back in.
There’s something honest about that. Not the magazine part necessarily, but the idea that sometimes you need permission from something outside yourself to be the version of you that you actually are. A frame, a camera, someone else’s desire—something that says you’re allowed to be this now. And if it works, if she feels better, then it’s real.
The weird part is how ordinary it all is now. You can download naked pictures on your phone like you’re ordering groceries. The whole mystique is gone. That’s its own kind of freedom, I guess.
For a while I thought YouTube would figure itself out. Everyone kept saying I didn’t understand the appeal, that I was being unfair to creators like ApeCrime, Bibi, Sami Slimani. They’d explain about authenticity, connection, how this is where the culture actually is now. And I thought: okay, maybe I’m just skeptical and out of touch. I can wait a couple of years. Let the kids get bored. Let the algorithm shift. Something will break the cycle.
But nothing broke. The same channels stayed on top. The pranks stayed obviously fake, the product placements stayed shameless, and the young audience just kept watching, thinking it was real, thinking it was authentic. Not because they’re dumb. Because they’ve literally never known anything else. This is what entertainment looks like to them. This is the standard.
I figured that out a while back, and it actually scared me. There’s no fixing that. You can’t teach someone they want better when better is just an abstract concept to them. An entire generation is going to grow up thinking that a certain kind of low-effort grift disguised as spontaneous real-ness is just… what art is. What connection is. What you aspire to.
My friends still find it funny—the ones my age, anyway, the ones who still wear Air Max and think this stuff is the future. And now they’re raising kids who are going to be even deeper in it, who won’t even have a memory of something different. Who won’t know what they’re missing.
So I stopped waiting for YouTube to correct itself. There’s nothing to correct anymore. It’s just the baseline now. And that genuinely unsettles me.
Karl Hab made a magazine called Ice Cream Shots. It’s straightforward — photographs of ice cream in beautiful places. Los Angeles, Paris, Hong Kong. That’s the entire concept. Someone got something cold and frozen on a nice day and documented it. I like magazines that know exactly what they care about and refuse to overthink it. There’s a clarity in constraint.
It works because it’s honest. No positioning, no theme, no cultural commentary trying to make ice cream into something it isn’t. Just the thing itself, photographed well, in places worth looking at. When you open it, you notice what’s actually there — the light, the texture, the surroundings — instead of waiting for someone to explain why you should care.
The physical object is part of it too. A magazine like this is better in print because the decision to show only what matters becomes its entire language. Online it’d just be another feed. Here it’s complete. It looks good on a shelf. More than that, it feels like something worth keeping instead of scrolling past.
I watched Cam Girlz, which follows Lily Madison, Amelia Twist, Lana Rose—young women streaming naked on MyGirlFund and sites like it. Some are broke, some just sick of worse work. They’re comfortable with their bodies. Society imagines it should be scandalous. Nobody actually cares.
The filmmakers follow them through their nights. You watch them work, manage clients, decide what to show and what to keep back. There’s no moral dimension here—no exploitation narrative, no rescue fantasy, just labor. Labor that happens to involve being naked, which is clarifying in a strange way.
What gets me is how utterly normalized this has become. Ten years ago people would have gasped. Now it’s just one option on the menu for turning attention into money. Easier than waiting tables. Less humiliating than calling your parents. Some of the girls frame it as feminist reclamation, ownership of their bodies and their work. I understand that framing. What I watched, though, was people doing a job they’re good at and getting paid for it.
The documentary seems uncertain what to say about it. It keeps gesturing toward statements about feminism or economic desperation but never quite lands anywhere. Which might be the only honest approach—don’t mythologize it, don’t save these women, don’t turn their lives into your argument. Just show the work.
Facebook’s story is always the same: it brings people together, keeps you connected to people everywhere, lets you see each other’s lives. The more you use it the better. That’s what they tell you.
Except researchers at UC tracked 5,000 people over three years and found the opposite. For every one percent increase in interactions—likes, link clicks, status updates—wellbeing dropped by five to eight percent. More scrolling, more sadness. Nothing surprising about it.
If you were already tired of it anyway, the fake vacation photos, the rage pages that never disappear, the way they steal your data and call it engagement—well now there’s actual research confirming what your gut already knew. That’s worth something.
I quit using Facebook years ago, or quit in the way you do: opened the app less, forgot about it, eventually realized months had passed. No withdrawal. No FOMO. Just silence. And it was fine.
I first heard about Battle Royale in the early 2000s—Tarantino’s favorite film, which was reason enough to care. The premise: a class of high school students wakes on an island with explosive collars, told that one of them survives. That’s the whole setup.
I downloaded it on dial-up, waiting through the modem all day for the file to come through. Watching it hit like something necessary. The characters—Noriko, Mitsuko, Kazuo—became obsessions. For years I kept going back to it, that particular way where you can’t explain what you’re chasing but you can’t stop.
Kinji Fukasaku made it look like chaos and precision at once. It should be exploitation; instead it’s almost tender. The violence lands because you’re watching actual people, not players in a game but teenagers being themselves before the horror starts.
The film spent forever stuck in distribution—censored, delayed, unavailable depending on where you were. Seeing it finally hit uncut feels strange now. I’m not the person who downloaded that bootleg; the obsession has settled into something quieter, the kind of thing that doesn’t need defending anymore. It just sticks.
REMMI DEMMI is back at Bi Nuu in Kreuzberg on April 29. One ticket, one night, six bands. This format only works if someone actually designed the lineup rather than just assembling it.
The bill is cross-European: KEØMA with Kat Frankie and Chris Klopfer, AVEC from Austria, Klischée and egopusher from Switzerland—egopusher playing drums and violin, which is either inspired or will be awkward—ALMEEVA from France releasing a new EP, and Mari Mana. Most of them are new to me, which is the right way to approach a night like this.
Festivals built on constraints like these are interesting because there’s nowhere to hide. The room matters, the sequence matters, the transitions matter. You can’t pad it with production or scale. Bi Nuu as a venue understands that—it’s just a good space, nothing to prove, nothing trying to convince you. It gets out of the way.
After Twilight, most actors just vanish or keep making the same movie. Kristen Stewart picked a different route — Olivier Assayas, Personal Shopper, Paris. French indie about grief and displacement, with nudity that no one’s asking for but which Stewart owns completely.
I watched it like everyone else who’d spent years in Twilight fandom, which means I was partly there because of the nudity and partly because I was genuinely curious if she could act. The answer turned out to be yes, completely, in a way that Twilight never let you see.
What got to me wasn’t her body but her presence — small, lost, genuinely unmoored in Paris even though that’s supposed to be her home. She’s watching all the time. Never fully present. It’s the opposite of the Bella thing, which was kind of the whole point of the exercise.
Assayas doesn’t make a spectacle of the nudity. It’s just there, matter-of-fact, part of being alive. The film is cold and European and doesn’t give you easy feelings. You finish it and you don’t feel better, you just feel like you’ve spent time with someone who’s grieving.
It worked, though. Not because of the nudity but because Stewart wanted something and she went after it, consequences be damned. That matters more than Twilight ever did.
Season three dropped and the first episode is something else.
I love Rick & Morty. The first two seasons are the best television I’ve seen—an old asshole genius and his anxious grandson flying through space, murdering things, finding weird shit everywhere. The scope of it, the willingness to go anywhere, the fact that nothing’s off-limits. People who don’t get it usually end up watching reality competition garbage, and that tells you everything.
Selena Gomez answered seventy-three Vogue questions in eight minutes, which works out to roughly one every seven seconds. She talks about being grateful—her favorite word, apparently—and names Natalie Portman as the most fashionable person she knows. Nothing unexpected, nothing that wasn’t already calculated. Just the performance of access, smooth and practiced.
I watch these Vogue videos sometimes. They’re built on a formula that works: fast enough that nobody gets uncomfortable, personal enough that it feels like you’re learning something. The celebrity is always charming and in control, available but untouchable. It’s designed that way on purpose.
Gomez seems comfortable with it. She’s spent enough time in front of cameras that she doesn’t have to think anymore, just exists in the exact way the format wants. The camera is happy, Vogue is happy, everyone moves to the next one. There’s something almost peaceful about watching someone work that well at a game they know perfectly.
I’ve always wanted one of those arcade cabinets in the living room, but not the junk that looks like it got pulled out of a basement bar from the ’80s. STOA, a UK design studio, made these things called REPLAY, and they actually figured out how to make one look right — white, black, and orange, clean lines, the kind of cabinet you don’t have to apologize for having around.
The design is restrained, which matters. No fake wood paneling, no attempt to recreate a dive bar in miniature. Just a machine that’s clearly from now but completely honest about what it is.
What’s inside is what counts. Donkey Kong, Puzzle Bobble, Space Invaders — the actual games, the ones that hold up. They didn’t get precious with the hardware or try to sneak in some modern spin. They just built a cabinet for the games that work.
Obviously these aren’t cheap. It’s expensive enough that most people will look at the price and move on, which is probably fair. But if you’ve been thinking about this for years, if the weight of the joystick and the actual quarters-in-the-slot mechanic actually matter to you, then at some point you either make it happen or you don’t. I’m pretty sure I’m going to.
You show up in Tokyo with a camera and immediately you’re seeing the city through a viewfinder. Shibuya, Harajuku, Yoyogi—they’re all exactly what you expected. The neon signs, the costume shops, the weird little storefronts (a sex shop here, a bookstore there) tucked between larger buildings. You photograph it because that’s what you came for. The proof that you were here, that you saw the thing everyone else sees.
The days blur between ramen counters where the owner doesn’t acknowledge you and karaoke bars where you’re pressed against salarymen singing off-key. You drink something strong and cheap, eat something you can’t quite identify, and it all feels important in the moment and unremarkable when you look at the photos later.
There’s a point where you stop trying to get the shot and just exist. Maybe it’s the third bar, maybe it’s watching a group of kids in costume move through the street like they’ve choreographed it. You realize the photographs aren’t capturing anything—they’re just proof that you were tired and hungry and standing in a place that felt exotic until you actually got there. Tokyo isn’t a dream. It’s just a city where the ordinary looks strange to outsiders.
Tinder went online. Now you can swipe from your laptop, which sounds pointless until you hit the data limit halfway through the month and your phone can barely load a picture. Most carriers sell you plans like a con man — unlimited until you actually use it — so Tinder’s web version isn’t innovation, it’s pragmatism. They know how the real world works.
There’s also the thing about people who just don’t use smartphones. They exist. They’re weird (afraid of radiation, the NSA, whatever), but they still want to fuck strangers online. Now they can do it from their computer instead of a phone they don’t own.
The whole point of Tinder was frictionless, pocket-sized dating. A browser version kind of ruins that. But most of us aren’t swiping on the street anyway — we’re swiping at work, at night on the couch, at a desk where a laptop is more comfortable than a phone. So maybe this just admits what was always true: Tinder isn’t about dating on the go. It’s about dating online, and the phone was just where we happened to do it.
Casey Neistat’s back to daily vlogging. He quit a year ago after selling Beme to CNN for something like $25 million. Made this whole announcement about being done, moving on, whatever you do after you’ve cashed out. Now he’s filming again.
He built himself on YouTube the hard way—daily videos, years of them. Skateboarding through New York, documenting his own life, moving through the world with a camera attached to his face. That was his entire identity by the time Beme happened. Then CNN paid him and he disappeared, and everyone figured he’d finally gotten what he wanted.
But here’s what nobody really understands about quitting: when you’ve spent a decade turning something into your whole life, the money can’t actually make you stop. It just sits there. The habit doesn’t go away. The audience doesn’t go away. So you wake up rich and bored and realize the thing you hated was never the work—it was the need for it to mean something. Remove the need and you’re left with just missing it.
The funny part is who says money doesn’t buy happiness. It’s always either the people who are broke or the ones who just got rich enough to know better. Because money can buy you the freedom to quit, but it can’t buy you something to replace the obsession. Neistat got his $25 million and discovered that was never the point.
David Collier was shooting the day Sydney hit forty degrees before breakfast. Hottest day of the year, and he spent it indoors with Bella Donovan and a camera.
Collier photographs a series called Sleepyheads — women without clothes, quiet moments. His work doesn’t feel exploitative, just documentary in the plainest sense. A person, a room, light. The subjects always look comfortable, which you don’t see much in photography like this.
Bella’s from the north of New South Wales. I don’t know her other work, but she photographs well — which usually just means she doesn’t fight the camera. Collier said they kept it loose, practical given the heat, and just worked from there. The light was good. She was good. Sometimes that’s all there is.
Days that hot strip everything unnecessary. You can’t perform in it. You can barely think. So being undressed indoors while someone documents it makes a certain kind of sense. You’re just there, nothing performed, nothing hidden.
Collier’s been making these photographs for years. The work doesn’t have that quality a lot of nude photography has — this sense that someone’s being used. Instead there’s something equal in the frame, a genuine interest in the person.
I haven’t seen the final photographs from that day, but I imagine they have what his work usually has — something honest, something unguarded. Not prudish, not gratuitous. Just there.
Selena showed up in the latest Vogue looking exactly like what you’d expect — shot by Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott, lit to make her look like something between a person and a perfect photograph. The usual machinery of celebrity beauty in action.
I’ve had a mild crush on her since the Disney years, one of those background fixations you pick up when you’ve been online long enough. Her face stuck with me. Age has been kind to her in the way it’s kind to some people — she went from performing a role to actually looking like someone.
The photos are genuinely good. Bright, uncomplicated, summer mood. She looks comfortable in them, even happy, which is rare in fashion spreads. Most of the time you can see the machinery working. Here it feels less like that.
If you want to see them, go to Vogue. I’m just marking that they exist and that I’m the kind of person who notices.
I went to the ba&sh store opening on the Ku’damm because I had nothing better to do that evening and free champagne is free champagne. The store was the kind of place you’d expect from a Parisian brand—white walls, good light, clothes that looked effortless because someone spent a lot of time making them look that way. Clean lines, neutral colors, nothing that challenges you.
The real show was the crowd. Caro Daur in the middle of it all like she always is at things like this, some actresses I’d recognize from other events, the ba&sh designers from Paris doing the rounds and actually examining their own clothes like someone might be making copies. Alma Jodorowsky’s band was playing acoustic in the corner, that pleasant kind of background music where you’re glad someone paid for it but nobody’s actually listening. The champagne was cold. There were good sandwiches from a food truck outside.
Every single element of the evening had been calibrated. The amount of free champagne, generous enough to feel good but not so much that it overwhelmed the space. The music, good enough to justify being there but not demanding attention. The free canvas bag at the end, nice enough that you’d probably keep it. Someone very competent had designed all of this—thought through exactly how to make people feel invited without looking desperate.
I stayed about an hour, ate something, left with the canvas bag. The ba&sh clothes are decent—functional, well-made, nothing demanding. The whole evening was a competent machine. Open the store, make people feel invited, feed them, send them home with something free. It worked.
You’re jumping right along platforms, a spike pit opens beneath you, and you have maybe one frame to react. The screen scrolls forward regardless. No dialogue, no context, no apologies—just the question: are you good enough? Either you are or you aren’t.
That was the whole language of 8 and 16-bit platformers. Mario, Sonic, Alex Kidd, Mega Man, Donkey Kong Country—they all spoke the same dialect. A character moving through space, gravity pulling down, the level design pushing forward relentlessly. The best ones didn’t add anything extra. Super Mario World and Ghouls ’n Ghosts trusted you completely. They assumed you’d figure it out or fail, and they didn’t soften that bargain.
I think what I miss isn’t really the games—there are plenty of modern platformers around. It’s the relationship between game and player. Those old ones had zero interest in whether you liked them. No difficulty sliders, no infinite lives, no algorithm trying to adjust to your skill. You either had the reflexes or you didn’t, and that was the entire conversation.
There’s something almost cruel about that simplicity. But also something clarifying. You know exactly where you stand. No designer trying to make sure you feel like a hero, no artificial scaffolding to keep you from failing. Just you and the question of whether you can move accurately enough to survive.
There’s something about Japanese calligraphy on Western sportswear that shouldn’t work but does. When you see MIKITYPE’s katakana running down a tracksuit or pressed into the heel of an NMD, it’s not just text—it’s the whole design decision. Everything else gets to stay simple because the type carries all the weight.
Adidas and United Arrows & Sons brought this together, and the restraint is what made me actually stop and pay attention. Two tracksuit colorways, just a full-zip top and fitted pants, but the katakana spelling out “United Arrows & Sons” and “adidas Originals” in MIKITYPE’s hand makes them worth looking at. The NMD_CS1 follows the same logic: black Primeknit, standard Boost underfoot, but the calligraphy on the inside, heel, and EVA plug is where the piece breathes. It’s the opposite of maximalism. Everything quiet except the type.
What I liked watching was how naturally this worked as a direction. The katakana on a Three Stripes piece feels like the right amount of visual conversation—not translation, exactly, just a different alphabet saying the same thing. You could strip everything back to the essentials and it still held. That’s the move that makes you realize how much Western sportswear leans on silence, how much negative space carries meaning.
I’ve always liked collabs that trust one idea enough to let it do all the talking. This one knew what it had with MIKITYPE’s work and didn’t need to overcomplicate it. Calligraphy is patient work—every stroke matters. On basics like these, that patience becomes visible.
Charli XCX’s been getting brighter. True Romance was underwater—lo-fi and violet, everything muffled. SuperLove tightened it up, added shine. Now she’s somewhere else: more immediate, more color, something almost aggressive in how it moves.
“1 Night” with Mura Masa is where that new energy lands. The video’s just people—walking, sitting, being alive in whatever space this is. No narrative, no subtext, no meaning layered underneath. Just the texture of existing. It’s harder to do than it sounds. Most people can’t point a camera at their own life without trying to mean something with it, without turning the ordinary into a statement about themselves or their taste or their awareness.
But this video doesn’t do that. It just watches. The track does the same thing—restless and unadorned, moving without asking for approval. It exists, and that’s the whole point.
John Oliver tore into Trump on Last Week Tonight, and the thing that stuck with me was a quote from a journalist covering him: ’It’s pretty difficult to report on Donald Trump because you often don’t know what he means when he says words.’
Because at a certain point it’s not about individual lies — it’s about repetition as a tool. Someone says something false. It gets repeated. More people say it. And somewhere in that cycle it stops being false and becomes what people believe. The source is noise. Facts are irrelevant. It’s just the story.
Watch it happen. Some lie gets posted on Facebook, bounces through the algorithm, picks up believers along the way, and by the time it settles in people’s minds they don’t even remember doubting it. It’s not something they verified — it’s just something they know. It’s furniture. It’s the world.
That’s what the journalist’s quote points to. When language stops meaning anything, you can’t actually argue anymore. You’re just speaking past each other.
Every few years I buy another pair of Superstars. Black leather, white stripes, shell toe. Nothing else fits into your life the way these do. Everything else is a costume; these are just shoes.
They made a new version with Boost in the sole. That’s the foam adidas uses now—it’s softer, more responsive, makes walking feel less like a negotiation with gravity. The midsole is visible on the bottom and wraps the arch. Still clean, still minimal. Gold details on the tongue, which I didn’t ask for but works.
The shape didn’t change. They’re still completely themselves. Boost is meant to be invisible—you don’t see it or think about it, you just walk a little easier. Whether the softness matters at my age, I’m not sure. My feet don’t hurt in Superstars anyway, they never have.
This is how you do it right, though. You take something that works and you make it slightly better without destroying what made it work. You add comfort without adding identity. That’s respect for a design. That’s knowing when to stop.
Shoichi Aoki shut down Fruits Magazine because he couldn’t find anyone worth photographing anymore. Not because print was dying, not because the internet ate the business model — he just looked around and realized the fashion was gone. The magazine had been capturing Tokyo’s wildest style since 1997, pulling weird kids out of Harajuku and broadcasting their electricity to the world. Then one day Aoki looked around and decided there was nothing left to shoot.
I understood what he meant the moment I read it. Something actually did collapse. All those obsessive street-style blogs from Berlin, Tokyo, Brooklyn — you don’t see them much anymore. Not because blogging died. Because everyone started dressing exactly the same. Not like a fashion cycle where trends war with each other. More like a mass surrender. Black ripped jeans, oversized hoodie, a nose ring, definitely a logo backpack. The costume of people too frightened to stand out, copying YouTuber fits instead of developing anything that’s actually theirs.
Real style needs stupidity. It needs someone willing to look like an idiot. But we’re all so careful now, so terrified of getting it wrong, that we’ve forgotten that was ever the point. Fashion became a set of safe moves. Nobody’s cool anymore because nobody’s dumb enough to try.
Skins came out of Bristol, not Hollywood, which meant it got the texture right from the start. British television around 2007 didn’t coddle teenagers the way American TV did — no manufactured drama, no easy resolutions, just the actual mess of being nineteen and thinking your life meant something because your friends did. The show followed three generations of kids through the same school, same city, and it never flinched away from what that looked like: sex without romance, drugs without mystique, love that broke things.
I was hooked for years. There’s a specific kind of watching — where you can’t wait for the next episode not because you need to know what happens, but because you need to spend more time with these people. Tony made terrible decisions with absolute confidence. Effy didn’t talk much and that made what she did matter more. Sid kept failing at everything in the most human way possible. Mini’s cruelty looked like self-protection until it wasn’t. That’s the show in a sentence: it knew the difference between who you thought you were and who you actually were, and it didn’t judge you for the gap between them.
The weird thing about loving something that specific is you can’t really evangelize it. People either get it or they don’t, and if they get it they’ll find it anyway. But there’s a real problem that comes up when you try to watch it again: the streaming versions have had their original soundtrack replaced. Not because of censorship or something noble like that, just licensing — TV executives decided a generic replacement score would cost less than clearing rights. It’s absolutely wrong. The music was woven into the show so completely that losing it hollows out whole scenes. It’s like watching a memory with the color turned down.
The actual experience of the show still hits. But if you’re going to revisit it, hunt down the original DVDs or find a copy with the real soundtrack intact. Because Skins without that specific sonic texture is just well-acted drama about teenagers, and the thing that made it matter was that it felt like the actual rhythm of that life — the specific songs that stuck in your head during the worst moments, the particular sound of being that age in that place in that exact moment.
Jürgen Teller shooting an adidas campaign on Berlin streets makes immediate sense. He’s built a career on the idea that the street doesn’t perform — you show up, work with what’s actually there, photograph the texture and light of a place in its own time. Berlin understands this. The city won’t stage itself for the camera. It’s too used to being exactly what it is. Every brand eventually figures out they need to come here.
The collection is a 90s EQT revival. Block colors, straightforward proportions, nothing designed to mean anything beyond what it is. That era had a specific generosity: you could like something because it worked and looked decent without it becoming a statement about your taste or who you were. Everything signifies something now, so there’s an obvious appeal in the idea of just buying a shoe.
Teller’s photographs reduce things to their material reality — texture, light, the way a body or wall or object occupies space. He doesn’t impose meaning. He finds what’s there. The real test of a campaign like this is whether that restraint actually survives — whether adidas can sell sportswear as just sportswear, without turning it into another performance of authenticity. I don’t know if they pull it off. But the setup is right.
I reread 1984 every few years, which seems excessive until you realize that Orwell’s sentences actually improve on memory and the world keeps changing in ways that make the book feel urgent again.
The world of the novel is split between three perpetually warring superstates. Winston Smith lives in Oceania — England — under a government that isn’t bothering to hide the fact that it exists to crush any thought that diverges from the party line. The surveillance is total and constant. The telescreens never stop watching. The historical record gets rewritten whenever it’s inconvenient. The propaganda about the enemy is relentless and absurd. The whole system is built to make you doubt your own mind.
What’s unsettling about 1984 is that Orwell isn’t warning about something that might happen — he’s describing how power actually operates. The goal of a totalitarian system isn’t just obedience. It’s eliminating your ability to trust yourself. If you can be made to believe something that contradicts what you saw with your own eyes, then you’re completely theirs.
The prose is deliberately flat and clinical — Orwell describes nightmarish things with the tone of someone filing a report. The language is stripped down and controlled, a weapon in itself. Reading it is like watching someone’s mind break, which is literally what happens to Winston.
People read 1984 and become paranoid conspiracy theorists, seeing totalitarian structures everywhere, which misses the book’s point a little. Except they’re also not entirely wrong. The mechanisms Orwell described — the information control, the historical revisionism, the manufactured enemies — those are real. You can watch them working right now.
So yes, read it. Not as political prophecy but as a description of how institutions actually function at scale. Once you understand the mechanics, you see them everywhere. Which is unsettling, which is why I keep rereading it.
Rob Israel started posting illustrations of Trump on Instagram during those early months of the presidency. Crude things, degrading, the kind of work you make when you’ve decided there’s nothing left to lose by saying it plainly. He tagged Trump in every one, which was either pure futility or pure honesty or both.
I followed his feed for a while back then, when shock was still a baseline and half the country was talking about giving him a chance. Israel wasn’t interested in that conversation. He was just drawing, week after week, each illustration uglier than the last, which tracked with how fast everything was accelerating. The work had no strategy underneath it. No hope of changing anything. Just rage rendered into color and line.
The thing about making angry art is that it can’t survive being calculated. You either feel it or you don’t. Israel clearly did. Somewhere he mentioned the cascade of appointments, Putin probably on speed dial, the sense that the country was tearing itself apart and no one was pretending it wasn’t anymore. He said it like he was tired, like he understood this was his work now—keeping himself functional by getting the disgust out onto the screen.
That’s all that kind of art actually does. It keeps you from swallowing the whole thing and disappearing into it. The work doesn’t change the president. It changes the person making it, or at least it keeps them intact long enough to get to the next day.
I don’t know if it worked for Israel. Probably doesn’t matter. But I understood why he was doing it.
You notice when someone’s actually got it. Zara Larsson had it the moment “Lush Life” landed—this Swedish teenager with a song that just worked, that got into your head and wouldn’t leave. The thing went everywhere, and she was suddenly the breakthrough everyone cared about. By 2016 she had gold certifications and awards, the whole trajectory compressed into months.
“So Good” is the follow-up, featuring Ty Dolla $ign, and it’s the obvious next move when you’re riding something real. There’s a moment after a genuine hit where you have to decide whether to run it back or pivot, and the smart play is not to overthink it. Just deliver something that fits, that feels like a natural extension of the thing that worked. It’s pop music as a precise calculation, but the good ones don’t feel calculated.
There’s something satisfying about watching an artist actually break through instead of vanishing after one song. Most pop moments are isolated incidents. Zara’s got the thing that suggests she might actually stick around, and “So Good” is proof the first single wasn’t luck. Her debut album is coming, and at this point you’re just watching to see how far this takes her.
I hate a lot of things. While people are out there preaching about how “hate” is too strong a word, how we should be careful before using it, I’m pretty sure they’re wrong. Hate actually works. It bonds people in a way that liking stuff never does.
So there’s this app called Hater that figured this out. You list the things you despise and it matches you with other people who despise the same things. It’s genius, really—a dating app built on shared disdain instead of shared interests. Which probably says something about how we actually connect, but I’m not going to get into it.
There’s a perfect logic to it. If you’re going to spend time with someone, you might as well make sure you hate the same things. At least then when you’re both watching the news or scrolling, you’ve got something that feels honest to bond over. Not “oh, you like hiking too?” but genuine mutual contempt.
Maybe that’s actually the future of dating. Skip the faked enthusiasm and just find someone who sees through the same bullshit you do.
All that money sloshing through the video game industry, and studios still release bombs constantly. You’d think budgets in the hundreds of millions would guarantee success. Somehow they don’t.
The winners are obvious. Zelda, Call of Duty, Pokémon generate revenue streams that make traditional entertainment look quaint. The Sims worked because it let people build and destroy endlessly. Grand Theft Auto figured out the open-world crime fantasy better than anyone else. Super Mario Bros. is just right in a way that doesn’t need explaining.
Then there’s Duke Nukem Forever, which spent fifteen years in development hell and arrived looking like a 2003 game. Brütal Legend was stylish and strange—Tim Schafer’s metal-world fever dream—except nobody actually wanted to play it once they were inside. Shenmue was this impossibly detailed thing that rewarded obsessive attention right when the industry was learning to reward shortcuts instead.
The stupid part is watching studios spend nine figures and still miss the fundamentals. Money doesn’t teach you taste. It doesn’t tell you what people want to do. The hits stumbled onto something that felt right, felt necessary. The flops usually felt like someone was trying really hard to make you care about something elaborate that you didn’t.
Every year there’s a new nine-figure production that’ll be forgotten in twelve months. That’s just the math.
You’re never quite sure if you’re doing it right. You start with some confidence—you’ve read things, you think you know the territory—and then about thirty seconds in you realize you’re just guessing. Is this working? She seems into it, or maybe she’s just being nice. So you switch it up. Try something different. Try harder. Try less. Try adding your hand. You’re basically improvising, throwing combinations at a problem you can’t see clearly.
Then you come across Lickster, this fake app from a comedy YouTube channel, marketing itself as the cunnilingus training app. The premise is absurd and perfect: download this, and men will finally know what they’re doing. The promo video is slick enough that you can picture some desperate startup founder watching it and thinking, yeah, I could actually make that. Why not.
The real problem isn’t information though. You probably already know the basics. The real problem is that everyone’s too awkward to actually talk about what works. So you’re stuck guessing forever, reading body language that might mean anything, never quite knowing if you landed it or if she’s just being polite. An app can’t fix that. Nothing can, really, except practice with someone willing to tell you the truth. And how often does that happen.
I came across a Twitter account called Trump_Regrets the other day and fell into it for a while. It’s just people who voted for Trump in 2016 posting about regretting it. No snark from whoever runs the account, just raw confessions. People saying things didn’t work out the way they’d hoped, jobs didn’t materialize, family got separated at the border, whatever the specific damage was to their own life.
The speed of the regret is what struck me. Not months later or years, but like three or four months in and they’re already on Twitter eating their vote. Each regret is so particular and sincere it’s almost sad—you can feel the specific moment someone realized their choice didn’t work the way they’d imagined. It becomes this accidental document of what happens when you bet on someone and lose.
I don’t really have a take on it. Watching people publicly admit they were wrong about something that mattered to them is honest in a way that most political discourse isn’t. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.
Rolling a decent joint is something almost everyone figures out eventually. You get the hang of it, maybe spend some time refining your technique, and pretty soon you’re fine at it. Which leaves only one direction to go: the opposite. Roll something so aggressively bad, so structurally unsound, that people physically recoil.
I found this video recently that’s completely committed to the bit—a straightforward tutorial on how to roll the worst joint imaginable. No winking, no irony in the presentation, just step by step instructions on how to make something objectively terrible. And what’s interesting is that to get it that wrong with such precision, you have to actually understand the craft. You need to know what right looks like just to invert it.
There’s something elegantly stupid about it. To master failure at something you’ve mastered success in. That’s its own kind of art.
Beyoncé announced her pregnancy with twins by posting nude photos to Instagram. Not a press release, not a magazine exclusive—just her body and her news, sent out to the whole world at once. The internet took notice, which I’m sure was exactly the point.
What got me was the pure confidence of it. Here’s a woman who knows the one thing that will make everyone stop and listen. Here’s her. Here’s what’s happening. Done. No permission needed, no gatekeepers, no careful choreography. Just Beyoncé on her own terms telling you what you’re about to hear about.
The photos themselves are well done—composed carefully, lit perfectly, with the kind of ease that only comes from having complete control and zero self-doubt. She’s not performing vulnerability or fishing for compliments. She’s just stating a fact about her body and her life, and the rest of us are apparently meant to deal with it.
I respect the move. There’s something to be said for just refusing to let anyone else tell your story.
The first couple of Harry Potter films were probably my favorite movies, back when everything wasn’t quite so dark and hopeless. When it was still about ridiculous spells and talking portraits and ghosts living in bathroom stalls. I could recite the first one in my sleep.
But I still get surprised learning something new about Rowling’s world that somehow never registered before. Alternative endings. Why they shot something at a particular location. The actual reason behind a casting choice that seemed strange until you learned the context.
There’s something satisfying about stumbling onto an obscure Harry Potter fact and immediately wanting to rewatch all of them. You know them backward and forward, but apparently not quite well enough. The facts change how you see scenes you’ve watched a hundred times. I’ve done that a few times now. I’ll probably do it again. Someone has to.
Late night. You’re home alone and something has gone completely wrong. The job is shit. Someone left. You got news that stops you cold. And in those moments there’s something almost beautiful about the idea that none of this is real. That you’re not actually here. That it’s all just code running somewhere, in some machine that doesn’t know your name.
The Matrix didn’t help. It spawned an entire generation of people absolutely convinced they could prove that everything — trees, cats, the three empty chip bags on your coffee table — is just bits and bytes. They were insufferable about it. But here’s the weird part: actual scientists have looked at this seriously. They’ve run the numbers. And it turns out the odds that we’re living in some kind of simulation aren’t as small as you’d think. There’s something mathematically plausible about it.
So who built it? That’s the part that gets funny. Maybe some kid messing around with code in a basement. Maybe people from the future who are bored or cruel or both, just want to see what happens when they give consciousness to a machine. Maybe your smart neighbor. Maybe your dog one day got so bored that it decided to create an entire universe just to watch it spiral.
There’s a relief in thinking about it that way. At three in the morning when you can’t see how any of this gets better, when it all feels impossibly heavy, it’s actually kind of comforting to imagine that you’re not real. That none of it is. That it’s all just someone’s experiment, someone’s mistake, someone’s game.
The walk from the city to Rennbahn Hoppegarten took about thirty minutes, which meant you left Berlin behind. That distance felt intentional for what was happening that weekend.
Lollapalooza had settled into Berlin by then, and they’d moved the festival out to a horse racing track — there’s something good about that oddness, the displacement. The space changes the sound, everything carries different than it would in the city.
I went mostly for The xx. They’d just wrapped up a sold-out tour through Germany so this was their only festival show. Their sound had been the best music I’d heard in a while, all negative space and precision. I wanted to hear it live again. Mumford & Sons and Foo Fighters were headlining, both bringing rare German dates. The whole weekend actually mattered.
Berlin always had plenty of music options, but stepping out of the city into this space felt different. By Sunday I was already thinking about next year.
There’s always been something about a bigger man that just gets to me. A bearded guy at the bar, demolishing a double cheeseburger and a beer without once pretending to be anything other than exactly what he is. All the appeal.
ASOS expanded to XXXXL across the board — their own labels plus Burton, Noose and Monkey, Wrangler, and everything else in the range. Actual clothes made for actual bodies.
I spent years standing outside those store windows, watching other people walk out with bags. You stop checking after a while because you know there’s nothing in there for you. So this matters. It’s not some grand gesture or moral victory, just a store finally deciding to stock bigger sizes. But now I can actually shop there instead of standing on the outside, and that’s something.
My girlfriend kills every plant she touches and would choose steak over actual flowers any day. So when I found these beef jerky bouquets online—roses and daisies shaped from dried meat—it felt like I’d finally understood what a gift should be. The kind of thing that lands because I actually know her.
You need someone who can take the joke. Most people would see this and just be baffled—or think it’s gross. But she gets it. She’d understand that this is me saying: you’re weird, I see it, here’s something you’ll actually want.
The image won’t leave me alone: unwrapping it together, her realizing what it is, the laugh that follows. Then later, in bed, just the two of us tearing through the bouquet one piece at a time. Feeding each other strips of jerky shaped like flowers. No ceremony, no pretense—just meat and closeness and the knowledge that this is exactly right for us.
Some German celebrities—Joko Winterscheid, Palina Rojinski, Marteria, Prinz Pi, MC Fitti, and Laryin—gave their social media accounts to homeless Berliners in February. One day each, during what they called One Warm Winter. The idea was straightforward: let people see what a day actually looks like when you’re sleeping outside in winter, unfiltered, through a verified account instead of a news story.
What got me was that this had to happen. We’re constantly moving past homelessness—in feeds, on streets, in the news—without looking. The people living it might as well not exist. But post it through a celebrity account and suddenly it’s real to us. That’s its own kind of depressing truth.
The accounts showed what you’d expect: food distribution lines, hours searching for clean clothes, the endless logistics of keeping yourself alive and warm. A shower, a warm place to sleep, clean clothes—things I think nothing of—are whole projects when you’re homeless. Time moves differently. Everything is harder. And cold in Berlin in winter isn’t romantic. It’s survival.
Nobody wakes up and chooses this. The people who talk about homelessness like it’s freedom or simplicity are the people who’ve never actually been broke, actually cold, actually desperate. They’ve never had to choose between eating and staying warm or between an hour inside and twelve hours on the street to keep moving. They’re imagining something they’ve never lived.
I don’t know what changed after the campaign ended. People probably felt something, scrolled past, forgot. The homeless people kept walking. Life went on. Maybe it planted something in someone. Maybe I just wanted to believe it mattered.
When you get high with friends, there’s this unspoken agreement that you’re all going to drop your guard at the same time. Nobody’s performing. Nobody’s got their armor on. It’s just people being stupid together and it’s fine because everyone signed up for it.
So what happens if the people on the couch are your actual parents? You know the weirdness I mean. Your parents are supposed to stay out of that space. They’re your parents. You don’t get high together. That’s not how the thing works.
And yet here’s the shift: a lot of older people smoke now. More every year. So somewhere there are families where that line doesn’t really exist anymore, where getting stoned is just something everyone does. I can’t quite picture what that looks like. Not because it seems wrong, but because I’m genuinely uncertain what you’d even do with that moment—everyone relaxed, no performance, no distance. You’d finally see your parents as just people. That would either be really nice or really complicated, probably both.
There’s a Twitter account that started drawing Trump as a five-year-old kid showing off his finger paintings. A cat. A dinosaur. A house. Just scrawls, barely recognizable, each one captioned “I did this.” That was the entire joke. No hidden layer, no punchline underneath. It was just true.
Early 2017 had this particular flavor of absurdity where each day outdid the last. New scandals, new executive orders, moments where you’d think it couldn’t get more incompetent and then it did. People were protesting, making art, trying to make sense of it. But the Trump Draws account sidestepped the anger and the analysis and did something weirder—it showed you what was happening without needing to yell about it or explain it.
What made it work was how completely it matched reality. You didn’t need outrage when you had accuracy. A man who thought he was doing great things but couldn’t articulate why. A child proud of his drawings. Someone with the confidence of a toddler and the power of a nation, and nothing about that made sense, so why bother pretending it did.
I don’t know if that’s what the account intended, but it didn’t matter. The simplicity of it—the refusal to dress it up as anything more complicated than it was—made the absurdity more visible than any serious analysis could. It just reduced everything to its actual scale: a guy with a child’s ego, wielding power he didn’t comprehend.
I asked a friend once why she wouldn’t sleep with someone on a first date if she actually liked him, and she looked at me like I’d suggested something obscene. Her argument was that if she saw a real future, she had to protect it—wait, let him prove it wasn’t just about her body, give feelings time to settle before adding sex into the mix.
But then she’d also say if it was someone she’d never see again anyway, then yeah, obviously, why not. At least then she wouldn’t fool herself into thinking he cared. It’s practical in a way. Also completely backwards.
You can fuck someone on a first date. In every conventional way, in unconventional ways, whatever. How a relationship develops has nothing to do with when you first had sex and everything to do with whether you actually like each other as people. That’s just obvious. Every therapist, every person who’s actually thought about it, knows this.
The anxiety around it is strange because it assumes the sex is what’s at stake. Like you’re either guarding something or you’re not. But really you’re just finding out. Getting real information. The person either comes back or doesn’t. Everything else is just you trying to choreograph an outcome you have no control over.
Danny Reinke’s “Secret Desire” collection showed at Berlin Fashion Week inside a garden installation—apple tree, roses, topiaries, the whole Garden of Eden staging. He’s 24, from a fishing village on the Baltic, and he sent ten looks through this space that mixed sportswear and couture in a way that felt purposeful instead of confused.
The material work is what actually landed. A lot of velvet, a long red tulle dress that sits at the emotional center, pearl embroideries shaped like birds of paradise—that ornamental dream language. The red runs through everything in different shades, the color of secret wanting, the desire inside yourself that doesn’t map onto anything public. It’s direct, which could be corny, but he’s earned it.
There’s a gender blur happening that’s worth noticing—sharp-tailored suits, oversized bows sewn on deliberately, a refusal to perform gender difference rather than make a statement about it. The installation itself could have collapsed into something greeting-card soft, but Reinke’s got enough structural confidence in the work that you believe he’s thinking, not posturing.
It works because the clothes are solid and he doesn’t seem to care if you understand the concept. That’s enough.
I still think about those photographs from the day after Trump’s inauguration. The Women’s March spread across the country so fast you’d have thought it was inevitable. Crowds too big to see the edges, mostly women but men and kids too, all there to say no to what was coming. The pussy hats were everywhere - those pink knitted things with cat ears, a direct middle finger to the Access Hollywood tape. Crude and perfect because crudeness was honest.
I don’t know what anyone expected to come of it. The administration did what it was going to do anyway. Four years of it. But something about the fact that people showed up that immediately, that creatively - that mattered in some way I can’t quite name. It didn’t stop anything. But there’s something about that moment that stays with you, the fact that people could take shame and turn it into a symbol that fast.
Seeing loden on a modern runway hits differently when the designer knows what they’re doing with it. Marcel Ostertag wasn’t trying to make traditional Tyrolean wool feel contemporary through cutting or irony—he was pairing it with silk that moves, with draping that flows, letting the heavy stuff sit next to the gentle. The whole collection was a statement about texture and time wrapped inside fashion choices.
The materials have presence. Loden embroidered, loden cut into small skirts, loden as parkas with sport elements. It stays recognizable throughout, which gives the work a coherence a lot of contemporary collections don’t bother with anymore. There’s no disguising what things are made of, no trying to make traditional fabrics look new by deconstructing them. Just a commitment to letting materials mean something.
What struck me was the underlying philosophy about pace. In a moment when everything is immediate—make it, post it, move on—there’s something quietly radical about saying that clothes are meant to be lived with, to be owned rather than performed. The loden does that work through sheer weight and presence. This is fabric meant to last, to mean something.
It’s not a priority fashion often bothers with anymore. The pressure and the speed are too strong. But watching it play out through material choice and silhouette, seeing heaviness allowed to exist alongside what’s delicate—that stays with you. It was the kind of sustained thinking about material and time that fashion usually doesn’t have patience for.
I’d heard “Lean On” everywhere for a while—that MØ voice over Major Lazer’s beat, the kind of thing that gets into taxis and shops and ruins playlists. Separately, Snakehips had “All My Friends,” which had the same easy confidence. So when they announced something together, it made sense in the way that obvious things do—like they’d been aimed at each other the whole time.
“Don’t Leave” doesn’t need much. MØ singing something direct and a little open over production that knows when to step back. Snakehips got that right. The Berlin video they made around it is almost unshowy—two people in a city, a shape like love, shot in a way that lets you feel the thing without needing explanation.
What’s strange is how rare it is to see two artists at this level just make something as equals. No featured artist billing, no one ceding space to the other. They both had a good year coming in. This is what happens when you trust each other.
I’ve watched that video more than once, which isn’t usually where my attention goes with music. There’s something in the way MØ’s voice lands, or in what Snakehips didn’t add, or in the city looking like a place where this matters. It’s one of those things that reminds you why people keep making music at all.
The billboards have changed. Five years ago fashion advertising was all hairless bodies, skeletal things airbrushed until they barely looked human. Now it’s completely flipped—cellulite, stretch marks, hair, actual fucking skin. Monki, the Swedish brand, made it explicit with #NoFilter: we’re selling underwear to girls who don’t look like Ariana Grande, who look like people with bodies.
It’s a real correction. The old standard was insane. But the mechanism is identical, just with opposite aesthetics. They’re still selling you an ideal. The old ads made you feel wrong because you didn’t match them. The new ones make you feel like you’re supposed to embrace being imperfect—which is nice until you realize it’s a strategy to sell you underwear you probably already own.
I’m not saying that’s cynical exactly. It’s just how advertising works—there’s always a calculation underneath. And if that calculation corrects something broken in the industry, fine. There’s real value in showing diverse bodies instead of one impossible standard. But once destigmatization becomes a product feature, it’s still a feature. The brand moves inventory and looks good doing it. That’s the deal.
The old version said be thin and hairless. This one says be yourself. Except yourself, as packaged back to you in a billboard, is just another standard wearing different clothes. Whether that actually helps people or just trades one set of anxiety for another—that’s not really a question a fashion brand can answer.
Another year of that German jungle show where cable TV collects minor celebrities and watches them unravel—either exposing their demons or their bodies. Nicole Mieth, from some soap opera that hasn’t mattered in years, made the rounds.
The cringe came later with the Playboy interview. The interviewer, Maximilian Reich, heard that Nicole was in a relationship and actually expressed disappointment—said “Shame,” like he’d been planning to sleep with her on the hotel bed if only she were available. The entitlement was almost impressive.
What struck me about Nicole was that she seemed like one of the few people in that whole thing who hadn’t already surrendered. Everyone else was either unrecognizable from cosmetic work or completely committed to playing a character for the cameras. She just showed up as herself.
That’s rarer than it should be. The quiet ones usually just make it through.
Celebrity DJs proved it first: you don’t actually have to know anything to be a DJ. Paris Hilton figured it out. Giulia Siegel and Nadja Abd El Farrag got there too. They all walked through with zero apologies. Open Spotify, click a playlist someone else made, put on oversized headphones, nod like you’re studying the frequencies. That’s the whole job. No mixing, no music knowledge, no actual skill. Just the appearance of doing something while a premade playlist plays itself.
What gets me is how low the barrier actually is. A laptop. Spotify. Headphones. Enough confidence that nobody watching cares enough to notice you’re not doing anything. And if you’re the kind of person who dropped out, blew up an apprenticeship, ended up on a friend’s couch because your own parents gave up—why not just become a DJ? You’ve already got the equipment. There’s no gatekeeping. There’s nothing to gate.
The culture absorbed this without blinking. Fake DJing is a real profession now. Surface became the whole substance. And the people doing it don’t even seem bothered by their complete incompetence—they’re genuinely unbothered. Maybe that’s the secret. Maybe the real skill is just not caring whether you’re actually good at anything.
The music industry is soulless in a way that’s hard to even describe - it’s not just that the music is bad, it’s that the whole system is designed to protect mediocrity and call it strategy. Bieber, Adele, Skrillex, they all fit the pattern because the pattern works. Nobody at the top cares about actual artists; they care about products that move and sell. As long as they can manufacture the same shaped pop star over and over, there’s no reason to want anything better.
Which is why Zuzu matters. She’s from Liverpool, still at that stage where she’s just a girl writing about her actual life, not yet polished into something marketable. “What You Want” is solid indie with rock and alternative edges - the kind of song that reminds you what it felt like when new music could actually mean something. The video’s good too.
I don’t know where this goes. Probably nowhere special - the industry is too good at absorbing everything and turning it into another product. But right now, while she’s still just herself and not a concept, she’s worth paying attention to.
Life is basically unfair. While Johnny from upstairs keeps accidentally knocking up different women, me and Mareike have been trying for years and nothing takes. We’ve tried everything. Different positions. Toys. Whatever works.
Could be her. Could be me. Probably my sperm though—they get damaged from hot baths, your phone in your pocket, too much milk, maybe a curse, who knows. Sperm are fragile.
So there’s this phone attachment that tests them. The YO Sperm Test. You jerk off onto a slide, clip it onto your phone, it tells you if your swimmers still work or if you’re shooting blanks.
And if it’s bad? Mareike should try Uwe from the office. A baby’s more important to her than I am.
Someone sent me a text message that was supposed to crash my phone. It didn’t work—I’d already updated to whatever version patched this particular bug—but the whole thing made me curious about what was actually happening under the hood.
The prank itself is simple. A white flag emoji, a zero, a rainbow emoji, and some hidden Unicode character. Send it and the phone tries to parse it, fails, and just dies. Some French developer named Vincent Desmurs figured out that the iPhone’s text parser can’t handle this specific combination and crashes instead of just ignoring it.
People have been using it to fuck with their friends, which I find weirdly funny. Not the crash itself, but the fact that you can break someone’s phone with six characters. It’s the kind of thing that makes you realize how fragile these devices are—how they’re barely holding together under the weight of whatever code they’re running.
I looked at the actual code for maybe five minutes and understood nothing. But I kept thinking about it afterward. That there’s this specific sequence of inputs that just breaks everything. That you can use it for pranks. That people care enough about annoying their friends to spread it around.
The walls in Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara had Drake and Beyoncé next to cute manga girls in modified school uniforms, weird aliens and turtles with flowers on their heads. I walked through these districts one afternoon the way tourists do, hunting for street art in all the obvious places, certain there was something authentic underneath if I just looked hard enough. Street art’s supposed to be about breaking rules and marking territory without permission, but in Tokyo it all felt pre-approved somehow.
Tokyo doesn’t make it easy to find anything unstaged. The whole city’s so carefully designed that even the graffiti feels intentional, even the chaos has aesthetic. The businesspeople in dark suits walked past without seeing any of it, thousands of them every day, moving through the city at the speed Tokyo demands.
What got to me was the permanence of the invisibility. All these painted walls marking a city that moved too fast to notice them, marking margins nobody was looking at. In a place this hyper-curated, where literally everything gets recycled back into the brand, street art was maybe the only thing nobody was trying to sell you. Someone painted a wall because they wanted to, and then Tokyo moved on.
Gronkh’s fans organized on YouTube—Let’s Play creator, German, pretty big. Bibi was climbing his subscriber count and they weren’t having it. The plan was straightforward: unsubscribe from her, subscribe to him, flood the comments, keep him on top.
It worked. Her numbers flatlined. His climbed. The thing was transparently about her being a woman, and no one was even pretending otherwise.
What got me was realizing how little friction there is. Someone says do this in the comments and thousands of people just do it. Not because they believe in it, not because they actually care. They do it because the signal came through and everyone else was moving. The internet made it simple—you don’t have to think, you don’t have to care, you just move.
There’s a panda at Dujiangyan Panda Base in China who takes better selfies than I do. Not because he’s trying—he’s just there being a panda—but his photos have this effortless quality that makes every selfie I’ve ever taken look desperate.
Most people doing selfies put real effort into it. Makeup, lighting, a hundred takes, the perfect angle. Someone’s bought a ring light, propped up their phone, deleted a hundred shots before getting one worth posting. Then this panda shows up and just looks better in a frame.
Dujiangyan is where they keep pandas and work on conservation. These animals were almost extinct, which is the serious part. But there’s something funny about a panda accidentally becoming internet famous just for being photogenic. He’s not trying to be a personality. He just is one, effortlessly.
I’m not sure if there’s a moral here. But I can’t really argue with the evidence.
The Game Boy in my hands as a kid — the weight, the grey-green glow, the cartridge slot that opened worlds. Super Mario Land, Zelda, Pokémon, Tetris, one after another. I spent more time with that machine than with some of my family. The hardware had limits that somehow felt right, like constraints made the thing better, not worse.
Then came emulation. Free roms on your phone, any game ever made, tap tap tap. It’s efficient and pointless. The display is too big, the buttons are wrong, your thumb covers half the action. There’s no memory in it. Playing Pokémon on an emulator is like listening to a song with the volume off.
The Super Retro Boy showed up at CES in 2017 and I actually paid attention. Made by Retro-Bit, it plays Game Boy, Game Boy Color, and Game Boy Advance cartridges. About eighty euros. Ten-hour battery. Simple and honest. You slot in a cartridge and it just works.
What matters isn’t the device though. It’s what it lets you do again. You can still find these games at flea markets, at junk sales, in the bins behind the record store. A few euros for a scuffed-up copy of Mega-Man or Metroid or Link’s Awakening. You own it. You hold it. You blow on the contacts before plugging it in, a stupid ritual that somehow makes it real.
That’s the difference between emulation and the thing itself. One is remembering. The other is being there again. The hunt, the flea market, the cartridge in your pocket, the machine starting up — that’s what the Super Retro Boy brought back. Not manufactured nostalgia. The real stuff.
In late December 2016, a twelve-year-old girl named Katelyn Nicole Davis livestreamed her suicide for forty minutes on Live.me, a platform connected to Facebook. She’d been abused by a family member. Her parents took down the stream immediately, but it was already spreading. YouTube removed it when asked. Facebook refused.
For weeks the video circulated—shared, reposted, quantified with likes and emoji reactions. Her parents kept asking Facebook to take it down. Other users reported it. Facebook said it didn’t violate their community standards. Technically not illegal, they said, as if that mattered.
What stays with me is the contradiction. Facebook bans topless pictures. They’ll remove a woman’s breasts in the name of community values. But a video of a girl killing herself? That’s content Facebook is comfortable with. That can spread. That gets engagement metrics.
I keep thinking about the people who made that decision. They weren’t being cruel. The system just organized itself so that nudity is a bigger problem than suicide footage. The policy logic was sound. That’s what’s unsettling about it.
The police posted on Facebook asking people to stop uploading it, appealing to respect for Katelyn. But the platform that’s actively hosting it doesn’t have to listen.
The exhibition was called ’Hands Off My Cuntry’—no irony, no softening, just fury. A group of artists (Nikki Pecasso, Mike Cockrill, Morgan Jesse Lappin, Courtney Frances Fallon, Savannah Spirit, Alexandra Rubinstein, Annique Delphine) created it when Trump took office, in response to every law they knew was going to disappear. The show ran in New York through January 22, and they sent him an open letter saying what had to be said: we’re afraid, and you’re going to destroy things that matter to us.
There’s a moment when your private anger becomes visible work. Not because you think it’ll change anything, but because silence stops being possible. These artists weren’t trying to convince anyone. They were refusing—refusing to disappear, to be careful, to wait it out. The work was just the shape of that refusal.
What does it mean to insist on something true when everything’s built on lies? To make sure it’s seen. To say no when saying nothing would be easier. I keep thinking about that.
TEA&TWIGS is one of the few fashion blogs I still follow, but not for the fashion part. Jasmin and Isabella are just interesting people. I’ve been on those press trips to coastal towns, we’ve drunk too much champagne on hotel rooftops in Portugal, hung around at one of those Lisbon parties where everything somehow makes perfect sense at the time. The kind of people who make you feel smarter for knowing them.
They live far enough apart now that regular in-person hangouts aren’t automatic anymore. So they started a podcast called Ferngespräch—a pun on long-distance phone calls and the internet, which is funny because that’s basically what the internet is anyway. They just talk. Love, work, modern feminism, relationships, boundaries, food, whatever comes up. Jasmin mentioned something about moving from the telephone into the network, and it clicked.
What strikes me is how un-built it is. No brand voice, no target audience calculation, no content calendar. Just two people who think clearly talking about things that matter to them. You can feel immediately that they’re talking to each other, not performing at some invisible crowd.
I don’t know if I’ll listen to every episode, but there’s something right about it. The confidence to just make the thing without all the scaffolding around it.
I’ve played more Shigeru Miyamoto games than I’ve played most other designers’ work combined, which says something about the man. Super Mario, Zelda, Star Fox, Donkey Kong — he shaped how an entire generation learned to play video games. But you’d probably walk right past him on the street. That’s the thing about Miyamoto: his influence is everywhere and his name is nowhere.
VOX made a video with him about how he creates things that last. The answer is simple enough to be almost depressing: he doesn’t chase trends. He works at his own pace. He thinks about the whole game, not the quarterly release. He won’t ship something unless it’s good. Nintendo understands this — they drive him to work every day, chauffeur him home, because they know what they have. There’s probably no designer more worth protecting in the entire industry.
The frustrating part is how unglamorous it sounds. The real obstacle isn’t talent. It’s the refusal to compromise, and most people don’t have that option. Most designers negotiate with time and money — deadlines, market research, pressure from above. Miyamoto’s approach required a company willing to say “we’ll wait” and a person stubborn enough to believe it’s possible. Most of us never get that choice. Most companies never make the offer.
There’s something genuinely calming about knowing he’s out there still doing it this way.
Daniel Allen Cohen made these pills called Insta-Fame. Eight of them in a box, designed to make you go viral instantly. No work, no talent, no soul-selling required—just swallow and watch the followers arrive. Obviously they don’t work. That’s entirely the point.
What gets me is that the idea isn’t even that absurd anymore. You see someone with a million followers and wonder what they know that you don’t, what system they cracked, what algorithm exploit they discovered. There’s this quiet belief that virality is a code you can break if you’re smart enough or persistent enough or willing to spend enough money on the right tool. Cohen just made that literal—he turned desperation into a product and packaged it like actual medicine.
The pills look clinical and official, which is the best part. They sit there with the plausibility of something that might actually work, of something you might actually want to buy. And the joke is that we’re already buying into variations of this fantasy. We’re already paying for courses on becoming Instagram-famous, trying apps that promise to decode the algorithm, spending money to engineer something that’s supposed to feel authentic and organic. We’re shopping for shortcuts. Cohen just removed the pretense and left the pure, stupid honesty of wanting to buy our way in.
The other thing is how the joke hasn’t aged well, or maybe it’s aged perfectly. This commentary on social media obsession should feel quaint by now, but it feels sharper than ever. The desperation is real. People genuinely believe there’s a trick to virality, some magic combination of timing and content and performance that will tip them into relevance. And they’re not entirely wrong—virality does work like a system, it does have patterns and rewards. But the system is also indifferent and often cruel.
Cohen’s pills are the perfect mirror because they can’t work, so you never have to face them failing you. You just have to sit with the fact that most people aren’t built for internet fame—don’t have the instinct or the comfort with performance it requires. And maybe that’s good. Maybe avoiding relevance is its own kind of victory.
You could’ve been congratulating your aunt, gossiping about someone in the group chat, sending photos you wouldn’t want your family seeing—didn’t matter. Facebook was reading all your WhatsApp chats the whole time, encrypted or not. Cryptography researcher Tobias Boelter at Berkeley found the backdoor. Facebook had built one in and never told anyone. All those years claiming messages were end-to-end encrypted, only visible to you and the person you were talking to—complete lie.
Here’s how it worked: WhatsApp used real encryption from Open Whisper Systems. The Signal protocol. Strong stuff—you and the other person exchange keys, messages lock down, supposed to be unbreakable. But Facebook had built in their own trapdoor. They could generate new encryption keys without telling you, slip in whenever, read whatever. Not a flaw in the protocol itself. Intentional.
So they were vacuuming up everything. Your drunk texts. Your group chat gossip. The intimate photos. All of it fed into their databases, tagged with your name, sold in pieces—your interests, your relationships, your secrets. And when the government asked for your data, they handed it over. The same way they always do, right after swearing they never could.
The real mindfuck was that you’d trusted them. That’s what made it work. You thought you were using something private. Turns out you were just feeding the machine, giving them information they’d already convinced you they couldn’t access.
Some people switched to Signal or Threema after that. Most didn’t. Too annoying. Too much effort. It doesn’t matter anyway. The backdoor’s still there, probably always will be. You know it won’t fix anything, but you open WhatsApp again anyway and type out your message, same as before.
I’ve always liked the idea that somewhere out there is someone who looks exactly like me. Not a twin—I don’t have a twin—but some random person in another city who has my face, my hair, my particular way of standing. Maybe they’re a better version. Maybe they’re worse. Doesn’t matter. There’s comfort in it.
The versions I’ve heard usually go the same way. You’re at a party, someone taps your shoulder, says they know your twin. Or you’re walking through a crowd and someone stops you—they swear they know you from somewhere, but you know you’ve never met. The photos come out. The laughs. Maybe you exchange numbers. Maybe it ends there. But you’ve still met yourself, in a way.
I haven’t encountered mine yet. But I keep half-expecting it—some moment in a crowd where I’ll catch eyes with someone and just know. We’ll both freeze. We’ll both be thinking the same thing. What happens then? Do you become friends? Do you feel like you’re betraying yourself somehow? Or is it just a weird story to tell at parties forever?
I think I’d want to stay in touch. Not out of some weird obsession, but because that person would understand something about me that almost no one else could. What it’s like to move through the world in this particular body, with this particular face. That’s worth knowing someone for.
I walked into Tanabata in Kyoto without planning to. The streets were crowded with festival-goers, vendor stalls everywhere, the usual summer chaos. But these girls kept appearing through the crowds—maybe five or six of them in proper kimonos, not rentals—and I found myself looking.
They just looked happy. Not trying to look happy—genuinely at ease with themselves and the moment. The kimonos were impossible colors, patterns that shouldn’t work together, but on them everything landed. There was no self-consciousness, or else they hid it perfectly.
I took some photos because that’s the work, but I was mostly watching something rare. The willingness to commit to something beautiful—the costume, the gesture, the whole moment—and move through it without thinking. In most places I spend time, that doesn’t exist. There’s always self-awareness, some angle, a sense of being watched even when you’re not. These girls had none of that.
Tanabata’s supposed to be melancholy if you know the story. Two stars separated by the Milky Way, lovers in an old Chinese myth who meet once a year. The mythology is built on longing, on absence. But the festival doesn’t care about that. Just noise and food and bright clothes, everyone inside the moment instead of thinking about it.
The distance between them and me—that was the thing that stuck. They were living in it, I was trying to capture it from outside, and that gap felt like the actual subject. Not how they looked, but what they had that I couldn’t quite photograph.
The Swiss government approved insect meat in May, and Coop started selling mealworm burgers and grasshopper skewers. What got me is how normal it looks — the packaging, the shelf placement, the fact that nobody seemed to think it was particularly newsworthy. Which is fair, because two billion people already eat them regularly. It’s only in Europe that this counts as a future-food experiment.
The nutrition checks out: good fats, iron, zinc, the whole list. Over 2000 edible species exist. In most places where they’re eaten, there’s no pitch. They’re just food, available and tasty. But here, the conversation stays locked on sustainability metrics and protein efficiency. All true things. Doesn’t change the fact that most Europeans find it pretty gross.
I’m curious what actually happens to these burgers. They’ll probably sit in the cooler case for a while, get picked up by a handful of curious people. Maybe the taste is good and they catch on. More likely they get past expiration and the experiment gets quietly discontinued. Either way, someone put these on the shelf. That’s the interesting part.
My friend Lisa has this thing where she can’t be in the same room as certain body types without checking out mentally. We’ll be somewhere and a woman with a particular shape will pass, and I watch Lisa’s face close. She’s already decided she doesn’t belong there.
The bad night was when she actually said it out loud: “crippled.” How do you unsay that about your own body?
There’s a website for it. A whole forum called BreastEnvy where women get together and trade notes on what they don’t have, what they hate about themselves. And yeah, there are guys in there too, except their interest is the jealousy specifically. They get off on women wanting what other women have.
I don’t have a clean thought about this. It’s just something that exists now, something Lisa visits when she’s feeling bad about the thing that makes her feel bad. The weirdness of it. The loneliness in numbers.
Trump’s press conference the day after Obama’s farewell was like watching someone who’d already decided the whole game was beneath him. The wall thing. Ignoring CNN, taking Breitbart instead. There’s something genuinely magnetic about that kind of contempt for the process — this refusal to play along, just say what you think and let it burn. I get why people loved it. Years of politicians carefully weighing every word, and here’s someone who wouldn’t.
But the wall never happened. Neither did any of it. And what’s actually stuck with me isn’t Trump but the people who’ll defend it all forever, who still believe in a wall that doesn’t exist, who’d rather hold the lie than admit the mistake. That’s the weird part — not the con, but everyone who knew better and loved him anyway.
Walking through the Nakamise at Sensō-ji, I’m mostly looking at the back of someone’s head while incense smoke drifts past. The temple—the oldest in Tokyo—is somewhere ahead, visible in the photographs everyone’s taking but not quite as a lived space. I move through it as a tourist, which is what keeps it intact.
Asakusa was built for crowds, but different ones. When it was the entertainment district, Kabuki and Rakugo theater drew people here. The Meiji Restoration brought Western theaters and cinemas, so for a while the neighborhood had both—traditional and modern running parallel. Then the postwar years happened and everything shifted. Shinjuku became the place. Shibuya got younger and louder. Other districts took over and Asakusa faded from being necessary. Which, strangely, preserved it. Nobody demolished it because nobody was paying attention. The temples stayed. The restaurants stayed. Pachinko halls kept their neon on.
Now the neighborhood exists as accessible memory. You can visit Sensō-ji, buy food at the shrines, watch the Sanja Matsuri festival in summer, grill your own food at restaurants that probably haven’t changed in fifty years. It’s all still functioning, which feels rare. The temple didn’t survive because someone decided it was culturally important. It survived because tourists showed up and gave its existence a reason to continue. That’s a strange kind of preservation—not protection exactly, but a sort of indifferent keeping-alive through footsteps and attention.
Trump was inaugurated and Françoise Mouly, editor at The New Yorker, decided the right response was to make a newspaper and hand it out directly. She and her daughter Nadja, a cartoonist, assembled “Resist!”—comics and essays from various artists, all circling the same question: what do you actually do in this moment?
The paper was aimed specifically at young women, immigrants, queer people. The ones for whom this isn’t abstract political theater but the texture of their actual lives. There’s work about abortion, racism, sexism, the specific gravity of fear that becomes your baseline. You wake with it. You sleep with it. You make plans around it.
There’s always been something clarifying about dark moments for artists. Institutions feel less important. The idea of reaching someone directly, concretely, matters more. Comics work best for that—there’s almost nothing between the image and what it makes you feel. It travels faster than argument, faster than think pieces. Just picture and understanding.
I don’t know if a newspaper actually changes anything at the level of policy or law. But I understand the impulse to try. To decide that what you had—your platform, your daughter’s talent—mattered most when handed directly to someone, actual paper and ink in their hands, when everything else feels controlled from above. That matters. Even if it doesn’t shift votes, there’s something defiant about insisting on directness like that.
The internet broke for a photo of Selena Gomez. She’d been quiet—one of those creative breaks where major artists just vanish from the timeline—and then something surfaced. Mert Alas had shot her, and suddenly everyone was looking at something they probably shouldn’t want to be looking at, except of course they did. That’s desire with built-in shame, with plausible deniability. The photo hits and the hunger happens and maybe that’s just what culture is now. You see something beautiful and you want to keep looking.
I watched that Nick Smith video about social media, the one that breaks down what we’re all actually doing when we’re scrolling and posting, and it landed harder than it should have. The internet used to feel like a place where people found each other and actually talked. Now it’s just this massive crowd, and the only way to matter is to be louder, prettier, or more scandalous than everyone else. Everything is a metrics game. Likes, shares, comments, followers—the numbers are the whole point.
We’re holding our stupid grins up to the camera, but not because we’re having fun or because we want to remember something. We’re doing it because we’ve organized our entire existence around whether strangers think we’re worth their attention. The moment doesn’t matter. The feeling doesn’t matter. What matters is the proof that we mattered, right now, to whoever’s scrolling past. It’s all validation. Just endlessly chasing these little digital tokens and telling ourselves that’s what being alive means.
The weird part is knowing this and still doing it anyway. I know the game is hollow. I see exactly how it works. And I’m still posting shit I think will land, still checking to see who liked it, still feeling that small hit when the number goes up. It’s not mysterious—it’s just how the platforms are designed, and we’re all caught in it. Maybe the video helps if you haven’t thought about it yet. For the rest of us, it’s just confirmation of something we already know but can’t quite stop doing.
There’s this assumption that’s been floating around forever—that tech is a boys’ thing. Not because of anything real, just because someone decided it was decades ago. Girls interested in coding get pointed toward design or marketing instead. Not because they can’t logic. Because of culture. Because the shape everyone assumes tech takes is male.
Fiona Krakenbürger, a programmer in Berlin, has spent years working against that assumption. She builds spaces for girls to learn code, tinker with networks, build actual things. She’s vocal about open digital culture, the basic principle that the people creating the future should be the ones who get to shape it, not people gatekeeping it.
In an interview with German public radio, she talked about the problem simply: coding is a language. You learn languages. No genetic prerequisites. The barrier is cultural—nobody told girls they could, so they didn’t try, and then the field pointed to their absence as proof they weren’t interested. A self-fulfilling prophecy that everyone treated as biology.
What strikes me is the waste of it. How many problems never get solved, how much work stays unmade, because we told half the population tech wasn’t for them. Fiona spends her time changing that calculation.
The thing that’s weirdest, looking back, is how recently this all became controversial. For decades everyone was fine with the idea that computers required a Y chromosome. Then someone said it out loud and it sounded ridiculous. It always was ridiculous. We just weren’t paying attention.
This documentary traces the money and people behind far-right movements in Germany—the networks that operate unseen while the actual followers do the visible, audible raging. It’s less conspiracy-theory wild than you’d expect and more just… competent. They know what they’re doing.
The manipulation is precise. These networks understand exactly which fears will move which people. Economic collapse, cultural change, the sense of being lied to. They don’t recruit by saying “join the fascists.” They recruit by being sympathetic, by asking dangerous questions, by offering community to people who feel unheard. And because it’s all coordinated—the messaging, the platforms, the timing—it reads as organic grassroots when it’s actually engineered.
Once you’re inside, you’re not a believer. You’re a node in the network. You repeat their talking points, share their content, convince your friends without knowing that you’re following a blueprint written by someone else. That’s where the real power is. Not the visible leaders but the ordinary people who’ve become distribution channels.
I know people like that. Not from any sinister recruitment, just from clicking links and finding a community that seemed to get them. Maybe it did, in its way. But they were still saying things other people had written.
The documentary makes all this visible. It shows you the connections, the money, how the whole thing works together across countries. You watch and you understand the mechanism. And then you realize that understanding it doesn’t stop it. Which is somehow worse than not knowing.
TMZ has the photos. The Weeknd and Selena Gomez in Santa Monica, evening light. That’s all it takes for my brain to start building it. Lose weight, learn production, make something that matters, post it, watch it catch fire in LA. Show up at the right party. She’s there. Everything changes.
I never liked him anyway. His name sucks, the whole thing feels like someone’s bad fan fiction. Doesn’t matter. The fantasy doesn’t care about him. It’s not even about her—it’s about who I’d have to become, and knowing I won’t, not because I can’t, but because the whole thing only works if she’s someone I’ll never actually meet. That distance is the whole point. That’s what makes it safe.
By the next morning it felt stupid. But there’s always that moment where my brain lights up and thinks maybe, this time. That moment stuck with me longer than it should have.
Another 80s party looming, and I’m already dreading the playlist. Tina Turner, Michael Jackson, Europe—the same five songs on repeat until someone cranks “Final Countdown” and you consider faking your own death. I needed something else.
Found this YouTube channel called TRONICBOX that takes modern pop and remixes it as 80s synth-rock. Ariana, Katy, Justin Bieber—all of it runs through that glitzy synthesizer filter, and suddenly you’re in a music video from 1987. The whole thing shouldn’t work, but it does.
They don’t have a massive library yet (presumably it takes time to send songs through a time machine and back), but what’s there is solid. “Somebody I Used to Know” as a synth anthem. “Firework” pumping through those drums and keyboards. The usual suspects sound weirdly… better? More fun, at least.
It won’t solve the actual problem of having to make small talk at parties, but at least the background music won’t drive you insane. That’s something.
Sony’s releasing a white PS4, and I can see the appeal immediately. The standard console is a bulky black rectangle, the kind of thing that announces itself in your entertainment setup whether you want it to or not. A white one would sit there differently — it’d actually work with a clean, minimal room instead of demanding design forgiveness.
It’s a smaller revision they’ve released now, the new slim model, and this Glacier White version comes with 500GB and two controllers in matching white. They’re saying it’ll be available sometime in early 2017 — honestly, I’d almost forgotten about this tier of console refresh. There’s a version with more power, the PS4 Pro, but Sony’s keeping that one black only. Of course they are. The white option is for people who bought into the minimalist thing, not the performance obsessives.
I get why someone would want this. Your apartment is clean, your furniture’s restrained, you’ve got maybe three books on a shelf and they’re sorted by spine color, and then your console sits there looking like it was salvaged from an office breakroom. A white one actually plays along. Design matters, even for boxes you shove under a TV.
But I’d probably buy it and then never feel like it was actually mine, the way you don’t feel like you own anything that’s too perfect to touch. Still, there’s something cool about a company shipping design as a basic option instead of a special edition. Makes you wonder if they noticed someone, or if it was just math — how many people want the aesthetic without the compromise.
At seventeen I was tearing myself up on some guy’s dick that was way too big, convinced I was dying. That’s what I remember about that age. I certainly never thought I’d get pregnant. Not a fucking chance. Even though obviously I could have.
You hear stories about teenage pregnancy and something in you shuts down. You tell yourself you were different — too busy with other shit, Barbies, cartoons, whatever. Pure bullshit. The truth is I was horny and reckless and lucky, all at the same time. And the way I needed that distance, that humor, between me and the girls who actually got pregnant — that’s just how I dealt with the fact that it could’ve been me.
Some people get pregnant at seventeen. Most don’t. The difference isn’t wisdom or values or anything you want to believe about yourself. It’s luck. Timing. Whether a condom broke.
Pauline got pregnant at seventeen. She’s twenty-two now and studying. I found that out and something shifted. Not the inspiring story thing — more that she just kept going. Didn’t become a cautionary tale or a triumph narrative or whatever. Just kept being a person.
You can laugh at that or respect it. Depends what you’re like. I think I respect it. Could’ve been me. Could’ve been anyone. Wasn’t.
That Trump rumor in early 2017—the one from BuzzFeed about the thing in Moscow—landed perfectly. Not because anyone actually believed it. Because it stopped mattering whether it was true.
Fake news gets big not because people think it’s real but because people want to share it. And once something’s shared enough times, it becomes its own thing. The truth gets buried under layers of memes and jokes and retweets until you can’t see the original claim anymore.
Trump had been a punchline for years before becoming president. Game show host, tabloid fixture, the guy you always made fun of. So this rumor—crude, specific, undignified—felt like it was made for the moment. Like permission to mock him in the most degrading way possible. And the internet took that permission and ran with it. Hours. Minutes maybe. The memes came fast.
Nobody was asking if it was true. They were asking if it was funny. If it was something you could share, something you could joke about with friends. The rumor became a tool for making the president look ridiculous. Which, given everything else going on, felt necessary.
What struck me was how completely the actual claim disconnected from the thing it became. The original story—whether real or invented—was almost beside the point. It got turned into something else entirely. A joke. A cultural moment. A way of pushing back against someone who felt untouchable.
I watched people care far more about the shareability than the truthfulness. And maybe that’s just how it works now. Maybe that’s all that ever mattered.
Mehmet doesn’t like pubic hair. He’s fourteen. That’s enough for my thirteen-year-old cousin to spend an afternoon with a razor, scraping smooth everything—legs, armpits, asshole, the tiny hair between her eyebrows. They’d barely kissed, barely touched anywhere that would matter for the next decade. But she already knew the score: if he was going to want her, she had to stop being the way she naturally came.
Her friend walked her through it like a tutorial, the kind of thing older girls teach younger girls like it’s just… how bodies work. Shave here. Shave here. Shave everywhere. Let nothing survive.
When I asked why she cared what a fourteen-year-old boy thought about her body, she didn’t have a real answer. Just shrugged. That’s what you do when you like someone. Make yourself smaller. Less. Into something that won’t disgust him.
What gets me isn’t that Mehmet has dumb ideas—of course he does. It’s that she didn’t think it was strange to believe him. Didn’t think it was strange that her body was the problem and she was the one who had to fix it. It was already just… there. The way things work.
You stand at the top of a snowy hill in Berlin and for a moment it’s just that simple—you push off, pick up speed, hold on, stop at the bottom. Then you walk back up and do it again. Cold, stupid, perfect.
The city’s got decent hills if you know where to look. Teufelsberg has the height and some strange history buried underneath it. Viktoriapark puts you in the middle of everything else. Görli is just another place to be, which works fine. Someone actually mapped out all the sledding spots around Berlin, difficulty ratings and all. The kind of hyperlocal tool that shouldn’t matter but does because it means someone else was thinking about this too.
There’s something about sledding that you miss as an adult. Not nostalgia. You’re not trying to be a kid again. It’s just repetition with no purpose beyond itself. Push off, slide, walk back up, push off again. Nothing gets built. Nothing improves. It just happens and then it happens again.
You can bring someone—a kid, a friend, someone to share the stupid circle with. Or you can go alone and sit at the bottom for a while. Glühwein helps, or doesn’t matter if you skip it.
Map or no map, there you are at the top of a hill in January with numb fingers, and it’s still enough.
Sailor Moon’s already saved the world a couple times. Turns out that wasn’t the last battle. Right now in Japan, she’s enlisting again, except this time the enemy is syphilis and the weapon is condoms.
Young people across Japan have been getting infected at rising rates, so somebody figured—if kids won’t listen to health officials, maybe they’ll listen to someone they’ve been listening to for decades. Sixty thousand condoms—pink, heart-shaped, with Usagi’s face on them—got shipped out to about a hundred and fifty municipalities. It’s absurd and pragmatic at the same time.
I get why it works, though. Pop culture doesn’t just entertain people; it moves them. An animated girl with ridiculous hair has more credibility in someone’s mind than a government notice. Maybe that’s bleak, but it’s how persuasion actually works.
I don’t know if it’ll change anything. Probably not on its own. But there’s something about the image of it—Sailor Moon ending up here, anime getting conscripted for public health—that stays with me. Everything finds its use eventually.
There’s this moment when you realize someone’s been using you. Not suspecting it, not worrying about it – actually seeing it. When their attention suddenly clicks into place and you understand that what they wanted was never you. It’s usually small. A comment that reveals what they actually think. The way they treat you when there’s nothing in it for them. Their eyes when you tell them you can’t help with whatever they actually came for.
Selena Gomez made a video about cutting off her fake friends, and yeah, I get why that resonates. Fame and money and visibility are just concentrated versions of what happens at every level. You get something people want – money, connection, status, even just the ability to listen and care – and suddenly you’ve got orbit. Parasites. People who smell something on you and move in close.
The ugliest part is how they operate. They’re not crude about it. They’re good at it. They show up when things are good. They remember your birthday. They make you feel like you matter to them. Then something shifts – maybe you can’t do them a favor, maybe you just stop being useful – and you see exactly how little you meant. They disappear or get cold or worse, they stick around and resent you for not serving your purpose.
I’ve done this wrong before. Let someone stay in my life out of obligation or guilt or the vague hope that I was reading them wrong. You’re not reading them wrong. You see it clearly. The hard part isn’t seeing it – it’s actually letting them go. It feels mean. It feels like you’re being cruel to someone who “tried.” But they didn’t try for you. They tried for what they thought you had.
The decent ones – the ones worth keeping – they want nothing. Or they want something real. They don’t change when your usefulness runs out. You know who they are because they don’t need anything from you to show up. That’s the bar. That’s it.
I used to think cutting people off was something you did in rage, some dramatic finale. Now I think it’s quieter. You just stop. Stop explaining yourself. Stop leaving the door open. Stop hoping they’ll surprise you. They won’t. And then one day you realize you haven’t thought about them in months.
Obama had his farewell speech. If you’re young enough, he’s the only president you really knew. He was cool—composed, thoughtful, the kind of articulate that felt like a relief when he spoke. Yeah, there’s all the stuff that fell short: NSA, Guantanamo, the compromises. I’m not pretending he was some perfect thing. But there was something there, a dignity and intelligence you could just see.
And then Trump. I can’t really picture what’s about to happen. He won’t do anything right—not by any measure I care about. It’s all so naked: money, power, using the office to make himself richer. Probably been jerking off to the idea of it for months.
There’s something surreal about watching someone leave after eight years knowing the next guy is just going to torch it all for tax breaks and real estate. It’s absurd and completely real at once. You want to laugh and throw up.
I’ll miss him. Not in some sentimental way, but actually. His farewell is the kind of thing you hold onto, even if you’re cynical about how much it mattered.
There’s something genuinely funny about how easy it is to sound like Donald Trump. The vocabulary’s simple, the rhythm’s blunt, the logic’s immediate. He just says whatever’s in his head.
Around 2015 or 2016, someone built a website called Fake Trump Tweets where you could generate tweets in his voice. Type something, hit a button, get a formatted Trump tweet back with the weird caps and emoji. The tool let you put any words in his mouth—attack Mexicans, insult gay people, go after the media. Offensive, stupid, all of it. You could generate whatever you wanted, share it with friends, just fuck around with the idea of speaking as him.
What stuck with me was that he actually found out about this. Trump tweeted about this blog, went after whoever was writing about it. The usual Trump thing—crude, dismissive, going for the sexual and gender stuff. And the irony was almost too perfect. He’d become so easy to imitate that he was answering his own joke. The president had engaged with a tool designed to show how absurd he sounded.
The whole thing made me realize something: imitating him wasn’t satire anymore. It was just description. He sounded like a caricature of himself. Once you understand that, you can’t unhear it. You hear him talking and you know exactly what comes next.
I don’t know why I expected Murakami to want the Nobel Prize. The moment anyone said he could have turned it down, I thought of course he would—all that machinery, all those expectations hanging over the next book. He doesn’t work for audiences. He works for something quieter.
I got into Murakami by accident, the way you get into anyone good. Maybe it was 1Q84, maybe Norwegian Wood, maybe Kafka on the Shore—it doesn’t matter which one. What mattered was that first moment I felt how he writes: not rushing, not performing, just moving his characters through their days the way it actually happens. Slow. Confused. Bumping into old memories without understanding why they still hurt.
Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki is the one I keep coming back to. It’s about a guy who spends years trying to figure out why his friends abandoned him, and the book doesn’t pretend that’s a mystery you solve. It’s just his life, and he’s working through it the way we all do—not fully understanding himself, moving in circles, sitting with the pain of it. The book trusts you to sit there too. You’re not going anywhere. There’s no resolution waiting. Just a person thinking about his own past.
That’s the whole thing, actually. He writes like he trusts time and silence. His people are never loud or rushed or figured out. They’re living through something that doesn’t make sense, and he’s patient with them. He doesn’t need you to feel a certain way about it. He just describes it and lets you stand there in it.
So he’s got a new novel coming. Killing Commendatore, two parts, releasing in Japan in February. I know almost nothing about it. I don’t need to. By now that’s how I read Murakami—you show up, and you trust he knows what he’s doing. He has, every time.
SoundCloud burned through fifty million euros in 2015 alone. By the end of 2017, if the money doesn’t turn around, the site’s done. No bankruptcy spectacular, no last stand — just a platform that runs out of cash and closes the servers.
There were whispers for a while that Spotify or Google might buy it, mount some kind of rescue. Spotify denied it, Google apparently looked and decided against it. Now it’s just waiting. Reddit’s in full panic, everyone downloading their tracks and telling others to back up their music before the whole thing goes dark.
I use SoundCloud, though not the way I use Spotify or Apple Music. It’s where I find the margins — underground producers, remixes, bootlegs, the stuff that lives in cracks and doesn’t have major distribution. It was never my primary listening. Spotify already won that fight years ago. SoundCloud came in thinking it could compete on volume and community and hit a wall immediately.
CEO Alexander Ljung kept saying the losses are planned, carefully calculated, that they’re following Facebook’s playbook of burning cash to build bigger. Maybe. Every failing startup says the same thing. Sometimes it’s vision. Sometimes it’s just bad numbers dressed up as strategy.
The reality is SoundCloud was good at exactly one thing: finding music you didn’t know existed. It worked because it was chaotic, amateur, driven by people sharing instead of optimizing for profit. But being good at something doesn’t make you a business. The platform existed in the middle space between artists who needed exposure and listeners who needed something easier than wading through endless mediocre remixes. It never served either side well enough to matter.
If SoundCloud actually closes, it won’t be because the product failed. It’ll be because there’s no money in being in-between. Artists moved to YouTube and TikTok. Listeners went to Spotify. SoundCloud’s left serving people with no money, and that’s not sustainable.
I don’t know what happens to that kind of discovery if SoundCloud dies. Something else emerges, probably. Or nothing does. The internet’s been losing its randomness for years anyway. Everything’s getting more structured, more profitable, less weird. SoundCloud might just be the first of a few things that quietly die because they’re too specific to scale and too unmarketable to survive.
The Super Nintendo is the best console ever made. “A Link to the Past,” “Secret of Mana,” “Super Mario World.” These aren’t just games I loved growing up. They’re design touchstones. The weight of that controller, the color palette, the menus. Sixteen bits, every decision intentional.
Being an adult who cares about these games and wants to actually wear that fact is its own thing. You can go obvious: t-shirt with a sprite, a hat with the logo, the standard nerd-merch route. Nothing wrong with it. But there’s always this gap between what you love and how it looks on your body.
Freaker Sneaks made an Air Jordan 4 that pulls the actual SNES controller palette—that specific shade of purple, the red, the green, the yellow—into the shoe itself. They even added the four buttons and made them actually press. It’s the kind of restraint that separates real design from costume. Someone who knows will see it immediately. To everyone else, it’s just a nice purple sneaker.
That’s what matters about it. Not the limited-edition framing or the hype machine. Just the confidence to make something that works as a shoe first and a reference second. Wearable without announcing itself.
I haven’t had them on, so I can’t say what they’re like in the world—whether the buttons feel right, if the proportions work when you’re actually standing in them. But the idea behind them, that restraint, that’s real. That’s design.
You walk out of Narita and everything hits at once—the scale of it, the sound, the density. The train pulls you into the center and suddenly you’re in Akihabara or Shibuya or wherever, and there’s no way to prepare for how relentless it is. Skyscrapers that don’t seem to end, pachinko parlors and convenience stores stacked like puzzle pieces, people moving in this weird synchronized chaos that actually works.
I kept thinking about how Tokyo looks like it shouldn’t function—too many people, too much noise, too many competing signals fighting for your attention. But it’s the opposite. Everything’s in its place. The salarymen in their dark suits moving like synchronized swimmers between the office buildings, the kids in school uniforms clustering in Shibuya, the temple grounds in Asakusa cutting through it all like they’re in a different century. It’s chaos that’s been engineered down to the millisecond.
What gets to you is the sensory overload that somehow feels deliberate. Walking through Akihabara you’re drowning in light and sound and these competing advertising screens that are probably designed to feel exactly like this. The buildings are stacked in ways that shouldn’t work architecturally. Colors that shouldn’t live together do. And there’s this weird beauty in how intentional it all is, even the parts that seem random.
The food’s a whole other thing. Every corner has something that smells better than the last place. Ramen stands next to department store cafes next to vending machines selling things you can’t identify. You eat walking, sitting, standing in a plastic chair barely big enough for one person, and it all tastes like that specific moment in that specific place.
Tokyo isn’t the city people write about in the breathless travel-blog way. It’s not some mystical aesthetic experience. It’s just relentlessly, aggressively itself. You get swallowed by it and you either find the rhythm or you don’t. I found it somewhere around hour four, in a ramen shop in a basement, when I stopped trying to understand what I was looking at and just let it happen.
I first heard about Noah Cyrus because she voiced Ponyo, which made her interesting immediately—not because of the last name she can’t escape, but because she’d been given a real role in something that mattered. You don’t get that kind of work handed to you unless your parents are famous, which automatically makes you suspicious. But she treated it seriously, talked about the environmental message in Miyazaki’s film the way someone who actually paid attention would.
That was her entry point into all this. Before that, she’d grown up with her father teaching her about music—the actual thing, not the industry. You can tell the difference when someone talks about their work. There’s no manufactured enthusiasm, no media training visible yet.
And then there’s Miley, which everyone wants to know about. They want to know if Noah’s bothered by the nude photos, the wrecking ball, the gleeful fuck-you to the Disney machine that made her sister famous. Her answer is the one that actually matters: she’s proud of her. Not defensive, not pretending she didn’t see anything. She’s proud because Miley did it with conviction, with real self-assurance. You can tell she means it. They’re different people, so they’ll make different choices, but there’s no distance between them. Just clarity.
By sixteen she was already everywhere—Instagram, Snapchat, another kid growing up with a phone instead of a childhood. But she’s deliberate about it. She talks about having complete control over what she shows, what she keeps. She even turned off comments on Instagram to shut out the people who just want to tear things down. That’s not naivety; that’s a boundary. She understands the stakes.
The music was real work. “Make Me (Cry)” with Labrinth was charting. She wanted to keep making it, touring, having an actual career. Her role models were Lady Gaga and Rihanna—artists who’d actually done something meaningful. When I asked what she’d do if she became president of the world, she answered without hesitation: animal rights. Ban zoos. Ban circuses. That kind of clarity about what matters is rare at any age.
What stayed with me was how unselfconscious she was about everything. No rehearsed answers, no performance. When I asked if she was addicted to her phone like every kid her age is, she just said yeah, I’m addicted. So what. She’d give up pizza before her phone. Television didn’t matter to her—no cable in the house. But love or her phone for a hundred years? Her phone, she laughed. The hypothetical spiraled out of control.
She wasn’t trying to be cool. She just was. There’s a difference.
Sho Haze draws naked women into surreal, violent landscapes — colors that shouldn’t exist, worlds where everything’s dying. She’s from Birmingham, makes her own magazines, handles the whole thing herself. The work doesn’t perform. It just exists.
She did a photo project with James Beddoes called Sticks & Stones, where she posed for him herself. Same energy as the drawings: no separation between the artist and the image. She’s the person making it and the person living inside it.
What’s clear is that she knows what she wants to make and makes it without hedging. The body of work has her fingerprints all through it — not a signature, just the commitment showing. That directness. That refusal to soften. The kind of thing you either get or you don’t, and she seems fine with that.
I’ve been cycling Gorillaz through my headphones for probably twenty years now, so waiting for new material has become its own permanent state. While 2D and the crew are working on whatever’s next, Noodle—the animated guitarist and keyboardist—dropped a mixtape on SoundCloud called 私 Noodle❗️ and it’s legitimately good.
It’s got Grimes, Lully, and Anna Meredith on it, and there’s no dead weight. Every song feels like it was chosen because she actually wanted to hear it, not because it fit some idea of what a mixtape should be. That’s always been the Gorillaz way—taste first, everything else follows. Sometimes that taste points you toward weird places, but it never feels accidental.
I don’t know if this means the band’s working on something new or if Noodle just needed to get these sounds out of her system. Doesn’t really matter. It’s one of those things that makes you remember why you got hooked on their music in the first place.
I picked up the P9 at a shop and noticed the weight first. Huawei and Leica had partnered on the camera—dual lenses, optics supposedly better at catching light. In this case the claims actually held up. The camera was noticeably better than what most phones were doing at the time.
The design is what stuck with me though. Aluminum, those diamond-cut edges that you feel every time you pick it up, glass curved at the edges. The whole thing was restrained. Compact, could hold it in one hand without wrestling it, not trying to be everything at once. Five-point-two-inch Full-HD display with decent color if you cared about that.
Came in silver or some other colors. Silver was the obvious choice. It looked like someone had actually thought about every surface, which is rarer than you’d think. Not loud about being expensive, just… considered.
This was the Huawei moment in the West, before the geopolitical complications. Just a company that had figured out proportion and restraint. By 2017 standards it felt notable. Now it’s just a phone from then, but it was the kind of phone you remember picking up.
BuzzFeed had three women spend a week deliberately manspreading on the subway — taking up seats, being thoughtlessly inconsiderate — to demonstrate that men do this all the time. You watch waiting for the actual investigation, the thinking, and it never comes. It’s just three women being assholes on transit while someone films it.
The thing worth considering — how entitlement shapes movement through shared space, who takes up room without asking — gets buried under the performance. But you can’t investigate that by staging the behavior. That’s theater. That’s three people being deliberately rude to strangers to generate clicks.
What got to me was how the conclusion jumped from specific to universal. Three people being thoughtless, and suddenly that’s men. Prefix “man-” to any behavior you dislike and you’ve implicated a whole gender. But inconsiderate people are just inconsiderate. Gender doesn’t determine whether someone spreads across two seats. I’m not saying crowding isn’t real — I’m saying this video doesn’t actually address it. It just documents rudeness and calls it activism.
There’s real friction on transit. Real moments where someone else’s comfort costs you space. But that’s human behavior. And turning it into a week of filmed inconsideration doesn’t illuminate anything. We get outrage. We don’t get understanding.
The Süddeutsche Zeitung investigated Facebook’s content moderation operation in Berlin and talked to the people doing the work. Most are Syrian refugees working jobs they can’t get anywhere else—their qualifications don’t count here. They make just above minimum wage to spend shifts looking at reported posts they can’t preview. Beheaded bodies. Child abuse material. Nazi content. Whatever comes in the queue.
One moderator described a video she had to watch. A man, a small child, a butcher’s knife. She has a kid that age. She couldn’t finish the shift. Grabbed her bag and left crying for the streetcar. That detail stays with me—not as a rhetorical point about why Facebook is bad, but as a fact about what one person had to carry with them.
The moderation rulebook is 48 pages and contradicts itself, either on purpose or worse—suggesting no one thought through what would happen. Violence against refugees gets deleted, but calling them animals usually doesn’t. Decapitated bodies often stay up. A breast gets your account suspended permanently. Moderators learn quickly that you get blamed more for deleting something that shouldn’t be deleted than for letting something terrible stay. So they let it stay.
The system isn’t broken. It’s working exactly as designed. You pay people desperate enough that they can’t refuse. You give them rules complicated enough that they’ll make predictable errors. You optimize those errors toward keeping content up. Everyone involved knows this. Everyone accepts it because the alternative is worse—for Facebook, you just hire replacement workers. For the moderators, the alternative is no job, or something worse.
There’s a kind of exhaustion in understanding this clearly. Not anger, exactly. More like watching a machine function with absolute precision and realizing there’s no version of this that ends differently. The company benefits from the setup. The algorithm optimizes for engagement, which means amplifying rage and tribalism. The moderators need work. So the system persists, rotating new people through offices in Berlin, watching the same videos, making the same impossible choices.
What I can’t stop thinking about is the moment she decided it wasn’t worth it. Where a video of a child and a knife made her realize some things cost more than money. That’s the human limit the system wasn’t designed to account for. Except it was, because once she quit, Facebook just hired someone more desperate. The system accounts for people breaking. It’s built in.
People film themselves endlessly and post it online. Got a free perfume in the mail. Went to see a movie. Had drama with some friend. Nobody cares. But they keep filming anyway.
That’s why scripted television is better. Netflix knows it. HBO knows it. German public TV figured it out too. They grabbed actress Barbara Prakopenka and some colleagues and made ’Alles Liebe, Annette’—a soap opera about vlogging. No clue why.
The story: Annette is eighteen, wanted to be a writer, applied to her dream university and got rejected. So she started a vlog out of spite.
It’s not the most gripping premise on paper. But maybe that’s the point. A scripted show about the reality of vlogging is probably more honest than the actual thing. At least there’s intention behind it.
Someone in Japan made a dating game where you fall in love with a horse. A literal horse, except it has a human face grafted onto it—supposedly a cursed prince—and you’re supposed to find it attractive.
My Horse Prince is on iOS and Android. That means it actually got approved by app stores. The setup: you’re a shy person who wanders into a field, discovers this horse-creature with a prince’s face, and that’s the start of your romance. The game stays vague about what happens after that, which seems wise.
I found this the way you find most of the internet’s stranger artifacts—half-accidentally, then trapped looking because you can’t quite believe it exists. Japan has a peculiar talent for content that hovers between sincere and absurd, where you genuinely can’t tell if the creator is joking. My Horse Prince sits perfectly in that zone. A horse with a beautiful face looking at you like it means something.
What strikes me is the complete absence of irony. No winking. No acknowledgment that anything is weird. Just total commitment to the thing. You find a horse. He’s a prince. You fall in love. That’s the whole game. Maybe that’s the most honest creative move—know exactly what you’re making and do it anyway, zero apologies.
I’m not playing it. But I respect it. And I’m grateful they kept the anatomical horse-part accurate. Make it human and you’ve crossed from absurd into genuinely disturbing.
I actually love Twitter. I know that’s an unpopular thing to say now. The people who care about it are journalists, ADHD YouTubers, and actual Nazis in egg costumes, which is not exactly a compelling advertisement. Most people look at the whole thing and can’t fathom the appeal. They’re content if Facebook still loads.
So Twitter’s closing its Berlin office by year-end. Consolidating in Hamburg. No profit, no stability, just the standard playbook for a dying company—cut costs, trim the fat, make yourself look salable to whoever’s willing to take you off your hands. Some tech billionaire. A Saudi fund. I don’t know anymore.
I’ve seen this film before. You watch something slowly disintegrate, each cost-cutting measure another confirmation that it’s already over. Then it either collapses, which is sad, or someone buys it and it becomes a mausoleum—like what happened to Tumblr, MySpace, StudiVZ. Still technically breathing, still technically a website, but the life drained out. The zombie phase might be worse than death. At least death is honest.
I keep using Twitter anyway. Knowing better. There’s something stubborn or stupid about it, I can’t decide which.
Aleppo keeps appearing in your feed and you feel something—horror, helplessness, the vague guilt of being on the other side of the world. So you share a hashtag, maybe film a response, send out some words about bearing witness. It feels like you’re doing something. You’re not. What matters is money that reaches people who know how to use it.
The White Helmets are civil defense volunteers in opposition-held Syria. They dig people out of rubble when everything’s burning. Controversial in some corners, but the work speaks. You send money, they keep operating.
Médecins Sans Frontières won a Nobel Prize in 1999 for a reason—scale, credibility, the ability to show up in a hospital with no power and figure out how to keep people alive. They’re in Aleppo right now doing exactly that.
The German Red Cross, the Syrian American Medical Society, Save the Children—they’re all working the same space. Training nurses. Funding clinics. Sending medicine. Unglamorous. Invisible. Necessary.
The distance between caring and helping is money. Nothing else actually matters. Your attention doesn’t save anyone. Your emotion doesn’t save anyone. Money in the account of an organization with systems in place, with people on the ground, with the infrastructure to move resources into a war zone—that does something. That’s the only version of this where you can look yourself in the eye afterward and know you meant what you said.
Gigi Hadid lounging on a Tahitian beach, tan and glossy in actual sunlight, becomes essential viewing the moment winter arrives where you live. She’s lying there with nowhere to be, and you’ve got her on repeat because the real world is gray and cold and making everyone stupid.
That particular kind of winter is the worst. Not dramatic snow-laden cold, but damp, lightless, the kind of gray that makes depression feel like common sense. It gets dark at four. Everything hurts. The news is bad. You’re starting to think in German Romantic poetry about death.
You try the solutions they tell you to try. Vitamin D pills. Tanning bed sessions, even though you’ll turn into a rotisserie chicken by thirty. Tropical cocktails with umbrellas, Hawaiian music in the background, a beach poster you bought five years ago. Effort. Money. Embarrassment. And you’re still inside.
What actually works is just watching the video. Gigi in the sun, the water behind her, looking like she never heard of winter. No reason to leave the house, no money spent, no fake rituals. Her there, you here, and something in your head goes somewhere warmer for a few minutes. The real world hasn’t changed—it’s still gray, still cold—but you’ve got her on repeat and it’s enough.
I watched a video of an AfD politician trying to submit amendments in the Saxon parliament. He completely fell apart—couldn’t manage the procedure, kept stumbling, got completely stuck. It was painful to watch.
What got me was how straightforward the task looked. Submit amendments. Follow the rules. But he couldn’t do it. And watching someone fail at something that basic, something that should be within reach, says something about them. You can talk a big game about changing everything, but if you don’t know how things actually work, what good is that?
There was dark comedy in it. This person who wants to tear the whole thing down can’t even navigate what’s actually there. It’s like listening to someone confidently describe how they’re going to rebuild a machine they’ve never opened up.
I don’t know what to make of it. Either he’s genuinely incompetent, or the actual machinery of government matters less to him than the rhetoric. Both possibilities are bleak.
There’s something satisfying about lingerie that actually understands bodies. Most of it is just marketing and terrible engineering, but a label like Conturelle pays attention to how it sits, how it moves, what actually matters to the person wearing it.
This set they’ve done in red—Italian lace, fitted enough to be deliberate but not so tight it becomes a weapon. Good lace breathes. Good construction means you stop thinking about the thing and start thinking about yourself, which is the whole point. You look better because you feel better, and someone who knows how bodies work designed this to make that happen.
There’s a particular pleasure in noticing craft in something intimate. The kind of detail that only matters if you’re paying attention: the weight of the lace, where the seams lie, how the cut respects movement. It’s the same satisfaction I get looking at a well-designed anything—a shirt, a chair, a logo. But on skin, it hits different. It matters more.
Nikki Benz and Missy Martinez—performers in adult entertainment, titles like “Wetter Is Better 4” and such—did a Let’s Play of Mafia III. So porn actresses played a video game on camera and talked about it, which is exactly as absurd as it sounds until you realize it’s barely absurd at all.
Gaming streams are this weird thing where you just watch someone else play a game. Nobody questions why anymore. The person’s funny, or their voice is soothing, or you just like hanging around them parasocially. The barrier to entry is nothing. Get a camera, hit record, talk. So of course porn performers are doing this. They’re already used to being on camera, already have an audience that’ll follow them anywhere, already understand the parasocial dynamic.
I watched a couple minutes out of pure curiosity. They were bad at Mafia III, made predictable jokes, had no chemistry. It was exactly as forgettable as any other Let’s Play. The fact that they do porn didn’t add anything or change anything. They were just people struggling to find an exit and talking about it.
That’s the thing now. A porn actress doing a Let’s Play is as unremarkable as anyone else doing a Let’s Play. Categories don’t mean anything anymore.
I don’t know when emoji stopped feeling like an addition to language and became the language itself. There was probably a specific moment — some conversation where a single picture said what three sentences couldn’t — but I can’t pinpoint it. Now it’s automatic.
Apple just released a new batch for iOS 10.2. Cowboy, avocado, fox, champagne, owl, butterfly, kiwi, peanut — the selection seems almost random. No clear logic for what made it in versus what got left behind. Maybe there’s a committee. Maybe it’s arbitrary. Either way, they’re there, and in a few weeks they’ll feel like they always have.
Getting them requires an update, which takes about five minutes. iPhones will have them soon enough. That’s how it works.
What gets me is how completely these tiny graphics have taken over how I actually talk. A single emoji in the right place does more work than most of what I write. That’s not a statement I’m proud of, but it’s honest. We’ve all shifted into a hybrid language that didn’t exist ten years ago, and it works. That wasn’t the plan, if there was a plan.
The new ones will show up on my phone soon, and at some point the cowboy will be exactly what I need to say. I won’t think about how much work a tiny image does in a conversation, or how strange it is that we all speak this way now. I just use it. That’s where we are.
Berlin has the kind of people who just decide to do something and then do it. Mary Scherpe’s taste had already become the city’s reference point, and for her third Warm Up, she made a straightforward call: bring your best clothes to Voo Store. Not the garbage you want gone. The stuff you actually like. Warm coats. Good sneakers. Things you’d wear yourself.
They came with real donations. Stuff got sorted, catalogued, auctioned off with prizes from Mykita and other brands that threw in rewards. The whole thing happened without ceremony or self-congratulation—just donations moving through Voo Store to the people who needed them, coordinated by Kreuzberg hilft.
Kreuzberg hilft operates that way. They work directly with refugee communities across Berlin, organize projects, manage donations, handle the unglamorous logistics of actually moving resources to where they’re needed. No institutional performance, no foundation language. Just work.
I think a lot about the difference between feeling like you’re helping and actually helping. Maybe it comes down to specificity. You see a call that makes sense, you know the people involved are serious, you do something concrete. It’s different from the usual machinery of charity. It’s people who know each other and their city, moving resources to where they actually matter.
A dog in a burning room, holding a coffee cup steady between its paws, and it says “This is fine.” That image became the emoji of 2016—the only thing anyone could point to that actually described what was happening. Everything was on fire and we were all just sitting there, pretending to be okay.
KC Green drew the comic years earlier, but it didn’t go viral until the year needed it. Trump, Brexit, the general sense that everything was simultaneously breaking and speeding up toward something worse. The meme caught that particular flavor of exhaustion—not panic, but resigned acceptance. The dog isn’t screaming. It’s sipping coffee.
Somewhere in the chaos, someone turned the image into merchandise. Plush toys, t-shirts, hoodies, mugs. You could buy the feeling, basically, or at least a physical reminder that everyone else felt it too. There’s an almost beautiful absurdity to it—the commodification of dread, turning the symbol of helplessness into a thing you could hold and own.
I’m not sure if I would’ve bought one or if it would’ve just made the whole thing sadder. The meme worked because it was free and everywhere and disposable, shared in group chats and reposted without context. Once it was a plush toy in your hand, it became something else—a souvenir of a year nobody asked for, proof that this was real and worth remembering.
Die Antwoord were coming to Melt for the first time. That alone was reason enough to plan the drive to Ferropolis that summer—a South African act existing somewhere between electronic music, hip-hop, and pure creative chaos. They weren’t playing everywhere, so seeing them at the festival meant something.
Phoenix were back too, after years away, finally bringing the new album everyone had been waiting for. Their whole thing is melodic precision that just works in summer heat; they don’t need anything else to land exactly right. First time in Germany with the new material felt like a specific event, not just another festival slot.
Warpaint in their cool way, Kate Tempest saying things everyone was thinking, MØ and The Kills holding down different approaches to guitar and voice. Melt had this programming instinct—not obvious bookings, but always coherent. Artists that shouldn’t obviously work on the same bill but somehow made perfect sense standing next to each other.
The venue itself mattered. Ferropolis was reclaimed industrial space, metal and concrete under summer heat, the kind of place where a festival felt less like a weekend and more like stepping into a temporary city. Twenty years of this, and the festival knew exactly what it was.
I don’t know if I actually went. The years blur together, and festival memories merge into one another. But that specific lineup stuck with me—something about what Melt was doing right then, the way it balanced underground credibility with genuine pop moments, the sense that it wasn’t trying to be anything other than exactly what it was.
December 2016, and Aleppo was ending on social media. People trapped in the eastern part of the city were posting goodbye messages on Twitter and Facebook as the siege closed in. Saying hello and goodbye to the world simultaneously, from their phones, while the bombing was still happening in the background.
Zouhir al-Shimale, a journalist there, wrote about his birthday that week. No cake, no celebration, no family. Just hunger and the siege and the knowledge that this was probably it. He was writing it all down like someone still believed the internet cared.
Monther Etaky, an artist, wanted to livestream the genocide — actually broadcast his own death, he said. Wanted people to see it. Bana Alabed, a kid, whose mother was posting updates and pictures that thousands of people followed, a child documenting the end of her city in tweets.
What stayed with me was just how wrong the medium felt for it. Twitter wasn’t built for goodbyes. Neither was Facebook. You’re reading someone’s last message in the same feed as jokes and celebrity gossip, formatted the same way, scrolling past it at the same speed as everything else.
When the livestream stopped coming, that was it. People moved on. The world didn’t end. Everyone just kept scrolling.
I remember holding the first pair and thinking how small they were—white dots you could lose in carpet. Apple’s pitch was frictionless: earbuds that just work, switch devices, understand when they’re in your ear, Siri built in. Five hours per charge, plus the case. It sounded too seamless to be true.
The W1 chip did the heavy lifting—routing audio based on sensors, managing power, filtering noise on calls. But none of that mattered as much as the actual experience: take them out of the case, put them in your ear, your music starts. No pairing screens, no connection ritual. They got out of your way.
Everyone said you’d lose them. Tiny white things felt reckless. But I never lost mine, and most people who bought them didn’t either. They became ubiquitous fast—by the next year you saw them constantly, in coffee shops and on commutes. Some people thought $180 was insane. Most people bought them anyway.
What’s weird now is how normal cordless earbuds feel. They’re just utility. But that first moment when Apple figured out how to remove the last tether between you and your device—how to make it feel like nothing was there—that was something. Not revolutionary. Just cleaner. Quieter somehow.
I was never really a fashion person, or at least I didn’t think I was until I found myself caring more about the details of a good knit than about being the guy with the expensive jacket. Cheap Monday gets this in a way most brands don’t. Their founder, Örjan Andersson, said something that stuck with me: he doesn’t sit front row at the shows. His inspiration comes from the street, from Stockholm, from watching how people actually dress when they’re just living their lives.
There’s something freeing about brands that refuse to take themselves seriously. The Wired Up scarf and beanie aren’t trying to be anything other than what they are—warm, decent-looking pieces that work with everything. They’re the kind of thing you grab without thinking about it, the kind that becomes invisible because it just works.
That’s the whole philosophy, really. Not high fashion, not trying to be seen, just clothes that make sense. Street style, Copenhagen and Stockholm and Berlin, where nobody’s performing for anyone. You wear what works and what feels right, and that’s it. It’s the opposite of the fashion industry’s usual noise, and maybe that’s why I keep coming back to it.
Why do lilies of the valley droop their heads? Why am I always tired? What keeps me going, what holds me to life? These are the kinds of questions Balbina asks on “Die Regenwolke,” the first single from her new album “Fragen über Fragen.” Most songwriters would turn these into a love song—the ache before the chorus, the setup for the confession. But these aren’t love songs. Balbina doesn’t write love songs, and she’s genuinely proud of this fact.
She’s a German songwriter who builds albums out of observation, letting one odd detail lead to the next. A drooping flower, a nagging exhaustion, the mystery of what keeps a person alive. Words are her tool for thinking through the world, not for performing emotion. She finds strange phrases buried in the noise—”word groups in alphabet soup” is how she describes it—or imagines funny little search parties deep in a moor looking for happiness. On first listen it might sound naive, but that’s intentional. She loves simplicity, the plainness of just asking without building toward some answer.
“Die Regenwolke” is the first preview of “Fragen über Fragen.” And if you’re expecting sad love songs—the kind where the rain cloud of heartbreak runs down the singer’s cheek—you’d be wrong. They’re not love songs. Not even the ones with genuine hurt in them. She’s proud of that. Even when there’s real melancholy, real pain, it’s not dressed up as romance. It just isn’t. Or is it?
Brock Lesnar on the cover is the obvious choice — intensity and damage, what a cover needs. But it works because WWE 2K17 understands what it’s actually selling: theater.
The creation suite is the draw. Build a wrestler from nothing, design their moveset and arena and entrance, write their promos. You’re basically inventing a character into existence. This year they added a promo engine where your words actually matter — you choose what to say, form alliances or burn bridges with other wrestlers based on your dialogue. It reframes the whole experience from executing predetermined moves into building someone with personality and stakes.
Career mode takes your created wrestler from NXT through the WWE hierarchy, and the path your character takes depends on your choices and your promos. When they reach the Hall of Fame, it feels earned because you shaped it. That’s where these games truly work.
The roster is massive — thousands of moves and animations, decades of wrestlers to play as or rebuild. The soundtrack is huge and anthemic, made to feel like you’re walking to a real entrance. These games have always understood something about wrestling: it’s performance and story first. The physicality is just the stage. That’s why they work at all.
XCOM 2 understands that failure is the point. I’m commanding the resistance from a flying headquarters twenty years after humanity lost to the aliens, and every turn is an exercise in damage control. Some soldier I trained dies in my stupid plan, and I spend the next few minutes doing the nauseating math of whether we can still pull this off. We can’t. We almost never can. But we keep trying.
Fireaxis Games took the original XCOM and tilted the board so that I’m never actually winning, just delaying the inevitable. I sneak when I can, shoot when I have to, and manage resources with the knowledge that I’m always three bad rolls away from a complete wipe. The aliens have conquered the world. I’m just too stubborn or stupid to accept it.
The stress of it should be unbearable, but there’s something compelling about a game where losing is the whole point. Maybe it’s because I’m drawn to stories that end badly, to movies and books that don’t wrap up neatly. Every soldier has a name, and the permadeath system means I know them just well enough to feel it when they die in my bad planning. The missions repeat, the conspiracy unfolds, and I come back to my mobile base one more time, hoping that maybe this turn I’ll find the move that changes everything. I won’t. But you keep trying anyway.
There’s a persistent genre of self-help content that keeps insisting your period is actually your month’s best days. You just need the right mindset, the right products, the right something. It’s always framed as a perspective problem—if you could just see it correctly, if you could just reframe the pain as opportunity, everything would change.
I heard someone describe getting her period at eleven. Genuinely thought she was dying. Not the exaggeration kids do, but real panic—the moment you realize your body doesn’t follow orders anymore. That’s the thing that actually matters. Everything else is just managing to exist with this new reality.
So it’s strange how the response to that actual problem is never to fix the problem. It’s to tell you to think about it differently. The industry around this—and there’s a whole industry—exists to convince you that your suffering is an opportunity if you’re just creative enough, positive enough, resourceful enough. That the difficulty isn’t your biology, it’s your attitude.
I’ve never heard anyone describe their period as an opportunity who wasn’t trying to sell something. I might be cynical about it, but that observation feels more honest than anything in the self-help aisle.
Rein Vollenga is a Dutch sculptor and performance artist. His work centers on physical expression—masks and sculptures that try to capture thought and emotion made tangible. When Hendrick’s gin commissioned him to create an experiential installation for an evening in Hamburg, they were essentially hiring his sensibility and taste.
The Chambers of the Curious was the result: a series of interactive rooms in an old villa where visitors moved through different sensory and psychological installations. You drifted through gin-scented clouds inside a visor. You stood before a prop that supposedly boiled botanical essences in response to your thoughts. There was a bar where a costumed “doctor” recommended cocktails based on a mood profile. The whole thing was obviously commercial—luxury brands doing the thing where they hire artists to make their products feel less like products.
But Vollenga brought something that separates real artistic sensibility from pure marketing. The installations don’t feel polished or consumer-friendly. They’re strange and disorienting, which is the opposite of what most brands want. That’s his signature—his masks and sculptures embrace the grotesque, the unsettling, the hard-to-pin-down feeling of watching someone express something you recognize but can’t name.
I don’t know if it was a good compromise or just a smart deal. Probably both. Vollenga gets paid to do work that’s in his actual vocabulary, and Hendrick’s gets something with enough artistic weight that it doesn’t feel like a pure advertisement. It’s not deep, but it’s genuinely strange in a way that sticks with you.
German linguists basically admitted defeat in 2016. They picked “postfaktisch”—post-factual, post-truth—as their Word of the Year. Oxford had done the same in English. When the language establishment starts coining words for how broken things have become, you know something’s really shifted.
The Society for German Language explained it pretty baldly in their official statement: in political discourse, emotions had started to matter more than facts. People were willing to ignore evidence, to accept lies, because those lies felt right. Felt true. That feeling was enough. The other top contenders—”Brexit,” “Trump-Effekt,” references to fake news—they all pointed at the same thing. The conversation had stopped being about what happened and started being about what you wanted to believe happened instead.
I remember when lies at least had to try. They needed argument, evidence, internal consistency. Being dishonest took effort. Now a lie just had to feel right. It had to tell you what you already wanted to hear. That was all that mattered.
What struck me was the openness of it. Not that people had been dishonest before—they always are—but that we got comfortable with it happening right there on the surface, no pretense. The bullshit was visible and we just lived with it. Somehow that feels worse than the lie.
Once you name the thing, you can’t pretend it isn’t happening. Not that naming it changes anything, but at least you’re not pretending anymore. That’s what “postfaktisch” does. It marks the moment we admitted what had already happened.
There’s something uniquely helpless about building your entire income on a website you don’t own. Google tweaked the algorithm—nothing obvious, nothing announced, just enough to crash views, subscribers, and paychecks overnight. Creators woke up to collapsed numbers. The rules changed. Nobody explained why.
Kelly Svirakova, who runs MissesVlog, posted about it: “I don’t know if you guys noticed, but there’s a problem on YouTube right now.” Her views had dropped insanely. Subscriptions had basically stopped. And she wasn’t alone. Hundreds of German creators reporting the exact same collapse.
The official story is that the algorithm changed, that new videos aren’t showing up in feeds anymore, that the homepage became a wasteland of clickbait pranks and garbage. But I’ve watched YouTube for years, and I don’t think the algorithm is the real culprit. The platform has been dying for a long time. Endless stupid pranks, empty beauty tips, the same relationship drama recycled into nothing. Even people who don’t pay attention to this stuff anymore have stopped watching.
So is it really the algorithm that broke? Or did the algorithm just finally expose what everyone already knew—that YouTube isn’t worth watching anymore, and the creators who built their lives on it are the ones who paid for that truth.
There’s something about opening a new shoebox. The smell, the tissue paper crinkle, pulling out an object that’s yours and just sitting with that for a moment. Stupidly good feeling. Right up there with eating a full bucket of fries at the end of the day.
The Puma Basket Heart is a 1960s basketball shoe nobody’s played serious ball in for fifty years, but it keeps getting pulled back into production. Good design doesn’t really retire — it just waits. This version comes in patent leather, all glossy and lacquered, with oversized laces that make it feel more formal than a regular sneaker. The kind of update that works because it doesn’t try too hard. Just different enough to feel current without erasing what made the original work.
I think about what makes certain designs actually persist and I keep landing on the same stuff: proportions that don’t age badly. Materials that don’t look cheap after a month. You can wear it without feeling like you’re performing some brand fantasy about yourself. Most shoes want you to know you paid for them. This one just sits on your foot looking clean.
Whether I actually wear these or they live in the box is almost beside the point. The object itself, the design, the ritual of acquiring it — that’s the whole thing. That’s what good design does. It exists. It’s nice to have. Everything else is secondary.
You see it all the time online—some YouTuber gets asked why feminism still matters, and suddenly everyone’s got an opinion. As if the past fifteen years of watching women get interrupted in meetings, passed over for promotions, or followed home at night somehow doesn’t prove the point on its own.
The thing that gets me is how people act like pointing out a problem IS the problem. Like noticing inequality is more offensive than the inequality itself. But then you’re just living your life and you see how differently women navigate the world—the apologies that aren’t necessary, the way they take up less space—and you realize this isn’t some abstract debate. It’s a thing you’re watching happen.
I don’t know if having the conversation actually changes anything. But clearly it needs to happen, because the people pretending it’s over keep showing up to say so.
A man with a beer and a cigarette pushed a woman down a staircase at Hermannstraße station, just after midnight. She was heading down to the platform when he and his friends came up behind her. He was faster. At the middle of the stairs he lifted his leg and shoved her in the back. She fell forward onto the landing. He watched her go down, took a drag, and walked away with his friends toward another exit like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I watched the video because someone sent it to me. I don’t know the woman, don’t know the man, have never even been to that station. But watching violence on camera—cold, casual, documented but not stopped—is different than hearing about it secondhand. This wasn’t rage or a fight. It was one person deciding a stranger deserved pain, and being absolutely certain nothing would come of it.
Berlin’s a fine city, mostly. But there are parts where some people move like the normal rules don’t apply—where you can push a stranger down the stairs and know nothing will happen.
I remember sitting down in front of the first Sims game and looking up three hours later with no idea where the time went. You start with the intention of quickly building a house, but then your Sim needs a job, the job requires skills, skills take time, and suddenly you’re orchestrating this entire miniature life. Someone you’ve just created needs to eat, sleep, maintain relationships. You become genuinely invested in keeping these digital people functional, which is absurd when you think about it.
The Sims 4 gives you the tools to design everything—the Sims themselves, their homes, their communities. As a designer, there’s something genuinely satisfying about that level of control, whether you’re obsessing over architectural details or zooming out to manage entire systems of relationships and careers.
The game doesn’t ask you to win anything. You’re just creating and observing, building systems and watching them function or collapse in interesting ways. It’s closer to playing with dolls than a competitive game, except the dolls have agency—their own moods, wants, anxieties that can derail your plans.
I think part of why The Sims has always been irresistible is that it offers a kind of god-game simplicity without the usual toxicity. You’re not conquering or destroying anything. You’re arranging, creating, maintaining. It scratches an itch that a lot of games deliberately avoid—the itch to just build something and watch it exist without pressure.
Recep Tayyip Erdoğan stopped being a politician and became a celebrity somewhere along the way. I don’t know exactly when—maybe when YouTube made everyone famous, regardless of what they actually do. Turkish diaspora communities started defending and attacking him the way people do about movies or musicians. Passionate advocates. Passionate critics. Videos from both sides making the case about whether he’s a visionary or a tyrant, which is exactly how people talk about cultural figures, not political leaders.
The algorithm doesn’t distinguish anymore. A pop singer and a controversial politician get the same treatment: charisma, controversy, devoted fans, detractors, engagement. Both become symbols. Both create tribes. Both emerge as entertainment.
It all gets poured into the same mold. Politics enters entertainment and comes out as celebrity culture. Arguments about policy become arguments about character. Good or bad. Visionary or tyrant. The language of fandom applied to governance.
I can’t tell you if he’s good or bad for Turkey. But I know he’s famous—genuinely famous, the way pop stars are famous, which isn’t how politicians should become famous, but it’s the only kind the internet makes anymore.
A Hamburg court just decided that linking to a stolen photo counts as copyright infringement if you make any money from your website. Not the person who actually hosted the stolen image — you, just for pointing to it.
The case was straightforward. A photographer found his work being used without permission, then discovered someone had linked to that page from their own site. The linker never embedded the photo or hosted it. Just a text link pointing at where the image was. That’s apparently enough to be liable.
The court’s reasoning: your website makes money, you link to copyrighted content, you’re guilty of copyright infringement. You don’t have to do anything except link and have revenue. Simple.
Except the part that’s impossible: what counts as making money? The blogger with a hundred euros a month from ads? The YouTuber running their channel like a job? The person sharing links on Facebook from a website that sells something? There’s no threshold. Courts are just going to decide after the fact whether you were profitable enough to be worth suing.
It’s the inevitable result of letting people who don’t use the internet write the laws for it. Taking copyright concepts built for physical goods and applying them to a medium that’s just information and pointers. The whole thing was broken before anyone even tried to follow it.
Everyone’s adding “Go” to their names now. Spotify figured it out first, and now the whole industry’s just stuck with it—Apple Music, SoundCloud, whoever’s next. It’s lazy but it works.
SoundCloud’s finally launching their paid version in Germany, which is funny timing since the whole thing started there. 135 million tracks, ad-free, works offline. Nine ninety-nine a month, or thirteen if you go through Apple and they take their cut. Standard stuff.
The thing that actually matters about SoundCloud isn’t what they advertise. It’s full of bedroom producers, bootlegs, lost B-sides, remixes that technically shouldn’t exist—music that Spotify and Apple would never go near. Those platforms sound like corporate radio if you listen close enough. SoundCloud sounds like someone actually left the internet unsupervised.
That comes with a cost. The recommendations are messier. Tags are sometimes wrong. But if you know what you’re looking for and you know it’s definitely not what the algorithm wants you to want, there’s something honest about that. You find things on SoundCloud you literally can’t find anywhere else.
I’m not going to tell you it’s better. Depends what you want. If you care about hearing music the way it was made and not filtered through a Netflix approach to playlists, it might be. If you just want music, Spotify’s fine. But if you’ve been using SoundCloud anyway—just through the shuffle and the ads—there’s finally an easy way to stop doing that.
Breitbart wanted to take Germany. It had already warped American politics; now it wanted to position itself as the voice of the concerned citizen in the dark corners of the German internet. And like every right-wing operation that wasn’t directly funded by billionaires, it was going to live off advertising.
The system that serves those ads doesn’t care. Telekom didn’t choose to advertise on Breitbart. Vapiano didn’t sign off on it. Conrad didn’t make that call. They bought placement through networks, algorithmic systems handed off the ads, and suddenly there were corporate logos floating next to conspiracy theories and ethnic resentment. Nobody looked. Nobody noticed. The companies certainly didn’t know.
Someone called it “Kein Geld für Rechts” — No Money for the Right — and the tactic was embarrassingly simple. Take a screenshot of the corporate ad on the hate site. Post it directly at the company on Twitter. Make it public: You’re funding this, whether you meant to or not.
It worked. The companies couldn’t defend themselves, couldn’t claim they cared or didn’t care. They just pulled the ads. The margin between mainstream and fringe got a little harder to cross when complicity started looking public.
I have no idea if it actually stopped anything. Breitbart probably found other networks, other streams. But there’s something satisfying about finding that pressure point — the place where corporate negligence meets grassroots visibility — and pulling it. For a moment the system looked exposed. For a moment the hidden wiring was visible.
An old man in a Polish commercial orders an English for Beginners textbook. Allegro, that massive Polish auction site that’s basically Eastern Europe’s eBay, made it their Christmas ad. You can feel what it’s reaching for before it even starts—sentiment about time, family, connection, the familiar beat that plays every December.
But it doesn’t actually reach for it. There’s no dramatic payoff, no scene where you learn who he’s learning for or how it changes his life. He just orders the book and that’s the whole ad. Everything rests on that one image: an old man at page one, deciding to start over.
Watching it, I felt this stupid pull to learn something. Not anything practical, nothing that would matter to anyone else. Just to pick a skill and begin. There’s something in that image—the textbook, the time it’ll take, the quiet stubbornness of someone deciding to go through with it—that cuts through all the talk about becoming a better version of yourself. He’s just learning English.
Christmas commercials work by manufacturing emotions you’ve probably never felt. But every few years one lands different. This one did. I think it’s because of what’s missing—no transformation, no payoff, no evidence that it mattered. Just someone starting. That’s enough.
Jessica Weiß has been running Journelles for almost ten years, and that alone deserves respect. Anyone who stays with something that long and actually means it is doing the opposite of what most people do. I don’t understand fashion—the whole expensive-brand category means nothing to me—but I understand work. Her blog just finished a redesign that took over a year, partly because she had a baby, partly because the entire backend system needed to be rebuilt. That’s not a casual refresh.
The issue with simple blog layouts is obvious once you write something longer than a few hundred words: one endless scroll with no shape, no rest, just text forever. The new Journelles is magazine-like now but keeps the voice, stays personal and subjective. It’s a next step rather than a reinvention, because standing still stopped being viable years ago. The internet keeps changing and you either change with it or you fade.
I’ve redesigned this website probably fifteen times over twenty years, always hunting for the right shape for how people actually want to read. It matters because the medium won’t sit still. You adapt or you don’t, but stasis isn’t a real option anymore.
When a serious blog redesigns, it signals something about where the whole medium is heading. Journelles’ shift toward magazine structure reflects a real change: people want intention and architecture in how content is arranged, not just a stream. It’s about respecting what attention actually needs.
Most German fashion blogging feels generic, like no one behind it cares about the form. What Jessica does is actually think about structure, about what the blog should be for. That stands out.
Ten years is long enough that you know someone means it.
Trump got Time’s Person of the Year in 2016. He’d been fixated on it for a while—came in third the year before and complained loudly about it, tweeted that Time would never name him, said they’d picked “the woman who ruined Germany” instead. Then they went ahead and gave it to him. I remember thinking about how the magazine had also put Hitler on their cover in 1938 under the same heading. That’s the kind of historical fact you wish you hadn’t noticed.
He told NBC it was “a very, very great honor.” What struck me watching it happen was how little it changed anything. He got what he’d wanted and he was still just as angry, still obsessed with status and rankings and whatever validation he was chasing. The whole dynamic was there in one moment—desire finally satisfied and somehow that didn’t satisfy anything at all.
That winter I’d think about what would happen next. Best case: four years of embarrassing tweets and then it ends. Worst case: something worse. Most likely: something nobody could have predicted anyway. I’m not even sure my speculation mattered. The real answer was that you couldn’t know what would happen until you actually lived through it, and that was maybe the only honest thing about the whole situation.
The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show happened in Paris in 2016 and it was the exact thing it was always going to be—expensive, beautiful, engineered for desire. Gigi and Kendall and Sara and all the others in lingerie with wings on their backs while Lady Gaga or whoever performed in the background. The whole machinery of it, millions spent to create a fantasy that you could watch.
The thing about the VS show was that it was pornography that got legitimized by high production values and the right celebrity names attached. Fashion as an excuse for what everyone actually came for. That’s not criticism—it worked. It was effective. You watched because these were attractive people in revealing clothing, and instead of admitting that, everyone got to talk about the artistry and the fashion and the craftsmanship.
By 2016 the formula was already feeling tired, though I don’t think anyone admitted it yet. Instagram had started to destroy the whole model of exclusivity that the show depended on. You could see these models any time, any angle, any context. The show needed secrecy and inaccessibility to work, and that was being eroded daily.
The backstage photos that leaked or got shared afterward were sometimes the best part because they caught the models not performing—just being people in hallways in expensive lingerie, checking their phones, existing without the spectacle. That’s more honest somehow.
You walk into the store and grab whatever you need. No line, no cashier, no waiting. Amazon Go handles it with cameras and sensors that track what you’re taking and charge you automatically as you leave. Obviously better than standing in a supermarket line.
There’s something satisfying about the frictionless part—moving through a space without that dead moment at the register, without any human exchange needed. You’re basically stealing, except the payment already happened. Clean.
But this eliminates cashiers. Whole job category gone because machines do it faster and cheaper. I know the standard line—technology creates new jobs, the economy adapts, progress moves forward. Might be true. Doesn’t change that someone working a register right now has to figure out what comes next.
What gets me is I can hold both ideas at once without a problem. This is a genuinely better way to shop. And it’s also weird and a little unsettling. The future probably looks like this. Can’t really tell anymore if that’s a good thing or just inevitable.
The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show showed up in Paris ostensibly to sell underwear, which was obviously not the point. It was really about having Kendall Jenner, Gigi Hadid, and Sara Sampaio walk around being beautiful. Lady Gaga, Bruno Mars, The Weeknd performed. Everything was objectively perfect — the bodies, the hair, the staging, the music, all of it.
You could start this with something about how beauty is constructed and inner values matter and alternative body types deserve celebration. And I believe that. But watching the show, the whole framework cracks. There’s Kendall down the runway and your philosophy about standards and authenticity collapses into a single thought: yeah, okay, that’s beautiful. That’s the trick. The show makes you admit what you actually care about. Not the clothes. Just the fact that some people look like that and some people don’t, and it changes everything.
The moment you realize you want more than one of these is the moment the design clicks. Swarovski’s Crystaldust bracelets are minimal in a way that feels careful. An open bangle. Stainless steel end caps. Crystal details catching light. That’s the whole thing, and that’s deliberate.
They come in a range of colors—pink, green, blue, others. Each one has that particular crystal shimmer. But the real move is what happens when you stack them. One bracelet is fine. Two together start to shift how you see color. Three or four layering against each other, the light catching differently at different angles, becomes something you want on your wrist.
That’s the design logic I appreciate. The constraint that forces multiplication rather than complication. You don’t add more features or details. You make something simple enough that you want to repeat it, and the repetition becomes the design. Pink with green. All of them together. The combinations change depending on what you’re wearing.
The whole thing works because it doesn’t try too hard. A bangle that’s content to be a bangle, available in colors, stackable if you want. The restraint is what makes it worth wearing.
Persona 4 Golden was my game of the year in 2013, even though it came out in 2012 and the original was from 2008. I don’t know if you’re supposed to fall in love with something you haven’t played yet, but that’s what happened. Then I played it, and every second of it confirmed what I already suspected.
The Persona 5 trailers meant nothing if you didn’t already know the series. Anime kids in costumes tearing through Tokyo, monsters, explosions, bright neon noise. If you’d never played one, you’d watch and move on. If you had, you were already counting days.
But the trailers didn’t matter anyway. They showed surface stuff—the fights, the colors, the anime weirdness. That’s not what Persona is. It’s a mirror. The choices I make, what I care about, who I let in. I meet these people and something shifts. They get under my skin in a way that matters. The story cracks something open—reveals who I am underneath, alone with myself.
When you feel that way about something, you don’t wait. You live in the space between now and then, and that’s the best feeling there is.
When Persona 5 finally came out, it was what I wanted. Same alchemy. Different people, different city, but the same thing inside—that way it has of getting under your skin and making you feel like it sees you.
The adidas Tubular Instinct is getting the Boost treatment. Two new colorways—beige and black—both in that high-cut silhouette that was always somewhere between tech and elegance. The appeal is obvious: Boost cushioning on a shoe that already had some presence to it. Thick soles, that wrapped-around collar, the three stripes appliquéd at the heel instead of sewn along the side—it’s not a minimalist sneaker, which is probably why I like it.
The design brief was Paris. That Paris-as-fashion-capital stuff that justifies almost anything. But with the Tubular it actually kind of works—the beige and black colorways have that quiet European thing going, the kind of shoes you’d see someone wearing in a gallery or a café without anyone thinking much about it. The Boost sole doesn’t hurt that. It’s soft underfoot in a way the original probably wasn’t, which means less of that thin-soled discomfort after a few hours of wearing something you bought for how it looks.
I’ve always been suspicious of shoe upgrades, especially when the marketing leans on “revolutionary” and “game-changing.” Usually it means they’re charging more for the same thing. But Boost is legitimately different—it’s airier, springier, more responsive than traditional foam. Whether it matters on a high-fashion sneaker is debatable. Does the average person care that much? Probably not. But I do. The difference between a shoe that looks good and a shoe that looks good and doesn’t destroy your feet by evening is worth noticing.
The Tubular Instinct was never meant to be a workhorse. It’s a design object that happens to be something you can wear. Putting Boost on it doesn’t change that, but it makes the whole thing feel less like a compromise—like you don’t have to choose between looking like you have taste and feeling okay when you walk around. Which, fair enough, is not a high bar. But it’s something.
There’s something almost impossible about that moment when someone you thought was far away suddenly appears. You’re on a screen talking to them, and then you hear something outside—a car door, a voice you know. The distance collapses. They’re actually there.
I don’t know if it’s the surprise or just the fact of them being in the same room again, but there’s nothing like it. Everything else stops mattering.
Chrissy Teigen is the kind of person who makes Twitter actually interesting. The way she operates online is different from anyone else. She can destroy someone in a reply and it’s so precise, so measured, that you’re almost impressed at being roasted. It’s not the polite put-down kind of wit. It’s not even the cruel kind that makes you feel bad. It’s the kind that lands so perfectly you have to respect it.
She’s also smart in a way that matters. I don’t mean she knows a lot of facts or can quote things. I mean she actually thinks about stuff and has opinions that feel earned, not performed. You watch her get into a conversation and she’s not trying to be clever—she’s just saying what she thinks, and it happens to be both funny and right.
The obvious thing is that she’s beautiful. That’s just a fact. But Sports Illustrated doesn’t hire you for the Maldives shoot unless you’re serious. And so there she is, in a bikini, on a beach somewhere most people will never go, having the time of her life. While the rest of us are outside in January scraping ice off windshields.
It’s genuinely unfair. The whole setup is unfair. She’s witty and smart and attractive and living a life that feels like it exists in a different universe from everyone else’s. Anyone who claims the world is fair is either delusional or has never been paying attention.
It’s mid-December. The kitchen smells like cinnamon and burnt sugar. The tree is up, every light working, decorated with the kind of care that takes hours. The gifts are mostly wrapped. I haven’t started shopping. She’s been at this since October.
This is the rhythm of it. The women organize, execute, carry. Most of the Christmas labor is theirs — the shopping, decorating, cooking, the cleanup after the meal. It’s such a normal arrangement that nobody thinks of it as an arrangement. This is just how Christmas happens.
The numbers, if you care about them: women do 66 percent of the planning, 75 percent of the gift-buying, 78 percent of the decorating. But those percentages miss the real work — the mental load, the lists made at two in the morning, the coordination of everyone else’s unspoken expectations. It’s all the invisible stuff that stops being invisible only when it stops happening.
And it’s exhausting. Of course it’s exhausting. You’re managing a holiday for people who didn’t ask you to manage anything, on a timeline that was never negotiated, with expectations nobody voiced out loud. Christmas magic requires someone to sacrifice her peace for it. We act like the tree decorates itself, the food appears by magic, the whole thing just happens. It doesn’t.
I don’t know what changes this. Ask people to split the load more fairly? That sounds like asking for credit for baseline participation. Do the work without being asked, without needing recognition? That should already be the expectation. Want less — fewer gifts, simpler meals, bare walls? That’s not Christmas. The holiday comes with an understood aesthetic and effort requirement, and someone bears that effort. Usually a woman.
So December circles around again. The list stays long. The coffee goes cold. The work continues, invisible until it’s done. Christmas morning arrives with everyone marveling at the magic that didn’t make itself.
At Clark University, someone wrote survival tips about sexual assault that included this: giving flowers to someone you’re interested in is emotional manipulation, which makes it rape. That was the actual text.
The logic was straightforward: if you’re giving the flowers because you want something sexual in return, then you’re using them to make her do something she wouldn’t otherwise do. That’s coercion. That’s rape.
I understand that consent matters. But somewhere the definitions got so broad that everything meant everything and nothing meant anything. Desire itself became the crime. Every gift, every compliment, every attempt to appeal to someone—all manipulation, all assault. You can’t separate what you want from how you act. That’s not possible.
Some blogger made the obvious point: it made women sound defenseless, incapable of saying no to flowers, unable to judge a gesture for themselves. She was right. The guide was supposed to protect people and ended up describing them as passive, without judgment, unable to resist.
I remember thinking I’d never buy my girlfriend flowers after reading that. Not because I believed the logic, but because I didn’t want to have to explain it. Better to not try. Better to keep your head down. Maybe that’s the point.
Lincoln Clay comes back from Vietnam knowing war changed what family means. It’s not blood—it’s who you die for. He wants peace in New Bordeaux, but the black gangsters who raised him get slaughtered by the Italian mob. Betrayed and destroyed. He’s alone now, just rage and a list of names.
You play Mafia III as Lincoln, working systematically through the people responsible. You build a crew by choosing who rises and who falls. The city is New Orleans dressed as New Bordeaux, soaked in the seventies—organized crime, corruption, paranoia, money, territory. The violence is constant. The choices are all about leverage and who you can trust, which turns out to be nobody.
What the game understands is how seductive power is when you have nothing else left. You’re assembling a criminal empire piece by piece, deciding who gets promoted and who becomes a liability. Each choice ripples. Promote the wrong person and they get ambitious. Ignore a territory and someone else takes it. The math is simple: build fast enough that no one can move against you, or die trying.
The fantasy underneath it is that ruthlessness and strategy can get you total control. You can’t, really. But Mafia III lets you feel what it would be like to try and succeed. By the end you’ve built something that resembles a family—dangerous people bound together by mutual interest and fear. Lincoln’s right about one thing: that’s still family, just a different kind. You die for them or they die for you. The outcome is usually the same.
Rock am Ring is going back to the Nürburgring. Two years at Mendig airfield and now it’s coming home, which is the right call.
Mendig never felt permanent. It was the holding pattern, the emergency solution, the let’s-just-make-this-work situation. The environmental regulations kept accumulating too—more restrictions every season, more requirements from the nature protection people. Eventually you’re spending millions just to stay legal. At that point the whole thing falls apart.
The Nürburgring’s already set up for it. The infrastructure’s there, the approvals are in place. The festival can actually focus on being the festival instead of fighting endless bureaucracy about bird habitats and protected wetlands.
I don’t know how much people think about any of this when they’re actually standing there. You’re in the crowd, something’s happening, you’re caught up in it. But there’s that moment where thousands of people all scream the same word at once—that chant that is the whole festival. That only works at the Ring. That’s when you know you’re in the right place.
Emily Ratajkowski used to be a model in that distant way — photographed for magazines, existing in editorials but never directly heard from. Now she’s on Instagram. And so when she’s photographed wearing a diamond necklace and talking about being obsessed with diamonds, it doesn’t read as an advertisement. It reads like someone you know telling you what she actually likes.
The jewelry is by Jacquie Aiche. A necklace named after Elizabeth Taylor. Gold rings set with diamonds. They’re beautiful in a straightforward way — not trendy, not clever, just expensive and visible and well-made. The point of the post is to make you want them. To send the link to your boyfriend, drop a hint, convince yourself you deserve something like this. And it works because of that shift in how we see her now.
I don’t own jewelry like this. But I understand the appeal. Unlike clothes, it doesn’t date. Unlike watches, it doesn’t scream try-hard. A diamond necklace is just beautiful and expensive and there. It catches light when you move. It stays with you for twenty years.
The thing about influencers selling luxury goods is that they work best when they’re almost reachable. Not so distant you can never reach that status. Not so relatable you doubt she has actual money. Emily Ratajkowski sits in that middle space — wealthy enough to own these things, authentic enough to make wanting them feel possible.
I get why people want what she’s wearing. And I get why it’s worth looking at. The system works because it’s not about diamonds. It’s about permission — to want something expensive, visible, and permanent.
Sometime in the early 2000s I realized that four German guys on television understood gaming better than most of the gaming press. Simon Krätschmer, Daniel Budiman, Nils Bomhoff, Étienne Gardé—they hosted Giga Games and then Game One, a show that mixed sketches, reviews, and stupid jokes into something that actually felt alive. If you were anywhere in Europe with a PC or console back then, you knew them. They mattered in a way that’s hard to explain now.
Game One got canceled in 2014. The hosts scattered into Rocket Beans TV, a 24-hour internet stream that felt like exactly what they’d do after television kicked them out. It was good, but it wasn’t the same. The specific magic of four people on TV at a specific moment doesn’t translate perfectly to always-on internet. Nobody said they missed Game One, but you could feel it.
And then somehow—through Funk, this youth platform ARD and ZDF set up—they got to do it again. Not Game One. Lawyers made sure of that. So it’s called Game Two. Same hosts. Same format. Slightly different container.
I’ve got no idea if it’s actually good or if I just want it to be good because it shouldn’t exist. Probably both. But there’s something stubborn about it, something almost defiant. They get to make the thing they wanted to make, even if they had to rename it. That’s not nothing.
I hate superhero movies. The formula locks in place before they start writing. Spider-Man wins. Batman wins. Iron Man wins. You know it’s coming before you sit down. If he loses this time, it’s just so he can win next time.
Guardians of the Galaxy hit all the same buttons. The story is scaffolding. The characters are transparent. It’s built to evaporate from your memory by Tuesday. Fair criticism. Except: for two hours the universe explodes around you. Everything collapses into pure spectacle. You stop thinking. You just watch.
When the second film came around, the trailer dropped with Baby Groot, this tiny tree character from the first film. He was ridiculous and that was the whole point. You knew the ending. You knew you’d forget it within a week. You knew it was formula. But you’d buy a ticket anyway because for two hours Baby Groot did ridiculous things and the world exploded and you could stop thinking.
You clip it to your wrist and you can’t stop knowing anymore. Steps, distance, calories, active minutes — all day, all broken down by the hour. The watch nudges you every time you pause. Move 250 steps an hour, it insists.
The Fitbit Blaze was designed to not look like what it is. Not medical, not aggressively technological. Just a watch, smooth and small, the kind of thing you’d actually wear instead of leaving on a desk. It tracked the obvious things — running, cycling, cardio — and figured out the rest automatically. Real-time stats on a screen small enough to disappear. Notifications too, if you cared.
The real feature is the impossible knowledge. You feel it on your wrist. You always know whether you’re on target or falling short. It’s supposed to motivate you. Maybe it does, if motivation is just an upgraded form of anxiety.
I spent enough time in design to see what happened here. They made it beautiful specifically so you’d never take it off. That was the entire point. A thing so appealing you’re forced to wear your failures constantly. That’s clever design. That’s also kind of insidious.
I met Reichel in Koenji, one of those Tokyo neighborhoods with galleries tucked into alleys and everyone trying to figure out how to survive. She was wearing blue overalls and a white shirt—aggressively normal, the kind of outfit you don’t think about. Turns out she models. Not just models; she models for both women’s and men’s brands, and she’s cracked the code on how to be convincing in both. Different wig, different agency, different version depending on the job.
Tokyo’s creative industry is indifferent to people who don’t fit its categories. Reichel’s answer is practical: become what the market needs. One week you’re booking women’s fashion, next week you’re men’s. The wig swap, the wardrobe change, it’s all just part of the mechanics of staying booked in a city that doesn’t reward purity or consistency.
I asked if she preferred one side over the other. She smiled in a way that suggested the question didn’t make much sense. Not defensive or philosophical about it—just practical. This is what works, so this is what she does. That was the interesting part. No internal conflict. Just someone who looked at the market, saw the gaps, and figured out how to fill them.
my.Flow designed a Bluetooth-enabled tampon. The logic is there: knowing when to change without checking is a real micro-problem. A sensor detects saturation, pings your phone, everyone moves on. Competent engineering, sensible product idea.
The strangeness isn’t the tech itself—smart textiles, IoT health devices, all that exists. It’s adding network connectivity to something so purely biological and private. Outsourcing awareness of your own body to notifications. It solves one problem (not knowing when to change) by introducing another (app dependency, the weirdness of your period becoming data). From outside, it looks like solving a minor inconvenience by making things more complicated.
I’m curious whether it took off, but that’s not really my question to answer. What sticks is the impulse: the reflex to digitize everything, to add sensors and notifications to bodily experience because the infrastructure exists. Not malicious, just the default assumption that making something measurable makes it better. Sometimes that’s true. Sometimes you’re just adding distance between yourself and your own body.
Jack. Jacob. Kasumi. I’ve spent more time thinking about those three than I probably should.
Mass Effect 2 taught me something about myself. It wasn’t the most polished game in the series, but it was the right one at the right moment. It made me understand that I need choice in my stories—real choice, the kind where you can actually change things. Kill the wrong person and watch the world suffer for it. Love the wrong person and live with the consequences.
The crew felt like actual people. Jack, wounded and feral. Jacob, solid and dependable. Kasumi, the mystery you never fully understood. You recruited them, built a team out of broken pieces, and when it mattered, you trusted them with your life.
After you finish a game like that, everything else feels like watching through glass. You care about characters in books and shows, sure, but you can’t save them. You can’t change anything. You’re just watching someone else’s story play out.
So when I heard Andromeda was coming, when I saw the trailer, something in me stirred. A new galaxy. New people to meet. New reasons to make impossible choices and live with the consequences. I want that feeling again. I want to walk onto some ship and meet a broken, impossible person and think, ’I’m bringing you with me.’
The trailer looked solid. Bigger, prettier, more of everything. But that’s not what matters. What matters is whether they understand what made the second game work. Whether they trust me to care about their people. Everything else is just decoration.
Titanfall 2 is about pilots and Titans — you’re inside a giant robot. The campaign follows someone who dreams of becoming a pilot, learning what it means to trust a machine and be trusted back. The multiplayer lets you actually live in that.
Respawn built this thinking about movement. Not just running and shooting, but how you traverse space, how you engage enemies. They nailed that with the first Titanfall, and the second one goes further. Adds story. Adds weight.
What gets me is the design philosophy. Most shooters are pure reflex games. This is about understanding mass. How a heavy thing moves. How your strategy changes when you’re piloting something massive versus running solo. There’s real theater in that.
Games that understand bigness appeal to me. The way scale transforms strategy. A Titan is slow but devastating. A pilot is fast but fragile. The whole thing shifts. Most games miss it.
Haven’t played it yet, but I’m curious. That’s what pulls me. Not the shooting, but the piloting. The mechanics of being something heavy.
There’s a moment in watching competitive StarCraft where everything clicks. Two players, thousands of units, and then one move—a build order you didn’t anticipate, a scout at the exact right moment—that shifts the entire game. If you’re not paying attention, you miss it completely. If you are, you see the whole thing: the strategy, the reading of the opponent, the moment where one player understands something the other doesn’t.
Most gaming content doesn’t care about those moments. The channels, the streamers, the endless let’s-plays—they’re loud and frantic and they’re not interested in actually understanding the game. They’re interested in the reaction, the entertainment, the performance of gaming rather than the game itself.
Bonjwa is different. It’s a German esports channel, and from the beginning the guys behind it understood that competitive gaming—StarCraft, World of Warcraft, Counter-Strike—was worth taking seriously. Not as a vehicle for content, but as something with actual depth. Actual strategy. Actual skill worth learning from.
Niklas Behrens, one of the founders, talks about how games are fundamental to us. We play to understand the world, to think in new ways, to see differently. Games are embedded in the culture now, in the economy, impossible to ignore. And the people who take them seriously, who actually get good at them, that’s where the real thing is.
So Bonjwa streams and teaches. A match, then the breakdown. Here’s what happened. Here’s why. Here’s where it could have gone differently. It’s education wrapped in entertainment, or maybe it’s just what entertainment looks like when you actually care about the subject. The idea is that if you watch, if you pay attention, you might get good at one of these games. You might understand why people spend years on them.
I’m not sure it fully works, if you can really learn esports from a stream. But I respect the attempt. Most people look at gaming content and see stupidity and noise. These guys looked at it and decided to find the actual game underneath, the strategy, the skill, the thing that actually matters. They treated it like it was worth something. That’s rare.
So there’s a model named Melina DiMarco from New York who shoots nude, and she treats it like it’s not a big deal. Not provocatively, not as transgression—just as fact. Her body, documented, no apology attached. The photographer is Atisha Paulson, and the work ran in Yume, an Australian fashion magazine.
What’s interesting is that this should be unremarkable by now. Photography has had a century to work through nakedness as a formal subject. But it still reads as a statement, which probably says more about the rest of us than it does about her.
She talks about the body as art, which is the obvious language for it. And I think that’s genuine on her part—not a defensive reframing, but an actual observation. The human form has proportions and lines. Light falls across it in specific ways. There’s material there to work with. The fact that we’ve wrapped so much shame around it doesn’t change what’s actually there.
I was looking at some Helmut Newton once, and someone asked if it was exploitation. Which is a real question with photography and the body. But Newton’s answer was basically: I’m documenting what’s there. The woman is there, she agreed to be there, I’m making a record. What you feel about that is your problem. I’m not sure that’s totally fair, but there’s something honest in refusing to apologize for the subject itself.
Melina seems to come from a similar place. Just clear about what she’s doing. The photographs probably aren’t for everyone. But they’re probably not meant to be. They’re for people who can look at a body and see a body, without the cultural noise on top.
Scout’s on a raft with her dog, drifting down a flooded river. The world’s been drowned. What’s left of America is mostly water, and she’s island-hopping, scavenging for food and weapons and shelter—anything to stay alive another day. You know from the start that this won’t be easy. One mistake and you’re done.
The trick The Flame in the Flood pulls is being beautiful while it’s breaking you. The art is soft, watercolored, almost pastoral—hand-drawn in a style that would be gentle if not for what’s actually happening. Scout’s walking through a dying world, and the game doesn’t hide that, but it doesn’t need to scream it either. The beauty makes the threat land differently, makes the desperation feel sharper somehow.
You manage a raft, stop at islands to scavenge, move on before things get worse. No backtracking. It’s a linear journey downriver, and every choice locks in—you can’t undo anything. Forrest Dowling understood something about survival games: it’s the constraint that works. You’re not managing a base or optimizing systems. You’re just keeping Scout alive, island by island.
Playing it puts you in this weird zone. The gameplay is tense—resources thin, constant decisions about what to carry and what to abandon, and bad luck can wreck you. But the pacing is slow enough that it never feels punishing, just serious. Almost meditative. The kind of game that exhausts you in a way that feels, I don’t know, necessary.
There’s something about watching constraints become depth. When a game takes its limitations seriously and builds something real from them, I get it. This does that. Scout and her dog against a flooded world—simple, patient, serious about what it means to have almost nothing.
Germany has a Freedom of Information Act that in theory gives you the right to ask the government for anything. No reason required, no explanation needed. The catch is that agencies deny requests constantly, and the only way to push back is to sue them. Actually sue. Your government. Over a document you’re asking for.
The numbers are bleak. In 2015, there were about 10,000 requests to federal agencies. Eleven ended in successful lawsuits.
There’s an organization called Transparenzklagen backed by the Open Knowledge Foundation. They fund these cases if they matter strategically—weight beyond just one person wanting access to their document. Journalists, activists, whoever. If it’s worth fighting.
I find it genuinely funny that you need a special org to exercise a right the law already grants you. Not in an absurdist way that’s clever. Just—the design is broken. The system theoretically gives you something, then makes it practically impossible to get without outside help. Which is the same as not giving it to you, just with a better cover story.
Hearing the opening bars of Super Mario Bros does something immediate and physical—drops me straight into being eight years old without any of the slow work of remembering. Same with Sonic, Zelda, Castlevania. One bar and I’m back in front of a screen with a controller in my hands, moving faster than I should, believing I’m invincible.
I picked up 8Bit Music Power more out of curiosity than anything—the book’s an interview collection with the composers who wrote this music. I expected maybe some behind-the-scenes trivia, production notes. What I got instead was them talking about working within constraint. They had six channels to work with, maybe. The skill was in making something unforgettable out of almost nothing.
Reading about their approach changed how I listen. Not technically—I still can’t parse a score—but I started hearing the intelligence in how they built these things. Why the Mario theme loops so perfectly you don’t notice the seam. Why Castlevania’s arrangements sound orchestral when they’re built from maybe four instruments. These weren’t happy accidents. Someone made deliberate choices at every step.
The book comes with a reproduction cartridge and a CD, which is a nice object to have around, but the actual payoff is the writing. Hearing from the composers themselves—their thinking about constraint and memory and making something last—changed something about how I listen now.
Every time the Mario theme comes on, or I find myself thinking about Metroid, I hear the work behind it. The deliberation. Which means I can’t go back to just remembering these songs, and honestly, I don’t want to.
Joel shoots a surgeon in a hospital and lies to Ellie about what he’s done. Maybe he saves her. Maybe he condemns humanity. The Last of Us never tells you which—it ends before you have to decide. That uncertainty felt earned and final.
When the sequel was announced, I had mixed feelings. The first game had said what it needed to say. It had explored morality and survival and what you’ll sacrifice for the people you love. Another chapter seemed redundant, or worse—the franchise mode where a perfect story gets inflated into product.
But Neil Druckmann’s explanation changed my mind. He said this wasn’t going to be about extending something already finished. It was about finding a story that mattered, one that actually served the characters rather than just trading on them. He wasn’t promising spectacle. Just that it felt necessary. That shifted something for me.
There’s something about returning to a world that changed how you think. You know the landscape. You know the weight. It’s not curiosity about plot—it’s knowing there’s still something in those people you didn’t fully understand.
Giulia Becker made a song called “Verdammte Scheiße” where she traces everything wrong in her life back to her vagina. School, work, being taken seriously—all of it follows from the same source. The song is entirely serious about this. She sings “I have a vagina” like it’s finally the answer to something, repeating “It’s my vagina’s fault” like she’s cracked a code.
Acknowledging that being female makes things harder is one thing. Deciding that your body is responsible for all your failures is another. The song confuses the two and somehow convinces itself that’s honesty. It’s not. It’s surrender that’s learned to sound like self-awareness.
I grew up hearing something different. Not “your body decided everything,” but “the world is unfair—that’s your problem to solve.” It was demanding, not kind. But it left room for actually winning. The song doesn’t. It just hands you permission to stop trying and calls it truth.
Maybe that’s the real thing about it—not the crudeness or the tangled feminism, but that it’s handing people an excuse. And dressing it up as bravery, as honesty, when it’s the opposite. Surrender dressed as self-knowledge.
Unboxing a new pair of sneakers hits different. That smell, the tissue paper, the weight of them in your hands — you open the box and there they are, perfectly laced, ready to go.
Reebok’s Classic Leather in this new pearlescent finish comes in five colors: black, rose gold, turquoise, white, and champagne. The shimmer is the whole point — it catches the light without being obnoxious about it. The leather’s soft, genuine, and the shoe sits right on your foot in that way that makes you understand why some designs stick around for decades.
Reebok became a legend in the mid-80s when they got into fitness and aerobics and suddenly there was this whole culture around the shoes. They were built for movement but they looked good enough to wear anywhere, which was probably the real revelation. A shoe that didn’t have to apologize for being a workout shoe, that worked just as well on a city street. That’s rare.
I’ve worn a lot of different Reeboks over the years. There’s something about the simplicity of the Classic that keeps it from getting tired. The pearlescent version feels a little fancier than the standard leather, which is funny because all it is is a subtle finish. But that’s enough. That’s everything.
Six million people on Hartz IV in Germany. That’s what passes for a legal minimum to live on — the government’s calculation of what you need to not starve. The job centers can sanction that away. Miss an appointment, file something wrong, and they cut you down, sometimes to zero. The math says you can’t live on zero euros but that’s not the system’s contradiction to solve.
Sanktionsfrei started because people got tired of waiting for the math to fix itself. Free appeals service, lawyers ready to fight, a solidarity fund that keeps you alive while the case moves through court. You win, the money goes back in. You lose, well, at least you didn’t starve on principle. It’s not elegant. It’s people working in the gaps of something broken.
I’ve been making things for twenty years — almost all of it decoration, problems that weren’t problems. This is what refusal looks like. People saying no to the machine, not once but every case. Whether it matters, I don’t know. But there’s something there.
You remember the moment it felt possible. Germany would handle this. The whole country rallied around the idea, and then it just didn’t hold. The optimism curdled into something else—resentment, resistance, the kind of political backlash that made everyone involved feel stupid for believing in the first place.
I notice it walking around Berlin. The tension’s there if you’re paying attention. People from Syria, Afghanistan, elsewhere, trying to work and study and figure out how to live. But somewhere along the way the country decided they were the problem. Some of the refugees themselves have started saying maybe the borders should be shut. Hard to blame them for being bitter about it.
The real story about integration is the one everyone avoids telling. It’s not tragic or inspiring. It’s just people coexisting badly, slowly, with no clear ending. Friction. Indifference on both sides now. That’s the actual texture of it.
The internet is full of people trying to steal your money, and they’re not even pretending otherwise anymore. Two methods have emerged as particularly reliable, probably because fooling a lot of people at once is easier than anyone wants to admit.
First is the fake news approach: scammers flood Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter with content designed to look like it came from real news outlets. “iPhone for $17.” “Brexit Makes Workers Rich!” “Lose 12 Kilos in 30 Days.” The bait is always something that sounds impossible enough to be interesting but just plausible enough that someone, somewhere, will click. The people running these operations — usually anonymous, usually operating overseas — apparently pull in six figures a month from the clicks alone.
The second method is worse because it operates inside legitimate spaces: shady ads running on actual news sites, Die Zeit and Spiegel Online and Focus Online, one click away from taking you straight into a scam. The news outlets know this is happening. They allow it anyway because the money is good.
I scroll past these constantly now. The iPhone deals, the weight loss promises, the weird financial schemes. At first I noticed every one. Now I’ve gotten good at the shape of a scam, at recognizing the layout before I even read the text. But that’s not the win it feels like — it just means I’ve gotten used to living in a landscape where everyone’s running some kind of angle, and the places that are supposed to tell us the truth have decided a cut of the fraud is worth it.
There’s a German movie called Kartoffelsalat — potato salad — made by YouTubers and now free on YouTube. IMDb ranked it 25th worst film ever made, which is somehow both impressive and completely unsurprising.
The plot: a virus turns schoolkids into flesh-eating things, and a handful of YouTubers are the only ones who can stop it. These are people who built careers on unboxing videos and prank streams. Now they’re trying to be action heroes in a feature film. You can imagine how well that works.
What strikes me is that this actually got made. Actual money was raised. Studios said yes. People paid to sit in theaters for this. The cynicism is almost admirable — understand the algorithm, understand viral moments, make something, sell it. Don’t understand anything else. Just execute.
Now it’s free, which removes the final barrier. You don’t have to pay anything. The only thing stopping you is knowing that sitting through it might hurt. Whether that’s worth it depends on how much you enjoy watching complete failure in real time.
I found Kiki 2 in Koenji while looking for vintage that wasn’t already picked over. Koenji’s west of Shinjuku in Suginami, quieter than the tourist zones — built in the 1980s around housing and small shops instead of chains. You stumble onto bars and places like this if you know where to look.
The shop is aggressively pink. Everything — the walls, the fixtures, the merchandise — commits fully to this candy-colored aesthetic. Barbie merchandise, stickers, retro clothing, toys, all piled with a kind of chaotic specificity that somehow works. Some of it is novelty. Some of it is actual vintage, real finds from the 70s and 80s that someone curated carefully.
What got to me was how unapologetic it all was. Not toned down for a broader audience, not trying to be cool or ironic about the cuteness — just fully committed to the vision. A shop that knows what it is and doesn’t blink about it. You don’t see that often, even in Tokyo.
I bought a couple stickers I didn’t need and left. But I keep thinking about it — the specificity, the refusal to compromise or apologize. In a city full of shops trying to be everything, there’s something almost rebellious about that kind of focus.
I remember when Pokémon was playground business. Your Charizard against my Blastoise, and nothing else mattered. These new games arrive in a weird place—they matter to the same people who played Red and Blue twenty years ago, and there’s this quiet acceptance now that Pokémon is just part of who those people became.
The Alola region shapes how these titles work. Instead of the standard gym circuit, you’re moving between islands completing trials for regional guardians called Kahunas. Same progression loop, different costume. More importantly, Pokémon themselves changed. The islands’ isolation created regional variants—a Vulpix that became ice-type, a Ninetales that picked up fairy. When you encounter these, there’s a beat of not quite recognizing them. Creatures you know, warped by environment into something only familiar if you already know what to look for.
Everything else persists: collection, battles, the grinding to get strong enough for whatever final challenge awaits. But these games seem to understand their audience better than most sequels manage. They’re not trying to convince skeptics. They’re making new entries for people who loved the originals and never really stopped. That’s a better instinct than chasing reinvention. The whole thing gets to just be itself—a reason to keep playing when everything else shifted but somehow this didn’t.
There’s a website called The Tweet Hereafter that archives the last tweets posted by people who died shortly after. Sometimes within hours. You can scroll through what looks like an ordinary day of thoughts—a joke, a complaint, someone sharing breakfast—and then hit the line ’Cause of death: suicide.’ Your stomach catches. That’s the whole point.
I don’t like thinking about my own death, and I don’t think most people do. You don’t want to spend your time calculating all the stupid ways the next thirty minutes could go wrong. A collision with a tree. A heart attack. Someone with an axe. None of that helps. There are things you want to build, people you want to see, reasons to be present. The point of being alive is not to dwell on the moment you stop.
But a site like this—it does something to that calculus. It makes you confront the fact that if I die tomorrow, I don’t get to compose my final words. They won’t be something I’ve thought about or orchestrated. They’ll be whatever stumbled into my brain that morning and seemed worth saying to the internet. A complaint about coffee. An observation about fonts. Or just noise—’Ööörgghss’—something that meant nothing but is now permanent.
What gets to me isn’t that everyone’s final words are stupid or insufficient. It’s the gap itself. The completely ordinary thought—half-joking, mundane, trying to land a joke—and then the stop. The absolute irreversible stop. No comeback. No edit. No chance to say something that matters. There’s no lesson in that. No way to ’live every moment like it’s your last’ because you never know which one it is, and by the time you know, you’re already gone. The moment just sits there online, ordinary and permanent and final.
Şirin Manolya Sak left Turkey after two and a half years. She was a journalist, which in Erdoğan’s Turkey meant living with a specific kind of dread. The kind that doesn’t announce itself. You just carry it.
After the coup attempt in July, the carrying got heavier. The regime didn’t bother with subtlety. Journalists got arrested. Activists vanished. The point wasn’t justice or even logic—it was teaching a lesson fast enough that people got the message before they had to experience it themselves. Once you know what happens to people who speak, you think before you post. You delete things. You keep your thoughts small.
In Istanbul and Ankara, young people were running the calculation. They’d been raised thinking they could say what they wanted, and now they were learning that calculation had changed. Stay and be silent, or leave and be free. Not a lot of middle ground. So they started looking at exit routes. Germany became the natural choice. Not because it was exciting or because they were heroes, but because you can’t write anything real if you’re afraid of your own government.
The strange part is how it stopped being dramatic. Exile used to be romantic, something from novels. Now it was just logistics. You finish school, check the visa requirements, book a flight. The saddest part isn’t even the leaving—it’s thinking about everyone who stayed and learned to keep their mouth shut. That’s a different kind of gone.
Spent months in Tokyo and somehow there were still pockets of the city I’d never found. Ikebukuro’s not the kind of neighborhood that broadcasts itself — it’s pachinko parlors and game centers and small theaters buried in alleys. Book and Bed Tokyo is wedged right into that. A hostel that’s also somehow a library, which feels like a contradiction until you see it.
The whole thing’s built around one image: your bunk slotted into a bookshelf wall, your head at one end, the book spines an inch from your feet. You’re literally sleeping inside the furniture. A night runs around forty euros standard, or thirty if you want less space. The collection is massive — manga, magazines, novels in Japanese and English everywhere.
What’s stranger than it sounds is how well it works. The place smells like paper and that particular hostel smell, and you’re never more than a few feet from someone else reading or listening to something. It’s communal and isolating at the same time. Alone with a thousand books and a stranger’s breathing on the other side of the shelf.
I wouldn’t make it a destination — it’s still a hostel, meaning thin walls and shared bathrooms and the ambient hum of other people existing nearby. But it’s odd enough that it stays with you. Doesn’t perform for anyone. Just books and beds and a quiet thing in a loud district.
I’ve always liked that Converse and Stussy seem to understand something the same way. Both are rooted in California skate and surf culture, where how something looks is what it is. So when they put three Stussy graphics on the One Star ’74, it doesn’t feel like a collaboration so much as an obvious move.
The One Star itself is quietly good—basketball shoe from the ’70s that skaters adopted because it was cheap and simple and looked right. No mythology, no brand story, just a shoe that worked. Stussy came up the same way. Shawn Stussy screaming that S onto everything, and it stuck because the eye was good. There’s a honesty in how both of them started.
You end up with three Stussy graphics on the tongue, colored suede, black midsole keeping it lean. Stussy logo on the sole, nice laces, details that matter to people who care. The colors—Mauve Mist, Black, Hunter Green—aren’t trying to shout. They’re just right.
The whole thing reads like two designers who understand the same world deciding to make something together without overcomplicating it. Which is pretty much what both brands have always been about—good design, quiet credibility. This shoe feels like the inevitable result of that philosophy meeting itself.
You’re stuck in a train. Or a plane. Or one of those aggressively overpriced Berlin cafes that promises WiFi but completely falls apart the moment three people try to stream something at once. You open Netflix. Nothing. Your phone’s already at ten percent, your commute stretches out empty.
Netflix fought this feature for years. Download shows to your phone. They kept saying no, and I never understood why. But they finally did it: you can download House of Cards, Gilmore Girls, Orange Is The New Black, whatever you want. It’s on your phone, waiting, no WiFi required.
I’d imagined this exactly. Bathtub, wine in hand, foam everywhere, completely offline. It’s indulgent and ridiculous, but it’s also something that should have existed years ago. You know what you want to watch. Now you can actually have it.
The real thing is you’re not helpless anymore. You’re not stuck with a dead phone and nothing to do. You downloaded something before you left. You planned ahead. Doesn’t sound like much, but when you’re five hours into a flight or sitting in some delay, it makes a difference.
The internet’s best gift is letting you become someone else. You pick a name that isn’t your name, load some photos, and suddenly you’re a new person. No one’s waiting for you to be consistent. No one knows your real life. You just show what you want to show, and people respond or they don’t.
Anonymity is permission. Post the version of yourself your real name would never post. Be the person who has fewer neighbors and relatives watching, fewer expectations, fewer reasons not to. Ten thousand strangers like your pictures and none of them know where you live or what your parents think. Just you, a fake identity, and the version of yourself that only breathes online.
I’ve been around the internet long enough to know this isn’t new, but it’s never boring either. Everyone who does it is working out the same equation: who are you when nobody has to know who you are? The answer’s almost always: more yourself.
You don’t think about where it came from. You’re drunk or hungry or both, it’s late, you’re at McDonald’s because nowhere else is open and you need something in your mouth. The Big Mac tastes like every Big Mac ever — the bun somehow soft and stale at once, the meat thin and salty, the lettuce doing basically nothing, the sauce too sweet. It’s not really food. It’s the shape hunger takes when there are no better options. You eat it without considering who invented it, without considering much of anything.
Michael “Jim” Delligatti invented it. A McDonald’s franchise owner in Pennsylvania, sometime in the ’60s, and he decided the menu needed an upgrade. Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun — the jingle came later, everyone learned it, and now it’s sold in roughly ninety countries, billions and billions of them, but Jim never made real money. He got a plaque. That’s the punchline nobody tells — the guy who created one of the most consumed items on Earth got a plaque and not much else.
It’s become so universal that everyone has a Big Mac memory. Even people who avoid McDonald’s on principle, who’ve spent their lives opting out, will remember a time — usually young, usually late, usually with people they liked — when they ate one anyway. The Big Mac is boring enough and common enough that it registers as almost transparent. You don’t think of it as a created thing, an invention. It just exists, like streets or air.
But Jim created it. And then he died, recently, at 98. There’s an arithmetic to that. You invent something that becomes massive and faceless and profitable for everyone but you, and your name evaporates. The Big Mac is bigger than Jim now. The Big Mac will outlast everyone alive to read this. Billions of people have eaten what he made without knowing his name, without thinking about him for a second. That’s what stuck with me when I heard he was gone. Not sadness, exactly. Just the shape of it. He lived a whole life, built this thing that still feeds people, and mostly nobody knows. I wonder if he was okay with that by the end.
The xx’s video for “On Hold” is just people being young. Shirtless on couches, jumping in pools, dancing through the night. Moments that feel infinite while you’re in them, then years later you’re looking back.
The song captures exactly what it feels like to miss that time while you’re still in it. There’s something about the way the track builds—minimal, insistent—that makes you feel the weight of it. Not sad, just aware. This kind of freedom, this lightness, doesn’t stick around and nobody bothers announcing when it’s gone.
I watched this and kept thinking about what it actually felt like to be that young. Not just the obvious stuff—the drinking, the dancing, the kissing without thinking about it. But the texture of it. The specific way your body felt, how time moved, how much space everything seemed to have. Most people spend the rest of their lives trying to describe that moment and they’re always slightly wrong. The xx got it right.
Everybody wants to feel loved. Not real love necessarily—that’s fragile and complicated. Just something that works well enough to keep you from feeling like a complete failure at the basic human experience. Everyone else seems to have someone. Why not you?
AliceX has an answer: they’ll sell you a girlfriend. Virtual. She talks to you, tells you you’re great, shows you her body. Here’s the deal—you can close the app whenever you want and load up someone else. Everything you actually wanted from a relationship, none of the mess. Just the part where you feel wanted. Sophy, Miryam, Ema. They love you the way a bartender loves you. For your money. At least it’s honest.
The appeal doesn’t need explaining. No risk of disappointing her. No one’s needs but yours. No way to fuck up the basic human experience of mattering to someone. She’s there when you want her, gone when you don’t. The relationship as a clean transaction. Which maybe just says out loud what’s always been true.
What I’m stuck on is that this only works because the alternative is worse. Not because the AI is any good—it’s not—but because loneliness cuts deeper than fake intimacy. You can feel what part of you it’s reaching, the part that just wants to not be invisible. You know it’s fake. And somehow that doesn’t matter as much as it should.
I found Yoshi one afternoon in the crush of Shibuya’s shopping streets, impossible to miss. Red coat, chains catching the light, a poncho that probably had a story behind it. Embroidered pants in bright colors, high heels, rings stacked on his fingers, red-dyed hair, a colorful sweater, a patched hood. Every piece competing for space in the crowd, no apologies.
Tokyo people don’t apologize for color. You can dress like that, show up like that, and it’s just normal. Nobody treats you like you’ve made a mistake.
Come October in Berlin, the city converts to black. The second the temperature drops, everyone retreats into the same uniform. Black coats, black pants, black shoes. The streets look like a funeral procession. Munich, Hamburg, same story. Autumn arrives and everybody agrees to disappear.
I keep thinking about Yoshi and all those details. The more you look, the more you find — a ring you missed at first glance, an embroidery that only shows from certain angles. The casual confidence to layer all of that together and walk out the door.
That’s the real difference. In Tokyo, color in autumn is normal. In Berlin, it’s a statement, which means someone will judge it, which means most people don’t bother. They just dress for the cold like everyone else. Practical. Safe. I understand the logic. But Yoshi had figured out something: you can be alive in October, or you can be invisible. He chose alive.
Richard Kern photographed Kylie Jenner for Wonderland Magazine. I was curious what that would yield—Kern doesn’t do safe. His work lives in intimacy and provocation, close to the body, often uncomfortable.
The images are just her at home. In bed. On the couch scrolling. Playing with her dog. Nothing performed, nothing seductive, nothing that even registers as strange or special. Just a girl with 80 million people watching her live an ordinary afternoon.
This is Kylie after Keeping Up with the Kardashians rewired her family’s existence. She turned celebrity into cosmetics, clothing deals, game apps. The Kardashians invented something new: they package their own mundanity and watch people trade money for access to it. It works because people don’t actually want aspirational. They want surveillance. They want to believe that behind the filters and the branded content, she’s just sitting around like they are.
Maybe that’s true. Maybe fame really is just this. Horizontal scrolling. A couch. The dog. Her family moving through the next room. Nothing transmuted, nothing sacred, nothing that justifies the machinery it requires.
Kern’s photographs, though—they’re weirdly honest. They don’t mythologize. They don’t sell anything. They show a girl who happens to be famous in a quiet moment, and it’s more unsettling than anything more provocative could have been. The photographs strip away the construct and leave only time, which is what fame actually is. Just time. A lot of it. Watched.
Marie Nasemann threw a launch party for her new blog in Hamburg, two hundred people at Goldmarie in St. Pauli. She’s been a model and actress, which means there was already an audience, but that kind of turnout suggests the actual subject hit something real.
The blog, Fairknallt, is about fair trade fashion, sustainable design, organic beauty—easy enough to fake for followers, but the reason she started it sounded genuine. She got tired of shopping. The discomfort of walking through regular stores, knowing exactly where the cheap clothes come from and what that means for people making them, became intolerable.
That’s what interested me. Not the moral position itself, but that moment when you realize you’ve seen something and can’t unsee it. Once the system becomes visible, continuing to participate in it exactly the same way becomes impossible. So you change. Or you start documenting how to do it differently. Or both.
Anyone who works in design knows this friction. You can’t build things without understanding how they’re made and at what cost. You either accept the compromise or you figure out a different approach. There’s no comfortable middle ground once you look too closely.
I watched someone describe Wizardhood—that’s an eighty-minute cut of all eight Harry Potter films made by Tim Stiefler—and my first thought was: why would anyone do that? My second thought was: actually, that’s useful. Most people don’t have the weekend commitment. They’ve got other things going on, or they don’t care enough, or they tried watching once and the pacing exhausted them.
So here’s the shortcut. Eighty minutes of the essential Harry Potter story. No Quidditch matches that go nowhere, no yearlong gaps between act breaks, no standing around Dumbledore’s office while he explains the plot. Just the shapes of it, the arcs, the ending.
I know people who rewatch all eight films once a year. That kind of commitment requires a whole weekend and a disregard for literally anything else. The ritual of it, the familiarity—that’s its own appeal. But most people don’t have that bandwidth. For the rest of us, this is the version that makes sense.
The downside is obvious. This lives in the copyright space where studios pretend it doesn’t exist until they need to make an example. Fan edits make them nervous, especially polished ones like this. So Stiefler’s thing probably won’t last. If you want to see it, grab it while it’s there. And if that bothers you, the official films are easy to find—just expect to lose a whole weekend.
Scott Park draws spaceships. The Death Star, the Millennium Falcon, the V-Wing—all those vessels from Star Wars rendered clean and precise in black space. He’s a Creative Director and Illustrator from Toronto, and he’s spent years pulling from the pop culture he loves: Transformers, Lord of the Rings, Back to the Future. Star Wars is his current focus.
There’s something about spacecraft on the page that works better than on screen. You can actually look at them. The design holds still. You see the proportions, the detailing, the way light sits on the hull. Park draws them cleanly—technical but never stiff, confident without trying. It’s the kind of work that makes you aware of how you were looking at these ships before without really seeing them.
Star Wars design is good design. The proportions are satisfying, the silhouettes are instant, the details matter without cluttering everything. It makes sense that someone would want to illustrate them properly. What’s interesting is actually doing it well, which Park does. Not reinventing anything. Just showing you what the thing is, clearly rendered.
I spent an embarrassing amount of time looking at the Death Star. The technical approach somehow makes it more impressive, more solid—like you could actually understand how it holds together.
The Gundam statue is the first thing that hits you when you round the corner at Odaiba. It’s absurdly large, looming over the promenade with its arms spread, catching the light of the evening crowd flowing past it. The island is bright and crowded and completely unrefined—the opposite of what Tokyo usually presents to visitors.
Odaiba used to be something else entirely. Back in the eighties, when Japan’s economy was roaring, developers sank over ten billion dollars into building an artificial island in Tokyo Bay. The idea was to create a model of the future: a gleaming business district that would show the world where Japanese ambition was heading. By the early nineties it was supposed to be finished, perfect, a showcase of modernity. Instead, the economy collapsed in 1991—a moment the Japanese called “Kakaku Hakai,” the price destruction. The island sat half-empty and useless for years.
By the mid-nineties, though, someone realized the futurism wasn’t going to work. So instead of salvaging it, they just pivoted: Odaiba became an entertainment district. They filled it with arcades and shopping malls and restaurants and Gundam statues. They gave up on being the future and became pure spectacle instead. It’s the kind of move that only makes sense in Japan—admit complete failure at one vision and immediately commit entirely to its opposite.
Walking through the crowds, watching people lose money in pachinko parlors and collectible shops, I got why it works. Odaiba is honest about being constructed. It doesn’t pretend to be organic or real—it’s explicitly, deliberately artificial, and somehow that makes it better than when it was trying to be serious about the future. Sometimes the best version of a failed idea is just to stop apologizing and have fun with it instead.
The thing about Gilmore Girls is the talking. Lorelai and Rory and Sookie firing off dialogue so fast you can barely catch it, references stacked inside references, people who actually want to be around each other. It’s network TV from the early 2000s, but it lives somewhere else—in those kitchen conversations that run until two in the morning.
The show ran from 2000 to 2007, then Netflix brought back A Year in the Life and suddenly people were acting like they’d never left Stars Hollow. The setup is straightforward enough: a small Connecticut town, three women at the center, the pull between staying and leaving, ambition and loyalty tangled up together. Rory chasing journalism, Lorelai running the inn and making a mess of her personal life, Sookie being the kind of friend who never wavers. The dialogue demands your attention. The cultural references echo off each other.
What it’s really about is that American ache—wanting something bigger, knowing it’ll hurt the people who hold you, leaving anyway and then coming back because they’re the only place that makes sense. The show doesn’t make it pretty or simple. It just watches it happen. The characters are smart and they mess up. The town is strange in specific ways. It adds up to something that feels like actual life.
People are buying Funko figures of the characters, and I get it now. It’s just a small way of saying something that mattered to you is still there.
Someone took a hammer to the Berlin Wall and did it topless so the moment would stick. FEMEN calling out the EU’s endless delays on Ukraine, using nakedness as a weapon because words have never landed hard enough.
Europe kept saying the right things about membership, kept scheduling meetings, kept moving slowly while the war moved fast. 2013 was supposed to be the shift—the Maidan, the choice made, everyone watching a country decide its direction. But committees are slower than armies. By the time Brussels got around to voting, Putin had taken Crimea and the Donbas was already scorched.
So you stand there topless with a hammer and smash stone because stone is what power understands. Nakedness, metal, the moment caught forever in video. It’s crude. It works. It’s supposed to make people uncomfortable because comfort is exactly where nothing changes.
The wall fell. The borders are still there, just harder to see now. Paperwork instead of concrete. Time instead of tanks.
I spent hours in front of the television playing Super Mario World. Dinosaur Land, Donut Plains, the Forest of Illusion—I moved through those worlds without thinking about how they actually worked. Jump, run, find the exit. Simple as that.
Except it wasn’t simple. Underneath that colorful surface was an intricate system. Every enemy had rules for when and how it moved. Items were spawned by hidden random number generators. Lemmy’s castle had its own logic for which pipes spawned which enemies. None of it was visible, but you felt it happening.
Retro Game Mechanics Explained released a video breaking all of this down. He gets into the RNG mechanics, probability tables, the algorithmic decisions firing every frame. It’s the kind of breakdown that rewires how you think about a game you’ve known forever.
I realized watching it that I’d been playing with this intricate machine my whole life without noticing. All those hours in front of that TV, and I was only seeing the surface. The jump felt good. The enemies behaved in ways that seemed fair and unpredictable. The pacing worked. None of that was accidental.
That’s what good design actually does—it hides itself. You don’t see the architecture because it works. You just know that something is right. The video reveals the engineering underneath, and once you see it, you can’t unsee it. You look at the game completely differently. Not with cynicism, but with real appreciation for the craftsmanship.
Rocco And His Brothers, a Berlin art collective, wired up a single U-Bahn car with 32 surveillance cameras to see what would happen. Not to make it safer. Just to push something invisible into view and see if anyone noticed the difference.
Public transit in Berlin runs on nearly 14,000 cameras. The justification is always the same: prevent crime, terrorism, keep people safe. After a while, the cameras disappear into the background. One in the corner, another by the doors, one more watching the platform. They’re infrastructure now, like bad lighting and the hum of recycled air that no one thinks about.
The experiment asked a simple question: if two cameras feel okay, what does 32 feel like? Does saturation change something? Does it make you suddenly aware of what was already there but invisible? Or do you just adapt to that too, the same way you adapt to everything that slowly gets worse?
There’s something sharp about using the language of safety to undermine itself. Stack enough warning signs and camera housings and the message inverts. Protected becomes watched. Secure becomes paranoid. The U-Bahn stops feeling like a public space and starts feeling like what it is — a cage that everyone agrees to sit in.
I don’t know if anyone in Berlin actually stopped and thought twice about it. Probably not. The cameras came down, the system went back to normal, and the point got made and forgotten in the same moment. Which was kind of the whole point, and also the depressing part.
A decade ago, “something with media” was what people said when they had no idea what they actually wanted. Your guidance counselor would nod. You’d nod. Nobody knew what the hell it meant. Now the industry is concrete enough that you can be specific. Game programmer. Motion graphics. VR development. UX research. Name the thing and there’s probably someone hiring for it.
What’s interesting about magazines that document who’s building what and who’s hiring — Code+Design being one of them — is what they prove. The digital industry has an infrastructure now. You can read interviews with people who actually made it, companies explaining themselves, job listings with specific skills. Where there used to be a void, there’s a map.
The magazine is free, which means it’s half ads. That’s usually annoying, but here the ads are the point. They show you where money actually flows, what companies need, what skills are in demand. If you’re trying to figure out whether this path is real, the ads answer it faster than any interview. They’re honest in a way interviews usually aren’t — companies are spending money to reach you, which means they’re actually hiring.
What strikes me is how new this all is. Not so long ago, “media careers” existed in the abstract, something you aspired toward without knowing what you were aspiring to. Now you can hold a magazine in your hands and understand the actual landscape. Read how someone did it. Read what they learned. The specificity is the thing — not the magazine, but the fact that specificity exists at all.
Jan Hoffmann got his pro board at twenty. The Attitude Skateshop in Bremen threw him a surprise party for it, which feels right — the ritual of it, the community officially signing on.
Board Mag had written about him a few months earlier, called him the hottest young skater in Germany. Fair assessment. You could see it in how he skated — that kind of inevitable-feeling progression.
There’s a gap between being written about and actually holding your board. Once you have it, you’re not speculation anymore. You’re official.
I don’t have the full story. What I know is there was beer, there was the crew, and when they handed him the board—from Robotoron and Cleptomanicx—his face was pure uncomplicated joy. Not performed. Just the actual thing.
After that, it was his. That’s the only part that mattered.
There’s always an old Mac somewhere in someone’s apartment. Maybe an iMac from the 2000s, still taking up space on a shelf. Maybe a PowerBook you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away. You can’t use it anymore—the OS is stone-age by now, and nobody makes software for it—but it’s too real to just dump.
Christophe Guinet figured out what to do with all those dead computers. He turns them into planters. Not ironically. Actually makes them nice. Plant Your Mac is the name of the project, and it works on anything: iMacs, Mac Pros, PowerBooks, whatever shell you’ve got. Gut the insides, add soil, grow something through the screen. A plant pushes out where the monitor used to be.
The thing is, Guinet doesn’t just do this. His whole practice is about nature and design colliding in weird ways. He builds installations where cars become trees. Designs logos out of grass. Works with living things as a medium the way a painter works with paint. It shouldn’t be cute enough to actually work, but it is.
I think what I like about it is how backward it is compared to what designers usually do. Most design is about acceleration—making things faster, sleeker, more efficient, better at doing what they’re supposed to do. Guinet’s looking at dead technology and asking a dumb question: what if we just let nature have it? What if decay is the point, not the enemy?
A dead Mac covered in moss and vines and wildflowers isn’t e-waste anymore. It’s something you want to look at. Something that’s actually more interesting than the computer ever was. Which is strange because the computer was designed to be beautiful—that was the whole thing with Apple, right? But the plant is more beautiful. The plant just doesn’t care about design.
Tokidoki keeps making these Unicorno toys, and they’re on the fifth series now. The fact that they keep doing it is interesting—it means people keep buying them. They’re small painted unicorns, each one a different color, each one with this gentle expression like it’s genuinely happy. They’re cheap, like eight euros each. You buy them blind, which is the whole system. You don’t choose which one you get. If you want the complete set, you’re either buying a whole box or you’re on eBay later, hunting down the specific ones you need.
I used to collect things when I was younger—nothing important, just whatever small toys I could get. Action figures, dice, little statues. The appeal wasn’t about owning something rare. It was the hunt, the set-completion thing, that weird satisfaction of seeing something fill in on a checklist. These toys work the same way, just updated for a time when cheap disposable stuff is the whole point.
I’m not sure what makes these specifically appealing. They’re not detailed enough to be impressive, not rare enough to feel like real collectibles. But there’s something about the format that draws people in—the idea of owning small, cheap, kind of pointless things that are being collected and traded and hunted down like they actually matter. Maybe liking something deliberately disposable is its own thing.
Marimar Hollenbach studied environmental science, hated it, so she taught herself design, then web development, then coding. It’s like she was reverse-engineering her own competence, stacking skills until something stuck. She found a mentor who believed in her work. Now she builds things as a creative developer in Berlin.
That’s not an unusual path in the city’s media world. Anne Gradler and Timo Josten have their own versions—people who backed into their careers sideways, figuring it out in pieces instead of following a map.
Berlin’s media industry is crowded and it doesn’t tolerate naiveté. What strikes me about these stories is that the people who survive it are usually the ones who stay in the game long enough to get good. Marimar’s actual advice—stay active in the community, learn the tools, talk to people doing real work—sounds obvious until you realize that’s just how she got here. Not because it’s in some manual. Because that’s what worked for her.
There’s something grounding about watching someone describe their actual path instead of coaching you on the mythical idea of “breaking into creative industries.” It’s just Marimar teaching herself code late at night, or Anne learning whatever she needed to run a campaign. People becoming capable of things they didn’t expect to learn.
The community part matters—finding someone who believes in you definitely changes things. But mostly it’s momentum. Stay visible, stay learning, stay around long enough that luck recognizes you when it shows up.
Akira opens with the city at night—motorcycles, neon, streetlights cutting through darkness. Just the world before anything else happens. I watched it when I was younger and got caught up in the plot, the scale of it all. Watched it again recently and what actually hit me was the light itself, how the city looks, how every sign and glow does something to how you feel watching.
There’s this weird gatekeeping around Akira—it’s become one of those films people call a masterpiece who’ve never actually sat through it. And if you’ve only seen the film and not read the manga, you’ll run into purists who think that barely counts. But the film holds up. 1988. Two kids in a biker gang, Tokyo destroyed by nuclear war, the whole thing both a technical achievement and genuinely gripping.
But the lighting. Tokyo without those neon signs, without windows glowing and headlights cutting through, is just a dark space. The neon’s what makes it feel alive and threatening at the same time. When I watched Nerdwriter’s breakdown of how intentional every light source is, it was one of those things where once you see it pointed out you can’t unsee it. The cinematography isn’t separate from the story, it’s part of what the story is.
I think that’s why films like that stick—not because they’re called important, but because when you go back you realize how much was actually thought through, how much is in the details. The world’s built into every frame.
David Collier had one night left in Los Angeles when he matched with Andrea Villarroel Lua on Instagram. They met and shot that evening—Hollywood Boulevard first, then his apartment after dark.
Andrea works as a fashion journalist and stylist, builds everything around vintage clothes and analog film. She actually cares, which you can feel in the work.
Meeting a stranger and deciding to shoot the same night puts you in a particular headspace. Whatever taste you have in clothes, whatever taste you have in light—it all shows. Hollywood Boulevard gives you what you expect, all that reliable neon, but the apartment afterward is different. That’s where something actually happens. A two-week tour ending in a stranger’s apartment with a camera is exactly how it should go.
Spring Breakers landed like a slap. Not because it was scandalous in the grand scheme of things, but because Selena Gomez was in it, and everything about Selena before that moment had been calculated brand management. The Disney girl, the safe choice, the artist who’d done voice work for animated films and wouldn’t push anyone’s boundaries. Then Harmony Korine called, and something shifted.
What’s wild about the story is how deliberate it all was. Korine and Rachel didn’t just cast her—they sent the script to her mother, who managed her. Rachel loved Harmony’s work, got excited. Selena hadn’t really understood who he was at first, hadn’t lived through Kids or Gummo when they came out. So she watched them. Watched Trash Humpers and Mister Lonely. Fell in love with the way he worked.
Then Selena flew to Nashville and sat with him for hours. That conversation changed everything. She trusted him immediately, which is the only way you take a role like Faith—the moral center of a film about girls on a spring break crime spree, surrounded by James Franco as Alien and the kind of explicit content that doesn’t usually happen in the careers of former Disney stars.
Her fear makes sense. Every major decision before this had been calculated to protect a specific audience, a younger generation that looked up to her. But Selena wanted to do something that scared her, something that would earn her respect as an actor, not just as a brand. Harmony was the safest person to push those boundaries with, which is a weird paradox but it works. You don’t take that risk with just anyone.
What strikes me most is how Selena describes the improvisation. There’s no script, just a framework and a character. You have to be that person in that moment, deciding what you say, how the scene unfolds. It forced her to be present in a way rehearsed dialogue never could. After that, going back to learning lines felt suffocating.
James Franco as Alien is another layer. In person he was charismatic, sweet. On screen he’s unsettling, hitting on nineteen-year-old girls with gold teeth and the full arsenal of bad-boy moves. Selena knew it was calculated to make her uneasy, and that actually made it easier to act opposite him. The creepy factor was the whole point. Every girl wants the good guy, but secretly we want the rebel. The one who breaks the rules. Franco played that perfectly, even if the character is basically a predator with style.
The shoot itself in St. Petersburg was chaos in the best way. Wild things Harmony improvised that Selena thought couldn’t actually be filmed. Paparazzi on the edge, just enough attention to feel real but not enough to destroy the work. Spring Break played exactly like the videos promised—people completely unhinged—but living inside it while making a film was different. It was visceral.
By the end, something had changed in Selena. The film opened her eyes to the idea that taking risks was worth it. She started saying yes to roles that broke the mold, that were nothing like what people expected. Suddenly Hollywood saw her differently. When people found out she’d worked with Harmony, they treated it like she’d earned her stripes. That validation meant something.
The paradox is that this independent film somehow also found commercial success, which never crossed her mind going in. Every other film had been carefully curated, controlled. Spring Breakers let chaos in. And it made her braver. She still overthinks everything—analyzing before she acts—but the film pointed her in a different direction. Fear isn’t running her life anymore.
That’s what matters about Spring Breakers. Not that it was shocking or transgressive, though it was both. But that it was the moment an artist decided the risk of being misunderstood was worth the growth. Harmony gave her permission to stop playing it safe, and she took it.
FYE and FENNEK met on one of those nights where everything’s too loose and suddenly you’re making a commitment. She surfs, photographs, sings — part of Velvet, this loose artist collective. He’s been producing for twelve years, the quiet type who makes things better. Together they don’t sound like anyone particular, though The Knife and Air are probably in there somewhere.
The song came from a road trip through California. FYE was shooting and surfing with Velvet, living that untethered life the coast makes possible. The landscape is in the lyrics. “Through the wild wood and the windy dust.” You hear where it came from immediately.
They made the video themselves. FYE shot it. Beach scenes, waves, all that golden light but filtered through melancholy — not the California of travel guides. More like memory. Beautiful and strange and slightly wrong, the way it can be when you actually live somewhere instead of just passing through.
What strikes me is how uncommercial this feels. No machinery behind it. Two people who met right and made something without letting anyone else touch it. That’s becoming a rarer thing.
Chiara Ferragni designed a Levi’s 501. By the time Levi’s asked her, she’d already shaped how millions of people dressed. The Blonde Salad was the reference point — not a blog anymore, just the place where taste was made. An official collaboration with a denim company felt almost inevitable, like confirming something that had already happened.
They launched in Milan. The jeans stayed faithful to the original because there was no improving the 501 — it’s already perfect — but Ferragni added small details, signature marks, touches that would let you know she’d had a hand in them. The real design choice, though, was the finish: worn, broken in, like the jeans had already been a favorite for years. Not precious. Not treated as a limited-edition object. Just already part of someone’s closet.
That’s a specific choice. You could announce the collaboration — make it the whole point, slap her name across the back pocket, treat the jeans like a shrine to her influence. Instead she made them look like they were trying to be invisible, like they’d already been yours all along. That’s harder to pull off and more honest about what a designer collab actually is: expensive regular jeans with a story built in.
For people who’d been paying attention to how Ferragni dressed, it was enough. A 501 styled the way she’d styled everything else. That was the product.
Every year, young people from all over the world land in Berlin to do “something with media.” They start as unpaid or barely-paid interns at whatever agency takes them—PR firms, ad shops, design places. If they’re lucky, they eventually get promoted to junior something. That’s when things get serious.
The pattern never changes. You start at an agency, work through nights and weekends and whatever depression comes with them. By your mid-thirties you’ve run into something that doesn’t bounce back. Everyone talks about the same exit: going freelance. The people who made it out will tell you it saved them. So you try it too.
Deutsche Welle made a documentary about Berlin’s creative workers—following the sound agency Kling Klang and others—tracking how people actually navigate this oversaturated, collapsing market. It’s called “Passion & Profit,” part of their Made in Germany series. The title says what no one wants to admit: you can’t have both.
Berlin’s creative scene promises everything. What it actually delivers is fatigue. The city is cheap. It feels alive. Everyone’s working on something interesting. So you stay. You stay through unpaid gigs, impossible deadlines, the months when there’s no work and you’re eating bread. You stay because leaving feels like failure, because part of you still thinks the next thing will be different.
Kottbusser Tor is a play mat now—the whole Kreuzberg intersection rendered in exact, obsessive detail by an artist named Vidam. Casino 36 is on there. The Möbel-Olfe furniture store. Dog shit, because of course dog shit, and it’s probably the most accurate thing on the whole mat. Stern bottles. The apartment buildings. Everything.
It’s hard not to see the logic. A parent from Friedrichshain or Prenzlauer Berg buys this mat, spreads it out on the living room floor, and their kid learns the Kreuzberg intersection before ever stepping on it. Innocent preparation for where they’ll probably end up. When they’re standing on those corners at 2 a.m. with döner and a destroyed phone, they’ll at least know the streets. They’ll have done the training without realizing it.
The whole thing works because it’s brutally honest. A detailed street map of exactly where a specific cohort of Berlin teenagers will end up broke and drunk in a few years, packaged as a children’s toy. The accuracy is what makes it funny. The fact that it’s also true is what makes it land.
“Real Ting” hits and you know something’s shifted. Stefflon Don came out of London with this sharp, confident energy that made everything else in hip-hop at the time feel slightly wrong. She looked like she’d absorbed Nicki, Lil’ Kim, Rihanna, and Missy Elliott into something of her own, but the visual shorthand didn’t prepare you for what she could actually do on a track.
Her debut mixtape, also called “Real Ting,” moved fast. People who knew what they were listening to dropped her name—Section Boys, Angel, Lethal Bizzle, Dutch MC Cho. She’d moved through Birmingham and Rotterdam, impressed people like Jeremih and Tremz. This wasn’t manufactured hype.
The lyrics came tight and immediate. Gold teeth catching light. The physical presence was hypnotic too—the way she moved through a track, the obvious intelligence underneath it all. The kind of artist who makes you want to follow where she’s heading. By the time she was running things at Jazz Café in London, it was obvious this wasn’t a moment. This was the beginning of something that was going to matter.
PIN NAP is where you go in Tokyo if you want vintage that isn’t hanging in some soulless shopping mall. It’s near the Meiji shrine, in the kind of spot locals know about. The inventory’s a rotating mix — 80s, 90s, 2000s stuff, whatever he decides is worth stocking.
D.Asa runs the place. His Instagram is exactly what you’d expect: a beautiful mess of fits and selfies where the whole point is to go bigger. Louder colors. Weirder combinations. More impossible clashes. The more improbable it looks, the better he seems to like it. He throws parties too, the kind where you can tell everyone showed up for the same reason — because subtle is boring.
His outfit was the thing that got me. Pristine white sneakers, so clean they looked like he’d just unwrapped them. White shorts, minimal and sharp. And then this absolutely unhinged flame shirt, garishly loud, impossible to miss. Yellow-striped socks pulled high. On paper it’s a disaster, every element warring with the next, but he made it sing. Because he’s the kind of person who doesn’t think about whether things go together — he just knows what he wants to look at. And there’s something genuinely hot about that kind of certainty.
“I get paid so he’s not alone.” That’s Juju, opening SXTN’s new track, and it cuts straight to the core. Two rappers from Berlin, Nura and Juju, and Made 4 Love is probably the only anthem Germany’s underground has actually made for sex workers.
The FAZ interviewed them once and something stuck: “They don’t rap about being women who rap. They just rap.” Juju said when asked if the comments about her looks bothered her—it annoyed her more when people reduced her to her personality. They’re past the point of needing permission, and it shows in the music.
The song itself is explicit about the transaction in a way you rarely hear. Juju describes the whole mechanics—the closeness he feels is his, from her side it’s just work. His moans in her ear while they’re fucking, salt from his sweat on her lips. He goes down on her, on her chest, keeps going until he comes inside her. Clinical and horny at the same time, which is exactly the point.
What makes it work is that they’re not making a political statement. Not trying to make you sympathize or uncomfortable or enlightened. Just describing the reality of it, in language as crude as the situation actually is. No softening, no metaphor, no apology.
I don’t know what comes next for SXTN. They appeared in the Berlin scene like they didn’t ask permission, and this song feels like the moment it became impossible to ignore. Hard, unambiguous, and not caring if you’re listening.
Ditto was the one you couldn’t catch. Not because it was rare or locked behind some paywall, but because Pokémon GO simply didn’t have it. The game was this weird walking-simulator thing Nintendo released, and for the people actually obsessed with it, Ditto was the missing piece — the void in the Pokédex where completion broke down.
If you grew up in the 90s you knew what Ditto was. Pink blob with dots for eyes, could become anything. It was never particularly powerful, just a copy, but there was something melancholy about the whole concept — this Pokémon that only existed by pretending to be something else. In the TV show it’s always kind of depressed about it.
Pokémon GO made you walk around your neighborhood hunting digital creatures with your phone. The stated goal was getting people outside. What it actually did was distill the collecting impulse down to its essence — the need for completion, the hunt for the thing you can’t have. You could feel it in the community, this specific ache for the last empty slot.
Then in 2016 players started reporting Ditto sightings. It had finally been released, but it was hiding as something common — Pidgeot, Rattata, stuff nobody cared about. Only when you caught it would the game reveal what was actually in your inventory. Which made perfect sense: a Pokémon that only existed by being something else.
I never got particularly invested in Pokémon GO, but I understood the appeal of chasing something you know doesn’t matter. When Ditto finally showed up, it was still just a copy. That felt right.
Aino Jawo and Caroline Hjelt make you pay attention. Not because they’re performing—they’re doing the opposite. They take up space without apologizing for it, and that’s the kind of confidence that stops you in your tracks. Icona Pop embody something rare: female power without any of the theater. No soft edges, no trying to make it palatable. Just two Swedish women who know exactly what they want and couldn’t care less whether you’re listening.
They made “I Love It” years ago, which got beaten to death in advertisements until hearing it again feels like remembering a trauma. But they’re too good for that to stick. The song survives because they mean it.
“Brightside” is their new track. It’s light and direct about girl friendship—not trying to make a statement, just acknowledging that this matters: having someone you don’t have to explain yourself to. The kind of clarity and simplicity that most artists would overcomplicate, and Icona Pop just… don’t.
What hooks me is the refusal to perform. They make what they want without asking permission. You hear it everywhere—the ease, the certainty. That’s the whole thing. They don’t perform being women. They just are. And somehow that’s become the most riveting thing about them.
I’ve never understood why the NMD_XR1 stuck around. It breaks every rule of sneaker design in ways that feel half-baked — the TPU cage, the waxy suede heel cap, all these details that shouldn’t add up to anything worth looking at. But adidas keeps releasing colorways, and people keep buying them, and somehow it just works.
When they dropped five camo versions, I thought it was a joke. Camo is the safest, most exhausted pattern in menswear, and the NMD already wears its indifference like a uniform. Black, white, pink, blue, olive — all of them trying to hide in plain sight, which defeats the entire point of both camouflage and a statement sneaker.
But I get it now. The Boost sole underneath actually feels different on your feet, not groundbreaking but honest. And the shoe’s willingness to look awkward is part of why it lasted. It doesn’t apologize for itself, which is its only real design principle. The camo versions just leaned further into that indifference. Maybe that’s what keeps bringing them back.
Miley Cyrus decided the best way to leave Hannah Montana behind was to show up completely naked in a magazine shoot. Terry Richardson photographed her for Candy, no softening, no art direction to hide behind—she’s just there without her clothes on, in scenarios that make it clear she doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks. A cop uniform, leather, on her knees. Completely unbothered.
What I find myself thinking about is how earnest it all is, weirdly. There’s no winking at the camera, no ’look at me being dangerous’ performance. It reads like someone who’s decided her body is hers to use however she wants and doesn’t need anyone’s permission or approval. The people who watched her grow up on Disney will have whatever reaction they’re going to have. I get why she’s done it—she’s erasing that image completely, replacing it with something that can’t be softened or made family-friendly.
The pictures are crude and direct. Maybe that’s all there is to it. She’s stated her position: she’s not the girl you thought she was. You can look if you want, or don’t. The magazine exists, the images exist, and she’s moved on to the next thing. But there’s something I respect in the absolute lack of apology or performance around it all.
Japan has this split personality. You can be in the futuristic neon part of town and turn a corner to find a temple that’s been there for five hundred years, completely unconcerned with progress. Kyoto is especially good at this. You can walk from ultramodern to ancient in maybe ten minutes.
I took a class with Yuriko Rico Ogura on making washi paper. The actual process is simpler than the tradition around it suggests. Plant pulp in a basin of water. A wooden frame with mesh. You dip the frame in, pull it up so the fibers catch, the water drains, and you’ve got a wet sheet of paper. Press it. Dry it. Paper.
The whole thing requires attention - not because it’s complicated, but because the material is particular. Your hands get cold. The frame motion has to be right or the sheet tears or comes out uneven. You end up completely focused on this small, repetitive task. I think this is what people mean by “mindfulness” when they’re not just selling you tea.
What stuck with me was the moment the sheet came out of the water. Something you made. Not manufactured, not optimized, just made by your hands in one slow motion. You understand then why the tradition lasted this long. It’s not special because it’s ancient. It’s ancient because once you’ve done it, you get why it matters.
Keiichi Matsuda made a short film called “Hyper Reality” that works on you in an uncomfortable way. He’s showing you a near-future where physical and virtual reality have completely merged into a single augmented landscape. The world without all the tech layered on is just an ordinary gray street—quiet, unremarkable, almost peaceful. Then the AR kicks in. Ads everywhere. Notifications stacking on surfaces. Gamified tasks demanding your attention at every angle. Your reality is hijacked. Every moment becomes a sales opportunity.
Matsuda’s vision is about how VR, AR, wearables, the Internet of Things will let systems control every aspect of our lives. He’s not being dramatic about it. He’s just showing you the trajectory—where the incentives and the technology are actually pointing us. And the brutal part isn’t that the technology is evil or out of control. It’s that we’re walking toward this with our eyes open, choosing augmentation one notification at a time.
What gets me about it is how plausible it all feels. Not a dystopian fever dream. Not some exaggerated warning. It just looks like an extrapolation of what’s already happening. The tech does what Matsuda shows, and I’m trained to accept the interruptions. And maybe that’s the real thing that scares me—not that the future is coming, but that we can see it coming and we’re reaching for it anyway.
Charles Moriarty has photographs of Amy Winehouse from before. They became a book called Before Frank. The images are quiet moments—off-stage, away from the machinery, before the machinery finished what it started.
When she died I wasn’t surprised but I felt something actually break. By then you could see it coming, watch the slow dissolution in photographs and clips and gossip. But her music was never just soundtrack for a collapse. It was real feeling. Specific, raw, unmistakably hers. She made real things.
Fame is a system built to destroy people. It doesn’t matter who you were before—the machine needs to consume you and sell what’s left. The money, the attention, the dealers and hangers-on, the isolation dressed up as success. Everyone watches it happen and nobody can stop it. The only way out looks like a bottle or a needle or both.
What Moriarty’s photographs do is show her as a person. Not a symbol. Not a cautionary tale. He was in the room. He saw her. The images preserve something the world wanted to erase—Amy before the tragic narrative consumed her.
I think about those photographs sometimes. What they held. What they proved.
I spent hours on early Dragon Ball when I was young—just watching kids hunt for these magic orbs, with no real stakes, no world-ending threats. The show was small and strange and genuinely funny. Then it became something else. Z stretched everything out, tournaments went on for seasons, then you had the aliens, the time travel, and by GT it was just watching increasingly powerful versions of the same guy break things. I get why that worked for people. It didn’t work for me anymore.
So when Dragon Ball hits 30 years and Japan starts pulling old merchandise out of the archives, one of the things they remake is Bulma’s radar. The tracking device. This handheld gadget that was just a plot device in the original show, but it’s real now, solid plastic, costs about a hundred euros, and actually exists in the world.
The Pokémon GO craze wore off years ago—now it’s just people staring at their phones on street corners while nothing happens. But there’s something different about an actual object you can hold. The Dragon Radar doesn’t do anything real. You point it at the sky and it finds nothing because there are no magic balls to find. But that’s honest, somehow. It knows exactly what it is, and what you’re actually chasing when you buy it.
Christmas stops being fun somewhere around the age you can afford to buy your own gifts. As a kid you’re waiting for things you actually need, or at least things you want badly enough to feel that electric moment on Christmas morning. Later you’re just sitting around wondering why you bothered showing up at all, why you’re eating things you didn’t choose, why no one’s talking about anything worth talking about. You could be anywhere else.
The whole thing gets worse as you age — the magic doesn’t come back, no matter what you do. You could drink more. You could pretend Netflix is better than whatever’s happening in the living room. Or you could buy something like this hipster nativity scene from Berlin-Mitte, the design neighborhood where everything gets the ironic treatment. Some object a designer cooked up as a statement about Christmas and capitalism, where Mary looks bored and Joseph’s got the right glasses.
It’s funny because of course that’s what you’d do. You can’t fix the emptiness, so you buy something clever that acknowledges it. You buy the irony. You buy something that says I’m aware this is ridiculous, and for a second that awareness feels like wisdom. Feels like you’ve cracked the code. But it’s just more stuff, another way of not being present.
I never even looked it up. The joke was enough. The power isn’t in the nativity scene itself — it’s in the idea of it. In that moment where you recognize something everyone feels: this is ridiculous. And you buy something that acknowledges it. That awareness feels like wisdom. It’s the real product.
Blumentopf played their final show on November 22 at the Zenith in Munich, a sold-out room for a band that spent three decades throwing parties better than most people’s careers. PULS documented the whole thing, which feels right for an ending like this.
They started in 1992 as four rappers and a DJ: Cajus Heinzmann, Bernhard Wunderlich, Florian Schuster, Roger Manglus, and Sebastian Weiss. The first EP hit in 1996, the album in ’97, and after that it was just the work of staying alive. The music videos cycled through MTV and VIVA like clockwork, but the singles never climbed the way labels wanted them to. Roger explained it plainly once: “We’re an album band. We never sold singles well.” Not a complaint. Just the reality of being made for rooms full of people who actually wanted to hear the whole thing.
German hip-hop in the nineties had its own gravity—weirder and less concerned with American approval than what was happening elsewhere. Blumentopf felt like guys who just wanted to make music for their friends, and for twenty-four years the friends never stopped showing up.
Now it’s archived, documented, closed. There’s always something that ends and doesn’t come back, and the good ones always leave a particular kind of hole.
I fall in love with people constantly—not seriously, just that immediate pull toward a face, the way someone moves, a quality in their expression you can’t name. Usually girls. There’s something about the way some carry themselves that makes you forget what you were thinking.
Lauren Marie photographed a model named Dagny in Los Angeles, and the series has this retro ache—like you’re looking at a memory that hasn’t happened yet. Elegant without being untouchable. Dagny looks beautiful the way someone looks beautiful while thinking about something else, like it’s incidental to her actual life.
What these photographs get right is they don’t put distance between you and the subject. No artifice. She looks like someone you’d pass on Sunset and spend the next two hours thinking about, trying to figure out what caught you. The light helps. The composition helps. Mostly though it’s just the fact of her standing there, undefended.
I don’t know much about Lauren’s other work, but I know she saw something—that rare thing where elegance and groundedness exist in the same moment. Most beauty is too self-aware.
The first time you have sex without a condom after using one for years, the difference is obvious. Better sensation, less friction, just better. So when someone you’re with decides to go on the pill, there’s this immediate relief. You don’t have to negotiate it. Everyone gets what they want—or everyone thinks they do.
But the pill isn’t nothing. It’s a hormone you take daily, and depending on your body, it does real damage. Weight gain, mood crashes, depression, the fog where you can’t quite feel like yourself. Rare cases: blood clots, strokes. Doctors say it’s safe because the odds are low, which is true, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.
I’ve watched it happen. Not tragedy, just this slow transformation. A friend who went on it and felt off—not quite depressed but not quite herself either. Weight she couldn’t lose. A flatness to everything. And there’s this weird acceptance around it, like yeah, the pill does this, but at least the sex is good, so it’s worth it. Which, when you think about it plainly, is fucked up.
There are alternatives. IUDs, condoms, pullout method, combinations. None of them feel as good or are as reliable, which is probably why nobody really uses them. We’ve just accepted the pill as this convenient standard, and nobody wants to think about what that convenience costs the person taking it. The benefit is obvious. The cost is slow and invisible.
Lara Snow is actually two people—Valery Sherman and Jonathan Harpak from Tel Aviv. I don’t know why that detail matters except that every city’s underground has its own flavor, and Tel Aviv’s sounds meticulous and genuinely weird in equal measure.
The phrase I’ve seen is ’frozen melodies.’ It fits. The production is clean and precise, synths arranged with obvious intent, the kind of electronic music that could feel detached if you weren’t so aware that every choice mattered. There’s The Knife in it, some New Order, a bit of that Grimes-like coldness—artists who figured out how to build entire worlds from restraint and clarity rather than warmth.
I’m still working through it, honestly. Music this careful doesn’t always land immediately. It’s not designed to be comfortable or easy. But there’s something about the discipline of it, the confidence to say no to everything except exactly this, that keeps me coming back.
Usually when a song makes you listen twice that closely, it’s worth your time.
I went to Osaka thinking it would be the warm-up before Tokyo, the appetizer. It turned out to be the meal.
Everyone wants Tokyo — the lit-up sprawl, the Skytree, the weight of being at the center of things. But Osaka at night is different. The neon hits different when the streets are narrower, when you can actually see the light reflected in puddles and faces. I remember walking through Shinsaibashi late, the shopping streets still packed, pachinko parlors spilling sound into the alleys. The energy was less “look at me” and more “we’re all just here,” which somehow felt more human.
The city’s known for comedy — Manzai, the fast-paced standup style where two comedians riff on each other. It’s a useful thing to remember when you’re wandering around and everything feels slightly absurd: the vending machines, the tiny restaurants squeezed between taller buildings, the way people move through space with this practiced efficiency that looks like dance if you’re tired enough. Osaka’s always been Japan’s trading heart, the practical center, and you feel that. It’s not trying to impress you. It’s just doing its thing.
The food is why people mention Osaka, and they’re right. The eating culture is different — rougher, more direct, less ceremony. But what got me was the small stuff: stumbling into a hole-in-the-wall at 11 PM, the owner barely acknowledging me, just setting down a bowl. The kind of place that exists for locals, not tourists.
When you’re out at night in a city like that, wandering without a plan, you start to understand why people stay. It’s not the sights. It’s the feeling of being inside something that doesn’t care whether you understand it. Tokyo’s a capital. Osaka’s a city that happens to be beautiful when the sun goes down.
You’re streaming your whole elaborate life to strangers on Snapchat, Periscope, Instagram—people who don’t know you and are mostly just hoping you’ll embarrass yourself so they have something to laugh about. But you feel superior for being there. Ahead. Not like the older people still stuck on whatever came before.
Then someone younger moves, and you’re the one left behind.
The platforms don’t actually care about your loyalty. The only thing that matters to them is extraction—data, attention, whatever they can sell. Once that equation stops working, the smart people are already gone. Trendsetters jump platforms the second they notice the losers showing up, because that’s when the cool drains out.
This happens in exactly the same way every time. Someone finds a new app, it feels pure and undiscovered, it gets big, you realize you’re part of a crowd performing for metrics, you leave. Same cycle, different name.
Houseparty was the latest version—supposed to be just friends hanging out on video, a digital room without the performance machinery. Made by the Meerkat people. And it did have that thing where it felt intimate for a minute, before the inevitable happened and it became another platform, another performance space. Which, honestly, was always going to happen.
I’ve been through enough of these to see it’s not about finding the right app. It’s just the same game on repeat. The treadmill never stops, it just gets new wallpaper.
Takoyaki hits different when it’s still hot. The outside’s fried to a blistering crisp, nearly burnt in spots, and inside it’s soft—almost molten. You bite in and it’s too hot but you don’t care; you burn the roof of your mouth because waiting feels impossible. Bonito flakes curl in the steam. Mayo and that thick, almost sweet sauce pooling on top. You eat these standing up, usually with a toothpick, moving fast.
I watched a video once of some food site visiting Otafuku in New York, the famous takoyaki place. One of those kitchen-porn shoots where they show you exactly how it’s made—the batter, the timing, the flip. It looked exactly right, like someone who’d thought about this thing for years and found the answer. I’ve never been, but it’s the kind of place that makes you crave takoyaki right now, which isn’t hard to do anyway.
In Japan these are everywhere on festival grounds. Six balls in a cup, pulled from the pan while they’re still sizzling. That’s the only real way to eat them—at a street stall, probably drunk or heading somewhere, just grabbing something fast. Cold takoyaki is pointless. Even lukewarm misses the whole thing. You need that heat and that texture contrast while it still counts.
All it takes is octopus and batter and timing. But there’s something about that combination, the specificity of it—it has to be exactly hot and exactly crispy or you’ve ruined the experience. That kind of simplicity actually demands a lot of attention. Otafuku probably understands that.
Someone’s always better. Nobody tells you this when you’re young and everyone’s telling you that you can be anything, that your dreams are achievable, that you’re special. But everyone gets that speech. So there’s millions of us, all special, all destined for something, and mathematically only one of us can actually get there.
Maeckes wrote a song about this. It’s basically him shrugging at the whole system. Not angrily—just observing that the game was rigged from the start, so why keep playing. The idea isn’t to work harder and win anyway. It’s to accept that you’re not going to win, and learn to lose with some dignity instead.
This is the opposite of what we grew up hearing. We were fed the story that if you work hard enough and believe enough, you can do anything. But life doesn’t work like that. You lose your job. You lose your relationship. You lose your way. Most of life is just losing, over and over, and nobody warns you about that part.
What makes his song work is that it doesn’t try to turn this into something profound or meaningful. It just observes the fact. You’re a loser. I’m a loser. We’re all losing, and the only real question is whether you’ve made peace with it yet or you’re still angry about it.
That’s it. You lose. I lose. We lose. The world doesn’t care. How you feel about it is the only part you actually control.
There’s something about all-white fits in Harajuku. I spotted Kim at one of the side crossings—not the famous intersection from the photo essays, but far enough in that the crowd spread out enough to actually see faces. White fluffy boots, white pullover, white pearl necklace, then a Nike shirt with yellow accents that cut right through. Black hair making it work.
I’ve never understood why Harajuku, packed with underground designers and actual Japanese brands, fills with kids in Nike and Adidas. The bigger the logo the better. There’s something honest about it—a way to signal you’re plugged into something global without thinking. The opposite of the boutique hunt.
What struck me about Kim’s outfit was how unconstructed it felt. Not assembled, just grabbed that morning. The white made the yellow Nike land harder than it should. That’s the difference I see in street style—people thinking about being seen versus people living in their clothes.
Gum machines all over Berlin and nobody looks at them. Just street fixtures, weathered and forgotten, made to disappear into the background. Max Schwarck spent two years actually looking—shooting them across six districts, Kreuzberg to Prenzlauer Berg, exactly as he found them. Scratched. Faded. Patient.
What got me about this series is what happens when you decide to really see things that aren’t supposed to be noticed. These machines have lived on walls for years. Weather, hands, neglect. Their surfaces aren’t trying to be beautiful. They’re just there, and the street has written all over them. There’s an honesty to that kind of surface that nothing designed ever has.
Two years of shooting and editing gave him seventy photographs. He isolated each machine against a colored background, arranged them together on a poster. See them all like that and something shifts. You recognize one you’ve passed a hundred times without seeing. They become a story about what a city actually looks like if you bother to see it.
This is what I’m drawn to in design—not the things made to impress, but learning to actually see what’s already there. Texture earned through time. Character that indifference creates. These gum machines have both. They’re small lessons in looking again.
Tegel was closing. After decades as Berlin’s main airport, it was scheduled to shut down once BER opened. The only thing that actually made it good was that it existed within the city. You could get there in twenty minutes on a single transit ticket—A and B sections, no surcharge, no long journey to the edge of civilization.
That’s rarer than it should be. Most major cities have multiple airports because one location isn’t enough, and because redundancy matters when things go wrong. Berlin was doing the opposite—consolidating everything into BER, a massive project south of the city that had already become famous for catastrophic mismanagement. The plan was to kill Tegel and make everyone dependent on one airport.
People wanted to keep both airports running, which made obvious sense. Tegel made money every year. The arguments were solid: redundancy matters, proximity matters, a city shouldn’t strangle itself for the sake of modernization. But it was always going to close. These are decisions governments make after long meetings about progress and efficiency—decisions that look brilliant on paper until you’re actually trying to get somewhere and it takes twice as long.
I didn’t fly from Tegel much, but I understood why people fought for it. It was a small thing—the ability to leave your apartment and be at the gate before your coffee got cold. The efficiency wasn’t romantic, but it mattered. It was infrastructure that worked so well you barely noticed it. Then it was gone, and suddenly everything was harder, and you realized what you’d been taking for granted.
Tegel closed. BER eventually became functional, sort of. The city moved on. Most people forgot there was ever another option. The practical gets invisible until it disappears, and the new becomes inevitable, even when the new is clearly worse. That’s how infrastructure works in cities.
Snapchat, Periscope, Twitch—I’ve watched people livestream their lunch, their commute, their thoughts, just broadcasting their mundane lives to strangers who barely care. Now Instagram’s joining in. They’re adding livestreaming to Stories because apparently 100 million daily users weren’t enough of an audience for your unfiltered moment.
The formula is simple: your broadcast disappears when you stop, you get an hour maximum, you control the comments. Instagram’s rolling it out slowly, testing in a few countries before it hits the US, Germany, UK in a couple weeks.
There’s something appealing about it, I think. The immediacy. No editing, no curation, just point and speak. And since Stories vanish, it feels more casual than a YouTube video, more raw than streaming on Twitch. That’s the pitch, anyway.
But it’s still just another way to turn your afternoon into content. To make the unremarkable feel worth watching. Instagram knows this. They’re betting that’s what you want—a frictionless way to be seen by people following you, even if they’re not really watching, just scrolling while their coffee gets cold.
I’ll probably try it once. Then I’ll forget about it, like I do with most new features. The thing I wonder about is the people who don’t forget—the ones who start streaming every moment, every thought, every nothing. Does it change how they experience things? Or does it just get boring first?
Adi Ulmansky. That name already sounds cool. She keeps it short to just Adi anyway, which is the right call. Guarantee some German athletic brand is already trying to figure out how to collab with her, inevitable really, but that’s beside the point.
Her new song is “Dreamin’.” It’s about the stuff people usually won’t talk about — depression, the meds that come with it, all those fragile and raw and honest things. She does it without losing the bite, keeps the sarcasm and humor woven through it, lets it all sit together without contradiction.
What gets me is that she’s visibly perpetually high, and it just doesn’t read as a problem or a contradiction. If anything, the drugs are clearly helping her make better music. Which isn’t news — we’ve known that forever — but apparently it’s still worth saying.
We’re online all the time. Nobody thinks about it anymore, just the baseline. So when the UK government decides to keep a year of your browsing history, your messages, who you talk to — the whole map of your digital life — it doesn’t feel like surveillance anymore. It’s just how it works. Theresa May figures security beats privacy. That’s the trade we made, whether or not anyone asked.
Then there’s Mark Zuckerberg making the media rounds, saying Facebook didn’t really help spread election lies. Which is absurd enough that you stop being angry and just kind of accept it. Everyone knows what that platform does. The real strangeness is how we’ve all settled into a world where the lies are public, everyone sees them, and nobody does anything about it. It’s just part of the background now.
Germany’s setting up an agency to crack encrypted messages. The one place you thought was private gets a backdoor. Same story everywhere — governments pushing for access, companies handing it over, all of it technical enough that it becomes invisible. In Berlin the coalition government at least tried to push back. They protected whistleblowers, got open source funding, killed some of the worst overreach. Small victories against the trend.
The trend is everything. More watching, less privacy, total surveillance dressed up as security. It doesn’t feel dramatic because it isn’t anymore. It’s just the air we breathe online. You know you’re being logged. Everyone does. And you keep using it anyway because what else are you going to do, go offline? That’s not an option. That’s the design. The trap is cozy. Depressing in how normal it is.
Went to a will.i.am headphone launch at the Voo Store in Berlin. Influencers and models, Kendall Jenner didn’t make it. Will.i.am’s actually into technology — he’s been interested in it for years — so the whole product launch felt less hollow than it usually does.
I keep watching Orange is the New Black even though it’s not perfect — no show is. Something about these women in prison, the laughter and cruelty and weight of it, keeps pulling me back season after season. I need to know what happens.
Flaca is one of those characters that stays with you. Jackie Cruz plays her, and there’s something cool about it that feels real — smart and beautiful and making the mistakes young women make when they think the future is something that happens to other people. When only now matters.
I found Jackie’s story through a VICE documentary called Autobiographies, where she talks about how she got into acting, what she wanted, and what she survived. Because she nearly died. She lived through the same kind of reckless thinking her character does on screen — that belief that nothing can touch you. Almost cost her everything.
What sticks with me is the recognition. The actress who plays this reckless character actually lived through something that similar. That changes what you’re watching.
Sarah Nicole Harvey makes self-portraits in Toronto. She’s been working as a model for a few years—bridal campaigns, beauty shoots, magazine placements, the professional circuit—but the work that actually matters is what she does alone, with her own camera and no one else’s direction.
She made a series called “Bored Stiff.” The concept is simple and direct: coffee, cigarette, undressed, tired. She points the camera at herself when she’s feeling restless and bored, documenting that actual feeling instead of performing something better. That’s the whole project.
There’s something honest in it. Most self-portraits you see are people trying to look good—either aspirational or consciously artistic or both. Sarah’s just tired and unwilling to fake anything. The cigarette and coffee aren’t styled props; they’re what you actually do when you’re alone and restless. It’s the only way to photograph yourself that doesn’t look like a performance.
I recognize that energy. Everyone on Instagram looks like they’re having a good time. Everyone in the professional photos is lit perfectly and smiling. The only way to make an image of yourself that feels true is to stop caring if it looks flattering. Document the boredom instead of selling the happiness. That’s the move.
Three weeks ago I heard Red Velvet’s “Russian Roulette” and I was done. No resistance, no real explanation, just gone. I don’t understand Korean. I don’t understand K-pop. I understand that the production is clean and the melody hooks something in your brain that language never reaches, and that’s enough.
This is what happens when you get pulled into that world. You hear one song and it sounds fine, cute even, and you don’t grasp a single lyric but something about the sweetness in it, the sharp engineering, the visual design—it all just works. Then you’re trapped. Colorful, loud, impossible to leave, and you don’t even want to anymore.
Red Velvet has five members: Irene, Seulgi, Wendy, Joy, Yeri. I know this now. I know “Happiness” and “Ice Cream Cake” and “Dumb Dumb” without trying. But I still can’t tell Girls’ Generation from SISTAR, I don’t know why that one girl from 2NE1 keeps flashing through my head, and I’ve given up trying to understand what After School is supposed to be.
“Russian Roulette” is probably about love being dangerous, or maybe just about the literal game. Does it matter? The song isn’t designed for understanding. It’s designed to bypass your brain entirely and hit something deeper, something that doesn’t need translation. And it works.
So now I’m looking at Duolingo wondering what happened to my life.
When Chupa Chups came out with the tongue-staining gimmick, I was totally into them. The colors—bright industrial blues and greens—would stain your mouth black, which felt dangerous in a ridiculous kid way. But the flavors were just standard candy. Apple. Strawberry. Nothing unexpected.
I found out about Lollyphile a while back, this company in San Francisco making lollipops that taste like pizza and beer and breastmilk. The breastmilk one is genuinely strange, but I respect what they’re doing. They decided candy didn’t have to stay cute and innocent.
The full lineup is wild. Chocolate bacon. Cornflakes. Green tea. Sriracha. Mojito. Wasabi. Eight bucks each. You only buy them if you actually want to know what pizza lollipop tastes like. Not for the joke of it. Just to know.
Using candy as an excuse to taste combinations that shouldn’t go together. Wasabi and sugar. Bacon and chocolate. It shouldn’t work but it does.
When you first land in Tokyo, you notice them before anything else. Not the neon, not the crowds — the vending machines. They’re on every corner, down every alley, in the middle of nowhere on country roads. You can’t escape them.
Photographer Edward Way has spent years documenting these machines across Japan. He’s pointed out that they’re the densest vending machine population in the world — more per square mile than anywhere else — and they’re doing something beyond just selling drinks. They’re reshaping urban space, filling the gaps between domestic and public life, becoming these small monuments to how people organize themselves around the spaces they move through.
There’s something both efficient and slightly unsettling about it. In the West, vending machines feel like an afterthought — you find them in office hallways and truck stops, and you use one because you need something and nothing else is nearby. But here, they feel like part of the actual architecture. They’re not squeezed into leftover space; space is organized around them.
And they sell everything — not just the obvious cold drinks and hot coffee, rotated by season, but fruit, clothing, umbrellas, all the small things you might need in a moment. I’ve heard about machines in rural areas that become gathering points, little commercial anchors in empty space.
I don’t know if it says something meaningful about Japanese efficiency or just about space being understood differently. But watching people move through Tokyo, pausing at a machine like someone elsewhere might duck into a café, you get a sense that these machines aren’t really serving people so much as people have organized themselves around them until you can’t tell the difference anymore.
They gathered at Gretchen one night with a simple constraint: each DJ plays one song. Just one. It sounds small, almost pointless, until you realize what it actually forces.
Most of the time DJing is about building something — layering tracks, creating momentum, pulling people through a journey. You have all night. But take that away and suddenly everyone’s in the same position. A legend gets sixty seconds, same as someone nobody’s heard of. One track to say something. No elaborate setup, no second chance at getting it right. Just: here’s what I love.
The lineup was a mix: Nina Hagen, Palina Rojinski, Markus Kavka, DJ Hell, Oliver Koletzki, and dozens of others from every corner of the Berlin scene. Techno lifers next to mainstream personalities, people you’d never expect on the same bill. That’s Berlin — no hierarchy, just a lot of different voices wanting to say something at the same moment.
The whole thing was either going to be transcendent or a total slog. A hundred songs, a hundred visions, no connective tissue between them. Could work. Could fall apart. But it’s a thought worth having — that maybe you learn something true about what someone loves when you strip away the scaffolding and they have to choose just one track. When they can’t hide. When it’s real.
I’d be lying if I said I had noble ambitions. Peace on earth, bread for the world—sure, those would be nice. But what I actually want is Kate Upton.
Sebastian Faena shot her for V Magazine as the perfect housewife, except the whole thing falls apart immediately. She’s not managing anything. She’s just in bed with a dog, standing in the kitchen, waiting by a phone in the bathroom. The concept is dead on arrival, but it doesn’t matter because she looks perfect just being there in a bathrobe.
Most of her work is styled magazine machinery. These photos are different—just her in normal light, in actual rooms, with real mess (dog on the bed, unflattering bathroom tiles). And she’s still beautiful.
The housewife framing was never going to stick, and I think everyone knew that. So the photographer just let it go and photographed her as herself in her house. Which is better anyway.
Nike took five existing shoes and synthesized them into the LunarCharge. The neopren upper borrowed from the Air Flow, the bootie shape from the Presto, the lacing from the Air Max 90, the silhouette from the Air Current. Plus their latest Lunar running tech. On paper it sounds like a corporate spreadsheet, but the shoe actually comes together when you look at it.
The thing sits in this strange in-between space—part running shoe, part lifestyle sneaker, fully neither and somehow both. The proportions are clean. That neopren material has a specific weight to it, a drape that keeps the whole thing from feeling oversized. When a shoe pulls this hard from five different references it usually reads as confused, like a committee couldn’t decide. This one has some kind of coherence to it.
What I actually like is that it doesn’t hide what it’s pulling from. The Presto bootie is legible, the Air Max 90 lacing is right there, the Current profile is visible in the shape. It’s not trying to synthesize these things into some new unified language. It’s just being honest about what it’s borrowing and how it’s assembled. Most contemporary Nikes feel like they’re hiding something. This one doesn’t pretend.
I don’t know if I’d actually wear it, but there’s something refreshing about the design thinking being this clear. It feels like someone made an actual choice.
Late nights in the offices, dancing until the cleaners showed up. Every week tape.tv threw a party—another band, another reason to stay out and pretend it was building something. I was there for most of it. Met good people. Saw good shows. Andi and I papered some small Austrian villages with tape.tv stickers while English guys in that particular state of drunkenness yelled encouragement and threw vodka around. Karl and I found the worst bars in Weißensee and made them worse. Wenke and I somehow ended up terrorizing Melt.
That was tape.tv, or at least that’s what I remember.
The company had its moment. Around 2010, 2011, they were doing actual television—concert series, format work for ZDF.kultur, pulling over 11 million visits a month. It looked like the internet music thing might actually work, at least in Berlin, at least for a while. But YouTube and VEVO were already too big. The traffic started dropping. By 2014 it was under 700,000. Layoffs came. They moved to smaller offices. The thing fell apart quietly, the way things do when the money doesn’t work out the way you’d planned.
I kept hearing rumors—too fast growth, unhappy people, the usual catastrophe gossip you pick up when too many of your friends work in Berlin media. But you don’t want to believe them about a place where you actually had a good time, so you don’t think about it too hard. Then the insolvency notice lands and you have to.
Companies come and go, especially here, especially online. I’m just glad tape.tv happened, and I’m glad I was around for the parties. The people there were good. Worth remembering.
The Yeezy Boost 350 V2 dropped in three black colorways that November — copper stripe, green stripe, red stripe — and everyone wanted them. By then the original 350 had already become something real, something Kanye designed rather than just slapped his name on. The V2 refined it: Primeknit upper, Boost sole, a ribbed rubber outsole that looked like contour lines on a map, the SPLY-350 lettering running down as a code that started as an inside reference and became an outside symbol.
I’m not sure it was beautiful. Severe, maybe. The kind of minimal that reads as luxury even when it’s mass-manufactured and available everywhere, which destroyed the mystique before it could really settle. The original 350 felt like something you hunted for. The V2 just existed, inevitable as a style.
This was the moment Kanye finished moving into pure design. He wasn’t a musician making sneakers anymore — he was a designer who made music as a side thing. The energy translated: ambitious, dense, sometimes at odds with itself, but completely there.
I never owned a pair. They looked right but fit wrong — the Boost sole stiff, the upper narrow where it needed to breathe. By the time I tried them on, whatever cultural gravity had surrounded them had already shifted. I was looking from outside, which probably felt right.
Looking back, the 350 V2 sits at a strange peak. Not his peak of influence, but a peak of a certain kind of inevitability. The shoes are everywhere. Nobody thinks about them anymore.
You can see it in my flat stomach and the way my hands shake—I lived on instant ramen for years. Nissin mostly, whatever packet was cheapest. Duck, beef, vegetable flavors all tasting like the same salt. If you’ve been broke, you know this food. It’s not food you think about, it’s just math.
Momofuku Ando invented instant ramen in Japan after World War II. He wanted to solve a hunger crisis. Built something cheap and fast that would actually work. It did, and it kept working. Decades later, millions of people still eating what he made.
The thing is, it’s still here. Still in every supermarket, still doing the same job. Still feeding anyone who needs it. The solution to postwar starvation became casual food, college food, broke food—the thing you eat when you don’t want to think. And that’s what stuck.
Sometimes I buy a packet and remember what that salt tastes like, remember being young and broke with no other options. Not nostalgic about it, just remembering.
The box arrived Monday afternoon in December. June Korea opened it with shaking hands. Eva was inside—still in parts—and he assembled her carefully, gave her a name, started taking her everywhere. Restaurants, parks, bed. Ten thousand dollars for a woman who would never age, never leave, never surprise him.
A salesman had told him the pitch: “She won’t leave. She won’t die. She’ll always look exactly like this.” That’s all the promise. Not love. Not even companionship, really. Just permanence.
Most people get lonely and do something about it quietly. June did this instead, and then photographed it, which somehow made it more serious—not an art-school thing but something rawer. Eva will outlive him. He bought that. He keeps buying it, every time he comes home.
There’s something almost unbearably honest about it. Not the transaction itself, but his willingness to be public about being this lonely. Everyone feels this sometimes. Everyone. But we usually hide it until we forget we’re hiding it. He didn’t. He brought Eva to dinner.
In the end Eva wins. She’s built for it. He isn’t. She’ll still be beautiful and unchanging when he’s gone, still be there, still be impossible to explain. But for a while they were together, and he made it mean something by refusing to pretend it was anything other than what it was. That’s all any of us really do anyway—try to prove that we existed, try to turn loneliness into something that looks like a life.
“I had three children. Two of them died. Only one is left.” Kamala Kumari Pariyar said this to someone from Human Rights Watch, sitting in the shade outside her house in Nepal’s southern Terai. She was married when she was thirteen. That’s where it started—everything else came after.
Nepal’s government promised to end child marriage by 2020. Then 2030. Activists watch the same nothing happen. Thirty-seven percent of girls marry before eighteen. Ten percent before fifteen. The legal age is twenty. It’s not like they don’t know the law exists.
Nepal’s third in Asia for child marriages. Only two countries worse.
Human Rights Watch interviewed a hundred and four kids—talked to them about what marriage meant, what men meant, what it felt like to have children when you’re barely an adult yourself. Their answers are probably what Kamala could have told you at thirteen: that this wasn’t what they wanted, and it happened anyway.
I think about that—about Kamala in the shade with her one surviving child, and the thirteen-year-old version of her, before anything was decided. About how systems become so normal that pushing a deadline back ten years seems like an actual plan.
The 505’s been around since 1967. That’s long enough to watch the Summer of Love unfold and then outlast most of the people who were actually there. By the seventies, it had already moved from counterculture artifact into punk uniform — Debbie Harry wore them, the Ramones wore them, and suddenly a pair of Levi’s became the thing you wore if you mattered. They still look the same now, which might be why they still work.
There was some big launch party for the new 505C at the Bowery Ballroom in Manhattan a while back. The usual suspects showed up — Debbie Harry, Zoë Kravitz, and others who don’t need to prove anything by wearing the right jeans because they’re the ones who define what the right jeans are. The whole thing probably looked exactly like you’d expect: a room full of cool people making official what’s already obvious.
Debbie Harry said something at the party that stuck with me. “Blue jeans have always stood for America,” she said. “When the wall came down and the Eastern Bloc fell apart, all those kids wanted was blue jeans.” There’s the whole Cold War wrapped up in that observation — the 505 as American export, as freedom, as something so simple and so loaded at the same time. A pair of jeans that people risked everything to get.
I still don’t know what makes a garment stay relevant for nearly fifty years. Trends cycle out. Styles get corrupted and abandoned. But the 505 just stayed what it was meant to be — not a reference, not a statement, just the blue jeans that work and that mean something because the right people have always worn them. Maybe that’s the whole thing right there.
I’m missing summer. Really missing it. I thought if I got the right setup—decent pillows, Netflix, hot cocoa—I could coast through the dark months without feeling it. But I’m missing summer. Can’t shake it.
I miss running in shorts without the threat of freezing solid. I miss buying ice cream without someone looking at me like I’ve done something obscene. I miss the sun. The actual sun, not the idea of it. The thing that burns down and makes you feel alive.
Then I saw these photographs of Paula Bulczynska, shot by Alessandro Casagrande for P Magazine. She’s just there in the light, completely at ease, looking exactly the way you want to feel in summer. And that’s when I understood: I’m not missing summer at all. I just want her life. That ease. That comfort with the heat and sun.
MØ’s hot. That’s not news and it’s not the whole picture, but it’s the first thing you notice. She’s got the kind of presence that fills whatever space she’s in—not because she’s trying, but because she just doesn’t fit anywhere else. When she started performing, the temperature changed in every room she walked into.
“Drum” is her new track, and the video is a road trip. Just her, a couple of guys, the open road, that feeling of pure motion with nowhere specific to go. Windows down, freedom, all of it. It’s the fantasy that every road trip song tries to sell, but most of them get wrong. She doesn’t.
The song itself is hypnotic in a way that sneaks up on you. First listen, it doesn’t announce anything. Second listen, you’re starting to hear it. Third listen, it’s the only thing in your head. Most pop songs are designed to grab you immediately, but “Drum” doesn’t play that game. It moves at its own pace and assumes you’re smart enough to catch up.
There’s something smart about the way MØ exists between pop and something weirder, something that doesn’t care about lanes or categories. “Drum” is entirely that. It’s a song about motion and leaving, about that specific hollow feeling of wanting to escape that’s half-real and half-pure fantasy. You know it won’t fix anything, but you listen anyway because the feeling is good.
The video captures it perfectly. Just people driving, and that’s enough. MØ in the center of it all, calm and certain, like she’s already figured out something the rest of us are still working on. That’s the real thing here.
Finding actual good tea in Germany is harder than you’d think. Supermarkets are full of tea, but it’s mostly dust and flavorings — your basic blends are indistinguishable once you’ve had something real.
Paper & Tea is a Berlin company that decided to treat tea seriously. Not precious-seriously, just actually-seriously. Their Master Blends are combinations that sound weird on paper but taste exact: green tea with strawberry and basil, black tea with tobacco and fig, white tea with apricot and elderberry. Sprite’s Delight, Perfect Day, Jackpot Derby. The names sound like they could be self-parody, but the tea isn’t.
What’s unusual about these is they’re not oversaturated. Most specialty blends taste like a perfume bottle exploded — they throw everything at you at once. These are proportioned with restraint. The tobacco note in the black tea doesn’t overwhelm the fig. The basil in the green tea doesn’t bury the strawberry. The tea is the point, and the other ingredients make specific changes to it.
I don’t know when I started caring about this level of detail in tea. But there’s something satisfying about finding something where the work is obvious, where someone clearly thought through the balance instead of just mixing things that sound good together.
I found these t-shirts on Kai-You, a Japanese site that traffics in exactly the kind of novelty design that shouldn’t work but somehow does. Cats in space. Cats on pizza. Cats exploding in front of impossible fireballs. Not clever. Not trying to be clever. Just pure, unfiltered absurdism on a t-shirt.
There’s something I appreciate about design that commits fully to its own stupidity. Most shirts are trying to communicate something, hit a demographic, establish taste or identity. These just wanted a cat and some chaos. A burning unicorn vomiting rainbows with a cat riding it. Not a metaphor, not a joke you have to understand — just the image, fully rendered, fully sincere.
Your life is probably boring in that specific gray way where nothing’s catastrophically wrong but nothing’s right either. I’m not going to sell you on the idea that a novelty t-shirt fixes that. But there’s something almost respectful about merchandise that exists purely to be absurd, no apologies, no winking. Just a designer, a printer, and a commitment to cats in the worst possible circumstances.
The internet has broken the economics of production. You can now manufacture literally anything for almost nothing, and somewhere, someone will want it. Someone designed every one of these shirts. Spent time on it. Thought about a cat on a rocket. Thought about fire. Put them together. And now it exists. The sheer pointless dedication to novelty feels like its own kind of authenticity in a world of calculated appeals.
Rakutaro Ogiwara photographs Japan’s youth the way someone who actually loves the country sees them—not through some tourist lens, but as people navigating a specific kind of pressure. Creative, playful, often lonely. The loneliness isn’t weakness; it’s the feeling of being bright in a system built on constraint.
Based in Sagamihara, he shares these moments on Instagram. There’s no intrusion in them, no performance. Just careful attention. He has an eye for the exact thing that gives you away: the way someone holds themselves when they think nobody’s looking, the expression that contains an entire thought you’ll never hear out loud. There’s intelligence in these faces. Shyness too. The two things living at the same time.
What I appreciate about the work is that it doesn’t perform anything. No pity, no admiration, no grand statement. Just looking. There’s something in Japanese culture about the power of restraint, and Ogiwara understands that. His photographs are restrained too. They let the subject breathe. And in that space, you feel the complexity of being young, creative, and stuck inside very specific boxes.
He’s not exposing anything or making some statement about Japan. He’s just documenting what it looks like when people who are too interesting for their circumstances find a way to exist anyway. Doing it with enough respect and attention that the work feels like a gift to the people in it.
Most of what people wear now comes from three sources—the same creators, the same algorithm, the same warehouses. After a certain age you want something that doesn’t look like everyone else’s attempt at looking everyone else.
Reclaimed Vintage does the simple thing: it reaches backward. 60s prints, 70s cuts, 90s slouch. The collection spans about sixty years of actual style—pieces that meant something to someone, not trends manufactured to fill shelf space.
What works is that it doesn’t feel like costume. These pieces breathe like things someone wore, not a designer’s simulation of age. Real oversized prints on the shirts, wide-leg pants cut to proper proportions instead of some modern reference to them. It reads as retro now only because actual design stopped somewhere around 2008.
I’ve collected vintage pieces for years—not as a declared aesthetic, just because older pieces are cut differently, built differently, fit different bodies. They were made when there was still room for variation in how a man could dress without it being a statement. Now everything’s locked down so tight that wearing a 70s shirt reads as a choice, which defeats the whole point. The thing is, it just exists and you like it.
But if you want to dress like something other than the person next to you, this is an actual shortcut. No algorithm, no influencer mythology. Just old ideas about what works. Sometimes that’s enough.
Every piece of tech I own looks basically the same — black plastic, cables, nothing worth looking at twice. At some point the industry decided design doesn’t matter, or at least matters less than whether something works. I stopped looking for beautiful technology years ago.
There’s this thing going around called FemTech, and the basic idea is so simple it feels weird to talk about: a product can look good and work well at the same time. Hair removal devices you’d actually want to own. Apps that feel designed instead of like someone’s side project. Home devices that don’t look like they’re apologizing for being technology.
What gets me is that it took creating an entire separate category — and specifically marketing it to women — to make that feel normal. That products could be both functional and beautiful. That design matters. The fact that this is notable at all tells you something about who’s been making decisions in tech.
Something that happens every December: the department stores get crowded around 3 PM, people looking panicked, kids crying, someone’s mother-in-law trying on the same sweater in three colors. I used to go to one of these places on December 23rd, thinking I could pick up whatever was left, and it was always chaos—people shouting at their kids, the checkout lines snaking through the toy section, everyone moving like they’re the only one in the store. You’d think by now we’d know better.
Christmas is supposed to be a moment to step back from all of it. A week where you’re not supposed to be going anywhere, where time is supposed to slow down, where you can actually sit with the people who matter and not be thinking about your email. That’s the idea anyway. In practice it’s the opposite: more running around, more buying, more decorating, more cooking, more wrapping, more noise. The whole machine just accelerates.
I think somewhere along the way we decided that the size of the gift pile proves that you care. That a Christmas dinner has to be elaborate and stressful to mean something. That if your house isn’t covered in lights and tinsel, you’re doing it wrong. None of that is true, but we act like it is.
There’s something about the season that makes people lose their minds. You end up in these moments where your mother is stressed about chopping vegetables, your sister is stressed about finding the right present, your grandmother has already told the same story three times, and everyone’s wound so tight that nobody’s actually present for any of it. You’re all in the same room, but you’re all mentally somewhere else—at the next store, at the next task, at the next thing that has to be perfect.
What if you just didn’t. What if you sat down with your sister instead of running to the mall. What if you told your mother she doesn’t need to cook like it’s a restaurant opening. What if you actually looked at your grandmother when she’s talking, instead of planning your escape. It sounds simple because it is. But somewhere we decided that presence wasn’t enough, that we had to prove our love through consumption and exhaustion.
I’m not saying don’t give gifts or don’t cook or don’t decorate. I’m saying the point of all of it should be the time together, not the thing. And if the thing is getting in the way of the time, then you’ve already lost. That’s the part I always come back to.
A startup gets a regional innovation prize for designing a quiet vibrator. Third place, five grand. Pretty normal innovation stuff, the kind of thing that gets announced and forgotten. Except the AfD decided to make it mean something.
Thomas Hartung, vice-chair of the AfD in Saxony, couldn’t let it go. He released a statement—actual political capital spent on this—explaining that while Germany once invented drum-driven washing machines and functioning locomotives, now we’re celebrating sex toys. You can feel the weight he was trying to give it, the sense that something sacred had been violated. Germany’s honor. Germany’s future. All connected to whether women have orgasms.
I kept reading his actual argument, which basically came down to: women with vibrators means fewer babies means Germany dies. It’s clean logic if you don’t think about it. If you ignore how contraception works, or how sexuality actually functions, or that people who enjoy sex are more likely to have it. None of that mattered. He needed a simple story: sex toys are an existential threat.
What interests me is the specific desperation underneath this. When someone gets that worked up about women’s solo sexuality, when the future of the nation comes down to controlling what happens in private bedrooms, there’s a real panic there. Not about policy or economics or anything fixable. It’s about relevance. It’s about a world moving on without you, and knowing you can’t actually stop the things that matter, so you attack a vibrator startup. You make it cosmic. You turn it into proof of decline.
The responses were predictable. Biology was explained. Someone pointed out the absurdity of policing women’s pleasure while worried about birth rates. One response hit just right—dry observation that if any confused right-wingers were reading, they might want to learn how contraception actually works.
The thing that stuck with me wasn’t the stupidity of his position so much as the fact that he thought it was worth saying. That he believed it was good politics. That meant the fear was real. Not the fear about vibrators, obviously. The fear about something else—demographic shifts, cultural change, the sense that the country he imagined was disappearing. And because he couldn’t actually do anything about that, he picked a fight with a toy company instead.
The Orlando shooting happened in June 2016, and it was one of those moments where doing nothing felt obscene. Some designers—Fabian Hart and a few others—decided to make something instead. A T-shirt. It sounds small, maybe it was, but they put real thought into it.
The shirt was tied to UNESCO’s International Day for Tolerance, which I’ll be honest, I’d never really given it much thought before. But the idea was simple: the German constitution says all people are equal, regardless of gender, origin, belief, sexuality. Print that principle on a shirt. Let people wear it if they wanted to.
What surprised me was how direct the execution was. No charity angle, no donation model, no performance. Just a piece of clothing that meant something to the people who wore it. Fair-trade production, limited edition—the kind of details that suggest someone actually cared whether this should exist at all.
I remember seeing photos of it on people with some platform—photographers, YouTubers, the usual names. They weren’t being told to wear it, exactly, but they did. You put something on your body, you’re saying something without having to speak.
I never bought one, and I don’t know how many actually sold or what real impact any of it had. The specifics don’t matter much anymore. What I remember is someone trying to make something tangible in response to an atrocity. Not talking, not performing sadness—just designing a shirt and putting it out there. That kind of gesture stays with you.
I was looking at Bradford’s photographs of Jessica moving through the vintage shops on Brick Lane and realizing that there’s a specific kind of attention baked into the work. Not just technical skill, though that’s there—the light’s controlled, the composition’s solid. But something about the way he’s positioned the camera catches the moment when someone’s actually looking at something, really seeing it, not just performing for the camera.
The shops on Brick Lane are dense. Racks of vintage fabric, leather jackets that have genuinely lived, shelves of stuff that’s been collected and discarded and collected again. It smells like time in there. You walk in and the temperature drops and the light changes and suddenly you’re surrounded by decades at once. The people who shop there know what they’re doing. They’re not tourists buying a story. They’re looking for pieces that matter to them for reasons that go beyond what’s fashionable right now.
Jessica moves through the space with that same deliberate attention. She’s not posing for the camera—the photographs are documenting her actually looking. The moment her hand touches a jacket. The shift in her expression when a piece catches her eye. The way she examines something like it might tell her something about itself. Bradford’s framed these moments in a way that makes the space feel intimate even though it’s crowded and commercial and real.
What gets me about work like this is how it takes something invisible and makes it visible. The act of actually paying attention to something—how much presence it takes, how it changes the quality of a moment. You see it in these photographs. Jessica isn’t just moving through the shop. She’s bringing real attention to the looking. That becomes the subject of the photograph. Not Jessica herself or the clothes. The attention.
Bradford decided that mattered enough to photograph. He brought technical skill and compositional care to make it visible. And somehow that decision—that the ordinary moment of someone really looking at something is worth looking closely at—is what makes these work.
Masaharu Morimoto started cooking when he was eighteen and just never stopped. That was forty years ago. Born in Hiroshima, he could have been a baseball player—that was the dream—but an injury changed the trajectory and now he’s spent more time with a knife than most people spend at their jobs.
What strikes me about Morimoto is his directness. No technique obscured in mystique, no cultural authenticity for the camera. He brought Japanese food to a western audience by refusing to soften it, which is backward from how most chefs operate. You don’t translate sushi. You just get very good at it and let people figure out why it matters.
I think what catches people about someone who’s been doing the same thing for that long is that they stop trying. The ambition burns off after a few years and you’re left with craft, which is quieter. Morimoto doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone—not to his customers, not to critics, not to himself. He solved the problem decades ago.
There’s a version of success where achieving what you wanted makes you hollow, where winning the game makes the game itself feel pointless. Morimoto isn’t that. He seems genuinely indifferent to the fame, which is probably why the fame never made him worse. He still shows up and does the work the same way he did when nobody cared. That’s rare enough that it’s worth noticing.
The funny thing about pursuing mastery is that it doesn’t feel like climbing toward something anymore. It feels like standing still while everything else gets louder around you. Morimoto’s been there the whole time—same place, same hands, same knife angles. Everyone else just caught up.
A photographer named Aston Husumu Hwang—or Sungmin Hwang, depending on which context you’re in—shot something in Seoul that most people miss when they’re busy streaming K-pop. He documented young people who have something to prove, not to the world but to themselves. Proof that you can live in a system designed to optimize you into nothing and still dress like you know exactly who you are.
K-pop gets all the attention, obviously. 2NE1, G-Dragon, Girls’ Generation—the whole machine is export-ready, packaged, global. But beneath that layer is a city where kids are navigating something most of us don’t have to think about: existing between superpowers, in a society that measures your worth by grades and money and looks. The pressure is inescapable. It’s in the air. It’s the default setting.
What Hwang’s photographs show is resistance that doesn’t announce itself. Not organized, not political in the traditional sense. Just a refusal. The way these kids dress is almost obsessive—perfect hair, precise outfits, considered down to the last accessory. It reads like armor. Like someone saying, in the only way available to them right now: I have control over at least this. I will not be optimized.
There’s something about a well-dressed person standing absolutely still, refusing to shrink. That’s what I see in these photographs. A young person in Seoul, aware of all the machinery surrounding them, all the pressure, all the expectations, and they’re just calm. Dressed immaculately. Present. That calmness is its own kind of rebellion.
Sailor Moon wasn’t the kind of show you watched and forgot about. It was the kind of thing that stuck in your head different, that rewired something.
Usagi’s not noble. She’s lazy. She’d rather sleep than save the world. But she shows up anyway, which is what makes her strong — not because of any special power, but because she keeps doing it even when it’s hard. And then there’s Ami with her intelligence, Rei with her rage at injustice, Makoto with her strength, Minako with her confidence. Four completely different women who are all powerful, all complete. Not types. Not symbols. Just people.
What mattered was that the show never once suggested being beautiful and being competent were in competition. Never made you choose between wanting to be desired and wanting to matter. Haruka and Michiru just existed as women who loved each other — no explanation, no big deal, just part of the world. That’s how you knew the show understood something true.
For a lot of kids watching, that was the moment the box came apart. You could be more than one thing. You could want things that didn’t fit anyone’s narrative. Your sexuality didn’t have to be written the way people expected.
The plot is there — monster, fight, romance — but that’s just mechanics. What you’re actually watching is people becoming themselves.
It mattered more than I understood at the time. Still does, in ways I don’t fully have language for.
The NMD never quite went away. It had that moment in the mid-2010s when it stopped being a design thing and became actual culture, and now it’s comfortable enough in itself to support rereleases and collaborators without getting nostalgic about it. The shoe works because it found something useful in the space between technical and casual.
This R2 is a straightforward refinement. Primeknit upper—boring by now, honestly—with waxed suede on the heel and a patterned detail they call “Shadow Noise,” which is one of those corporate names that actually describes something: a tonal texture that prevents the shoe from reading as a flat surface. EVA framing around the Boost midsole adds visual weight without adding actual weight, the kind of detail work that turns a single form into something with rhythm.
It’s not arguing for anything revolutionary. Adidas isn’t rethinking the NMD, and maybe that’s the right call. The shoe does what it promises without needing to sell you on it. You wear it. It works. That’s the whole thing.
What stays with me is that they keep iterating this line at all. It’s not their most ambitious shoe, not their most famous, but it carries something worth carrying forward: the idea that sneaker design can be honest work without claiming to remake the future. Sometimes it’s just about getting the proportions right, layering detail without noise, understanding how something sits on a foot and reads to the eye. The R2 does that. That’s the whole statement.
Matt Lassen, an illustrator for MAD Magazine, decided to reimagine cartoon characters as hipsters. Bart Simpson with a man-bun and vintage frames. SpongeBob in thrift-store chic. The Smurfs as the kind of guys who’d spend three hours discussing single-origin coffee.
By late 2016, hipster jokes were already stale — everyone had been making them for years, and the whole thing had aged into irrelevance. But Lassen went ahead anyway, probably because the premise was too good to waste. “I wanted to make a tribute to the cartoons I grew up with,” he explained. “I thought it would be funny to mix things I love with something I can’t stand: hipsters. They try so hard to be above everything that they basically become cartoon characters themselves.”
He’s right. The hipster movement collapsed under its own self-consciousness. They were so committed to not being clichés that they became the most obvious clichés imaginable. There’s something genuinely funny about watching that energy applied to cartoons — taking characters that were simple and earnest and dressing them in irony until they’re unrecognizable.
The cartoons I grew up with had a kind of stupid purity. SpongeBob didn’t wonder if his job was cool enough; he just loved it. Bart wasn’t performing punk rock; he was just being annoying. No self-consciousness, no careful curation of taste. But Lassen’s versions are wrong in a way that makes them funny. They’re trying to be something the originals never were, and failing in exactly the way a hipster would.
At some point they stopped calling them bloggers and started calling them influencers. Caro Daus, Sara from Collage Vintage, Nicole Mazzocato, Lisa Olsson — the people you followed because they had taste and the camera loved them. Levi’s had the straightforward idea: pool party with all of them in 501s, photogenic, let it run.
The honesty of it almost works. Everyone knows what’s happening. Beautiful people gather in daylight with a product. Followers watch. That’s the whole thing. The word shifted from “blogger” to “influencer” at some point, and that change made something explicit that was always there — these people are the product, or the vehicle for it. The old blogs at least pretended there was a private life in the margins. Not anymore.
Lisa Olsson in cold water, probably repositioning for angles for hours, and it’s worth it because her face and presence is exactly the kind of thing that makes people pay attention. You see her in a frame and you understand why. There’s no secret. It’s visual arithmetic.
The specific lineup matters — Caro, Sara, Nicole, Lisa. Those names together mean something. They signal an aesthetic, a taste level, a demographic. A brand sees that alignment and thinks, yes, that’s us. It’s market logic and it’s efficient.
A pool full of beautiful people in jeans. Clean lines. Perfect light. The algorithm knows exactly what it wants.
Nerds used to be the worst thing you could be. Kids with allergies running the chess club and computer labs—they’re CEOs now. Someone’s probably a billionaire. They won, and everything shifted around them.
What surprised me was the detail: you could actually be into that stuff and not look like you’d given up on yourself. You don’t need the vintage anime shirt with references only five people understand. You can care about games or code and still wear jeans that fit. For years, that wasn’t possible. You picked one or the other.
I think what actually changed wasn’t that nerd stuff became cool, but that you could like it without the uniform. Back then, your appearance was how you proved your loyalty—dressed as evidence. If you were serious about computers or comics, you had to look like you didn’t care about looking like anything. It was insane, but that was the contract.
Now you don’t. You can be into whatever you’re actually into and move through the world without broadcasting it in your clothes. Your interests don’t have to be visible in how you dress. That’s the freedom I notice. Small thing, maybe, but it changes something about how you exist.
McDonald’s Italy had a Nutella burger and it was exactly as ridiculous and perfect as it sounds — a bun with what must have been an entire jar of Nutella shoved inside and nothing else. I found out about it in 2016, back when the internet still showed you things you wanted to see instead of things it calculated would get you to click.
The appeal made a weird kind of sense. Someone at some McDonald’s somewhere decided breakfast and lunch didn’t need to stay separate, that you could just crash them together in the dumbest possible way and call it a meal. It was stupid and kind of brilliant. No apologies, no pretense. Just a delivery system for Nutella that happened to come in a bun.
The thing was it only existed in Italy. Which somehow made the whole thing better. You could drive down there, buy as many as you wanted before they disappeared, or you could just accept that the wanting might be better than the actual thing. The idea of it was probably sharper than eating it could be. I’m not sure I ever actually had one, but I remember wanting it. That wanting was vivid in a way that tastes almost never are.
There’s something clean about the existence of temporary things in one corner of the world. The Nutella burger was never going to matter to anyone, was never going to spread to other countries, was going to disappear and be replaced by something else. And that made it more real somehow than anything you could actually have. You remember wanting it more than you remember the taste.
It’s November and 2016 still isn’t fucking over. You’d think by now it would be finished with us, but instead there’s something new every day. Another shock, another betrayal, another thing to learn to live with.
Trump won. I keep thinking about that—not that he ran, but that enough people actually voted for him. And I watched women in my life realize in real time that none of it mattered. Nothing they’d believed in, nothing they’d been told, nothing they’d done. He won anyway.
Then Prince died. Then Bowie. Then Rickman. The year didn’t just destroy the present; it was erasing the past too.
John Oliver did this segment where he got people to just look at the camera and tell 2016 to fuck off. Celebrities, random people off the street, everyone just letting it out. There was this moment of collective relief, like we all needed permission to say it together. But it didn’t fix anything. It just proved we were all aware we were fucked and desperate for some kind of ritual to make it feel like we had control.
By late November I wasn’t thinking about what comes next. I was just hoping nothing else would break before January, which was obviously a stupid thing to hope for.
V Magazine threw its annual party in New York again, which means a certain density of beautiful people in one room at the kind of event where everyone’s dressed to prove something. Troye Sivan performed. The guest list read like a modeling agency roster mixed with people who exist primarily on Instagram—Taylor Hill, Gigi Hadid, Kacy Hill, and a bunch of others whose names blur together when you’re scrolling through photos the next day.
I used to care more about these things. There’s something about the fashion industry party that appeals to a designer—the concentrated attention to how people present themselves, the calculated casualness, the sense that every outfit is a small statement about where you sit in some invisible hierarchy. You go to these things and you notice the cuts, the fabric choices, who’s taking risks and who’s just wearing what they know works.
But after a while you realize that’s all it is. Everyone’s beautiful, everyone’s wearing something expensive or clever or both, and it means almost nothing. The photos come out the next day and you scroll through them and think about how much effort went into an evening that will be completely forgotten by next month. Taylor Hill wore something. Gigi wore something else. Brad Kroenig was there. Maxwell Osborne was there. A designer, a model, another model, another person whose job is partly to exist at parties.
What stays with me isn’t the fashion or the guest list. It’s the weird ecosystem these parties reveal—how much of celebrity culture is just people showing up to prove they’re worth showing up for. The performance of being in the room becomes more important than anything that happens in the room. Troye Sivan played songs. Everyone smiled at the cameras. That was the whole thing.
I still look at the photos sometimes, but not because I care who was there. I’m curious about the texture of it all, the feeling of being at the exact moment when fashion and fame and design converge into something that photographs well and means very little.
A Bathing Ape, the Tokyo streetwear label that somehow managed to stay cool for thirty years, did what high-end designers occasionally do when they discover that video games exist: they made t-shirts. The collaboration was with Capcom, so we’re talking about actual franchises—Resident Evil, Monster Hunter, Mega Man, Phoenix Wright, Super Ghouls ’n Ghosts. Not some random licensed grab.
What struck me wasn’t the novelty of it. It’s that Bathing Ape treated these games with the same design attention they’d give to anything else. The shirts aren’t trying to be ironic or nostalgic or winking at some audience. They’re just nice. Clean graphics, good color choices, the kind of restraint that separates actual design from merch. You know the difference when you see it.
I’ve been looking at video game apparel my whole life—the garbage t-shirt stands at conventions, the ironic ’80s references, the stuff that screams “I LIKE THIS THING” in the loudest way possible. This is different. It’s the work of people who understand that you can mention a game without spelling it out, without shouting it.
Resident Evil, in particular, carries weight as a franchise. The iconography of those games is so strong that it doesn’t need help. Bathing Ape knew that. Same with Monster Hunter—that’s a game that understood character and visual design from the jump. Mega Man’s design legacy is basically untouchable. These aren’t properties that need saving or explaining. The collaboration felt less like “let’s make money off game fans” and more like “these games have design worth wearing.”
There’s something about pairing high-end streetwear with these specific Capcom franchises. It’s a quiet statement that games, at least the ones worth playing, are culture now. Not emerging culture or “surprising” culture. Just culture. And if a brand like Bathing Ape is willing to stake their reputation on it, then maybe we stopped needing to justify why we care about these things.
The thing about Tokyo brands is that they genuinely respect what they’re touching. That respect makes space for the subject to breathe. A game is still a game. A t-shirt is still a t-shirt. But when they meet at the right angle, something quiet happens.
YouTube is mostly unwatchable trash for me. Prank videos from morons, endless Let’s Plays, comment sections that are just pure vitriol. I don’t know why anyone spends time on it.
But vlogs—I could watch vlogs all day. There’s something about it that just works. You follow someone around for a few minutes, watch them exist in their space, see their day happen. You’re not actually in a relationship with them, they don’t know you’re watching, but you get to exist in their world for a bit. Then you close the video and that’s it. Nobody has to deal with anybody. Nobody gets disappointed.
Especially when it’s someone beautiful. I’m not going to dance around this one. There’s something about watching a pretty woman move through her day—how she talks, how she carries herself, what she does with her time—that makes you feel like you’re close to her. Like if you watched more you’d know her. You won’t, obviously. But while you’re watching, it feels like you do, and there’s something about that feeling that just works. You’re not alone. She’s not some distant thing you can never reach. You’re existing in the same space, sort of.
It’s the best parts of being with someone without any of the worst parts. All the closeness and want and intimacy without anyone having to actually do anything. You get to care about someone who can’t hurt you because the whole thing was never real to begin with.
I don’t know if that’s sad or if it’s just what the medium is designed to do. Probably both.
You walk through a door in Harajuku and normal Tokyo evaporates. The salary men, the towers, the strangled subway cars—gone. Sebastian Masuda designed the Kawaii Monster Café, so the sweetness that replaces everything is completely intentional, which is somehow worse and better at the same time. Unicorns you can actually sit on. Pink cakes the size of actual furniture. Milk bottles the size of your head dangling from the ceiling.
The place divides into zones—Sweets Go Round is the center, then Mushroom Disco, Milk Stand, Bar Experiment, Mel-Tea Room spinning off around it. Each one somehow more relentlessly cute than the last. The Monster Girls who work there fit the aesthetic perfectly, like they were built for the space rather than hired into it. Everything’s bright and crowded and aggressive about how much decoration it can sustain.
There’s something honest about committing this completely to sweetness. No irony, no wink, no “isn’t this funny how cutesy it is.” Just maximum sugar in every direction. You can pretend it’s ridiculous—and it kind of is—but that misses what’s actually happening when someone decides to make their vision of beautiful without compromise.
I stayed longer than planned. Shot photos I’ll never look at again. Ate something pink. The kind of place that feels like a mistake while you’re there and makes sense afterward.
This actually happened at UT Austin. Hundreds of students showed up with oversized rubber dildos strapped to their bodies to protest the campus carry law — you know, the Texas law that lets anyone 21 and older carry a loaded gun on campus and basically everywhere else. They decided the only way to fight absurdity was with more absurdity.
Rosie Zander, a history student involved in the protest, put it plainly. Getting young people to care about politics through normal channels is impossible, so you do something that can’t be ignored. You strap an enormous dildo to your body. You walk around with it visible. You make people feel that visceral wrongness about seeing something like that in public. That’s exactly what the law does, except it’s a gun and people actually die from it.
Jessica Jin, who helped organize it, was blunt about the aim. She wanted every student carrying one of those oversized rubber cocks to actually feel what campus carry means. The strangeness of moving through a public space with something that huge and out of place. The looks. The discomfort. The sense that something is deeply wrong. Then carry it anyway, openly, without shame, and let that sink in. Let yourself feel what it’s like when it’s a weapon.
I can’t stop thinking about how perfectly pointed the whole thing is. The lawmakers passed this law and probably expected quiet acceptance. Instead they got hundreds of students walking around campus with enormous dildos. It’s the funniest and darkest political protest I’ve heard of in years. Maybe both at the same time. At least there’s no way to miss what they’re saying.
POORGRRRL has this song called The BluèzZz…rn. It doesn’t look away. It’s about the heavy times—pills, grief, the kind of darkness that stops feeling temporary and becomes the actual shape of things. Nothing redemptive about it.
Depression’s the baseline now anyway. Not just personal, but cultural. The fantasy of running through fields singing is dead. Everything’s medication, isolation, cats, crying yourself to sleep. That’s the default.
Tara Long—POORGRRRL—isn’t here to save you from that. Her music exists in the exact space you’re in, looking at the exact same bleak landscape, not turning away but not drowning either. That weird space where despair and defiance are almost the same gesture.
There’s no rescue narrative, no therapy angle, no inspiration. Just recognition. Someone else sees what you see from the same dark place. That shouldn’t matter much—it doesn’t change anything—but it does anyway.
Watching someone make something from nothing — no studio, no budget, just a person in a room spending a year on something nobody asked for — that’s where the real work is.
Anne Ferraro made a documentary about this world in Japan, following the indie game developers and obsessive creators in Tokyo who orbit around games like it’s the only thing that matters. She called it Branching Paths. The developers talk about why they make games, what it costs them, what it means when someone actually plays the thing built in an apartment at night.
Japan made the games I grew up with, the ones that shaped everything about how I think about design and play. But those franchises — Mario, Zelda, the massive ones — that world is sealed off now, owned and protected and carefully managed. The good mess, the experimentation, the risk: that’s happening in the smaller studios, with people who have no safety net. That’s always where it happens.
Most people in the West still think K-pop is something that started three years ago, or maybe they caught one song on the radio and thought that was the whole thing. But South Korea’s been running this entire parallel music industry for decades, and every year it gets bigger. The factories are insane — they take teenagers, train them for years, manufacture these perfect idols. You’d think it’d be soulless, but a lot of the music is actually good.
Heize is one of the newer names in all this. She came up through a show called Unpretty Rapstar, which is exactly what it sounds like — a competition for rappers and singers, and the whole thing is unfiltered compared to what you’d see on American TV. She’s got this calm, knowing way of moving through a track, which matters more than people think when the production is this slick.
The song that made me pay attention was called “And July,” which she did with DEAN and DJ Friz. It’s not hyperactive like a lot of K-pop is. There’s space in it. The beat’s got this chill, drifting feeling, and Heize’s voice sits right in the pocket without trying to impress you.
One detail stuck with me from some interview — she named herself after a German word. I never found out which one, and maybe that’s fine. There’s something I like about that detail just floating there, untranslated. Pop culture travels in weird ways, picking up pieces from everywhere. A Korean artist named after German, making music with a producer who could be from anywhere, and somehow it gets to you because the songs are good.
I don’t follow K-pop closely enough to have opinions about chart positions or industry drama. But when something’s well-made and doesn’t apologize for itself, it finds you eventually. That’s what happened here.
You notice it if you’re paying attention: the economic collapse, the refugees, the conspiracy theories filling in what people can’t understand otherwise. Someone offers simple answers and someone to blame. People take them. The pattern’s obvious enough that it feels stupid to point out, but here we are.
What disturbs me is that it’s not stupid people doing this. It’s people who can think, who read, who have some literacy about the world. They still fall for it. They want to believe something that makes things comprehensible again. They want to feel part of something larger. They want someone to blame. And the message is designed — carefully, skillfully — to make all of that easy.
I can see the craft in it. The rhetoric, the messaging, how it simplifies complexity into simple terms. It’s well made, which is the disturbing part. Someone knew what they were doing.
The 1930s parallel is impossible to escape. Economic anxiety. Institutions that don’t represent you. Refugees. An enemy. A promise of restoration. It’s the same formula, and it works because people are the same. They want to believe, and if you design the belief carefully enough, they will. Even intelligent people. Maybe especially intelligent people, since they’re better at justifying things.
I don’t know what to do with this except notice it. Notice how it works. Notice that intelligence isn’t protection — sometimes it’s the opposite. Notice that we’re not smarter than we were eighty years ago. We’re just more comfortable with certain kinds of lies.
Everyone past 21 is basically dead on social media. You cross some invisible line and suddenly you’re not getting the memos anymore, doing everything wrong without realizing it. It’s all unwritten rules that everyone else just knows.
I needed to understand the actual code, so I got it from some teenagers. Instagram food photos are finished—completely cringe now, which is wild because that’s literally what Instagram was for like five years ago. Snapchat Stories apparently need to hit this exact frequency where you’re visible enough to matter but not so much that you’re just screaming. Each platform has its own set of invisible rules, and I have no idea how anyone under 20 just absorbs this. It’s pure instinct, cultural knowledge you’re supposed to have if you didn’t graduate before these apps existed.
There was one honest moment where a girl said she’d never send nudes, which is the right answer, but everyone knows that’s not what’s actually happening. The gap between the stated rule and what people do is maybe the only truthful part of any of this.
I stopped trying to keep up a while ago. By the time you understand the rules, they’re different. You stay ahead of it or you become what people your age use as a cautionary tale. There’s no middle ground.
A Peace Corps worker described Kampala’s Kabalagala bar district as “Tijuana on LSD,” which tells you something. He saw girls there in bars who were trying to seduce him and his girlfriend while scrolling through photos of their own kids on their phones, these two desires running parallel, and he couldn’t tell whether he was shocked or disgusted or both.
Michele Sibiloni is a photographer who’s shot for the Times and Vogue, but he went to East Africa and documented that particular nightlife. He called the district “an untamed monster with sharp claws, populated by Amazonian warrior queens—bold, fearless, sharp-tongued.” The broken people, the surviving people, the people breathing tragedies. He spent enough time there to let the place show what it actually is.
I’ve always been drawn to photography that doesn’t try to make sense of what it’s looking at. Sibiloni’s work doesn’t explain Kabalagala or excuse it or turn it into some redemption narrative. It just watches. Most nightlife photography is about the party, the glow, the spectacle, the reason you’d want to go there. This is the opposite. It’s about why people go to places like that—because they’re alive in them, because whatever mess happens there feels realer than anything else available. That’s not a story you can polish. It’s just what it is.
The thing that stays with me is how little judgment there is. The camera isn’t looking down. It’s not sympathetic either. It’s just witness.
Pink everywhere — balloons, candles, this glibbering substance that shouldn’t work in photographs but somehow does. I found myself staring at Bruna Reis’s “Plastic Orgastic” for longer than I meant to.
Reis is a Brazilian photographer, still young, already showing in Italian Vogue and Nakid. There’s discipline in her work even when the concept is excess. This shoot brought her together with Bruna Leal, an Instagram model with clear taste in objects — balloons, champagne, candles — and art director Juliana Rodrigues. What came out is aggressively feminine and sexual, pink and glossy and alive.
I’ve seen plenty of pink-excess work online. Most of it feels like Instagram trying to seem deeper, which doesn’t land. This works because it commits. No irony, no self-awareness. Reis shoots it straight, and that’s why the sensuality actually hits. The body becomes sculptural against these objects — the balloons, the mess, the light. It refuses to apologize for being beautiful.
There’s something in the Brazilian sensibility here, I think — a comfort with the body and desire that feels rarer in northern work. No shame layered on top. Just: here’s a beautiful body, here are objects that feel good, here’s what that looks like. I bookmarked it. I’ll probably look again.
I didn’t realize how completely walled off Chinese social media was until I actually looked into it. No Facebook, no Instagram, no Twitter—blocked or irrelevant, depending on who you ask. Instead, a whole universe of apps I’d never heard of: Douyu, Longzhu, Xiandanjia, Ingkee. These aren’t Western knockoffs that somehow failed; they’re the dominant platforms for a billion people, built from the ground up for an entirely different internet.
What’s strange is how parallel everything is. A Chinese teenager on Douyu and an American on Instagram are doing exactly the same thing—scrolling, posting, wasting time—but on completely different infrastructure, under different rules, in different cultural contexts. It’s like humanity forked into separate digital species somewhere along the way, and nobody even noticed.
Theophilus London was performing at a party for Amuse, a Vice subsidiary, at Tiki Tabu on the Lower East Side. That was reason enough to pay attention. He was at that point where everything he made felt necessary, where you could feel him becoming something the moment couldn’t contain.
The party had that mix of people you only saw together in New York at that exact time: Virgil Abloh, Paloma Elsesser, people making things and not worried about categories. Mia Moretti was DJing. A film was screening somewhere. I’m not sure I was actually there—might have just read about it somewhere and filled in the rest with assumption.
What I know is the texture of those Lower East Side nights. A room with personality enough to feel like it mattered. People gathered around other people doing actual work, no strategy, just attention. That was the real luxury, before every moment became something to document and monetize.
Theophilus London kept going. Some of his music found people who needed it. Some was him thinking out loud, working through ideas in public. But there was always something alive in it—the same electricity you’d feel when the right people had gathered in a room.
The Komische Oper in Berlin hosted GQ’s 18th annual awards ceremony for their “Men of the Year,” and eight hundred and fifty people showed up to watch other people get trophies. That’s a lot of people to convince that this matters, but they managed it, mostly because Bill Murray was in the building.
Murray got the “Legend” award from actress Lisa Martinek, which is the kind of category that writes itself. You hand Bill Murray a trophy and everyone’s happy because Bill Murray is incapable of not being the best part of any room he enters.
Naomi Campbell took “Model of the Century” from Philipp Plein. It’s one of those awards that only works if you’re giving it to someone who actually deserves it, and Campbell absolutely does. That category could have felt empty — could have been pure marketing — but Campbell’s actual presence in the culture makes it land differently.
Cro won “Man of the Year - Music National” and performed an unreleased song called “Noch da” to celebrate. There’s something funny about winning an award and then immediately proving why you won it by playing new music, like you’ve already moved past the point where the trophy matters.
The BossHoss showed up in the Entertainment category and did “Jolene.” A German country rock band playing American country to a Berlin crowd — it shouldn’t work, but it did. That’s the thing about The BossHoss; they have the energy to carry you past any doubt about the whole setup.
Palina Rojinski, Bonnie Strange, Sara Nuru — the usual circuit of people who understand that a black-tie evening is just a room to navigate, no different than any other. You either know how to move through these things or you don’t.
At a certain point you realize these ceremonies aren’t really about the awards at all. They’re just a night where everyone agrees to dress up and care about the same thing simultaneously. The trophies are beside the point.
Tom Grennan’s from Bedford. His voice has this weight to it that makes you listen without trying. Around the third song I realized I’d stopped thinking about anything else.
“Something in the Water” doesn’t try to dazzle you. “Old Songs” doesn’t either. They just sit with you. Same with the Chase & Status collaboration on “All Goes Wrong”—confident without needing to announce it. He sounds older than he probably is, like he’s already lived what he’s singing.
I’ve been listening to these for a couple weeks now. His voice settles into you. You can close your eyes and there’s nothing but him and the songs. No strain, nothing competing for space. That’s the rare thing.
I still think about Witcher 3 constantly, which is pathetic for a game that’s been out for years. The problem is it’s full of these what-if moments that never leave you. I’ll find a Reddit video about some alternate Ciri or Triss fate and suddenly I’m replaying the entire thing in my head, different choices, different endings—except I already know I’d make the exact same calls. It’s always Triss.
The game’s finished, the story’s done, but Funko made figures of Geralt and Ciri and Yennefer and even Eredin, and I want them. There’s something about having these plastic versions of people I spent two hundred hours with that pulls you right back in. Admitting they belong on a shelf somewhere feels like admitting the game owns a permanent part of my brain.
Møme records from a van. Not metaphorically - an actual converted van he’s been driving around, mostly in Australia, making music between surf sessions. Jérémy Souillart is the name, but the van’s the fact that matters. This isn’t a lifestyle brand or a content angle. He genuinely lives this way.
What gets me is that it’s working. Twenty million streams, charted in 30 countries. He’s making legitimate music from outside the normal system, not because he’s making a statement about it, but because he’s just not in it. He caught on to something: you don’t need permission to make art, and sometimes the best art comes from people who didn’t ask for one.
His sound is sparse, patient - electronic music that doesn’t rush or try too hard to impress. You can hear the time in it, the breaks between sessions, the discipline required for both surfing and production. There’s no wasted motion.
New track’s called “Alive.” The video is sun and water and endless driving - the language of someone who decided to live exactly the way they want. It’s not subtle about the freedom thing, and I respect that. Most people make art about the life they wish they had. Møme’s just living his.
BrewDog opened in Mitte, between Nordbahnhof and Rosenthaler Platz. The interior is concrete and steel, the look every Berlin bar is chasing now—designed to feel real. They stock local breweries next to everything else, which is the contradiction right there. BrewDog isn’t from Berlin but they’re pouring Vagabund and Berliner Berg.
I went because a friend wanted to. The beer is good. The pizza is better than it should be. And the whole thing felt inevitable, like this was always going to happen.
Mitte looked completely different ten years ago. Rougher, messier, less finished. Now it’s bars like this—places that know exactly what they’re doing, that fit perfectly into what people want. The neighborhood changed without feeling like a change happened. One day it’s one thing, the next day some bar opens and suddenly everything makes sense. That’s the part that bothers me a little, or fascinates me, or both.
Harajuku’s thing is that everyone’s got style, or at least everyone’s trying. You see it everywhere — kids mixing the wildest colors and shapes, throwing stickers of anime and Disney characters all over themselves like they’re creating some kind of beautiful mess. There’s no restraint, just intensity.
But then you see the other side. The ones who actually edit themselves. Who take all that same freedom and compress it into something tighter, more controlled. Not timid — just clear about what they want.
Mari was like that. White jacket, green cap, a skirt with red roses across it. She had this sweet face but something determined in it too, like two separate moods working together. I shot her and immediately wanted to know more. Just something about the way she’d pulled herself together — the clarity, the confidence in the restraint.
We didn’t get anywhere. Language got in the way. So what I have is the photograph. What she chose to wear that day, how she was standing. That’s the whole thing. Sometimes that’s all you catch, and it has to be enough.
You know that moment when someone stops thinking about the camera? When the awareness just drops and they’re living again? Valerie Phillips has learned to wait for it. Her new book is full of those moments—girls and women caught in the midst of their actual lives, unguarded, in all the texture and contradiction of living.
The subjects are the kind of people you want to keep looking at. Arvida Byström appears, along with others in that same register—people who move through the world without apology, who dress with intention, who create because not creating would be impossible. Phillips clearly gravitates toward that. She knows what presence looks like.
What works is that the politics never announces itself. These aren’t subjects positioned as symbols. They’re just people being themselves, and the creativity, the refusal, the resistance—it all emerges from that simplicity. Making things. Making noise. Living.
Everyone in the book is completely particular. No one is interchangeable. That’s what stays with you.
420 Science Club just made the world’s most expensive joint. I saw something about it in passing—a German YouTube channel that’s basically dedicated to documenting the experience of smoking increasingly elaborate weed products. I haven’t watched the video. Honestly I probably won’t. But the basic concept stuck with me in a way I can’t quite shake.
There’s something about making something expensive and well-engineered specifically so you can film yourself consuming it. Like the real product isn’t the joint but the footage, the documentation. The joint is just an excuse. Getting high is what happens while you’re filming.
I mean, cannabis culture has always been partly about showing off a little. What you have, what you know about it, the ritual of smoking. YouTube just made it shareable and repeatable and gave it an audience. 420 Science Club isn’t inventing anything new—they’re just being very literal about what was always implicit.
But I keep coming back to this weird feeling that something fundamental shifts when you start documenting the experience instead of just living it. The high becomes content. Your own consciousness becomes a product to be packaged and shipped out to subscribers. I don’t know if that’s exhausting or just obvious, or if I’m overthinking it because it feels like something I should have an opinion about. Maybe I’m just getting old.
There’s a pattern in how people talk about working-class voters. Someone votes for Trump or supports Brexit, backs the AfD, and the instant assumption: stupid, hateful, nostalgic for fascism. What’s harder to consider is that they might just have reasons. Real ones.
It’s comfortable to believe everyone on the other side of some political line is just broken or evil. I do it sometimes. What that complacency gets you is visible now—across the Atlantic, across the continent. The British voted for Brexit. Americans elected Trump. More Germans turn toward the AfD. If these voters are all bigots, fine, that’s simple. But what if most of them are something else: people from the working and middle classes watching their lives get smaller for decades, feeling ignored by politicians who claim to represent them, and finally voting for someone—anyone—who at least seems to notice they exist.
I’m not saying there aren’t actual racists in these movements. There obviously are. But lumping them in with the parent worried about rent, the factory worker watching his job disappear, the person frightened by rapid cultural change, that’s how you kill any serious discussion. That’s how you guarantee nothing changes.
There was this Reddit thread after Trump won, someone trying to explain why global nationalism was rising. The argument was straightforward: liberals have convinced themselves that the working class is just racist, and they can’t figure out why that message fails. These voters make their choices from lived experience, from neighborhoods they actually live in, from jobs that are actually disappearing and rents that are actually rising. But that’s not how it gets covered. It gets covered as bigotry.
The working class is tired of being lectured by people who’ve never lived through an economic collapse of their community. Tired of being scorned for wanting national sovereignty, tired of being called racist for opinions about immigration and culture. Tired of losing friends to Facebook arguments, tired of cable news anchors sneering at them from a distance.
Meanwhile, the journalists and commentators—secure salaries, apartments in good neighborhoods—they don’t actually see the problems they’re dismissing. They don’t live near changing neighborhoods. They don’t compete for the same housing. They don’t watch jobs in their industry disappear or sit in schools where their kids feel out of place. So they support policies that don’t touch them personally, and they call working people idiots for objecting to the same policies. It’s convenient, from inside a bubble.
What’s harder is admitting that if the people arguing for open borders and globalization had to actually live with the consequences—compete for jobs, send their kids to the same schools, sit in community centers with everyone else—their arguments might look different. It’s fashionable to congratulate yourself on how cosmopolitan you are, how you support policies that help people move freely and cultures mix. Less fashionable to admit that same policy might be making someone else’s life measurably worse. You don’t have to feel that consequence, so you don’t.
The votes keep going rightward because these movements, at least, listen. They acknowledge the problems that elites dismiss. The response is to call them all fascists—which somehow doesn’t persuade anyone. It just confirms that nobody with power cares what they think.
Until people actually in charge step out of their bubble and listen to people living differently, nothing changes. The working class keeps voting to burn it down because that’s the only language anyone in power has learned to hear. And then they act surprised when it happens again.
The morning after Trump won, my feed filled with the usual grief—friends posting apocalypse memes, sharing dread in group chats, people trying to joke their way through genuine panic. Everyone was processing the same thing in the same way, which meant nobody was really processing it at all.
Then Miley Cyrus posted a video. She was crying. Not performative tears for a camera—the kind of crying where your face gets red and your voice cracks and you stop trying to look okay. She was talking about walls and bridges and how we’d failed, how this was what it looked like when people gave up on each other. It was messy and earnest and completely unpackaged, which made it weird to watch. You don’t expect that kind of rawness from someone whose job is calculated image.
I kept thinking about the gap between who she’s supposed to be—the Disney kid, the provocateur, the one who sticks her tongue out at cameras—and who was actually in that video. Just someone scared. Someone who’d built a whole identity around being larger than life, and now she couldn’t contain her face anymore.
People were already making fun of her for it. The celebrity crying about politics, seeking relevance through emotion. But I kept coming back to the honesty of it. Not whether her politics were right or smart, but that she didn’t perform the moment. She let it break her. That’s harder than it looks.
I don’t know if it changed anything. Politicians ignored it, people who needed to hear it already knew it, the internet moved on. But for maybe thirty seconds, a person who’d spent her entire life in public tried not to be a performance. That has to count for something.
Die BLONDE put out a new issue—they’re calling it Basic, which as a title is almost aggressive in its refusal to be clever. It’s the kind of magazine you don’t think about constantly, but when you encounter it you remember why you liked it in the first place.
They threw a party in Kreuzberg to celebrate. St. Georg, Sarah Farina DJing, someone had made the space feel intentional instead of just rented. The band SHI played at some point. People from the design world and the music world and the just-thinking-about-things world were all in the same room, which is rarer than it should be.
These parties happen constantly in Berlin. Most of them are forgotten by morning. But the ones that stick are the ones where you can feel the people actually care about what they’re celebrating. Not performing. Real care. It changes everything in the room.
I’m not sure what’s inside Basic. Probably a mixture of stuff that matters and stuff that’s beautiful. The point of Die BLONDE has never been to tell you what to think—just to remind you that other people are out here thinking carefully, making deliberately, not trying to convince you of anything.
That’s harder now. Everything’s a pitch, everything’s content, everything wants something from you. A magazine that just sits there being a magazine, saying here’s what we made, come celebrate with us if you want—that’s almost transgressive. Worth throwing a party for. Worth showing up, even when you’re spent.
The internet got way less free, way faster than anyone expected. Governments started regulating it, corporations started controlling it, intelligence agencies started collecting everything moving through it. The NSA, GCHQ, BND — they’re all drowning in data now, grabbing more than they could ever parse, just because they can and nobody’s stopping them.
Netzpolitik.org pays attention to this stuff. They’re one of the few places doing actual independent journalism about digital rights, internet policy, surveillance. No ads, no paywall, no corporate money — just coverage of decisions that affect how the internet works. It’s the kind of thing that should obviously exist. It barely does.
The problem is the economics don’t work. Independent journalism costs money. Writers need to eat. Servers need power. All of it requires funding from somewhere. The only source that actually works is reader donations, which are shrinking, which means the work keeps getting smaller.
I’ve watched the internet change from something that felt open to something that feels owned. The people still fighting for digital freedom, still paying attention, still writing about it? They’re running on empty, sustained by donations from a smaller group every year. It’s not sustainable, and it’s also the only model that could possibly work, because the moment you take money from anyone with a stake in how the internet works, the journalism stops being trustworthy.
The internet’s getting shaped by people we don’t know, making decisions we don’t see. Somebody has to keep watching. Right now that somebody is exhausted and underfunded.
I could quit my job right now, buy a ton of ice cream, and watch animated Disney films until I die. I mean the real ones—not those garbage live-action movies where teenagers dance and sing like it matters. I’m talking “The Little Mermaid,” “Cinderella,” “Beauty and the Beast.” Those are genuinely good films.
Tokyo Disneyland existed to feed what is honestly an unhealthy obsession. A whole place designed for people exactly like me to lose a day and money to. Mickey and Donald greeting you like they’ve been waiting. The machinery of it all working perfectly.
The park splits into themed areas—Adventure Land, Cartoon Town, Wild West. If you’ve been to another Disneyland you know the basic layout. But there’s something about the way it’s designed here, the precision of it, that makes it feel tighter than the others. Everything has a purpose. Nothing is wasted.
I left exhausted and broke from buying stuff I didn’t need. That’s what you’re really paying for—a place where being obsessed with something this arbitrary is not just tolerated but expected. Not the magic they advertise, just a day where it all makes sense.
The black eyeliner, the black hair, the whole committed aesthetic — Masha Sedgwick looked like she meant it when she was going through that emo phase. You could tell she wasn’t just trying it on. Everyone else was performing a little, testing the waters, but she had gone all in. I noticed her because of that seriousness.
She’s a fashion blogger now, one of the ones people actually read because she thinks about what she’s writing. Not just pictures and product links. She talks about clothes and coffee and hair like these things matter, and in her hands they actually do. She’s 26 and she’s made something real from it, which is harder than it sounds.
When she told her parents she wanted to do this full-time, the conversation wasn’t easy. All those questions hanging in the air about what a real job is, about tradition and security and doing things the way they’ve always been done. But she had her answer ready, and it was the only answer that mattered: you can’t live inside somebody else’s choices. You do what you’re actually good at, what you actually care about. And maybe that’s how you make money now — by being serious about something instead of pretending to be serious about what everyone else cares about.
There’s something satisfying about that arc, watching someone from the emo era actually follow through. A lot of people grew out of it and became normal. She just grew up inside of it, took what it meant and made it into something that works.
The night of the election I kept watching the map, waiting for it to shift. It didn’t. By the time it was mathematically impossible to turn around, I’d already stopped looking.
The thing about Trump wasn’t that he hid what he was. He’d spent years saying it out loud—the mocking, the contempt for immigrants, women, disabled people, whoever was convenient. And people knew. They’d seen it. Then roughly half the country voted for him anyway, a lot of them because that was exactly the point. Not despite the cruelty but because of it.
There was this clip from a rally in South Carolina a few years earlier. A young girl told him she was afraid. He told her not to worry, soon she wouldn’t be. But everyone else would. That was the pitch: not fixing anything, just redirecting the fear and anger outward, onto the right people. Making it okay to say things you weren’t supposed to say, to hate people you weren’t supposed to blame.
The analysis came later. German journalists trying to explain how a major democracy elects someone like that. One made the point that Trump didn’t have an ideology—he had a self, and that self was the only principle. Whatever served him in the moment became the position. Everything else was just noise.
By morning I’d stopped trying to think politically about it and started thinking about the specific texture of the moment. Not that one person got elected—that’s how democracies function sometimes. But that so many people looked at him and decided yes, this is what we want. This is us.
I don’t have a clean thought about it. Just the memory of the next day, checking my phone, watching people go about their lives normally, which somehow made it worse.
PLAY16 was Hamburg’s games festival in November. Not the polished convention thing - just indie developers, artists, students, people showing work they made for its own sake. Workshops, exhibitions, talks about design and creation. Everything centered on bodies and presence, physicality in games.
Three games won awards at the town hall. The developers mentioned something that stuck with me: winning the award felt like stepping into a completely different world from their actual life. Which is exactly how it works when you make anything. You’re living in two places. Your real job, your responsibilities, your normal self. Then there’s this other world you’re building in the hours nobody’s watching, in the margins. Most of what you make stays there. When someone notices, it’s disorienting.
The games themselves don’t matter as much as the fact that they exist - FAR: Lone Sails, FRU, a tank simulator, whatever. Someone cared enough to finish them when they could have done anything else. That’s the whole story.
People wandered through exploring. Some wanted to learn how to make games, how the code and music and design worked. Others just wanted to experience what someone else had made. Both are valid, both are the point.
Suzy was the kind of person you spot in Tokyo and immediately read the whole outfit like it’s a sentence in a language you understand. M.I.A, Rita Ora, Natalia Kills—all embedded in the way she wore things, references so tight that if you didn’t know those names you’d miss the point entirely. That specific era in pop where everything suddenly felt engineered but urgent.
She’d started a label called TOKYOGIRL with some friends. Not as a brand, not really—as a thing to do. No funding, no pitch meetings, just here’s what looks good to us. She was deep in the 80s and pulling in Arabic influences, the kind of unexpected combinations that feel inevitable the moment someone actually executes them. And she wanted men in the clothes, which made sense. Most clothes that matter eventually end up on anyone who’ll wear them.
We took some photos together, moved through one of those side streets where Tokyo’s constantly in motion. Everywhere you look someone’s testing something, figuring out what holds up and what dissolves. Suzy felt like she was part of that current, not performing or waiting to be discovered. Just making things because that’s what you do when you see something that’s missing.
Maeckes keeps coming up in rotation. His new album “Tilt” holds its own against “Zwei”—maybe better, still deciding. If I had to listen to one song until I die, it’d be “Tisch,” the track with Balbina where they’re basically saying that needing someone while being too much of a mess to actually commit is at once pretty hot and completely selfish. There’s a real confession in there.
The album sits right. “Loser,” “Wie alle Kippenstummel zwischen den Bahngleisen zusammen,” “Urlaubsfotograf”—weird titles that work. He pulled in Tristan Brusch and Josef Hader. Nothing feels out of place.
The video for “Tilt” is this whole identity trick. A guy who looks like Maeckes but isn’t dances with his moves—or Maeckes’ moves, the distinction gets blurry—while basically saying he’s not Maeckes. The world’s already confusing enough without videos that mess with who’s who and what’s real. But that’s kind of the joke. You get caught up trying to figure it out, and the simplest move is just to dance and let it go.
Jesse Fox made a series called Sticks & Stones where her friends wore Trump masks and were photographed looking absolutely furious. This was 2016, when everything felt like it was collapsing and there wasn’t much you could do except stay angry. She had the masks from a music video shoot, and what the photographs showed was raw anger — not performed, just real.
In a moment like that, there’s something necessary about directness. No irony, no distance, no concept between the feeling and the image. Just women in rubber faces of someone they despised, expressing what couldn’t be expressed any other way. It was partly a warning — this is what’s coming, hard times, the same fights repeated — but mostly just an acknowledgment of what everyone was feeling.
I don’t know if it changed anything. It probably didn’t. But there was something true about it, something that mattered. Sometimes that’s all a photograph can be.
A few years ago, every major publisher suddenly panicked that they were losing the youth market, so they started throwing money at digital magazines designed for teenagers—shiny, mobile-first operations with sunglasses-on energy and headlines about YouTubers. Most of them died quietly. Celepedia was one of them, and it’s worth thinking about why, because it’s the clearest possible example of adults trying to buy cultural relevance and fucking it up entirely.
Celepedia was a German online magazine ostensibly for 12- to 24-year-olds, though really it seemed designed for adults who’d never met a teenager and had formed their entire understanding of youth culture from a single Snapchat notification they didn’t understand. The headlines tell you everything: “What Bibi’s Beauty Palace Said About Lisa and Lena!” “Does This Girl Only Have Four Fingers?” “Did This YouTuber Get Her Boyfriend Pregnant?” “Color Blocking Nails Are So Mega Nice!” Content pitched so far down that it made gossip magazines look like academic journals.
The magazine ran for two years before the publisher realized there was no money in it. Millions of visitors, zero sustainable business model. The editor-in-chief went on record saying they’d learned through research that teenagers were actually more conservative than expected—which is the kind of thing someone says when they’ve been inside the wrong room the entire time, talking only to people like themselves, certain that understanding youth means understanding which YouTube star had which fingernail color.
I get the impulse. Publishers see teenagers hooked on their phones and assume the money’s there. It’s not wrong about the phones. It’s wrong about everything else. The assumption that you can just hire people to write down what YouTubers do, slap it on a website, cover it in emoji, and suddenly you’re speaking their language. That’s not culture. That’s not even accurate journalism. It’s an adult’s crude approximation of what they think young people care about, which is almost always wrong.
The real failure wasn’t the magazine, though. It was the confidence that you could monetize teenage attention by insulting their intelligence. That you could build something sustainable by treating your audience like they were dumber than they are. Every headline in Celepedia assumed the reader had the critical capacity of a houseplant. That might get clicks. It doesn’t build anything worth keeping around.
When Celepedia shut down, the publisher called it a learning experience about recognizing when to move on—which is corporate language for “we spent money on something stupid and now we’re pretending it was part of the plan.” What they actually learned, or should have learned, is that you can’t fake understanding a culture. You can’t buy your way into relevance by hiring people to consume content on your behalf and then repackage it. The gap between the adults running the thing and the people they were trying to reach was never going to close. It was always going to be visible in every headline, every post, every pixel.
I haven’t made it to Seoul yet, which is probably weird considering how much I think about going. Been to Japan the way I wanted. Dragged myself through America. Canada was fine, you know? Pretty enough. But South Korea keeps showing up in my head, never quite landing.
It’s the contradiction that pulls at me. The place is saturated with technology in a way that actually feels alive—not just gadgets everywhere but a real embrace of what’s possible. And then there’s this other thing underneath: the constant presence of the north, the threat that’s permanent enough that people just live with it like weather. They go to work, fall in love, complain about their lives. The border’s close. It could all change. But it hasn’t, so they keep going.
Photographer Duran Levinson spent time there recently and came back with work about young South Koreans—the ones starting to refuse what their parents accepted. His photographs show people awake, intentional, pushing back against systems that want them to obey and keep quiet. Not revolution, something quieter and stranger. The kind of awakening that happens when a generation decides the old script doesn’t fit.
What I like about his work is it doesn’t sanitize anything. These are kids with style and attitude and something to say. There’s real life in those images.
Whether the city would feel that way if I was actually there, I don’t know. Whether the vibe would hit the same or if photographs just make everything look better, that’s the question I want answered. I want to stand in Seoul and see if it feels like being in the future while living under a permanent threat, and if that somehow becomes just Tuesday.
Once the blog hit a certain size, the hate mail changed. Not “I disagree” hate. Actual threats. “Kill yourself, hang yourself, die of AIDS.” You read some at first because you’re curious what people will say. Then you stop reading them. Then you start again. Then you stop again. Eventually you just scroll past them, except some days one lands different and you pause on it.
The worst part isn’t getting them — it’s noticing who gets them worse. I get angry comments, sure. Women who write online and aren’t apologetic about being feminist get a completely different operation. It’s meaner, more sexual, more targeted. It doesn’t stop at comments. It escalates. It gets personal in ways that show exactly what people are terrified of. Not women in general. Women who are confident about existing.
I notice it most when I see it happen to people I know. There’s something about the volume and texture of it that’s different from what I get. An energy underneath the anger that’s just pure fear. And here’s the thing — it works. Most people fold. They stop posting, delete the account, realize visibility costs more than it’s worth.
So when two women actually manage to have a real conversation in public, it means something. The noise level that had to be generated to prevent it shows you what was worth protecting. Some guy terrified of women spending hours typing variations on the same threat. That’s the infrastructure underneath the whole thing.
There’s a metal band called Okilly Dokilly devoted to Ned Flanders. They made “White Wine Spritzer” as a hymn to his wholesomeness. This is real.
Everyone hates Ned Flanders. He’s aggressively, relentlessly good - the cardigan, the church, the diddly-diddly voice. He exists to show you that you’re not living right, and you resent him for it.
But The Simpsons needs him. Without Ned there’s no balance to Homer’s chaos, no straight man to push against. He’s the still point that makes everything else work. Everyone hates him and he’s indispensable.
Which is why a metal band took him as a deity. Metal worships what everyone respects by treating it wrong, or treating it so sincerely it loops back into truth. Ned is perfect - the most uptight, Christian, boring guy alive becomes a metal god. You sing about him seriously and the joke folds into something earnest.
Maybe you understand him better this way. The character everyone despises becomes somebody’s perfect god, and there’s something honest in that.
Walking into Super Tamade for the first time in Osaka felt like stepping into a neon fever dream. The place is impossibly bright, aggressively bright, with these garish illustrated signs everywhere — stars and carrots and spaceships rendered in the most unhinged color combinations. Yellow price tags mark deals that seem almost insulting in how cheap they are, like the store is daring you to buy whatever’s underneath.
I’d heard the rumors beforehand. The yakuza uses it for money laundering. The quality suffers because of the prices. The raw meat and fish are sketchy at best. But standing there, watching salarymen and families and tourists all converge on the pre-made food section, I couldn’t help wondering if the legends were half the appeal.
The chain opened in 1992 and somehow became a destination. That’s the real mystery. You’ve got ramen, peanut butter, drinks in flavors you’ve never heard of, whole sections of meat and fish at prices that don’t compute. The prepared food is so varied and so abundant that it almost breaks your brain trying to decide. Every choice feels both completely safe and vaguely dangerous.
There’s something about that uncertainty that gets to you. Maybe the yakuza thing is true, maybe it’s just a story travelers tell each other. Maybe the cheap meat is fine and everyone’s paranoid, or maybe it’s exactly as questionable as it seems. Either way, you buy something you’re not quite sure about, pay almost nothing, and leave with this small illicit thrill. It’s not beautiful, it’s not comfortable, but it’s real in a way the clean parts of the city aren’t.
There were these photographs circulating online—intimate shots of a woman from Rio, shot in a way that felt serious even though she was barely wearing anything. The kind of image that makes you curious about who’s in it. Her name’s Rafaela Camilo, and she’s a DJ. Once I listened to her mixes, the photographs made sense. They weren’t just good-looking; they were documenting someone who actually knew what she was doing.
Rio’s got this layered thing where the obvious story—danger, beautiful beaches, everyone’s a sculpture—gets in the way of the real story. The real Rio’s full of people making interesting music and art in places that don’t show up on Instagram. Rafaela lives in that version. You can hear it in her work. There’s no desperation to it, no trying to break into some international scene. Just someone making something for her city.
I don’t listen to enough of her stuff to say anything smart about it, but there’s something right about discovering a DJ who sounds like she belongs exactly where she is.
Tajikistan’s government picks people up and they vanish. A journalist. An activist. Someone who posted something on Facebook that contradicted the official line. The police arrive, they’re gone, and then—nothing. Sometimes their families find out they’ve been tortured. Sometimes they just never hear from them again. Thousands have fled because staying is essentially asking to be made to disappear.
The international community makes the right noises—condemnations, calls for reform, threats of sanctions. Tajikistan ignores it. They keep hunting for the ones who got out, trying to drag them back. There’s no real pressure that works here. The government’s already decided the cost is worth it.
I think about what that feels like—to live in a place where your government is your enemy, where speaking is dangerous, where disappearing is what happens to people like you. Not hypothetically. Structurally. Regularly.
And I don’t know what changes that from here, honestly. The mechanisms that might work—sanctions, international pressure, whatever—they’re slow and probably useless. The people who could actually change things are the ones most at risk of disappearing.
Here’s what I’ve learned from a decade of people telling me I’m garbage: the ones worth reading are the ones that point at something true. Stefan’s message is almost respectful—he’s thought it through, compared us to reptilians of tabloid journalism, asks whether we’d put this on a resume or if we wrote everything intoxicated. That’s commitment. Natalie’s shorter: we’re all dumb, the writing’s boring, no amount of fucking or drugs will fix it. Cassandra just wants to unsee us.
Some of the anger is about the content itself. Sex, drugs, the deliberate provocation. Some of it’s about who we’re supposed to be. Robin was born in Berlin and hates that transplants like us get to make noise about his city. He wants us gone. Maybe he’s pointing at something real; probably not what he thinks.
The ones that actually sting are the ones hitting on a real contradiction. Sara notices we talk feminism while publishing women in a way that objectifies them. She’s not just angry—she feels let down, like she expected something better from what we were claiming to do. That’s different from hate. That’s disappointment. Then there’s the rest of it. Vince tells us to kill ourselves. Denise asks can we please just hang ourselves, everyone would be happier. Ephra goes on this rambling monologue about fucking people he’s known for five minutes, like he’s got a system for it—either complete fiction or someone so empty he can only measure himself through conquest. Valerie tries to write a stupid comment but realizes everything here is already so stupid that there’s no point in adding to it. She gives up midway through.
After enough years of this, you notice that almost nobody actually engages with the work itself. They’re all responding to who they think you are. Drugged elitists. Trashy Berlin kids. Attention addicts. Hypocrites. The hatred is specific even when it sounds generic. And that specificity means something—it means they’ve been paying attention. Even the ones wishing you were dead have been paying attention.
Music loses me fast. I’ll obsess over something on Apple Music for a couple of days, loop it until I’ve dissected every background layer, and then the spell breaks. That’s just how I listen.
“Pull Up” by Abra hasn’t broken yet.
She shot the video herself in Bushwick and Harlem, New York. Produced the track. Wrote it. The work shows it—no committees, no compromises, just a clear vision from someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.
There’s something about finding someone early. Not the rush of discovery, but the quiet certainty of watching someone operate at a different level than everyone else trying the same thing. It’s rare enough that you know it when you see it.
I don’t know how long this window stays open. In three years, “Pull Up” will be everywhere. My friends will act like they discovered her. But right now, it’s still just her doing the thing, and the rest of us catching up to what she’s already figured out.
I keep ending up at the adidas store on Torstraße in Berlin. Not that I’m hunting for specific shoes—it’s more like the kind of place you drift into when you’re with people and a few drinks deep, and you look up realizing an hour’s passed while you were examining sneakers by Raf Simons or Rick Owens or Pharrell Williams. People who actually care about proportion and material. The store had that pull.
They just redid it. Metal frames, soft colors, clean angles—some Berlin designers stripped it down and built it back up. It’s the kind of redesign that could feel sterile or feel right, and they got it right.
No74’s been on Torstraße since 2008, which in Berlin time is practically permanent. The street reinvents itself constantly but this place stayed and just evolved, which says something about knowing what you care about and not bending for fashion cycles.
I haven’t been back since the work. But I will. Curious what the light’s like in there now.
The guy’s spent his entire career doing exactly what I scribbled in the margins of my school notebooks and then threw away. Jonny Negron just never stopped.
His work is unapologetically fetish art. Big-breasted women in bikini tops, underwear visible, positioned in jungle scenarios and office situations where they’re either in charge or pretending to be. The fantasy is explicit: these are female power fantasies, or male fantasies filtered through female bodies. Amazon women, submissive assistants, women with proportions that don’t quite track but somehow work in the context of his line weight and color palette.
What strikes me isn’t the straightforward horniness of it—that’s honest at least—but the consistency of the vision. There’s a world here. In Negron’s world, feminine power is absolute. Men are beside the point or actively subordinate. It’s a fantasy of surrender, of losing control to something stronger.
I respect that he just made it. Didn’t apologize for the subject matter, didn’t dress it up as something it isn’t. A lot of artists would hedge, add layers of irony or commentary. Negron just draws what he actually wants to draw and sells it. There’s something clarifying about that. Whether you care about the work or not, you know exactly what you’re getting.
It makes me think about what we actually want versus what we’re willing to admit we want. How much energy we spend disguising desire. Negron skipped that step entirely. Whether that’s freedom or just indifference, I’m not sure. Probably both.
Günther Oettinger was an EU Commissioner who spoke English like it was being routed through corrupted audio files. I remember encountering clips of him talking and waiting for my brain to catch up to what was actually being said — words just getting destroyed as they came out of his mouth.
And then there was the small fact that he’d called Asians a racial slur. That he said it didn’t seem to matter much professionally.
Someone remixed one of his speeches into a parody rap song, gave him a stage name — “Yung Oettinger” — and it circulated like actual music. I watched people share it seriously, treating it as entertainment. The absurdity was so complete that comedy was the only sane response, the only way to acknowledge that yes, this is what we’re working with here.
The weird part is how the remix became what I actually remember. Not the incompetence, not the racism — just the funny song everyone laughed about. The absurdity gets packaged up, turned into shareable content, consumed and forgotten, and by the time you realize nothing’s actually changed, you’re already scrolling past the next thing.
Brown urine. Yellow skin. A construction worker somewhere in Florida showed up at the doctor’s office wondering what was happening to his body, and when they ran the blood work, the numbers came back almost unreadable.
His liver enzymes were shot. Bilirubin—the bile pigment that makes your skin that sickly yellow—was way too high. But the really strange thing was the vitamin levels. B12, folate—they were so far above normal that the lab couldn’t actually measure them. The numbers just stopped making sense.
He drank maybe some beer here and there, kept himself reasonably healthy otherwise. But for the past few weeks, he’d been knocking back around five energy drinks every single day. Construction work is exhausting. The sun beats down, your body aches, and eventually you reach for whatever’s going to keep you upright. That was his solution.
The doctors eliminated everything else. Hepatitis, autoimmune disease, genetic stuff—nothing fit. What kept pointing back at him was the energy drinks. Manufacturers dump B vitamins and folate into these things by the megadose, marketing them as health boosters, brain fuel, endurance accelerators. Sounds good on the label. The problem is that too many vitamins is just as bad as too few, and when you’re drinking five cans a day, you’re not supplementing—you’re overdosing.
Most people get enough B vitamins and folate from regular food. You don’t need an energy drink to fix that. But the labeling creates this impression that you do, that you’re doing something smart by consuming these fortified concoctions. It’s a sales pitch disguised as health.
After he quit the drinks, his numbers came back down. His liver recovered. He got lucky in that way—his body had enough reserves to bounce back. Nothing dramatic happened, no dramatic moment of reckoning. Just a guy who got sick from something he thought was helping him, and who felt better once he stopped.
Black’s Beach near San Diego is one of the places where nudity is legal. So when photographer Lauren Marie decided to shoot her subject Alexandra Sweiss topless, that’s where they went. A.J., as she goes by, travels constantly and loves being in different places, learning how different cultures work.
The series is called Pale Breeze and it was shot as the season turned toward autumn. Marie described the whole thing as freeing. You can feel it in the work—no self-consciousness, no protective layer. Just the light starting to turn pale and the body and the chill coming in.
There’s something about a photograph where you can tell the subject isn’t performing, isn’t negotiating with the moment. That’s what these are. A specific beach, a specific season, a moment where freedom and coldness are the same thing.
The Walking Dead never bothered explaining what started the apocalypse. That blank space is where fan theories live. Someone had the thought: what if Breaking Bad’s Walter White caused it? What if that blue meth, cooked in a desert RV, got into someone’s system and rewired them into something hungry and undead?
It seems stupid for about thirty seconds, then it clicks. Both shows treat their catastrophes like natural disasters—inevitable, almost impersonal. Breaking Bad never explains why Walter becomes what he becomes. The Walking Dead never explains why the dead walk. So the theory fills both blanks with one answer: same universe, Walter’s chemistry the match that lights it all.
Fan theories like this are why I watch television. They’re the conversation that happens after the show ends, in the spaces the show leaves open. You’re not supposed to believe them. You’re supposed to turn them over in your head, find the moment they almost make sense, then laugh at how much you wanted them true.
The meth-to-zombie pipeline is ridiculous and also kind of perfect. Walter White as the accidental architect of the undead—explaining nothing and everything at once.
Can Dündar was the editor of Cumhuriyet when the Turkish government decided editors needed to go. They locked him up on espionage charges, he got out somehow, fled to Germany, and now he’s writing about what’s actually happening back home. It’s the kind of warning you read and then have to sit with because it’s too much to process quickly.
The detail that sticks is the knocking. Eighteen Cumhuriyet employees, same day, doors knocked on like they were running a coordinated raid. This was years into Erdogan’s grip, after the coup attempt that everyone recognized as the moment everything got worse. The response was systematic in a way that should have alarmed more people. Parliament neutralized. A purge disguised as a legal process. Seventy thousand people charged, thirty-two thousand actually locked up, sixty thousand government workers fired, a hundred and fifty news outlets just shut down. Numbers that are almost too clean to be real, but they’re real.
What Dündar keeps returning to is the atmosphere. The fear doesn’t come from being arrested—it comes from living in a place where speaking up is impossible and everyone knows it. The silence is the point.
He writes about the incremental part, how dissent dies in stages. First they take the Kurds, and most people stay quiet because they’re not Kurdish. Then the left. Then there’s nobody left because you’ve been picking them off the whole time, and now everyone’s either gone or terrified. It’s the poem people half-remember, the one about how these things work.
Someone actually said it to him straight. A German, Edzard Reuter, whose father ran Berlin after the war. Looked at Turkey and said it reminds him of the beginning of Nazi Germany. No metaphor. No hedging.
The thing I keep thinking about is how normal it becomes. You watch it happen in real time and part of you believes it’s necessary or temporary or not as bad as the headlines make it. Until the day you realize the whole architecture is in place and you can’t dismantle it anymore because most people have already stopped trying.
There’s something about following activism in other countries—you see the problem through a different lens, hear it in a different accent. In Brazil, the women making noise about harassment and beauty standards weren’t being gentle about it. Models were refusing the jobs that came with a side of groping. Rappers like Lay from São Paulo were making it part of the record. Activists just kept pushing.
I don’t remember what made me pay attention to it at that moment. Some film or article probably. But there was a point in 2016 when it felt like the conversation was finally getting louder, or like people were finally allowed to hear it. Grace was doing something called “Beyond Beauty” where she’d talk to young people in Brazil about what was actually happening to them. Not the glamorous version. The real one.
The thing about modeling and entertainment is they’re built on control—your body, your image, your labor. All owned by someone else. So when women in those industries started refusing it, pushing back, it meant something. It meant risking money, opportunity, reputation. They did it anyway.
I went to Las Vegas once and spent the whole time aware of two different cities existing at the same time. The lights, the casinos, the money—that part is real. But one wrong turn and you’re somewhere completely different. Same place, same city, but a different world. The casinos still glow over the rooftops even from the parts where nobody’s winning anything.
Brooke Olimpieri grew up there and made a photo book about that exact split. It’s called “Lost Vegas,” and it’s not another book about the Strip. She was interested in the motels with their turquoise bathrooms, the quick weddings, the people and bodies in the spaces between the big lights. There’s something about that approach that feels more honest to me than any amount of glamour shots. She mentioned loving Vegas for its endless possibilities, and I don’t doubt that for someone like her. But the book is more specific. It’s about what those possibilities look like when you’re not the one they’re working out for.
What I couldn’t shake was the proximity of the two Vegases. You can see both from almost anywhere in the city. The height of difference between them, and how close they are, and how normal both of them manage to feel when you’re actually there. That’s the real Vegas—not the lights, not the poverty, but the fact that both exist on the same grid and neither one is hiding. Vegas doesn’t apologize. It just compartmentalizes.
Early morning at Tsukiji and the whole place operates in this practiced chaos. Tuna auctions in the corner, bidders shouting, fish getting wheeled away to be broken down. The restaurants are stalls really — you sit at a counter with maybe seven other people and watch someone who’s been making sushi the exact same way for decades work through the morning.
I ordered at random and got something that tasted like nothing I’d eaten before. The fish was so fresh it felt aggressive. The rice was warm. The temperature difference when you bit down mattered. Each piece was about the size of my thumb, and the whole thing was done in minutes.
I kept thinking about how sushi everywhere else is the same concept but under completely different rules — like someone learned what sushi looked like but not what it should feel like to eat. This wasn’t pretension, just the gap between making something well and making it work functionally.
I can’t tell you which restaurant to go to because I didn’t pay attention to the name, and honestly it probably doesn’t matter. What mattered was understanding that something you thought you already knew was actually something else, and now you couldn’t unsee that difference.
Quiet girl meets popular girl and something shifts that neither of them expected. Hand-holding that makes her heart race. A look that lasts a second too long. The air between them becomes charged. This is where yuri manga always starts, and it’s the same story because it works—the moment someone realizes another person has become necessary to them in a way that changes everything.
The genre gets called lesbian manga but that’s missing the actual thing. It’s about desire that appears without permission and won’t leave. The way wanting someone that badly becomes visible in your face, your hands, your breathing. There’s no safety net in yuri, no irony to hide behind. Just two girls and what’s happening between them—the touching, the kissing, sometimes more. It’s all just the wanting made visible.
What pulls people in regardless of who they are is the nakedness of it. Straight women read it and recognize something about vulnerability. Straight men read it and understand the shape of that specific kind of need. Queer people read it because sometimes it shows you something about yourself you didn’t have words for. There’s no subtext. No metaphor. Just the clarity of one person mattering to another in a way that’s irreversible.
Manga as a medium is perfect for this. Two bodies taking up the whole page. Eyes that are too big and too expressive. Composition that makes a touch feel like the only thing that’s ever existed. The form does all the work—it shows you exactly what the artist wants you to feel and nothing else.
I read a handful of pieces that week that kept bumping into the same wall — everything that’s supposed to be authentic keeps getting sold back to you.
Lina Mallon writing about Instagram and bodies. What happens if you show yourself, if you’re visible. The strange judgment that follows, mostly from other women, hiding behind this idea of feminism that says if you’re exposed, you’re either desperate or you deserved it. She nailed something I’d never quite articulated.
Then VICE with something stupid and brilliant about eco-sexuality — people fucking for the planet, basically. It’s ridiculous, but it’s also just the endpoint of something we’re all doing now. Everything has to mean something. Even sex has to be in service of a cause.
Julia Korbik on feminist consumerism. Bearded women in fashion ads. Hair-removal shampoo marketed to people who don’t want to remove their hair. Dildos for lesbians like they’re a product category now. Feminism as a brand. You could get angry about it, but it’s easier to just watch the machinery work — capitalism figured out how to sell you your own resistance.
Masha Sedgwick on what it’s like to be a woman in her late twenties. All the invisible pressure. The sense that time’s running out, that you’re supposed to want things, that the world has an expiration date built in. I don’t experience that exact panic, but the underlying thing — that you’re aging out, declining in value — that’s pretty universal these days.
And Stoya talking about dating “good male feminists,” which is funny because even straight sex has gotten politically complicated. Even desire has to come with the right consciousness now. Whether that’s progress or just exhaustion, I honestly don’t know.
They all seem to be about the same thing: trying to live authentically in a system that’s monetizing authenticity. Trying to resist a machine that’s very good at selling resistance. Reading them back to back like that, it felt less like a bunch of independent thoughts and more like everyone circling the same problem from different angles.
I’ve been an adidas guy for years. Superstars mostly. That’s the most minimal thing you can do with a shoe, and I like that about it. Before some anniversary campaign turned them into the unofficial footwear of every Berlin teenager, I was already wearing them. Stan Smiths too. The logic is the same: minimalism, nothing you don’t need.
Then A Bathing Ape drops the BAPE STA and I’m stuck looking at them, trying to find a real reason not to want them. The white soles are huge. The laces are pale. The leather sits there clean and blank. And there’s a star—gold or silver—that’s almost apologetic, like it’s saying I’m a statement and I’m nothing, have fun processing that.
That’s the Japanese design move that gets you. They understand the balance between restraint and presence in a way that makes you feel stupid for wanting it. For knowing it’s good. A Bathing Ape nailed it here. This shoe could pull someone away from Nike or adidas without even trying, and you’d call it a choice instead of a betrayal.
Undefeated has them, or there’s the fifteen-year-old sneaker dealer around the corner who somehow dresses better than most adults and definitely knows it. There’s something about that kind of arrogance that becomes appealing after a while.
You spend enough effort becoming an adult and leave certain things behind, and then the decade you thought you’d escaped comes crawling back. First the old Nintendo games, then the plastic pocket gadgets, and now the Kelly Family reunion tour. I can’t help myself.
Look, I liked the Kelly Family back then. Not ironically—I genuinely listened to their albums. There was something that worked, even if you’d get laughed at for saying so in the wrong company. When they announced they were reuniting, it was obvious they meant it. Patricia Kelly talked about how it felt like a dream coming true, finally getting back on stage with her siblings after all those years of ups and downs. Angelo explained it differently: twenty years had passed since their last major show in Dortmund, and it hit them that they wanted to celebrate what they’d built together as a family. It made sense. Family acts don’t really stop being families just because they stop touring.
The Kelly Family was massive across Europe in the ’90s in that inexplicable way of things that don’t hold up to scrutiny but never really fade. The kind of thing you only admit to liking once enough time has passed. Hearing about the reunion, I realized I’m not embarrassed anymore. Not because they’re suddenly cool—they’re not—but because I’m far enough from being a teenager that I can just like what I like. The earnestness, the family dynamic, the songs that stuck. It still works. Maybe that says something about me. But I’ve made peace with worse.
Most guys are terrible at this. I don’t mean in theory - I mean most real guys. They’re confidently, completely incompetent, and almost none of them know it.
They come at it like they’re operating machinery. No sense of touch, no awareness of what she’s experiencing as opposed to what they’re imagining. They find what might be the right spot and immediately attack it like they’re working with a power tool. Meanwhile she’s uncomfortable, checked out, waiting for him to finish and being nice about it. She’ll never tell him.
So he just keeps doing it the same way forever, convinced he figured it out, when really he got somebody patient.
The thing is, almost nobody learns to pay attention to another person. You don’t get taught. You get rumors from friends and bad information from everywhere else, then you wing it, sure you know because you’ve done it before.
The rare guys who figure out there’s something to notice - that it matters how you touch someone, that there’s a real difference between her tensing defensively and her responding to you - those guys are exceptions. Everyone else just runs the same script, confident and wrong.
It’s not hard. You just have to feel what’s happening instead of going through motions. Notice when something shifts. Care enough to notice whether it’s working.
When a guy pays attention, when he develops even basic sensitivity to what’s happening in the moment, everything’s different. She’s present. She’s vulnerable. You can feel her there with you. That’s the version most guys never get to see, because they’re too sure they already know.
I installed my first adblocker sometime in the mid-2000s, because I was tired of banner ads and autoplay videos and the whole exhausting ecosystem of online advertising. Seemed obvious. Smart, even. Free software that protected your privacy. Win-win.
Except it’s not. The reason these extensions are free is that they record every single website you visit. Everything. Your whole browsing history gets logged, packaged up, and sold to data brokers. That’s the whole point. You’re not the customer — your data is the product.
It sounds theoretical until you actually think about it. Anyone with a credit card can buy access to your complete browsing history. Not just what you searched for — everything. The weird stuff. The late-night spirals. The thing you looked up once and regretted. The medical searches. The thing you told nobody about. All of it is for sale to anyone who wants to spend a few bucks.
And there are definitely people in your life who would do that if they could. Exes. Jealous people. Curious strangers. People with grudges. It’s not hard to imagine. It’s not expensive. It’s just data — and you’re handing it over every time you click something while that little extension is running.
TOY bolted flower boxes onto Berlin S-Bahn trains in daylight. Actual plants, actual dirt, masked and deliberate and not in any hurry. They called the action “Pflanz dich hin.” Deutsche Bahn spent the afternoon pulling them off, probably. The cops may have been involved, may not have. But for a few hours, commuters had prettier trains, which is a weird kind of victory to get from a quasi-legal afternoon.
What strikes me about it is the restraint. Street art is usually maximalist—your name as large as possible, your tag on everything, your mark staying. This was the opposite. Careful work. Something fragile by design, something temporary by necessity. No names. Just the choice to make someone’s commute slightly better and then disappear, knowing full well it wouldn’t last.
I think that takes more confidence than getting your name everywhere.
Shibuya churns through hype cycles—a new shop opens, you either catch it or you don’t, everyone’s looking for what comes next. I went to Banny’s opening near Meiji-jingumae mostly just because I was around.
It’s the kind of place you’d expect—mix of vintage and new clothes, magazines, sneakers, bags, and for some reason toothpaste. Beer and pizza from the family mart next door. Just people hanging out. No attempt to be cooler than it actually is.
The back alleys of Glebe don’t look like anything—streets that don’t go anywhere, walls tagged years back, vegetation growing out of concrete. Spring light hits them a particular way, though. Raw and honest.
Daphne and Yana shot Avalon Ible there with almost nothing. Two jackets for wardrobe. Scrappy bushes at the street’s edge. Whatever light wanted to show up. That’s shooting when you’re not thinking about what you’ve got—you’re thinking about what matters.
I keep coming back to it because it gets at something I sit with a lot: what you can do with constraint. You have two jackets and an alley and a model who knows the language without needing it explained. That becomes the whole thing. That becomes enough.
Avalon’s beautiful in the way that doesn’t need permission. Blonde, striking, totally present. Not posing. Just moving through those alleys like she’d been there the whole time. That presence is the image. The Australian light helps—it’s got this quality of exposure, rawness. You see it in a lot of Sydney work, but something about this landed differently.
What gets me is that nothing apologizes. The crew knew. The model knew. When everyone’s seeing the same frame, something clicks from construction into inevitability. That’s where the power lives.
Alexandra Rubinstein’s a painter from Brooklyn who decided to paint male celebrities giving head, with thought-bubble captions about what they’re thinking while they do it. Leonardo DiCaprio: “What’s Gilbert Grape Eating?” Drake: “Best I Ever Had!” Beckham: “Eat It Like Beckham.” Justin Bieber: “Is It Too Late Now?”—which is perfect because you can feel the desperation in that one, some pathetic maybe-this-fixes-it energy.
She started doing this because there’s basically no pornography made for women. The entire industry assumes its audience and doesn’t bother—billions of dollars built on the idea that nobody wants to watch men work. Rubinstein painted it instead.
What strikes me is how funny the titles are and how true they are at the same time. Drake thinking his own lyrics while going down on someone. Bieber with that damaged-goods energy. The stupid things that would actually be running through male celebrities’ heads in that moment. Regular porn would never touch this because it’s not built to think about female pleasure as even a visible thing—it’s built for someone else entirely.
She didn’t write an essay about the gap or ask permission. She just made the thing that should exist.
I’m not good at League of Legends. I need to establish that first. But there were maybe three weeks where I wasn’t completely useless. I was playing Riven, and something about it felt different. I could see what the game wanted to be, in the spaces between getting destroyed by twelve-year-olds. Before and after that window I was just food for better players, but those weeks I felt it—something real buried under the grind.
Riot released an art book showing the world they built. Concept sketches, color illustrations, character designs from rough first draft to final version. All the invisible work that makes Champ Select feel like you’re entering an actual place. You see how much thought went into a region’s architecture. Most players are too busy failing in fights to notice any of this.
The thing about seeing the art separate from the game is that it stops being a free-to-play treadmill and becomes an actual world. You notice the light on a character’s armor. You see a champion evolve through ten iterations. The care in it becomes visible in a way it can’t be when you’re just playing badly and losing.
I barely touch League anymore. But looking at those illustrations I understood why those three weeks stuck with me. For that brief window I wasn’t just mashing abilities. I was inside that world. That’s the part that never leaves you, even when you’re terrible at everything else.
You know exactly how it would work. Spend thirty years making music nobody pays attention to, or let the industry remake you into something marketable and digestible, and you’re famous. The choice is stupidly clear. The manufacturing process is brutal but effective—every rough edge smoothed, every weird impulse calibrated, every trace of actual personhood veneered over with something that photographs well and plays well with algorithms. It’s a real transaction: your self for their distribution.
Markus Winter, who raps as Maeckes, is one of the ones who didn’t take the deal. He’s been the patient poet of German rap for years, the guy who worked with the Orsons to make music that felt like something substantial, something that mattered. When Tilt dropped in October with the track “WOW” on it, it was him charging at the entire mainstream apparatus—the critics, the machinery, every manufactured star they prop up and sell to you as authentic. It’s a critique disguised as a song, which is exactly what good music does.
There’s something almost stubborn about it, the way some people just keep making the work they believe in regardless of whether anyone’s listening. He’s been doing it long enough now that it’s not even a choice anymore, it’s just who he is. The song is his answer to everyone who took the other route, everyone who let themselves get processed into a product. It’s not an indictment, really—he doesn’t sound angry about it. He just sounds like someone who decided a long time ago that he’d rather be broke and strange than comfortable and fake.
That’s what the song is really about, I think. Not condemning the compromise, but making it clear that some people are constitutionally incapable of it, even when it would be easier. Even when they could have everything if they just bent a little. Maeckes won’t bend. That’s the whole thing.
In the late ’90s, Michael Teufele and Norbert Thormann had been running a gay club called Snax that kept getting forced to move. They finally found a permanent space in an old factory building in Friedrichshain — the kind of concrete block that used to repair trains, all gray walls and industrial bones. No theme, no concept, no decoration. Just a warehouse. They named it Ostgut and opened the doors.
What’s strange is how little was planned. There was no strategy, no image-building, just a room with good sound and people who wanted to dance. Gay and straight crowds came equally, which shouldn’t have been revolutionary, but it meant the door policy was about energy rather than identity. The space did the filtering. A bare warehouse tells you what you’re supposed to do more clearly than any concept ever could.
I think that’s actually the secret of clubs that last — they understand that you don’t design a space, you create conditions and get out of the way. A room like that teaches you what’s possible within it.
Ostgut closed on January 4th, 2003. It seemed like the end. But the space had mattered — enough that when it came back under a new name (Berghain), it kept the same bones. Same concrete walls, same sound system, same refusal to apologize for what it wasn’t. The door got selective, but not from ego — from clarity about what belonged in that particular room.
Two decades later, Berghain is the most famous techno club in the world. It didn’t become famous by trying to be famous. It just stayed what it was.
Somewhere around 2016, every editor in the world decided text was dead. Video was the future. Adobe Premiere was the new literacy. If you couldn’t cut in Final Cut you might as well start looking for another job, because everyone said the kids were done with reading—YouTube was the only language they understood anymore.
Except a Pew study from Washington showed the opposite. People over 50 wanted video. Everyone else still preferred text. Still preferred scrolling through a story instead of sitting through some YouTuber’s intro.
The reason’s obvious enough. Video takes time, attention, real mental weight. Text you can skim. You can read it at 3 AM when you’re half-asleep. It’s faster, which matters when you’re drowning in information trying not to fall behind.
Meanwhile older people got to sit back and let the news wash over them—whatever was trending, whatever was urgent—while young people were grinding through feeds, trying to stay current on enough topics to not sound completely lost in conversation.
Maybe it was never about what people actually wanted. Maybe the industry had already sunk money into video infrastructure and needed to convince itself the future was coming. Turns out people don’t need the future to decide what they prefer.
A proper film about Berlin needs three things. Young people who actually leave the house after 10 PM instead of ordering three extra-cheese pizzas and binging Game of Thrones until they fall asleep. Sex—lots of it, ideally involving boys and girls and maybe an entire Spanish exchange class. And dark clubs where beats and ecstasy are the only currency that matters.
Fucking Berlin has almost all of it. Sonja is a math student newly arrived in the city, and for her Berlin isn’t really a place—it’s a rhythm, an endless loop she can’t help but surrender to. When she falls for Ladja, everything feels possible. They move through the same beat, dancing through nights until the money runs out. That’s when Sonja discovers something about herself: how far she’ll go for cash, for experience, for a glimpse of who she could become.
She becomes Mascha, a webcam performer, testing boundaries in ways her daytime self never could. A double life forms, each version of her real in its own way, and the film doesn’t seem interested in reconciling them or teaching her a lesson. It just watches her move through both, driven by the same restless energy.
Berlin’s appeal has always been the same: the sense that anything is possible if you’re willing to stay awake long enough, to say yes to a strange invitation, to let yourself be remade. This film understands that. It doesn’t judge Sonja’s choices or dress them up as tragedy. Because that’s what being young in that city means—figuring out who you are by seeing how far the person you could be will go.
The nightlife, the sex, the late-night desperation that looks like freedom when you’re living it—the film gets the texture right. Whether it’s actually any good depends on what you’re looking for. If you’re watching for a reflection of your own life, or because you’re drawn to stories about people in that position, or because you just want to watch someone strip away their layers in the dark, you’ll probably find something here.
Germany keeps telling itself it’s liberal, progressive, welcoming. A model for Europe. But that welcome’s got fine print. Cross certain lines and you feel it.
Black people in Germany know this already. So does anyone else who doesn’t fit the picture. You get the message early: this place is open to you, as long as you don’t make it obvious that you’re different. Sometimes it’s the police. Sometimes it’s the way someone’s face changes when you speak. Sometimes it’s just the question—”But where are you really from?”—that follows you everywhere.
What’s different now is there’s a generation done with the apology. Nura, Jermain Raffington, Kokutekeleza Musebeni represent something you can feel building: young Black Germans who are simply saying what shouldn’t be radical to say. “I’m Black. That’s good. That’s who I am.” And if that makes you uncomfortable, that’s your issue.
The power isn’t in the statement itself—it’s in the refusal. They’re not asking permission. Not performing gratitude for being tolerated. Just existing, loudly, as themselves. That’s the shift.
You see it everywhere these days, young people rejecting the deal their parents accepted: stay small, don’t make waves, maybe things improve. But in Germany, a place where identity and nation have been weaponized in specific, historical ways, this particular refusal carries weight. It’s not angry exactly, just done.
I don’t know these people, but I know what they’re describing—that moment when you stop waiting for the world to decide you’re acceptable. It doesn’t solve anything. But it changes something.
There are basically two periods in a life. The time before you understand sriracha, and everything after. This is not hyperbole. It’s a Thai hot sauce from Si Racha — a coastal city that’s given its name to something most people will use for the rest of their lives. Chilies, vinegar, garlic, sugar, salt. That’s it. That’s the entire thing, and it’s somehow perfect.
I can’t remember when I first had it, but I remember understanding it. That sharp, acidic heat that makes you want another bite instead of stopping. The garlic cutting through. This small sweetness underneath that shouldn’t work but does. After that, it went on everything. Scrambled eggs. Rice. Cold leftovers at midnight because I was too hungry to cook. Dumplings, noodles, fish, whatever was sitting there.
There’s this phase where you find something and it’s suddenly in every drawer of your kitchen. You buy multiple bottles because the alternative — running out — feels impossible. Thai restaurants have it on the table, Vietnamese places have it, Korean barbecue has it. It works with good food and makes bad food tolerable. It’s one of those rare things that doesn’t care about context.
I’ve never made it. I’ve seen videos of the factories, the massive vats, the automation of it all. It looks clean and competent, which is fine. But I don’t need to know how it’s made. I just need it waiting in the fridge, something you reach for without thinking, like it’s always been part of your life.
You see someone walking through Tokyo with a Pikachu on their head and you have two choices: assume they’re in costume, or accept that this person has simply decided to live this way. Iza chose the latter. That’s actually her head. That’s how she moves through the world.
Pokémon GO happened a few years back—everyone was walking around hunting invisible creatures. Most people got bored and moved on. But some didn’t. For Iza, the craze didn’t end; it deepened. What started as a casual interest became this: a Pikachu permanently affixed to her skull, the natural result of not pretending to outgrow something you love.
There’s something about Tokyo that makes this work. The city’s full of people expressing their particular obsessions openly—you see it everywhere if you look. Fashion, street art, the way people dress for what actually interests them rather than what’s acceptable. Iza fits right in, just pushing it further than most. It’s not irony. It’s commitment.
What gets me is that this isn’t performative. She’s not doing it for attention or the camera. She’s just this devoted to something, and she let it show. Most of us hide what we actually care about, curate ourselves into something more palatable. Iza didn’t.
I don’t know if that’s admirable or insane. Probably both.
When “Love on Top” comes on in a club, I scream “That’s my song!” like I wrote the thing myself. Beyoncé doesn’t know this, but that moment when you think it’s over and she just screams “Baby it’s YOU!!” — I’ve heard it a thousand times on long drives and it never gets old. It owns you completely.
I was briefly in a DJ duo. Two gigs, then nobody booked us again. I’m not exaggerating. But in those two nights, I learned which songs actually moved people, which ones stuck in a room. Azealia Banks’ “212” was one of them. The MØ cover of “Say You’ll Be There” was another, though I have a genuine grudge against MØ for constantly announcing Austrian tour dates then canceling them last minute. At least the cover lets me slip Spice Girls into playlists at parties where people care about seeming cool. Small victories.
Charli XCX’s “Breaking Up” I listen to constantly, loud enough that my friend started asking if I was trying to end our friendship. Not the case. But yeah, aggressive electronic music has a purpose. Same with Sleigh Bells’ “Bitter Rivals” — I’m a peaceful person most of the time, but when you’re running, you need music that sounds like it wants to destroy something. That’s the only time I play it, basically once a year, and it works.
David Bowie’s “Modern Love” comes on after all-nighters, when you’ve been studying so hard you just need something to make you remember you’re alive. Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5” is essential on every playlist. Partly because that song genuinely taught me, a freelancer, what a traditional job actually is — apparently you do it 9 to 5 — and partly because it’s trashy and perfect for saving any party that’s dying. No apologies.
Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation” was my entire school soundtrack. I felt so badass listening to it, even though my actual bad reputation was purely that I never skip meals and I stare way too much in the locker room after gym. Good times. Lorde’s “The Love Club” was the first song I heard from her, and genuinely the only moment in my life where I liked something before it became a thing everyone loved. Probably won’t happen again.
Here’s the truth about summer hits: people will talk about the “Ketchup Song”, Dragostea Din Tei, all those one-hit wonders. But nobody remembers them. The Macarena is the only one that stuck, the one that still puts anyone of any age — definitely me — into some kind of actual ecstasy. That’s the one that lasted. Everything else is dead.
Crystal Moselle made a short about a girl named Rachelle who lives outside New York and feels completely locked out of the skate scene. She’s intimidated by the people in it, sure it’s not for her, small in the face of people who make it look effortless. Then she meets a group of girls who skate without needing to prove anything, and something in her shifts.
The film doesn’t make a big thing out of it. There’s no pep talk, no moment where someone explains that Rachelle belongs here. Moselle just watches her move through the space, watches her see the other girls, watches her decide she can do what they do. It’s simple and complete.
Moselle’s thinking about that specific age, the hinge between being a kid and whatever comes after. Everything still feels possible. Everything still feels fragile. For Rachelle it’s skateboarding, but the film gets at something bigger: seeing yourself reflected in someone else, and then having the nerve to become that person too.
The skate world is male-dominated and hostile to women. The film knows that. It doesn’t need to explain it to you — the way Rachelle moves through it says everything.
I get the desire to disappear into another life. Your actual existence feels constrained—job, habits, the same people expecting the same things from you. You want to be someone else. You want to feel like you’re fighting for something real.
This is the core of LARP. Thousands of people worldwide gather in forests and fields to become zombies, elves, warlords. Mermaids, orcs, assassins. Whatever. They build costumes, invent backstories, learn the rules of the world they’re about to inhabit.
Boris Leist documented this. He’s a photographer who studied sociology and literature, so he was naturally drawn to a subculture built on collective worldbuilding and identity rejection. He followed LARP communities for years, photographed them, made a book. “The actors create characters that have the power to block out the modern world and create their own,” he told me. “Freed from social structures, rules, laws—they become themselves and move through strange universes together. Fantasy and creativity are the point. Everyone’s invited into this intense, often epic journey.”
What happens in those moments is real, even if the world isn’t. You’re collaborating with strangers to maintain a fiction. You’re invested in it working. You care whether your character lives or dies in the game. You’re fully present in a way that ordinary life doesn’t often demand.
I don’t know if I’d ever actually LARP. But I understand the appeal completely. You get to be unrecognizable. You get to abandon the self that the world has boxed you into. For a weekend or an evening, that box doesn’t exist anymore.
Nicola Formichetti did the art direction for Diesel’s 30-year anniversary show in Tokyo, and that’s the kind of gig that makes sense for him. His mother was a Japanese flight attendant, his father an Italian pilot - the kind of background that gives you claim to two places at once. He got discovered by Katy England, who gave him a column at Dazed & Confused when he was just starting out, which is basically the story of him existing at the intersection of underground and mainstream fashion without ever seeing those as separate things.
The show was this blend of intimate and elaborate - an exhibition, a party afterward, models, Tokyo’s nightlife scene, the whole apparatus but lighter somehow, less forced. Nicola talks about Japan as central to his creative process the way some people talk about their home, because it kind of is.
The models were actually compelling. Sara Cummings is one of those people who moves through fashion on her own terms without needing to announce it - you just watch her and understand the entire underground model conversation. Kiko Mizuhara is one of those faces that works in film and fashion simultaneously, which doesn’t happen often. Even Rola, who doesn’t exist in Western consciousness but has this kind of presence in Japan that doesn’t translate because it doesn’t need to.
It was just people making something beautiful in a city that actually cares about that work. The whole thing happened and then everyone went home. Nothing else. Just the thing itself, no message attached.
Most drugs are shit. Not all—pizza’s basically a drug, love is one too, coke definitely counts. A little coke always works. The weird thing is, this was supposed to stay hidden, something that only happened in cycling and Olympic doping scandals. But in esports, it’s become the whole story: no fame without chemistry.
The scene is insane. StarCraft II, League of Legends, Counter-Strike—these are the games where you actually make money, actually live like a celebrity. South Korean teenagers are sleeping with supermodels because they can move their mouse faster than everyone else. It’s not even subtle anymore. And they’re all on pills.
Nootropics. Smart drugs. Substances that supposedly sharpen your central nervous system—Phenylethylamine, Tolcapon, Atomoxetin. The thing is, every kid watching these pros thinks the pills are the real secret. So they start ordering whatever they can find online, totally convinced that chemistry is what separates them from the top of the leaderboard. Nobody tells them this is delusional. Nobody tells them they’re just setting themselves up to be junkies with no income.
I’ve seen this pattern a thousand times, in music, design, anywhere there’s perceived status for young people. Same lie, recycled: the winners are winners because they’re on something. But it’s never the pills. It’s a thousand hours of grind, talent you either have or you don’t, luck. The drugs just let you burn faster. They don’t make you a god—they make you exhausted and dependent, trading your future for a few extra hours of focus right now.
The creepy part is how normalized it’s all become. The pros stream openly about their nootropic stacks like it’s a self-care routine, and the kids watching absorb the message: chemistry is how you win. At least it’s honest, I guess. But honest doesn’t make it less predatory.
Huge photographs of vaginas at STUDIOLO Berlin, shot with a dental camera. Peter Kaaden was testing equipment on things he actually wanted to look at, which has a certain logic—why waste the magnification on dental applications?
The results are extreme. At that scale, the familiar becomes almost unrecognizable. Texture and shadow, the specific topography of skin, folds, pigmentation. You lose any sense of proportion or context. All the compositional framing that usually makes explicit photography function as art or erotica—the pose, the body as a whole, the human presence—just collapses. You’re confronted with pure biological detail.
Kaaden talked about it simply: “Suddenly I could see details I’d never seen before. I was closer to the bodies than I’d ever been.” That closeness is everything. Most of the time, looking at bodies is mediated—through distance, through framing, through all the conventions we’ve built around how bodies can be seen. This camera eliminates that. There’s no aesthetic distance to hide behind. It’s just magnified skin, the fact of its presence, the choice to enlarge it and print it and hang it.
There’s something clarifying about that, weirdly. Not in any moral register. Just: here’s what bodies actually contain and display. Not mysterious or poetic. Real. The work doesn’t hedge—doesn’t dress the subject up in concept or distance, doesn’t apologize for interest. Just magnifies and frames.
The show ended a while back, but the premise stays with you.
I’d seen Thailand in a hundred photographs before I ever got there. The temples, the night markets, that light between the buildings at dusk. All of it was already familiar from other people’s travel feeds and magazine features. Duran Levinson, who’s shot for VICE and Red Bull and everyone else you’d expect, spent time there recently. The work he brought back isn’t pretending to reveal some undiscovered side of the place. It’s doing something quieter.
What matters in his work is the specificity. Not temples as abstract icons but as actual spaces where people move through them with ordinary purpose. Markets at the moment before the main rush, when the chaos hasn’t quite started and the light’s doing something different. It’s the difference between the photograph everyone’s already seen and the one that makes you feel present, in that particular second, with a specific quality of attention that doesn’t make it into guidebooks.
The place doesn’t resolve itself. Thailand will never feel completely knowable, and maybe that’s why people keep going back. Not to solve it or achieve understanding, but to accumulate another specific moment, another version of the light, another conversation that never makes it into the travel narrative. There’s no arrival in travel like that—just accumulation, just addition.
Levinson’s work gets that. It’s neither reverent nor cynical, just attentive. And once attention starts, it’s difficult to stop. You look at images like these and you understand why people return to a place that will never be fully theirs or fully knowable. The incompleteness is what pulls them back.
Berlin in the afternoon feels different than Berlin at night or in the morning. There’s this particular exhaustion to the daylight hours, a sense that the city has already shown you most of its hand and now you’re just picking through what’s left. We went to Dandy Diner first—vegan food that doesn’t feel like penance, which is harder to find than you’d think. Then Made in Berlin, a vintage shop that has the kind of inventory that comes from someone with actual vision instead of someone who just opened a store in a gentrified neighborhood.
By the time we got to Yoli Frozen Yogurt I was thinking about how cities like this work. They’re supposed to be overwhelming, this constant assault of choice and people and spectacle, but if you move through them slowly enough they become almost intimate. You notice the things that other people miss. The care someone took with a window display. The way a bartender knows how to talk to strangers. A frozen yogurt shop that just is what it is. These are the moments that stay with you, not the famous landmarks.
I’ve seen Miley Cyrus naked so many times I’ve basically memorized her body. And yeah, I know exactly what that makes me, and I’m not sorry about it. But there’s more going on with the Plastik shoot than just the nudity, and that’s what keeps me thinking about it.
She was Hannah Montana once. Locked down, manufactured, Disney’s perfect untouchable princess. Now she’s the kind of woman who walks into a photoshoot with Vijat Mohindra and takes it all off without blinking. Vijat’s shot everyone—Rihanna, Selena, Lindsay Lohan, all these women who’ve been chewed up by the fame machine. He knows how to make them look powerful.
Wayne Michael Coyne’s in the shoot with her, the Flaming Lips guy. And it works because they both understand the same thing—that the only interesting way to exist in this world is to make people uncomfortable with what you do. He’s been doing it for decades. Miley’s newer to it, but she’s all in.
What gets me is how at ease she looks. Not posing, not performing—just existing naked in front of a camera, completely unselfconscious about who she is. The people who grew up watching Hannah Montana probably hate it. That’s kind of the whole point.
Cara Delevingne doesn’t seem to do things that don’t feel like her. That’s the thing about her. You watch her and there’s no performance, no sense that she’s acting out a role in her own career — she just does what feels right and doesn’t apologize.
It’s rarer than you’d think in that world. Most people in fashion and entertainment are constantly adjusting themselves, figuring out what photographs well, what the market wants, what a brand needs from them. Cara just seems to be herself. No hedging. No strategic reinvention every couple of years.
When she attaches her name to something, it’s not because she’s mathematically perfect for it. It’s because the thing actually matters to her, because the message aligns with how she moves through the world. You can feel the difference between someone who believes in what they’re doing and someone who’s just collecting a paycheck.
Maybe I’m reading too much into a celebrity’s public image. But in an industry built entirely on careful image management and positioning, there’s something almost defiant about just being yourself and letting that be enough. No reinvention cycle, no course corrections based on algorithm feedback.
It makes you think about your own compromises — the small adjustments you make for different people and situations, how you shape yourself to fit different contexts. How much of that is necessary and how much is just habit. What would stick around if you stopped performing.
I’ll admit it: despite being an almost comically devoted anime fan, manga never stuck with me. I found those first Dragon Ball volumes at a flea market once and felt this weird happiness, then it just… evaporated.
The reasons are straightforward. Manga costs too much for what you’re getting—ten euros for thirty minutes of reading if you’re a fast reader. My attention span is also shot; five minutes of sustained reading and I’m twitching for my phone. And fundamentally, manga is just shapes on paper. No color, no music, no voices. Anime wins on every front.
Nick Gazin, who’s an actual artist and knows what he’s talking about, would probably hit me for saying any of this. He loves manga the way some people love oxygen. He put together a list of his five best: Akira, Dragon Ball, Lone Wolf & Cub, Nausicaä, Astro Boy.
The thing about that list is they’re foundational works. Akira and Nausicaä shaped how I think about animation—the entire visual language came from those pages. The fact that these images started as ink on paper, in one person’s head, before they became the anime I actually watch, means something. I might never read manga seriously. But I can’t dismiss work that essential.
Curtis Newton’s adventures on the Comet were just another Tuesday afternoon on German TV. The ship, the crew, the general sense that someone had cobbled together a space opera from spare parts and optimism. I didn’t know then that this stuff had been edited and remixed, re-dubbed into something barely recognizable from the original Japanese. It was just space opera, simple as that.
The odd thing is watching people now act like anime is some niche obsession they have to apologize for. Back then it wasn’t shameful—it just existed on ZDF like anything else. I watched Mila Superstar, Sailor Moon, Captain Future between homework and dinner. Nobody called it immature. Nobody had to frame it as ironic appreciation.
What’s stayed with me about space adventure anime, especially the older stuff, is that it didn’t try to be cute or clever. No overexplained systems, no seventeen layers of character archetype and fanservice calculation. Just a crew, a ship, whatever problem was waiting out in space. The newer shows can’t help themselves—they’re designed by committee, every moment justified to death. This stuff was simpler. Probably worse in some technical sense, but more honest.
They’re re-releasing it on Blu-Ray now—the German dub alongside the original uncut Japanese episodes. The ones that never made it past German TV censor scissors. I’m curious what we were missing, what ZDF cut away. But I’m not nostalgic for the original in some purist way. The dubbed version is what I watched. That’s the real memory.
I wonder if any kid now actually picks up Captain Future and watches it, or if it’s purely a product for people like me. Space adventures without irony are a hard sell these days. Everything’s overstuffed with references and in-jokes and carefully calibrated appeal. These old shows don’t know how to do that. They just move forward, ship and crew and problem, episode after episode. That directness is either going to feel refreshing or completely boring.
Jan Böhmermann posted a press conference on YouTube looking genuinely relieved. A German comedian had just been cleared of charges for—and this is the whole insanity—writing a satirical poem. The plaintiff was Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, Turkey’s president. The case had taken years. Angela Merkel even apologized for his joke at one point. When it ended, Böhmermann’s relief was visible. ’I can make jokes about anything again,’ he said.
That single sentence explains everything that went wrong. Not because he’d been imprisoned or disappeared, but because a powerful man had turned satire into something requiring legal defense.
You start noticing it everywhere once you’re looking—the way power doesn’t tolerate being mocked. Criticism you can argue with. Satire you can’t, because humor operates in the space where logic breaks down. Erdoğan couldn’t rebut a poem, so he sued it instead.
The whole thing proves itself. If a joke can make your government pursue years of litigation, if satire becomes something citizens have to defend in court, then yes, the problem is the state. A secure government lets people laugh. A fragile one sues them.
Nazis function better in groups. Surround them with their friends and the performance is complete—beer, slogans, the whole theatrical monologue. But isolate one, put him across from someone asking genuine questions, and the facade cracks. Suddenly he’s stammering, backpedaling, finding reasons why that foreigner isn’t so bad after all. The conviction was never real. It was just the crowd noise.
Naomi Nemi El-Hassan decided to test this with Nazi rappers—actual German musicians selling white supremacist garbage in song form. She was reporting for a YouTube series and she sat down with one of them to ask why.
The claim he made was almost funny in how transparent it was: hip-hop didn’t originate in Black America. A Swedish guy invented it in the 1920s. So hip-hop is basically European. It’s basically white. It’s the kind of lie that collapses under any scrutiny, but it doesn’t need to survive logic—it just needs to let him feel less like a thief, less like someone selling stolen property back to his audience under a new flag.
What gets me is the shamelessness. These guys are taking something genuinely powerful—rooted in Black American experience and resistance—and they’re just inverting the story so they can claim ownership. The lie is flimsy as hell, obviously constructed, but it doesn’t matter. The facts were never the point. It’s about being part of something, about having a target. Put him alone and the whole ideology falls apart.
Cosplayers everywhere, some genuinely great, most just enthusiastically committed. Professional esports players locked onto screens. Hours-long lines of people willing to wait for five minutes with whatever the industry had decided was going to be huge that year. That’s Gamescom in Cologne.
Virtual reality was the moment. Oculus Rift, HTC Vive, PlayStation VR—all of them there, all testable, all promising the future. Everyone wanted to try them. You could feel the belief in the air, even though most of us already knew it wouldn’t live up to the hype.
Security was tight that year. No bags, backpacks checked at the door, cosplayers banned from bringing weapons. The months before had been scary; it showed in the precautions. It could have ruined the whole event, but it didn’t. People came anyway.
I got in line for one of the VR demos. The headset pressed against my face, the virtual space overwhelming for a second, and then it’s over and you’re back in a crowded hall feeling vaguely nauseous. The actual experience was less impressive than advertised but more interesting than I’d expected. Someone asked if I thought VR would change gaming forever. I said probably not. They looked unconvinced.
It’s dark and cold outside, the kind of weekend you just surrender to. Dump yourself on the couch, grab whatever snacks are around, and don’t plan on leaving. Here’s what I’ve had on rotation for exactly this situation.
The pure escapism stuff—Uncharted pulls you straight into an action movie and doesn’t let go. Same with Witcher 3, except you actually care about the people involved and the world feels like it has weight to it. Those are the ones where you look up and realize it’s been six hours.
For something less demanding, there’s Minecraft and Mario Maker in creative mode. Building something, watching it take shape, no timer, no failure state. It’s the difference between gaming and meditating. Hours disappear but you’re not stressed, just in your own head.
Zelda: Majora’s Mask is a different kind of pull—the timer mechanic, the repeating days, there’s actual anxiety to it, but in a good way. Like you’re in a puzzle you need to solve. Never gets old.
Metal Gear Solid V is pure adrenaline and paranoia. GTA is mayhem. Destiny is that multiplayer grind that’ll ruin your sleep schedule. These aren’t cozy in the traditional sense, but they’re good at hijacking your weekend completely—you stop thinking about anything else.
FIFA and Pokémon are the ones you can play half-asleep. You’re just running through the motions, but the game’s rhythm carries you. Good background-noise games when your brain’s already fried.
The real trick is just having something on hand that matches whatever you’re in the mood for. Some weekends you want to disappear into a story. Some you want to build something. Some you just need the distraction.
Super Mario World is what made me care about games in the first place. Had my Super Nintendo and my friends’ consoles running constantly. I could argue endlessly about how perfect it was—and it still is.
Super Mario Maker is Nintendo handing you the architecture. You make your own levels in any style from the last thirty years of Mario—NES, SNES, modern 3D. Underwater, in the clouds, deep underground. You pick the theme, place every block, every enemy, every jump. You’re not just playing Mario anymore; you’re designing it.
That shift matters. As a kid, I memorized levels someone else had designed. Now I’m thinking like the person who designed them. Every platform, every gap, every enemy—it’s about understanding why each choice was made, how it shapes the feel of the level.
Most of what I’d build would be garbage. That’s fine. The point is it could exist. The ideas I’ve been carrying for thirty years that just lived in my head—I could actually make those real. I could build something impossible, or weird, or something I think is perfect. The tool doesn’t judge.
That’s what stuck with me: it’s not about more Mario content. It’s the same game you loved your whole life, but from the other side. You finally understand the blueprint.
The weather shifts in a way that’s hard to name until it’s obvious—the light changes, the air gets thinner—and suddenly you’re thinking about shoes again. New ones, always, even though you know exactly which ones you’ll end up buying. That’s the thing about sneakers. You develop a relationship with specific models the way some people do with hoodies or jeans. You own three pairs of them. You’ve owned three pairs of them for the past decade.
The Stan Smith is still there. adidas’s 1972 leather thing, barely evolved, which is exactly the point. It’s perfect because it doesn’t try. Black and white, minimal, works with everything, doesn’t embarrass you anywhere. The Superstar is the one with the aggressive stripes and the gum sole—that’s another model that’s been around so long it’s become invisible, which is the highest compliment a shoe can receive. Both are shoes that look better beat up. Both have probably been sitting in a clearance bin somewhere since you last bought them, because the people buying sneakers for fashion reasons buy different things every season.
Then there’s the Chuck Taylor, which is less a shoe and more a cultural artifact. You wore Chucks when they cost thirty dollars and everyone did, before they became a heritage brand that costs more. They still feel the same though. Thin, cheap-looking, completely impractical in actual rain, but they’re the easiest shoe to wear because they require no decisions. No technology, no branding visibility, no stories. Just a shoe.
The New Balance 580 is the one you probably don’t see people wearing much. It sits between the obvious choices—the basketball shoes, the running shoes, the status symbols—in that weird space where something is genuinely classic but not fashionable enough to be trendy. That’s where the good shoes live. Reebok’s stuff from the nineties has that same feeling: robust, a little dated, probably better engineered than anything designed in the last five years.
Vans, Puma, Lacoste, Superga—they all make versions of the same shoe, really. The high-top canvas, the leather court model, the minimalist low-top. You could draw these designs on a napkin. You probably have, at some point. The fact that they all still exist, still sell, still feel right after fifty years says something about how much fashion can change without actually changing anything fundamental.
Autumn is just the excuse to buy them again. New sole, fresh canvas, another few months before the canvas wears through the right way. The shoes don’t change. You don’t change. The weather reminds you that your closet has seasonal requirements, so you buy the same thing you always buy, and it works like it always works. That reliability, the fact that you can hand someone the same shoe model from 1972 and it still makes sense—that’s the whole thing, really.
Blink 182 were my only friends from fifteen to eighteen. Tom DeLonge, Travis Barker, Mark Hoppus—they lived in my Discman and I didn’t need much else. We rode bikes, played too many video games, got dumped repeatedly, hung in internet cafes, bought fake Fubu hoodies by accident. Their albums don’t lose anything even now. But Take Off Your Pants and Jackets is the one—it has this bright season feeling, first real love, decent people around me, actual normal teenage life. Something like American Pie, which I wanted so badly. With “Anthem Part Two” I’m still there, the whole vivid thing playing out in my head.
Kool Savas destroyed everything before him in thirty seconds. I wasn’t even listening to Creutzfeld & Jakob, but Savas came through “Fehdehandschuh” and flipped my entire understanding of German rap. No rhyme schemes, no rules—just force. Changed something permanent. We thought he was twelve meters tall with bazookas for hands. That track led me down the Berlin rabbit hole, Royal Bunker tapes, eventually thinking I might try rapping myself.
Sido’s Maske in senior year 2004—we ran it on constant loop over the parking lot speakers. Loud, simple, marked. “Steig ein!” scared us but we couldn’t look away. It was like getting in a haunted house made of a ghetto we didn’t know and had no interest in living in. We’d pump it through my Golf 3, felt cool even though we were nowhere near it, the guys Sido would’ve slapped around. Didn’t matter. He was in Berlin.
2005 came and I lost eighty kilos in four months on a crosstrainer. MySpace was happening and I could finally post pictures without becoming a target. Tim dug up “Bad Boys” by Wham! for me—this half-homoerotc 80s nothing—and it fit perfectly. That song is still tied to the first time I felt light, stopped being an anchor to myself. Suddenly there were girlfriends, solid people around me, actual compliments. Life felt okay and this dumb track was playing in the background making it feel perfect.
The summer after graduation was destroyed early. Got involved in spring, got dumped on Ibiza where my ex was with two Austrian guys simultaneously. Real way to come back. My friends dragged me to Holland—Bergen aan Zee—and we rented a house. There was Karl, tall and blond with a lisp; Mark, enormous in every direction, stoned enough every day to build a personality from it; Oliver, small and twitchy, always talking about sex he wasn’t having. And me, fat with bleached blonde hair and a heart that wouldn’t heal. I’d disappear into my room with Moses Pelham and Ben Harper and Jack Johnson, crying into my pillow until they dragged me down for Bomberman on Super Nintendo. The Police’s Greatest Hits on vinyl the entire time. Sting singing about being stranded and the world got smaller and better every listen. Still my song for when someone decides you’re not worth exclusivity.
Summer 2008 was all French electro. Everything around Ed Banger Records, my girlfriend Jill and I took it all in—vacations, my first day at vocational school, playing Metal Gear Solid 4, everything had Justice running underneath. “Genesis” opens Cross and opened a door into something crucial. They made everything louder and I’ve been screaming at them ever since.
Eminem was actually terrifying when he started. The violence in his lyrics before it went stale, before it became just a trick—it actually worked back then. Could drive whole flocks of angry parents in front of concert halls. Dre really seemed to have just released a madman onto MTV to see what would happen. He built something out of skill and actual emotional devastation, the way songs like “Kim” and “Stan” and “The Way I Am” would hit you like you’d been in a car accident. Perfect precision. “Just Don’t Give A Fuck” though—the beat alone is enough to make you want to punch your own teeth out. Everything else is just him finishing it.
May 2011, Psaiko Dino’s apartment in Stuttgart. He’s raving about this new rapper Chimperator just signed, guy named Cro, Carlo something, really talented, draws and sings and does fashion. Says “Easy” is insane, just dropped it. I’m on his couch nodding and smiling while the beat runs and when it ends I tell him: “Nice one. Not a hit though.” One year later we’re on a sold-out tour. Cro put out the video in December and somehow became the biggest thing that happened in German rap. McDonald’s got Crockstahzumjot burgers. My account filled from t-shirt sales. Kids in the audience asking for my babies. I realized I’d be the worst A&R on earth.
Donald Glover’s the closest thing I have to a real idol. Nobody did so much with one body of work, moved through so many things but never actually landed anywhere. Too talented in every direction, kept holding himself back. When I was completely drained in 2013 and 2014—burned through hype, creatively stuck, drowning—his work was the nearest thing to what I was feeling. “Because The Internet” is still the most important rap album of the decade despite all the artsy bullshit. Glover proved that weird people like me could actually make something real. “3005” came on after a terrible breakup and dead friendships and I knew it was going to get better. It did.
April 2015, LA for the first time. E3, Greenscreen show, something I’d dreamed about as a kid who never left Europe. Rental car, Fairfax Avenue, turned on the radio and “Ayo” came on—Chris Brown and Tyga, which is dumb, which is embarrassing, but it fit so perfectly I almost threw up. Palms, sun, Hollywood sign in the distance and this stupid song hitting exactly right. Jamie XX would’ve been less embarrassing but less honest. The truth is the song works so I went with it.
I never cared much about Selena Gomez. She seemed perpetually trapped by whatever happened to her - the Disney past she couldn’t shake, the relationships that didn’t work, the illness, the relentless attention. Other people created the story; she just had to live in it.
Revival is what happens when someone stops performing recovery and just tells the truth about being inside that machine. The songs aren’t trying to be clever or transcendent. They’re just damage reports - here’s what it felt like when I was alone, here’s what happened, here’s why I’m broken. “Same Old Love” is the whole album in one song: ordinary sadness that cuts because it’s so plainly stated.
She’s still trapped, obviously. The production is smooth mainstream pop, the kind that wraps pain in hooks so you can swallow it. Her voice isn’t powerful enough to carry the real depths. But that somehow works in her favor. She can’t perform her way out of it. She has to actually say what happened.
What I’m struck by is that she made this album at all. Someone that famous, under that much pressure to seem fine, decided to spend an entire record documenting falling apart. Not as a marketing move or an edgy reinvention. Just because the truth had to go somewhere.
That’s not art or genius. But it is the first time she sounded like a real person to me instead of a story I was supposed to believe. That matters enough to remember.
I came across Bravo Ko after spending time with Chih Hsien Chen’s photographs from Taiwan, and it turns out they’re not just from the same city—they’re in the same friend circle. That kind of proximity, where artists are actually living and working together instead of performing for an audience, is what makes the work feel alive.
This is where the critics always show up. They say this isn’t art, just hipsters with cameras, another Ryan McGinley clone, nothing new or useful or surprising. They’ve been saying that for years about the photography I publish on this blog. And they’re not wrong that some of it is derivative. But they’re missing something.
I love these photographs because they’re direct and unfiltered and true. They’re documenting what it actually feels like to be young and creative right now—in Taipei, in New York, in Berlin, wherever. There’s a defiance running through all of it, a refusal to perform for institutions or press releases. That’s consistent across continents. That’s the movement.
Bravo Ko is part of that movement. I’ll keep showing work like this as long as I’m able. Not because it’s revolutionary or because I need to defend anything. Just because it matters.
There’s a moment when you’re at the supermarket, hand on an apple, and you think for maybe a second about where it came from. You imagine a farm somewhere, probably not that far away actually, definitely somewhere in Germany if you’re shopping at EDEKA, and then you put it in your cart because you’re hungry and the moment passes.
EDEKA made an ad about this. They called it Dorfdrift — which is clever enough that it stuck with me — and it’s just a farmer racing to deliver his fresh apples before they lose that just-picked quality. The whole sales pitch is built on speed and proximity. The apples are good because they barely had time to stop being good.
It’s funny how this became a selling point. Twenty, thirty years ago, local just meant local because there was no alternative. Now we’ve globalized everything so thoroughly that you have to advertise the fact that something came from nearby as though it’s an exotic feature. Apples from a region, delivered fresh, is now a marketing angle. The farmer in his tractor is the hero. It’s backwards and forwards at the same time.
I’ve seen their other campaigns. They do decent work, actually. This one isn’t trying to sell you a lifestyle or make you feel guilty or connect produce to childhood memories. It’s just saying: short distance, fresher apples. That’s the whole premise. There’s something I respect about not overselling it, about letting the logistics speak for themselves.
But I also know I’m not going to change how I shop based on an ad, no matter how honest it is. I’ll buy the local apples when they look good and I’ll buy the ones from somewhere else when those look better, and I won’t think about any of this again until the next campaign reminds me. The apple tastes fine either way.
Johannes Huebl was discovered at eighteen in Hannover. A few years later he’s working for Ralph Lauren, Hugo Boss, the luxury brands. One day you’re a kid in a German city, the next you’re a model in international campaigns. The fashion industry doesn’t groom people so much as it claims them—someone sees potential, and that’s enough. The rest just follows.
Mario Testino wanted to photograph Johannes at his breakthrough moment. The location was Sölden, Austria, a ski resort with a glass building at the summit looking out over the Ötztal. There’s probably a lot of light up there, which is the only thing that really matters to a photographer. Testino’s been thinking about Slim Aarons, the mid-century photographer who captured the wealthy in their intimate moments. Aarons made those moments feel real because they probably were, or at least felt like it. Testino’s adapted that approach for a project called “On Arrival,” which documents people at the edge of their breakthrough.
There’s something circular about photographing a breakthrough. You don’t capture it—you create it. Once someone like Testino photographs you at the right location with the right light, the moment becomes official. The industry has confirmed it. The photograph makes the breakthrough real, or real enough that it doesn’t matter. Johannes Huebl probably feels different after seeing himself documented by a famous photographer in a mountain building. Or maybe the transformation was already complete, and this is just the image of completion.
I don’t know what Testino’s photographs actually look like. I’m imagining clean lines, that perfect light, Johannes looking somewhere off-frame. The kind of image that belongs in a magazine and says: this person has arrived. Whether he feels like he’s arrived is secondary. The photograph is the proof.
The acoustic version of “Hotel” by BOY is just Valeska Steiner and Sonja Glass with nothing else—no production, no tricks. The song is all there is, and I think that’s the whole point.
Minimal arrangements are a test. Most songs fail—the production drops and they fall apart. This doesn’t. The way they phrase things, where they let silence sit instead of filling space, how the song breathes—I feel all of it at once. It’s not a polished performance. It’s more like listening to someone think through a melody.
They’ve been building toward something for years. “Little Numbers” got a lot of exposure through a Lufthansa ad, “We Were Here” showed they had real depth, and they’ve been huge in Japan longer than most people know. But this acoustic version is where all of that makes sense. It’s not trying to be anything elaborate—just what’s actually there. And that’s the hardest thing to pull off.
The first time I left Ul’dah in Final Fantasy 14, I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. The game presents itself as a standard MMORPG: dragons, magic, knights, the whole formula. You spend the opening hours grinding on rats and spiders, watching veterans zip past on giant mounts in glowing armor. It’s fine. It’s what you expect.
But once you venture beyond the main city, if you actually stop and look, you see them—refugees. Not incidental NPCs. They’re everywhere. Huddled in caves, packed into tent camps, dressed in rags, their bodies lying along the roadsides. From the townspeople walking past, they catch insults, spittle, kicks. Their families are on the other side of the war. They have nothing left to hope for.
The game’s story is old. Some tyrannical empire on the far side of the continent wants to conquer everything, sending monsters and machines to do it. You team up with a blonde woman with some real curves, a yellow bird, and whoever else is paying ten euros a month, and together you swing a sword and cast spells to stop them. If you’ve sat through World of Warcraft or Guild Wars, you can sleep through this part. Except—and this is where it gets strange—Final Fantasy 14 has something the competition doesn’t. There’s a heaviness to this world that sits with you from the first hours. A tragedy that’s already happened.
Years ago, before the game even existed as Final Fantasy 14, there was a version of it that nearly bankrupted Square Enix. It was a disaster. The company rebuilt it from the ground up, and they did something smart: they made the catastrophe part of the story. The world itself remembers the apocalypse it survived. All that’s left is ruined desert, the Sultanate of Ul’dah in the middle, stone and commerce and the surrounding city-states you need to explore to become one of the legendary adventurers. Daytime: hunting massive creatures. Nighttime: gambling your earnings away in the casino.
When you start taking actual jobs—quests to a mine, an old station, a haunted cemetery—that’s when you really notice the camps. The refugees didn’t just appear in the background art. They’re a permanent part of the world. Skeletal. Desperate. Unwanted.
You’re in a dungeon slaughtering monsters, the orchestral music playing underneath, thinking about your next piece of armor or the diamond sword you’re grinding for, and from all sides, people watch you who’ve lost everything. Who fled a fanatical regime that respects nothing. Who are packed together without homes, slowly starving. And suddenly I’m making connections to places in the real world—Syria, the Islamic State, refugee crises we barely hear about. I start taking quests specifically to get medicine to the digital refugee children, and I feel like shit for it. Why am I helping pixels when real people need help?
Nobody would actually play a game called “Refugees” except the programmers who built it and the journalists writing about it. But because this subject matter is woven into something as massive as Final Fantasy 14—available on newer PlayStation consoles and PC—you have to think about it. You have time to think about it. The world is big, and you move slow.
When a farmer in the next village is insulting a group of refugees, pushing them away, I want to press a button and step in. Give them bread, let them stay. But the game doesn’t give me that option. The system doesn’t care. The farmer talks about the weather. The refugees stare ahead. The moment passes.
I wonder how many of the people running around that world—people with actual jobs, actual friends, actual families—are really engaging with what’s underneath the surface. With the world itself. With the people placed in it to tell a story. With the implications of what happens when fanatics take control. Do any of them see it? Or is it just a universe they’re running through to check boxes and get stronger and keep paying the subscription fee?
Is there any actual meaning to this, or is it just another calculated scenario designed to keep me chasing experience points? Just something to keep me thinking I’m getting stronger, moving forward, always more, always further, just enough to justify the monthly payment?
Then I’m finally in front of the Garlean Empire’s gates, packed with colorful gear and a massive weapon. Everything moves fast. A group of us is thrown into underground catacombs to face the final boss—some enormous machine. We beat on it for fifteen minutes, bored, and it explodes. Done. The world is saved. The refugee crisis is over.
Disclosure’s new album Caracal has a track called “Magnets” with Lorde on it, and the whole thing is almost an afterthought, which is why it lands so well. She’s barely there, just a voice drifting through the production like she wandered into their studio and decided to stay for a few takes. Guy and Howard built the actual song; she’s just there, not trying to own any of it.
The video’s strange and pretty—two blood moons hanging in a sky that feels wrong in the right way. Lorde looks genuinely relaxed in it, which you don’t always see. That half-spoken, half-sung delivery of hers is going to work for you or it won’t, but if you already hear her that way, there’s nothing here to dislike.
What’s interesting is how unstressed the whole thing feels. There’s no hustle to it, no sense that anyone’s trying to prove something. The production sits back, her voice sits back, and the result is just good. Not aggressively good, not impressive-sounding good, just good. You remember that not everything needs to be a statement. Sometimes a song can just exist.
The BBC sent video from Munich’s train station. Refugees arriving by rail, and the platform erupts—not in anger, in applause. Helpers handing out candy to kids. Doctors already there. You watch the faces change. First shock. Then the slow realization that someone is glad they’re here.
I watched it twice before I understood what I was actually seeing. Not inspiration porn, not a feel-good viral story. Just people making a choice. You can welcome someone or turn them away. Munich chose to welcome them. With clapping.
The BBC angle is almost funny—here’s Britain, actively hostile to refugees at the time, sending a crew to film Germany just doing the baseline human thing. Welcoming strangers. Making sure their kids had toys. It shouldn’t have been extraordinary enough to broadcast, but apparently it was.
What sticks is the image of hands slowly reaching out for handshakes. The hesitation. These people had no idea what came next, and a crowd of strangers at a train station decided to make the arrival matter.
The photos got everywhere. A small boy, drowned. Three years old. Aylan Kurdi. You see it once and it doesn’t leave.
What got to me wasn’t the photograph itself—people die constantly, we don’t usually see their pictures. It was what people did with it next. Some wanted to debate whether we should have even seen it, whether showing dead children was ethical. Others used it to argue against taking in refugees, like parents would risk drowning their kid as a policy position. Like that’s how desperation calculates.
He became data. A symbol. Proof for whichever argument you were already making. Not a three-year-old. Not evidence that what his family was fleeing was terrible enough to outweigh any risk.
I kept thinking about the speed of it. How fast we could absorb the image and move back to comfortable thinking. Still talk about nuance and complexity. Still protect ourselves from implication.
I don’t know what it means if it doesn’t change anything. If he died and we all just kept living the same way. You can believe what you want about immigration, and you might even be right. But something doesn’t come back from seeing that photo and deciding it changes nothing. That’s the part that stays with you whether you want it to or not.
A German punk band’s thirty-year-old anti-Nazi song somehow landed at number one on iTunes. Strange, but not the strangest part of this story.
Die Ärzte’s been around forever. They’re these crude, funny guys who’ve basically been the German punk band everyone knows—loud and angry but never self-serious about it. When far-right movements started getting louder in the country, they didn’t respond with some noble manifesto. They just pulled out a song from 1993 called “Scream for Love” that said what needed saying about fascism and pushed it into the world.
The song climbed the charts. People actually listened and bought it. Then the band announced they weren’t keeping the money.
All of it goes to ProAsyl, the organization helping refugees and asylum seekers in Germany. No grand press release. No performance of their own goodness. They just said they didn’t want to profit off it and moved on. And that’s the part that stuck with me—not the donation itself, but the refusal to make it about themselves.
There’s actually something punk about that response, and I don’t mean in the costume sense. I mean the real thing: using whatever platform you have to push back against something rotten, then doing it so casually that nobody has to thank you for it. Die Ärzte could’ve made this into something ceremonial. Instead they just did the thing that made sense and left it alone.
Lollapalooza at Tempelhof that year had a solid lineup: Muse and The Libertines and Seeed, and enough else worth finding. What made it work was the whole thing—the music was fine, but the food and street art and the general design of the space mattered just as much. Most festivals had turned into brands by then, so it was good to see one that understood what you’re actually paying for: a day that feels right.
You pay for German public broadcasting whether you watch it or not. The Rundfunkbeitrag comes out of your account every month, a mandatory fee, and most people spend about as much emotional energy on it as they do on their water bill: none at all. It funds ARD, ZDF, dozens of regional stations. Billions of euros every year.
But the resentment is there, just below the surface, waiting. Young people think it’s extortion funding game shows their parents watch. Old people are too exhausted to defend the system anymore. Even the people who grew up with public broadcasting mostly stopped believing in it. The money just disappears into a massive apparatus that feels slower and less relevant every year.
Jan Böhmermann works inside this system. He has a show on ARD, Neo Magazin Royale, and he’s somehow become the person who publicly questions whether any of it is worth paying for. He’s made a living off being the one who says uncomfortable things on public television, which is fine until the uncomfortable thing is about public television itself. Then it gets interesting, or hypocritical, or both.
The real question — the one he circles around without quite landing on it — is whether public broadcasting can actually survive this. The infrastructure is unwieldy. The audience doesn’t include younger people. The money could go elsewhere. But he keeps working inside the system, which means something in him believes it’s salvageable. Or he’s just comfortable enough not to leave.
You wake up reading about the next war. Not as metaphor — as actual next. Everyone’s been waiting for it. Putin, Kim Jong-un, the familiar architects of collapse. Refugees. Walls. Bombs. The same machinery of power and cruelty, running exactly as designed.
K.I.Z. is a German punk band that made a song called ’Hurra die Welt geht unter’ — Hooray, the World’s Ending. The song is as dark as the title. But it’s not rage. It’s something stranger: a kind of optimism about what comes after everything falls apart.
They’re imagining what’s left when all the borders dissolve, when the corporations that grind people down finally collapse. When there’s nothing but the basic elements again. Earth. Sun. People without anyone suffocating them from above.
It shouldn’t comfort you, a song about the end of everything. But it does. When you’ve been sitting alone with the same dark thoughts, there’s something almost peaceful about hearing them come back to you from someone else. Other people are here too. Imagining the wreckage as a beginning.
I don’t know anything about Taiwan. Not its history, not what matters to the people there, not what they need or what they’re building toward. Twenty-five million people live on that island in East Asia. There’s a republic that started in 1912 after the mainland fell apart. I know this from reading about it, not from understanding it the way you do when you live somewhere.
Chih Hsien Chen is one of those 25 million. He’s twenty-two, studying at Tainan Tech in the south, and he takes photographs. Just photographs the young people around him, people his own age, and there’s something in how he does it that reminds me of Miri Matsufuji or Ren Hang—that moment when the camera catches something real in someone’s eyes. Youth, rebellion, honesty. It’s just there.
His photos are colorful but not sweet about it. Beautiful without feeling trapped in any particular moment. There’s a clarity in them, a confidence about what’s worth paying attention to and what isn’t.
I still don’t know Taiwan. But looking at his work, something in me understands what it’s like to be that age in that place, even though I’ve never been there and probably never will. It’s a small window, and sometimes that’s enough.
Tara Monroe shows up to Texas State every day in a hot-pink Barbie Jeep, which is where this story starts.
Her license is suspended. Waka Flocka concert, a cop asks for a breathalyzer, Tara says no. So instead of public transit or a bike, she wheels out this absurd plastic car from her parents’ garage and drives it to campus. Every day. Business student. No shame about it whatsoever. Asked why not just bike? “Bikes are just annoying.” That’s all the explanation.
Twitter and TikTok caught wind within hours. People started filming her, posting about “Barbie Jeep Girl,” calling it the coolest thing they’d seen all year. The whole campus was watching by the next morning. And she just kept showing up with the exact same expression on her face, like everyone else was the strange one.
What I actually respect about it is how thoroughly unbothered she is. Most people caught in a suspended-license situation would feel defensive or at least a little embarrassed. They’d try to hide it or minimize the story somehow. Tara did the opposite. She made driving a children’s toy car to university look like the most rational, confident choice she could possibly make. That kind of conviction—the ability to not care what people think and to own that in public—is harder to find than it should be. That’s what cool actually looks like.
The thing about Instagram art is that it disappears. You see something clever or beautiful for a moment and then you’re scrolling past the next image. There’s no time to sit with it. So there’s something interesting about what happens when you pull that work off the feed and print it huge on a wall in a real room where you have no choice but to stop and actually look.
I went to a show like that in Berlin—a pop-up gallery showing photography shot on the Galaxy S6. The photographers had real skill: Thomas Kakareko, Joerg Nicht, Aladiia. The kind of work that gets a double-take on Instagram but deserved to be seen at scale. And at scale, it was different work. Details you’d miss on a phone became visible. Composition that reads as clever in a feed reads as deliberate on a wall.
The whole thing was a Samsung-sponsored event, which meant there was hardware promotion baked in, but the actual gallery experience was clean. Good photographs, well-printed, well-lit. You could spend time with them or move on. No one was trying to sell you anything while you were looking.
What struck me was how much better the work was when it had to stand on its own at full size. I kept thinking about all the skilled work that lives on Instagram exactly because that’s where it exists—not because it belongs there, but because it’s where photographers post things. Some of it probably deserves to exist differently. As walls, not feeds.
I don’t know if pop-up galleries are a solution to anything. But I know spending an evening with good work at full size is a different experience than watching it vanish into a timeline.
Die Ärzte put out “Cry for Love” in 1993 as a straight-up attack on fascism. Germany’s most beloved punk band making their most obvious statement. The song became the anthem — the thing you’d hear screaming at rallies, in the streets, anywhere people were trying to fight back against the right-wing tide. So when the fascists started creeping back into the conversation again, someone had the obvious idea: push the song back. Get it charting. Get it on the radio. Make it impossible to ignore.
The campaign was called “Aktion Arschloch” — Operation Asshole — which tells you everything about the approach. The mechanics were simple: buy the song, stream it repeatedly, request it on stations, loop the music video. Turn it into a coordinated gesture. Get the track back into the charts and force it into the ears of people who’d prefer not to hear it.
The obvious problem is that it won’t fix anything. A refugee crisis doesn’t end because a punk song got played on the radio. Nazis keep burning shelters regardless. The machinery is too large, too entrenched, essentially permanent. One track, even a good one, can’t change any of that. But I respect the refusal to accept the silence. The decision to do something small and symbolic when the real problems are so vast they might as well be immovable. There’s dignity in the gesture, even when it’s futile.
I don’t know if the song actually charted or if it mattered. It probably got more listens than usual, then faded. The point was never effectiveness. The point was that people still wanted to throw it at the darkness anyway, knowing it won’t stick, knowing they’d have to do it again tomorrow. Doing it because what else do you do when you’re angry and symbolic resistance is the only resistance available.
Every few months the Japanese anime industry churns out a batch of new shows, and I sift through the first episodes because most of it is terrible. I’m picky about anime, always have been. What kills a show for me is cheap animation, figures drawn with dead eyes and weird proportions. High school kids with superpowers saving the world for the millionth time. Mechas. I know everyone expects me to love all mechas because I worship Neon Genesis Evangelion, but the rest of them just don’t do it for me. Most of them are dumb.
This season I found something that had me watching week after week. Along with “Non Non Biyori Repeat”, of course—nothing beats that show. It could stay perfect forever and I’d be fine with it. “Himouto! Umaru-chan” is the opposite of it though. No countryside charm, no nature. This one’s about Umaru, who is sixteen, beautiful, gets straight A’s, and somehow has the hottest best friend in anime. Everyone wants to be her. She’s perfect. But there’s a catch.
The second she walks through her apartment door, that perfect blonde girl turns into a small, goblin-like creature in a sweater, face-first into a PlayStation, working through games and manga and junk food with the kind of commitment most people save for their jobs. She has every console, every game, every series. She’s a fully-formed arcade legend. She lives with her older brother Taihei because she can’t afford her own place, and she makes his life hell, constantly terrified someone from school will catch her in this state and realize the perfect Umaru is just a lazy otaku. Her whole life is a performance, and the stakes of getting caught are real.
The premise isn’t new—”Switch Girl” did it before. But what makes Umaru work is the detail, the actual love for the culture itself. She doesn’t just pretend to be a nerd; she lives it deeply, in that way only someone who actually gets it can show. Every scene of her trying to engineer a day of maximum laziness and maximum gaming and maximum snack consumption—it’s not played as a flaw or something to overcome. It’s just how she is, and the show loves her for it.
Most anime now wants high school heroes and world-saving. I don’t care about that. I want shows about people who want to stay home and play games and eat snacks, who want the weird, ordinary truth of wanting nothing more than to be left alone with the things you love. Umaru gets that. She’s not trying to change. She’s not learning a lesson. She’s just trying to survive being herself.
If Umaru had aired on mainstream TV back in the day, everyone would have loved her. She’s Shin-chan without the perversion—just the chaos and the desire to be left alone. Watching her, I feel seen in a way most anime doesn’t even try for.
I’ve been thinking about Joffrey Baratheon way too much. He’s universally hated—complete agreement on this—which creates a kind of pull. All that concentrated contempt makes you wonder what’s underneath.
He’s a kid. A spoiled, vicious kid with a crown he can’t control, surrounded by people who profit from his destruction. He lashes out because it’s the only power he has. Then the world kills him and nothing changes. Like it should have. It didn’t.
I’m noticing something in how he’s hated. The complete agreement, the satisfaction in his suffering, the comfort of having a clear villain. It was easier than looking at what made him.
Maybe that’s just how it works. You put a traumatized child on a throne, surround him with people who want him dead, and then hate him for being exactly what that creates. And everyone feels righteous about it. I can’t unsee it now.
Joachim Herrmann, a CSU minister, was on a German talk show about refugees when he decided to demonstrate how well Black people had integrated. He smiled as he did it. He talked about Roberto Blanco, that wonderful Black singer everyone loved, and all those Black players on Bayern Munich—see, we accept them, everyone likes them. He called them n-words. Said it while smiling, said it on television at prime time like it was the most natural word in his mouth.
For a moment nothing happened. Then the room went quiet.
What bothers me isn’t that some bigot somewhere thinks this way. It’s that someone educated enough to be a government minister, someone refined enough to talk about integration and tolerance, has let this language dig so deep into his speech that he doesn’t register it as a choice anymore. He wasn’t ranting. He wasn’t performing hatred. He was just talking. That’s the scarier version. That’s the racism that’s comfortable, that’s nested in respectable institutions so long it doesn’t apologize for itself anymore.
There’s a difference between the drunk outside a refugee center screaming slurs out of pure hatred and the man in the suit on television saying them while explaining how well things are going. At least you know what the first one is. The second one is the infrastructure—the system that lets racism work without anyone having to admit what it is.
The answer to whether someone like that should be a politician is simple: no. It should be obvious. The fact that it’s apparently not is the problem.
Miley Cyrus hosted the VMAs last night, and she was on this whole campaign to make sure every person on Earth saw her breasts. Every. Single. One.
And she actually pulled it off. MTV aired her chest on live television. Maybe a full second before the director—probably nosebleeding—cut to a wide shot of the stage and the audience in shock. This was right after Taylor Swift collected Best Video for Bad Blood, and Miley had gone backstage to change.
“Oops, are my boobs out?” That’s the last thing you hear from her before MTV cuts away entirely. I have no clue if angry moms are already calling to complain. I have no idea if Christian groups are filing lawsuits. And yeah, maybe I’m a little too obsessed with Miley’s breasts. But the thing happened. We saw it. That’s really all the VMAs are good for anymore.
Brunette Taylor lying before a lion is the image that stayed with me from the Wildest Dreams video. The whole thing is shot in this elaborate African setting—giraffes, zebras, impossible landscapes, romance against a safari backdrop. She has the resources and creative control to build any world she wants, and she built this one well.
I watched it when it was everywhere, and I didn’t think much about it after. The song itself isn’t strong enough to carry that production. It’s pleasant and forgettable. 1989 had already spent its best tracks—Shake It Off, Bad Blood, Style—and by Wildest Dreams the album was working with what was left.
A big video doesn’t fix that. All that craft and budget just makes the void at the center more obvious. I appreciated the technical accomplishment, the way everything came together, but I wasn’t hearing the song in my head the next day. I wasn’t curious to hear it again. It was just a moment, and not a particularly memorable one.
One of my exes messaged me once asking why I bothered with all the refugee advocacy, whether I’d actually taken anyone in myself. Bad logic, worse spelling. We weren’t together much longer after that.
Oliver Kalkofe is known in Germany for not holding back—about national disasters, about stupid people, about TV that shouldn’t exist. He’s spent years arguing for something better, which sounds noble until you realize what he’s actually doing is calling out the greedy and the dumb with genuine contempt. The guy doesn’t perform modesty.
He released a video aimed at the Nazis and “concerned citizens” wrapped up in refugee panic. The message isn’t that discussion is off the table. He wants more of it, demands it even. But he marks a line where talking stops and violence begins: burning shelters, beating people, assaulting kids on trains. Beyond that, the conversation is over.
There’s a dead space in most discourse where people hide. The gap between “I disagree with your immigration policy” and “refugees are subhuman invaders” gets treated like the difference is just rhetoric, just tone. Kalkofe won’t allow that. He’s saying no—the line is actual and material, and letting it vanish has made us sloppy about who we’re willing to harm.
On the Berlin S-Bahn, a man and his friend got drunk and pissed on children. They screamed Nazi slogans while doing it—”Heil Hitler, you Jews,” master-race nonsense. I read about it years ago.
His name’s Christoph. He’s from Neukölln. Multiple convictions for weapons, assault, incitement to hatred. The type who spends enough time in a cell that he comes up with ideas like that.
Someone like that doesn’t get to hide. Doesn’t get to disappear into the mass of concerned citizens, doesn’t get to be a shadow online. Gets to be named. Gets to be remembered as the guy who pissed on children screaming about Hitler. That’s the whole point.
Every online creator gets them. Dick pics arriving unsolicited, usually from anonymous accounts, at hours that feel personal even though they’re totally random. It’s the background noise of being visible on the internet—so constant it becomes routine, but strange enough to never quite feel normal.
These guys must be operating on pure magical thinking. What’s the expected outcome? That seeing their hard cock will somehow inspire reciprocation? That the photo is flirtation? That a stranger looking at an erect dick sent to her inbox is anything other than an intrusion? The logic doesn’t track.
Kelly Svirakova, who makes videos as MissesVlog, was getting enough of them—along with the sidebar stuff, the requests for nudes and used clothing, the demands she perform for invisible men—that she made a video about it. Which makes sense. Call it by what it is, put it in the light, at least name the behavior instead of quietly deleting.
For women creators, this is just weather. It’s what happens if you’re visible. Men sending them dick pics the same way they might send a message, convinced that exposure is somehow communication. That showing a stranger your erection is bold or worth doing or matters.
I’ve been online a long time and I still find it strange. Not shocking—it’s too common for that—but strange in a way I can’t quite articulate. The person sending doesn’t think there will be consequences. The person receiving finds consequences everywhere. The internet made this gap possible: you alone with your arousal, thinking about someone you’ll never meet, convinced that she should see. That it matters. That you should tell her by sending the image.
Maybe something changed when everyone got cameras.
Miley moderated the VMAs last night, which nobody really cares about anymore, but she used the platform to drop a new album and a video that’s actually worth watching. The album’s called Miley & Her Dead Petz. It’s free. The first track is Dooo It, and the video is what you get when someone famous enough to do whatever she wants decides to make something completely unhinged.
Glitter exploding everywhere. Colors that shouldn’t coexist. It’s sexual in texture if not in content—excess and sensory overload rendered as an aesthetic choice. The bukkake comparison is too obvious to avoid (glitter instead of the literal thing), and the video knows it and leans in anyway without actually being about sex. It’s just about not caring what anyone thinks.
This is why Miley works as an artist. She’s at the point in her career where she can make literally anything. Most people in that position get cautious or start chasing approval in new ways. She just makes weird shit and puts it out. The Dead Petz album is exactly that—something she wanted to make, so she made it.
I’ve written about this before. I even proposed to her on this site, which she correctly ignored. The point is she’s one of the rare artists famous enough to do whatever she wants who actually does it. Not every project works, but the commitment is real. The video for Dooo It proves it—she’s not interested in being digestible. She’s interested in being herself, and if that makes people uncomfortable, that’s almost the point.
Kate Upton does something to me. The way she moves, the way she laughs, the effortless thing she’s built around just being completely captivating in a frame. Model, actress—she’s good at both. I’ve followed her rise, and it’s not exactly for the acting.
Sports Illustrated made this video where she discusses two things: how the magazine elevated her, and why she loves small bikinis. The setup suggests these are real questions with real answers somewhere in the footage.
But here’s what actually happened: I couldn’t tell you what she said about any of it. The background music was too good, and more than that, the whole thing was just too much for my brain to process anything except watching her sit there and talk. Completely distracted. She could have been discussing anything and I’d have been just as lost. I knew what was happening and didn’t care enough to fix it.
So if you want to know what she actually thinks about all this, go watch the video. I can’t help you.
I’ve gotten plenty of mediocre blow jobs. The kind where you’re lying there thinking about your grocery list, waiting for it to finish. Most people assume it’s intuitive. Put it in your mouth, move around, everyone’s satisfied. Except it doesn’t work that way.
The problems are consistent. Too many teeth. Not enough suction. No rhythm. The nervous ones barely making contact. The aggressive ones going too hard. People using their hands when they should be using their mouth. The whole situation where you can tell someone’s just checking a box.
I saw some instructional material once where the woman actually understood technique—proper pressure, hands and mouth coordinated, real attention. It was impressive mostly because it’s so rare. You notice good head because it stands out against all the forgettable versions.
Most people won’t learn. They’ll just do what they think is expected, and you’ll settle for adequate. Which is pretty sad when you think about it.
I found out there’s a Japanese magazine called “I Love Everyone! Man’s Nipple.” The entire thing is dedicated to male nipples. Different colors, different sizes, hairy, smooth. That’s the magazine. Just nipples.
This is very Japan. Vending machines that sell anything, Pokémon that never stopped, a visual culture that turns everything into something to want. A magazine about male nipples doesn’t feel absurd there—it feels completely inevitable.
The best part is how sincere it is. No winking, no irony about it, no sense that anyone involved thinks this is funny. It just exists. Some people like this. Here’s a magazine for them. No framing, no apology.
Obviously there’s something funny about the asymmetry—female body magazines have been everywhere forever, background noise by now. The second a magazine shows up that makes male bodies the subject of that same focused attention, it becomes remarkable. But maybe that needed to happen. Maybe the male body deserved its magazine too.
There’s a video from 2015 of a woman at a protest in Heidenau, screaming at Merkel as she arrived. Not just angry—screaming a slur at her. The word out there in daylight, in front of cameras and police, like it’s normal. Like everyone gets it.
What got to me was how comfortable she felt. The people around her had her back. They’d built a space where that was acceptable. Where the refugees are invaders, where Merkel’s the enemy, where the media’s lying to everyone. All that hatred is just logic now.
You watch it and think maybe they’ll feel ashamed later, that seeing themselves will wake them up. But they won’t. They’ll feel right. They’ll feel like they’ve finally said what everyone’s thinking. Maybe that’s the worst part—that they might actually be right about that.
By 2015, there was no going back from people screaming like that in public. Not because it was new, but because they weren’t afraid anymore.
I watched RTL cut off a live interview with the Chancellor to cover pizza. This was August 2015, when Germany was watching refugee homes burn, when kids were getting attacked in the street, when something actually felt wrong. Merkel had driven to Heidenau to make a public stand against it. Their afternoon magazine show had her on live. Then they killed the segment for a pizza story.
The network that filled its daytime with humiliation—poor people solving crimes, unqualified hosts digging into their lives—suddenly didn’t have room for serious news. Not because they were busy with something better. They just weren’t interested. Pizza was lighter, easier, less demanding. Pizza won.
I kept waiting for irony, for some sign that everyone understood how bad this looked. But I don’t think they did. RTL’s people probably felt competent: the interview happened, the pizza news happened, decent programming. The distance between a country in crisis and a food story had just stopped existing to them. Everything felt the same level.
And this is what happens when you run something long enough—television, politics, a magazine, your own life. You stop being able to tell what matters. Scale collapses. Everything flattens. Pizza and the government and your own future all start to feel like the same weight. And then pizza wins.
She dressed up as an Australian reporter and walked around LA asking random people what they thought about Miley Cyrus. When they answered, she pulled her shirt up. Just showed them. That was the marketing push for the MTV VMAs she was hosting.
She’d already hit the late-night circuit with Kimmel, talking about her breasts on camera. So the campaign was in motion. Why not keep going. Take it to the street. Make it real.
That’s just how she operates. No team between her and what she wants you to know about her. No image management. You get whatever’s in her head, straight through.
By the time the awards show came around, everyone already knew she was hosting. Not from press releases. From this. From the photos and the story spreading. From something too good not to tell someone.
I’m in love with Miley Cyrus. Actually in love. She’s cool because she just does what she wants—doesn’t perform, doesn’t ask permission. She’s modern the right way: feminist, vegan, refuses to be what anyone else decided she should be. She’s smart and beautiful and says whatever’s on her mind, and her voice will destroy you. How could anyone not love her?
There’s this Tumblr Q&A happening today where for an hour she answers whatever fans ask. So I asked the only question that mattered: ’Will you marry me? Okay, thx bye.’ Put my real name on it too—real love doesn’t come anonymous.
Now I’m waiting. Refreshing tonight to see if she saw it, if she answers. Why wouldn’t she? She’s cool, modern, intelligent. And she loves me. Maybe.
I came across Perlen aus Freital a while back—Christopher and Frederik’s website where they collect racist Facebook comments and send them to people’s employers. Guy gets fired.
The mechanism is obvious. Facebook won’t enforce its own rules. A woman posts a nipple, it’s deleted in minutes. Someone posts detailed fantasies about murdering asylum seekers, raping refugees, shooting boats full of families? That’s fine, that’s speech. So these two just did what Facebook wouldn’t: took the screenshots and mailed them to HR.
Part of me can’t decide if this is good or bad, but I think that’s the point. There’s this assumption that your online identity is separate, that you can post anything because it’s not real, it doesn’t count, it’s some other realm. Perlen aus Freital just proved that’s garbage. You’re the same person. Your words still have your name on them. If you’re posting about murdering people under your real face, your boss finding out isn’t exactly a surprise.
I don’t know what I feel about this as precedent. But as a specific situation, it’s hard to feel like they didn’t ask for this.
I was completely devoted to The O.C., California. Wednesday nights were sacred, Saturday afternoons the same. I had the DVDs, all the soundtracks. It was just… everything to me.
The fantasy was simple: you’d imagine Sandy Cohen adopting you, you’d imagine cruising Newport Beach with Seth, kissing Marissa at sunset and then realizing Summer was way cooler, or maybe Taylor—that completely insane girl who took over when Marissa died. The show sold you a version of California you desperately wanted to believe in.
That house—the actual place where they filmed it all—is on the market now. Newport Beach, six bedrooms, 5.5 million euros. You could buy it.
But you can’t buy what it meant. The house is still there, the pool is exactly the same, all the rooms are waiting. What’s gone is the feeling of being eighteen and wanting something you couldn’t have. You can own the building now. You’ll never own that hunger. California, here we come—except you arrived, and it’s just a house.
Böhmermann had this bit about language, how you can dress up almost anything if you pick the right words. Call something a Nazi and everyone knows what you mean. Call them an asylum critic and suddenly there’s room in the mind for thoughtfulness. For nuance. For rigor. The word creates space for all the things the reality isn’t.
There’s something unsettling about seeing this clearly. Once you do you can’t stop seeing it. Every headline that softens, every interview that legitimizes, every phrase that names something cruel and makes it defensible. The media does it sometimes on purpose, mostly because the gentler word is just easier to say, easier to print. The effect doesn’t care about the intention.
I used to think language was just language. Now I know it’s the first move in every argument. You win or lose before you ever make a claim. You do it by deciding what words the thing is allowed to be called.
It makes you tired being this aware of it. Makes you trust less. Makes you read not for what something says but for what it’s carefully not saying.
You walk through Kyoto or Osaka or Tokyo and something about those streets doesn’t exist anywhere else. The wide pedestrian zones where you’re lost in the crowd, narrow alleys that hide basement bars and ancient shops, temples consumed by moss and time. You feel it immediately—this is a place with real depth.
Takashi Yasui lives in Kyoto and photographs it the way you’d photograph something you’ve actually lived in. His pictures aren’t dramatic or trying to impress. They’re patient. A corner in afternoon light, a storefront, ordinary moments that somehow carry more weight than anything designed to be spectacular.
I look at his work and I want to go back. Japan has been flattened into stereotypes by now, absorbed into a global version of itself that barely resembles the actual place. What Yasui’s photographs do is cut through that noise. They show you the quiet city underneath, the real streets, the places that exist independent of anyone’s idea of what Japan is.
Miley Cyrus shows up on this blog, usually without anything on, always making something happen. It’s her move.
She did Jimmy Kimmel and just talked about her breasts. No angle, no point to make—just speaking plainly about what it’s like to have them, what it was like growing up with them, that the whole world has seen them. And what her dad thinks about it.
’My dad’s cool,’ she said. ’I’m sure he’d rather I didn’t have my tits hanging out, but honestly I think he’d rather I show my tits and be a good person than cover up and be a bitch. You can’t be an asshole if your tits are out.’
Then she got into it about nipples. Americans are fine with breasts, she said, but nipples scare them. ’I show my tits and nobody cares because my nipples are covered. America loves tits. It’s the nipples they don’t like.’
And her thing: ’I’m really into the environment. I’m a vegan nudist.’
That’s what makes Miley work. She doesn’t perform, doesn’t apologize, doesn’t soften anything for the audience. Just says it. Anyone who doesn’t love her is missing out.
Agnes Hedengård is nineteen, Swedish, and was a model until her agents started saying no. Your hips are wrong. Your ass is too fat. She’s 5’11” with a BMI of 17.5—underweight by medical standards—but the numbers she has don’t match the ones they need. She posted videos on YouTube laying it out: agencies are interested until they see her measurements, and then she’s out. The mechanism is simple.
The modeling industry has always been like this. It’s not a secret or a scandal, just how the work gets done. But there’s something about how absolute the rejection is, how it needs no judgment or interpretation. She gets measured and found unsuitable. That’s where it ends. No personality, no angle, no chance to convince them otherwise.
I was rewriting the original post and noticed a statistic about eating disorders in teenagers, worst in that age group. The same teenagers exposed to images of women being told they’re too much in the wrong ways, their bodies failing to meet the template. The cause and effect is clean.
What I keep coming back to is just the purity of it. You measure her and she doesn’t fit. The system works exactly as it’s designed to work. No one has to feel bad about it, which might be why it keeps working the same way.
For years Instagram was just squares. Everything you wanted to share had to fit that format. Sunsets, feet, breakfast cereal, your whole visual life cropped and compressed into those equal sides. The square became so total you stopped thinking about it as a limitation. It was just how Instagram worked.
Today they released version 7.5 and now you can post in portrait and landscape. The official statement was something about how the square will always matter but your visual story comes first. Which is them basically admitting they got it wrong.
I spent years learning to see in squares. There’s something valuable about constraints — they teach you composition, force certain choices. But most photographs don’t belong in squares. A landscape should breathe. A vertical line should extend. The actual world isn’t built in equal four-sided boxes.
The people who are happy about this are probably the ones who’ve been frustrated by it the longest. Photographers who need negative space. Anyone capturing something wide. The format change won’t make pictures better on its own, but it lets them be what they actually are instead of what Instagram demanded.
It’s a small thing, constraints finally becoming optional. But it matters more than it sounds like it should.
SPIEGEL TV showed up at the houses of people posting hate on Facebook. Kill them, drown them, gas them. Freital. The videos are weird—confrontation meets boredom, like watching someone get caught in a lie they’ve told themselves long enough to actually believe.
The thing that hits is how small they look. Trapped. The hatred reads so confident online and then you see the person and it’s just someone who’s scared. Not of refugees. Scared of the idea that someone with nothing might end up doing better, which feels like the worst possible humiliation in their head.
You can’t argue someone out of that. Twenty years of watching people try online and logic never touches it.
The videos don’t fix anything. Just sit there uncomfortably, which I guess is something.
For years the question hangs over you like an eternal choice: Big Mac or Whopper? It’s stupid and tribal, one of those meaningless brand loyalties you’re born into and never question. You know which one you prefer, and the preference probably has nothing to do with the actual burger—it’s about what you grew up eating, where you sat, who you were with.
Then in 2015, Burger King does something genuinely funny. On World Peace Day, of all dates, they write McDonald’s an open letter proposing a ceasefire. For one day, they say, let’s put aside this ancient rivalry and create the McWhopper: a burger combining the Big Mac and the Whopper. The absurdity is the whole point. Two global corporations deciding that the thing worth marketing is peace between them.
Of course, it works. Of course people talk about it. McDonald’s doesn’t even respond, and it still works, because Burger King gets credit for thinking of it, for being the cool one, for making a joke that acknowledges how stupid all this is. What gets me is how transparent the calculation is. They’re selling peace as a product, and everyone can see it, and it doesn’t matter. The joke lands anyway.
Maybe that’s the thing: the marketing is so cynical it wraps back around to honesty. The stunt doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is. And that works.
Joko and Klaas made a video calling out the right-wing hate preachers, the Facebook nazis spreading bile about refugees. They used the hashtag #MundAufmachen—open your mouth, speak up.
And I have to say something too, because you can’t miss these people anymore. The “I’m not a Nazi, but…” crowd. The amateur truth-tellers. The walking brain-death provocateurs who think they’re being courageous. They genuinely believe they’re saying what everyone’s thinking, except they’re not—they’re just cycling the same hateful garbage. Economic migrants. Welfare leeches. Cultural replacement. They find one statistic, memorize it, use it to dress up their stupidity in something that looks like facts.
They call themselves patriots. The true voice of the people, naming it, pointing at the wound. Then you push back and they scream political correctness—as if hating people is some kind of free speech principle they’re dying to protect. Before, you were a punk if you provoked. Now you’re a patriot. Whatever. Call yourself what you want. You’re still contemptible. You’re still building yourself up by stepping on people who have nothing.
Facebook plays along. Racism, free speech—apparently the same thing to them. They ban tits but let the intellectual sewage flow.
Look, I know you won’t change. You won’t listen to reason or decency or anything remotely human. You’ll keep confusing cruelty with truth-telling, you’ll mock anyone who objects, you’ll keep believing you’re the vanguard of something real. You’ll make the country uglier.
Maybe eventually it stops. Maybe you grow up, maybe you feel shame, maybe you spend your whole life regretting this. Or maybe you end up on afternoon cable. Either way, not my concern.
But I needed to say it, same as Joko and Klaas: I see you. I know what you are.
So unfollow. Block. Send your shitstorm. Boycott the shows. Write about how unfunny we’ve become. None of it’s as bad as clapping when a boat full of eight hundred refugees goes down in the Mediterranean. Refugees welcome.
Moving in with someone means IKEA is mandatory. There’s no way around it. You go to the warehouse, you walk the showroom, you measure wrong, you come home with things you didn’t plan to buy. That’s the deal.
Simon had just moved in with Donna when they made the trip. Somewhere around the bedroom section he started making puns. Billund. Klippan. Ivar. Swedish furniture names, stretched into jokes that weren’t funny—deliberately. Each one worse than the last. Donna’s patience didn’t improve as he went. But they got out of there faster than usual, which I think was the point.
I’ve done it too—made stupid jokes in stores I don’t want to be in, as if humor could actually speed things up. It’s weird logic but it works. If you’re annoying enough, your girlfriend just wants to leave. Get her irritated and she stops examining every throw pillow. Strategic insufferability.
There’s nothing romantic about it. But there’s something honest. You accept bad puns from someone because the alternative is silence in a warehouse, and silence is worse. You endure it and move on. By evening you’re both on the new couch trying to figure out where all of this goes.
There it is, under his name—a rant about refugees in the specific language of contempt they’ve apparently been marinating in. Posted like a status update about the weather, or what he had for lunch.
The strange part is how unsurprised you are. These thoughts have always existed somewhere. You probably caught hints years ago—a comment at dinner, a joke that went a little too hard. But there’s a difference between suspecting someone thinks something and having them spell it out in a public post. It’s harder to pretend you didn’t see it.
Some people try to engage. They paste statistics, they ask questions, they appeal to basic decency. It rarely works. The person didn’t develop their hatred through a lack of information. They developed it because it felt good—simplifying a complicated world into the safe and the dangerous, turning themselves from complicit into virtuous, under siege. That’s not an argument you win with facts.
I used to think understanding changed things. Thought if people just knew what it was actually like for the people they hated, they’d feel differently. Some do, maybe. Most don’t. And then you’re left knowing what someone you used to know really thinks, and there’s no unfinding that.
Deichkind performed at the Echo Awards in 2015 wearing white sweaters printed with “Refugees Welcome” and sold them afterward for fifty euros each. The profit went entirely to ProAsyl. No hidden calculations, no brand gymnastics underneath—just the transaction.
I didn’t necessarily follow what the band was doing. Whether they were any good had never mattered to me. But this registered. It was 2015, German culture was visibly fracturing around the refugee crisis, and most famous people were either silent or edging carefully rightward with measured language. Deichkind showed up in a white shirt and said here’s where we stand, and they followed through on it.
There’s a gap between wearing something for the cameras and actually selling it, between the gesture and the work that backs it up. Everyone else handled the gesture part. Deichkind kept going—print them, sell them, send the money. The least complicated version of everything. You commit to something, you move forward on it, money goes where it needs to go.
I’ve seen enough fathers raise sons who turn out exactly like them—same small thinking, same fear of anything different. They don’t even realize they’re passing it down. It calcifies young, before the kid even knows what’s possible.
Mikki was different. His son got a duplicate birthday gift, so they went to a nearby store to exchange it. “Pick whatever you want,” he told him. The kid came back beaming with an Arielle Barbie—the Little Mermaid one.
There are two ways a father can react at that moment. He can take the doll away and hand him a truck instead—keep him on the rails. Or he can tell him he’ll always love him, and if he wants to play with a Barbie then he plays with a Barbie.
Every moment a UFO could land on this planet and some tired alien could step out, squinting at the trees and rivers and people. What would they look like? Small and green? Tall and gray? Nothing like us?
Eva Zar had an answer. She took a girl, dressed her in neon, in shapes that don’t quite track human proportions, in colors that have nothing to do with skin tone. Called her Lena. Shot her in the landscape—standing in mud and grass and light—and suddenly she looked genuinely other. Not a costume. Just clothes that broke something about how you read a body.
The pieces came from everywhere, all the brands that had weird shit: DMMJK, Y.R.U., Asos, Andy Wolf, Astrid Deigner, Buffalo. Styled by Christoph Rumpf, makeup by Lydia Bredl. But what mattered was the effect. A girl standing in Earth’s natural light looking like she’d landed from somewhere else.
It’s a simple idea but it works. Fashion at its best does this—turns the body into material, something you can reshape and make strange. An alien isn’t a monster suit. It’s just the right neon jacket, the right proportion broken, the right shade of impossible. If all the visitors who came looked like Lena, I wouldn’t worry about invasions.
I went to gamescom in Cologne two weeks ago. Old news by now, but I’ve never been quick about writing things down anyway. And since this blog basically disappeared for a bit, I figured I’d post the nice photos and talk about which games actually got to me.
Wednesday was my day. Panic attacks and crowds don’t mix, and I’ve learned that the hard way too many times. So I went when it was less insane, hit what I wanted to hit, and didn’t have to feel my chest caving in. Simple strategy.
Fallout 4 hit me hard. People complaining about the graphics don’t understand what Fallout is about. It’s never been about realistic pixels. It’s about the world, the people in it, the mysteries, finding your own story in all of it. That’s what the game has always been.
I watched the Heavensward presentation for Final Fantasy XIV. I’ve been playing that game obsessively for weeks now. I tank, which means I’m constantly failing despite actually trying. I can’t explain why I keep going back to it, but I do. Maybe I’ll figure out how to be competent eventually.
Nintendo had their usual shrine of childhood. Super Mario Maker, Star Fox Zero, Zelda Tri Force Heroes. Walking through that sent me back, made me want it again. Might be time to finally get a Wii U, or maybe I should wait for whatever comes next.
I missed the Horizon Zero Dawn presentation, which I’m still annoyed about—the trailer had genuinely interested me. Spent some time with Anno 2205 and the first episode of Life is Strange, both fine. Got completely demolished at Street Fighter V by someone who actually knew what they were doing. These giant arcade controllers don’t work with me. The Super Nintendo version was definitely easier.
Best part was the social stuff. Met up with Maik from Langweileidch.Netz, we crashed the EA party, then hit the YouTube party after. Talked with Tim from Pixelburg about where podcasts are going. Watched the Rocket Beans guys doing their thing. Found this weird Belgian game called Guns, Gore & Cannoli that was worth playing. Slept at a Holiday Inn Express just outside the city. Nothing fancy—WiFi worked, breakfast was fine, and Beyoncé was inexplicably playing in the lobby.
Would I go back next year? Yeah. Not for the PR people screaming into mics, not for free garbage keychains, not for waiting in line to watch ten minutes of gameplay. But because gamescom reminds you that games actually pull people together. All kinds of people. Different ages, different backgrounds, different everything. All in one place caring about the same thing. That’s the real reason to go back.
Everyone knows “Lieblingsmensch” by now—it’s one of those songs that just exists in the cultural background, played in cars and apartments until it becomes part of how you experience that moment. The kind of song that reaches across to all kinds of people, from the ambitious ones planning their futures to the ones who’ve already fucked up and are trying to move on.
Namika has the real thing. When German pop is mostly stadium product designed for people who’ve stopped caring, her voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere that actually matters. “Hellwach” is a different beast than “Lieblingsmensch”—less introspection, more urgency. It’s a song about doing something instead of waiting, about that nervous energy that comes when you’re actually alive and moving. There’s Berlin in it: the restlessness, the sense that the night isn’t finished and you’re capable of things.
Can’t see a reason not to be completely sold on Namika at this point. Some artists come and go. She’s building something.
I bought a white bed and everyone laughed at me. Full commitment—white frame, white sheets, white pillows, the whole thing. Then V Magazine comes out with a shoot: Kate Upton, Miranda Kerr, Candice Swanepoel, Amber Valletta, all half-naked on white beds, shot by Sebastian Faena. Suddenly my taste in bedroom furniture doesn’t look stupid.
You don’t need much explanation for why it works. Beautiful woman on white sheets equals good photograph. The skin looks right, the light is clean, there’s nothing to distract from the body. Fashion photographers know this, which is why they keep returning to white bedding. I knew it too when I bought mine, even if I wasn’t putting it that way. You see enough magazine spreads on white sheets and you start understanding what that visual does.
The funny part is the vindication. A professional photographer with supermodels for a magazine made the same choice. White works. He used it for a shoot, I used it for a bedroom. The principle was identical.
I thought about printing out the Kate Upton photo and telling people it was shot in my bed, but that misses the point. The real thing is knowing something about what works visually, about how skin and light and white interact, and applying that knowledge to your own space. The bed was right. That’s it.
You know what’s wrong in the same way everyone else does. The news hits the same for all of us. But knowing doesn’t make anything less real or less cold or less unfair when winter comes and someone’s sleeping outside because there’s nowhere else to put them.
What kills me is how obvious the solution is and how hard everyone works around it. The actual help looks like teaching someone the language, like offering your extra room, like handing off the jacket you’re not wearing anymore, the shoes that fit, whatever you have. Direct. Pointless from a systems perspective—it doesn’t fix policy or xenophobia or any of the machinery. But it changes what’s true for that one person on that one night.
Some people actually did this. Not heroes, just people I knew who thought: this is real, this is happening, I have a room, this person needs a room, so. They taught German at night. They collected things. They introduced their new neighbors around like it was normal. The weird part was how small the gap was between knowing you should do something and actually doing it. Just closing it.
The thing about actual help versus the feeling of helping is that one is embarrassingly unglamorous. You’re not fixing anything. You’re not solving the problem. You’re just—a person with a spare room, or time, or a language, or a winter coat, deciding to use it. Everyone else is looking at the size of the problem and staying still. You’re looking at one thing you can touch and doing it.
I don’t have a conclusion here. The choice doesn’t change anything fundamental. But it changes the fact of one night for one person, and you stop being entirely passive, and something in that is real even if it’s small.
The first site I ever made was neon green text on a flashing orange background with animated GIFs I ripped from a Sailor Moon fan page. It was GeoCities, 1997 or so, and I had no idea what I was doing.
GeoCities was the hot shit back then. From 1994 onwards, anyone could grab a free domain tucked into some themed neighborhood and build a website with whatever obsessed them—no gatekeepers, no algorithms, no editorial board. You could just make something and put it on the internet, full stop.
Every site looked like it came from a fever dream. Sailor Moon GIFs spinning in the corners. MIDI files playing automatically when you landed on the page, impossible to mute. Hit counters like vanity projects. Guestbooks collecting spam. An “Under Construction” banner because the site was never actually finished. Comic Sans everywhere. Hot pink and lime green at full saturation. The unspoken rule was: more was better.
The design aesthetic now seems utterly insane—maximalist to the point of active hostility. But that was exactly the appeal. You filled your space with everything you cared about, formatting be damned. No curators. No algorithm deciding what you’d see. Just people making weird little corners of the internet for themselves.
Cameron’s World preserves some of these old sites in an archive—a museum of early web that captures how goofy and sincere it all was. Which is to say: it was terrible, and that was completely the point.
What’s strange is remembering how low the stakes felt. You weren’t building a brand or watching metrics. You made a website because you had something to say or just because you could, and that lack of pressure meant people actually took risks. Built weird shit. Made things that mattered to maybe three other people on Earth. That felt like enough.
2015 and the country was losing its mind about refugees. News cycles, online arguments, politicians giving careful non-answers that nobody believed. Then Merkel did a press conference and just said what she thought. “Wir schaffen das.” We can do this. You could feel the country split right there.
Half of Germany loved her. The other half wanted her gone. I remember watching the footage and thinking: okay, so this is what happens when someone stops hiding behind language. She wasn’t being dramatic about it. She was just saying: this crisis is real, we have two options, here’s the one that works.
The years after that were weird. You could feel the consensus cracking. Far-right parties rose. The east got angrier. People started saying things out loud that they’d kept quiet about. That speech didn’t cause it—the crisis was real and the reactions were real—but that moment showed you what people actually believed when they didn’t have to hide anymore.
I think about that year sometimes. The feeling of living through something that split a country. Not because anyone was being evil, but because people had genuinely different answers to the same question. Merkel took the option that seemed logical to her. About half the country disagreed. You still feel that split now.
I have this terrible habit of empathizing with everyone. No matter what they’ve done, where they’ve done it, or why — I’m there, trying to understand, reaching for the reason beneath the act. My friends know this about me. They’ve stopped waiting for me to come around. I’ll still be explaining some asshole’s point of view long after they’ve moved on.
Nothing happens without a reason, I tell myself. Everyone does what they think is right.
Then I watched that video from Heidenau. Eastern Germany. A crowd of far-right protesters — basically just Nazis — harassing asylum seekers, ransacking the refugee shelter, grinning the whole time. Laughing about it. Genuinely happy to be hurting people. And something shut down in me. The empathy quit working. I couldn’t find the reason, the hurt, the logic underneath the cruelty. I wanted to puke.
I kept seeing the families inside that shelter instead. People who’d walked thousands of kilometers out of hell, carrying their kids, believing they’d finally made it somewhere safe. To Germany. To Heidenau. And instead they’re standing in front of the next war. Kids crying, mothers holding them closer, trying to figure out if this is what they’d burned their lives down to escape.
That’s what I couldn’t make sense of. That’s what broke my ability to understand. Not the grievance or the fear or whatever story the crowd told themselves about protecting something. Just the pleasure in it. The actual joy of hurting people who had nothing left.
Two drunk nazis get on the S41 in Berlin on Saturday night. They see a family that looks Eastern European and immediately start screaming—”Heil Hitler,” the usual garbage—telling them to get out of Germany. One of them drops his pants and pisses on the kids. Other passengers call the police. They get arrested.
There’s not much to say about that. I mean, there is, but it doesn’t matter right now. It just sits there.
You’re three weeks out from the first festival and already digging through your closet, trying combinations that probably won’t work, putting them back. You’ll end up in the same outfit three days running anyway, but choosing still takes effort, still takes thought.
Festivals make you think about your clothes differently than anything else does. It’s not about impressing people — not mainly. A festival is three days where you get to be louder about who you are. Not a different person, just a more visible one. Whatever your style is, it gets turned up. You get permission to be clear about it.
As a designer, I notice the real work that goes into this. People treat it seriously without treating it seriously. There’s no dress code except the festival’s energy, but within that everyone finds their own thing. The kid in the vintage band shirt, the person in full rave wear, the one in thrift linen — they’re making the same decision to be clear about themselves. It’s genuine attention to who they are. It’s not performing, just being louder.
The best festival outfits don’t cost anything. They’re the ones where someone actually looked at their closet with intention. The piece they’ve had for years mixed with something new, comfort and brave put together. That combination, that specificity, is what makes it work.
Summer’s short. Three days where being yourself loudly is just the expectation. You pick clothes that feel like freedom, and that’s the whole thing.
Paul Kalkbrenner’s been making techno for long enough that you can trace Berlin’s whole shift toward electronic music through his catalog. His new album is his seventh, and at this point he’s less of an artist releasing an album and more of a landmark — someone whose work you use to measure where the city’s sound has gone.
I’ve never been to Berlin, but I know his music. That kind of minimal, relentless approach to production that doesn’t sound cold or academic — it sounds like someone thinking through a problem in real time, adjusting, pushing forward. His live sets have that same quality, that sense of building something rather than just playing something.
What interests me more than the work itself is what Kalkbrenner represents. He’s been doing this for decades, stayed in the same city, built something genuine instead of chasing trends or moving to wherever the industry’s looking this week. That’s rare now. Most artists have a window and then they’re historical. Kalkbrenner just keeps working.
The new album arrives at a moment when electronic production is so fractured and distributed that saying “electronic music” means almost nothing anymore. Minimal techno, hyperpop, ambient, UK garage revival, whatever. Kalkbrenner’s been making the same kind of work for so long that he’s either irrelevant or he’s a kind of anchor. I think he’s the latter. He’s what happens when someone doesn’t chase the moment and just keeps refining something real.
I should listen to the new one properly. Not while doing something else. Just listen.
Some media only works under the right conditions. You know this. Watch Hangover alone, sober, depressed—it’s painful. Watch it with your best friends at midnight, beer in hand, in a dark theater? It’s perfect. Some art demands you bring everything to it. Knight Rider was the greatest thing I’d ever seen when I was ten. Same show now is almost unwatchable.
Masanobu Hiraoka made a video like that. The kind that only functions in darkness, on a big screen, and while you’re on acid. Alone, or with someone else tripping exactly as hard as you are. Otherwise it’s like watching Cirque du Soleil sober, or Alice in Wonderland at a shopping mall on a Tuesday afternoon. Pointless. Worse than pointless—a waste of what’s actually there.
What’s the video about? I couldn’t tell you straight. Maybe it’s about a girl drowning in the noise of everything. Maybe it’s about colors discovering each other. Maybe it’s about the flood of eternity and how we get swept from one life into the next. Or maybe it’s just about acid. A lot of acid. The kind of video that doesn’t exist without it.
I’ve been thinking I need a better way to travel between tropical places. Forget planes and boats. Just motorcycle across the water. It’s obvious in retrospect.
Robbie Maddison actually pulled this off. Modified motorcycle, real stunt, no effects—just him riding across the ocean off Tahiti with palm trees in the distance and people on the beach watching something that shouldn’t exist. But did.
There’s something about that image that grabs you. The confidence in it. The fact that he actually went and did it. You know it would kill you the second you tried, but you want to try anyway.
I think of myself as maybe the laziest person alive, genuinely incapable of sustaining effort at anything. But watching him tear across that water—something clicks. Makes you want to be stupid too. Would drown immediately, obviously. Would do it anyway.
Sofia Ashraf sampled Nicki Minaj’s “Anaconda” and made it a weapon. “Kodaikanal Won’t” is a direct attack on Unilever, the massive corporation that poisoned an Indian town and never bothered to clean it up.
The facts are simple and infuriating. Unilever ran a thermometer factory in Kodaikanal that processed mercury. Fourteen years ago they closed it—forced to by health and environmental regulations—and just left. The mercury stayed. Still in the ground, still in the water, still in the crops. The people there are living with it.
Sofia didn’t write a petition or record a straightforward call-out. She took “Anaconda,” kept the beat and the sample, and replaced all the lyrics with her own story. It’s a smarter move than it might sound. People don’t ignore catchy music, and they especially can’t ignore it when it makes them uncomfortable. The track works because it rides on something you already know and care about.
I respect this kind of activism because it doesn’t ask permission or try to convince through argument. It just exists as something that hits hard and happens to be about mercury poisoning and corporate neglect. You can’t unlearn what you hear.
Whether Unilever responds is its own question. But Sofia made sure that response has to happen in public. The town’s suffering isn’t something anyone gets to quietly ignore anymore.
Lost in Translation is the best film ever made. Scarlett Johansson is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Bill Murray is God. Those are the three constants in an inconsistent universe.
Robert Schnakenberg’s new biography—”The Big Bad Book of Bill Murray: A Critical Appreciation of the World’s Finest Actor,” out in September—is basically scripture on this. Photos, stories, quotes, the whole arc. SNL through Ghostbusters through Groundhog Day and whatever else caught his eye. Murray’s been around for fifty years and never stopped being compelling, which is already basically supernatural.
The weird thing about him is that he never needed anything from anyone. He shows up when he wants, takes the roles that intrigue him, walks away when he doesn’t. You can’t sell him on anything because he’s not shopping. Most actors are solving some problem—proving something to themselves, building toward something, trying to be remembered right. Murray just seemed to know early that the only interesting choice was to stay curious and see what happened next. Not because it’s a philosophy. Just because that’s how you stay alive.
That’s what this book is really about. How you stay yourself when everyone else wants to turn you into product. Worth reading for that alone.
Attack on Titan was the anime event of its time. The battles, the plot twists, humanity’s last walls against colossal naked giants—it made everything else look small. Rightfully.
For two years after the first season’s cliffhanger, you just waited. Then came word of new content. What actually landed was Attack on Titan: Junior High, a comedy spin-off where Eren, Mikasa, Armin, and the rest are just high schoolers. No titans. No apocalypse. The stakes are homework, crushes, cafeteria drama. Domestic comedy.
I get the letdown. You wait years for the main story to resume and instead you get a joke. But the spin-off works better than it has any right to. These characters are archetypal enough now that they function in any register—they play equally well in existential horror and high school comedy because you know exactly who they are. Eren’s still reckless. Levi’s still meticulous. The context shifts but the core stays intact.
It’s not cynical either. It’s not mining beloved characters for easy laughs. It’s just playing—treating them as characters first, icons second. In this smaller frame, you feel what you already knew about them more clearly. Mikasa’s absolute devotion. Levi’s precision. The group’s natural hierarchy. High school is small enough that their personalities breathe differently.
I found it weirdly charming. Not as the thing people were waiting for, but as its own thing. A detour that only works if you already care. If you don’t, it’s just another high school anime. If you do, there’s something tender about watching them exist in a world where the stakes are genuinely small. No grand purpose. No apocalypse. Just the ordinary wreckage of being seventeen, something they’ve never actually had to live with.
Watched an NPD video where Safet Babic and some guys are trying to sound intellectual. Whole thing’s a production - policy discussion, economic ideas, immigration - designed to prove they’re not what people think. That they’re serious, cultivated, real thinkers.
It doesn’t work. You can feel them acting throughout. Every sentence is them being very careful, very aware of the optics. Which means that’s all you notice.
There’s a difference between thinking something and pretending you’ve thought about it. This is the second thing. Smart enough to know what people expect, not smart enough to do anything but throw money at it.
In a weird way it’s honest though. Pretending to be something is an admission of what you actually are.
I get fatter every week because I’m too lazy to run and gyms disgust me. So I cut carbs sometimes—try to keep it minimal at mealtime, tell myself I’m being good about it. The problem is burgers. You can’t order one without a bun and still pretend you’re trying.
Moshat, a Japanese burger chain, apparently figured this out. They’re selling the Tomami burger—a wordplay on tomato and the Japanese word for fruit—for about six euros. Two thick slices of tomato instead of a bun. It’s such a clean solution.
It probably looks worse in real life than it does in the pictures, which is always how these things go. You work with what you have when you’re trying to lose weight without actually trying. Maybe it sparks something for someone else. I’m just thinking about cheeseburgers now.
The steel door at Berghain is just steel. No sign, no indication. Sven Marquardt stands behind it every night, turning people away. You stand in front of it during the day and there’s nothing—just blank metal. But behind that door, every night, people are getting fucked up, fucking, losing their minds to music. That happens. And the door looks like nothing.
I saw photographs recently of these famous Berlin clubs shot in daylight. Berghain, Cassiopeia, Bar25. In sunlight they look completely ordinary. Warehouses. Loading docks. Nothing suggests what happens inside—the intensity of it, the transformation, how radically a night changes people. The mythology lives entirely in darkness.
What strikes me is the power of that blankness. The door refuses to tell you anything. You stand outside and you’re simply locked out. That’s the whole structure of it—the exclusion, the gatekeeping, the knowledge that something significant is happening that you’re not part of. The door is the ritual.
I’ve never been to some of the most famous ones, and probably won’t. Part of me doesn’t want to know. The mystery is more useful than the actual experience would be. These spaces exist as myth more than as places. The legend matters more than the nightclub does.
Berlin’s demolished half of these clubs by now. New ones open constantly, but the old ones have a weight the replacements can’t match. Doesn’t matter though. The pattern repeats. Darkness, music, bodies, transformation, then the space dies and another one opens. The door changes. The hunger doesn’t.
There’s a photo going around of a kid beaten against a wall, the guy who did it smiling at the camera with a thumbs-up. The replies are what you’d expect if you’ve scrolled Facebook: “Right move.” “Self-termination for the left would solve things.” Most people don’t even pause.
Right-wing extremism in Germany stopped being fringe at some point and nobody marked the moment. Now it’s everywhere on social media — people anonymous enough to say what they actually think about refugees, about migrants, about anyone marked as wrong. It spans everyone, from tabloid readers to educated people. That’s the part that’s actually unsettling.
There’s a blog, Kartoffeln im Netzfisch, that collects the worst posts. I look at it sometimes and feel tired more than anything. Just the weight of all that hostility taking up space, from people who will never change their minds, in a country I also live in. What’s the point of looking? Not sure. But I keep looking.
There’s a moment when a state reveals what it fears most. Usually an indictment does the job. In 2015, Germany prosecuted Netzpolitik—an independent tech news blog—for treason. Their crime was publishing accurate reporting on government surveillance programs.
Netzpolitik covers digital rights and tech policy. Good reporting, the kind that makes governments uncomfortable. They’d published on surveillance programs, data collection, the machinery every modern state uses to watch its own people. Nothing hidden, nothing that shouldn’t have been public. The government saw it as betrayal.
What’s interesting about prosecuting reporters for their work is that the indictment itself is the weapon. You don’t need to win the case. Anna Biselli, one of the journalists involved, understood this: when reporting becomes legally dangerous, the reporting stops. You don’t silence people through force. You silence them through fear. The threat of treason charges handles the rest.
This is how surveillance becomes inevitable. Not through policy or force, but through slow removal of anyone willing to question it. The reporters investigating surveillance programs are now occupied with lawyers. The people who might ask difficult questions are calculating legal risk. By the time enough of them have stepped back, there’s no one left to document what the state is doing.
What still gets me is the language: treason. Publishing facts is somehow a betrayal of the nation. But a nation whose survival depends on hiding its own machinery from its citizens isn’t a nation anymore. It’s a state protecting its secrets. Democracy needs light. If that’s treason, then the whole structure has already failed.
I never found out how it resolved, whether the charges stuck or disappeared. Honestly I didn’t look that hard. But the moment itself—just the fact of the prosecution—was all the statement that mattered.
Fascism looks good, which is part of what makes it work. Architecture, symbols, uniforms—everything’s designed to pull at something specific. That’s not accidental. That’s the whole plan.
There’s always the question of what you do about it. Not the big fantasy where you’re the hero—you know that doesn’t happen. I mean the actual everyday stuff. The propaganda sitting there. The conversations that start going that way. The people around you who haven’t quite said it out loud but definitely think it.
Someone sent me to Kein Bock Auf Nazis once, a German site that just laid out the basic things. Don’t look away. Clean up the propaganda when you see it. Find some people and do something. The radical stuff isn’t radical—it’s just paying attention and treating it like it matters.
The thing is, it does matter, and nobody else is going to fix it. It falls on us, which is unfair and frustrating, but pretending otherwise is just surrender in a better costume.
Three in the morning on a Thursday, out of cigarettes, and the Späti on the corner is still open. Bier, Zigaretten, Schokolade, Kondome, Gebäck, Wein, Magazine, Chips—they have it all. You stop thinking about what you need the moment you walk through the door.
Berlin’s cracking down on Spätis now. They face fines up to 2,000 euros if they stay open all day Sunday. Tankstellen get exemptions. Souvenir shops get exemptions. But not Spätis. The distinction doesn’t make sense.
What actually matters is that Spätis have become something bigger than shops. They’re woven into every neighborhood. Not franchises—real places, each with its own character and regulars who know the owner’s name. A Kiez without a Späti doesn’t feel like a Kiez. Tourists grasp this immediately. Anyone who’s lived here more than a week figures it out. It’s just part of the city’s infrastructure, the way things actually work.
I don’t know what Berlin thinks it’s gaining by pushing them out. But I know what it loses: that moment at 3am when you’re desperate for a cigarette and the only light on the street is a Späti window. That’s Berlin. That’s the deal we’ve made.
German federal prosecutors charged two journalists at Netzpolitik—Andre Meister and Markus Beckedahl—with treason. Their crime was publishing classified documents about the government’s plans to expand surveillance on social media. They faced up to two years in prison. It was the first treason prosecution of journalists in decades.
What made this case sharp to me was the specific legal complaint. Prosecutors weren’t just saying these guys had published leaked documents. They were treating the journalists as accomplices to the leak itself—the same legal position as the source. Not as people who reported what they’d learned, but as co-conspirators in the act of revealing it. It’s a clean way of saying: your job is not to tell people what we do.
The logic is almost neat. Government wants to monitor social media for intelligence. Journalists find the classified plans and publish them. Government charges journalists with betraying the nation. There’s no hidden mechanism here, no bureaucratic complexity. The state wants total information about everyone. It wants no information about itself to be public. Anyone who makes that contradiction visible becomes the enemy. You can watch the whole system operate in one simple sequence.
I think about this because Meister and Beckedahl knew what they were doing. Bloggers running a site about German internet policy don’t make that kind of decision casually. They published anyway. That’s where it stops being abstract—where press freedom becomes a specific person deciding what’s worth the consequences.
I never found out what happened to them after. Whether they faced trial, whether the charges stuck, whether they’re still running the site. But that doesn’t matter as much as the decision itself. They’re the names I remember because they’re the ones who did the thing when doing it could cost them years of their life.
My best friend is obsessed with social media. Genuinely obsessed. When she’s not sleeping, showering, or beating me up for stealing her chocolate, she’s on her phone swiping through apps. But she doesn’t just want to do it herself—she wants me to do it too.
“You should try Snapchat,” she says. So I open it and watch some twenty-year-old film themselves at a party instead of being there. For three minutes. Who wants to follow that? “Get on Instagram,” she says. I see the same sunset photo twenty times. “Tweet more,” she says. I read a joke I laughed at three years ago, now with hundreds of retweets. I want to die.
I sound like an old man when I talk about the early internet. But when I started blogging in 2002, there were maybe twenty interesting people to follow. Real people, doing their thing, not performing. Sure, half of them turned out to be idiots in person, but it was manageable. A small group. Now the entire world is trying to become famous. Facebook rants, Twitch streams, TikToks, YouTube videos, podcasts. Everyone’s got a platform and everyone thinks they’re going to be the next big thing.
Companies sold us the dream: share your life and become a celebrity. Not just stay in touch with friends—actually become someone. Actually make money. Actually matter. I helped make this happen. I showed people how to do it, normalized the idea that you have to broadcast yourself to count.
But nobody says the obvious thing: you’re boring. Most of you are genuinely fucking boring. You have nothing interesting to say, nothing unique to offer. I wouldn’t listen to you talk for thirty seconds without wanting to leave.
So you do what makes sense—you fake it. You retake the same selfie until it looks right. You edit your photos through beauty apps. You post about your mundane life and wait for validation from strangers. You know it’s all a performance, all a lie, but the hope that this time someone will care keeps you doing it. Every app. Every filter. Every carefully crafted caption.
The worst part is you’re all doing exactly the same thing. Same selfies, same filters, same boring observations, competing for the same attention from an algorithm that doesn’t care about any of you. The companies running these apps love it because every second you spend trying to become famous is money in their pocket.
I’ve been blogging for twenty years. I watched the internet go from this weird, wild place where actual interesting people could find each other, to a stage where everyone’s performing and nobody’s really present. It’s exhausting just watching it.
My friend keeps saying I’d be good at it, that I should get on Snapchat or Instagram or whatever’s next. Maybe I would be good at it. But I don’t want to perform my life for strangers. I don’t want my existence optimized for engagement. I don’t want to measure myself against an algorithm.
If you want to know what I’m up to, ask. If you want to hang out, come over. Everything else is just noise. I’m living my actual life, not filming it.
A 25-year-old from Lower Bavaria posted on Facebook that he had a gas bottle and a hand grenade waiting for the asylum seekers. “Free delivery,” he wrote. The court in Passau fined him seven thousand euros for incitement to hatred.
The straightforwardness is jarring. No coded language, no deniability—just the actual thought, as if speaking it was temporary, as if it would vanish once he hit send. The refugee crisis was taking his job, his apartment, his sense that the world owed him something. He needed everyone to know he was thinking about violence, maybe even that he’d do it, the way people talk about things they’ll never actually do.
Maybe he thought nobody would screenshot it. Maybe he thought the internet was like thinking in your car—it evaporates the moment you move on. Maybe he didn’t think at all.
Either way, he got to speak what he believed, and now it costs him seven thousand euros. That’s the equation. You speak and you pay, or you stay quiet. One person chose to pay.
Some friends came by with Tao Kae Noi seaweed snacks—thin green sheets, crispy and salted. The kind of thing you try because it’s there, and then forget about. Just strange Asian food, one of those things you sample and move on.
But then I went to that Asia shop on Alexanderplatz and found they had a whole line of it—different flavors, entire shelves. The sriracha chili with garlic was actually good. The kind of thing you wonder why nobody bothered to tell you about sooner.
Two euros a pack, around 150 calories. They’ve got the plain, shrimp, wasabi, curry, extra hot, oversized. Every Thai person I pass is probably quietly laughing at me for just finding out about this. They’ve been eating it forever. Someone could have mentioned it.
There’s this feeling when you arrive in a city you don’t know—everything looks interesting but nothing tells you what’s worth your time. Tokyo especially. All those blocks of restaurants and bars, most of them serving people who already know the code. How do you find what matters?
Monocle published a Tokyo guide recently. The idea is straightforward: some people looked at the city carefully and wrote down what they found. Not revolutionary—travel guides exist—but there’s something honest about it. Instead of the randomness of the internet or the standard tourist circuit, you get routed toward things that someone whose taste you trust actually noticed. A narrowing of choice that somehow makes choosing easier.
I haven’t been to Tokyo and probably won’t use this guide. But I get the appeal. What’s interesting isn’t the book itself—it’s the idea that a city can be helped along by someone who’s looked at it properly. That matters more than anything inside the cover.
I had three solid theories about sex in elementary school. Something was wrong with me because I got hard whenever Christina—straight-A Christina—walked past my desk. Sex meant putting your dick in the girl’s ass, because that’s where the hole was. Once you did that, you got AIDS, and you were ruined. That was the entire understanding.
Like everyone, I eventually figured some of that out. School biology showed us grainy 1980s films about body hair and pregnancy and voice changes—all clinical, all excruciating. BRAVO magazine had photos of girls who looked cool and brave showing their breasts and pubic hair, which was something. My friend Marc handed me a CD of Czech women in dirty saunas doing it, which was also something. But beyond the basic mechanics and all the confusing moaning, I didn’t understand what was actually happening or why anyone wanted it.
Norwegian television apparently decided to address this from the start. They made an eight-part series called “Newton: Pubertet”—Newton: Puberty—with a moderator named Line Jansrud who explains to kids, in English subtitles, what the whole birds-and-bees thing is really about. Not clinical. Not crude. Just straight, without embarrassment.
Most people learn the way I did: pieces from unreliable sources, a lot of confusion, an underlying sense that nobody was going to just tell you what was happening in your own body. You picked it up from movies, from friends, from whatever magazine some older kid left in the garage. You carried around the wrong ideas for years before spending longer to correct them.
This show does something different. Not preachy, not “here’s what you should do,” just “here’s what’s happening, here’s why, here’s how it actually works.” For a kid, that might matter—the difference between a decade of half-truths and actually understanding yourself a little earlier.
I don’t know if it works. I’m not Norwegian, and my own childhood sex education is long over. But watching an adult explain puberty without performing shame—no giggling, no weirdness, no agenda—it made me think about all the stupid shit I believed because nobody just told me the truth. And how many kids are still in that same fog, learning from the wrong people, picking up pieces and pretending they understand.
I’ve been trying to get to Gamescom for years. Even when it was still in Leipzig, I’d tell myself it would happen eventually. Something always came up. This year, finally, I’m actually doing it.
I’ll be there alone, which is fine—nobody I know cares enough to want to come. I can’t say I blame them.
I call myself a retro gamer, though that’s a stupid word for it. I’ve never actually made it to a proper games convention. Missed Tokyo Games Show by a couple of weeks. The E3 always seemed too far, too expensive, too American and impossible. Microsoft invited me to CES once and basically just stuck me in their booth looking at Office software, which was not what I’d hoped for.
But Gamescom is different. It’s happening in Germany, it’s a reasonable distance, and I’m finally doing this.
I’ll be easy to spot—the fat guy with an unkempt beard and terrible haircut, usually looking at his shoes. The nervous one hovering near booth hostesses without the nerve to ask for a photo. I’ll be blushing.
I want to play Fallout 4 if they let me. I want to remember what it felt like to love Nintendo the way I did when I was younger. And if there’s a Street Fighter 5 cabinet somewhere, I’ll try a match, though I’ll probably get destroyed.
That’s all. Just finally going to see what I’ve been missing.
Most internet time is wasted, obviously. Every few months though you stumble on something someone actually thought about instead of just optimized for, and it reminds you why you still bother scrolling.
I came across this essay by Sara about keeping her blog amateur, refusing to turn it into a business. She said her updates are just for her own amusement, no higher purpose, and she was okay with that. Everyone tells you to build an audience and monetize it, but there’s something defiant about saying no. I get that.
Around the same time the RocketBeans guys did an interview about their internet TV station. They kept emphasizing that having a small fanbase that actually shows up matters way more than chasing millions of passive followers. That’s always made sense to me. Scale doesn’t equal anything real.
René from Nerdcore posted this exhausted rant before disappearing to America for a few months - basically about how the internet became a wasteland managed by mediocre business school graduates pumping out fake-click metrics. He wasn’t wrong. You can feel it when you scroll. Increasingly boring feeds, waiting for someone to do something interesting.
That week also had pieces about Nazis quietly taking over rural villages in eastern Germany, someone questioning why we got so paranoid about child nudity. All part of the same sense that we’re compressed into the same broken patterns, just faster now.
But yeah. People still write things worth reading. You just have to actually look.
I was bored, scrolling through Vevo watching music videos, and it was all garbage. One trash thing after another. Then That Poppy’s “Lowlife” came on. The video’s cheap—some Kyary Pamyu Pamyu knockoff with none of the actual vision, just the surface-level weirdness. Demonic makeup, an old guy in a wheelchair, shock value with no point.
I would’ve closed it out in seconds if the hook hadn’t already gotten stuck in my head. That relentless reggae beat. “Baby you’re the highlight of my lowlife,” sung by this girl styled to look fifteen but she’s probably twenty-five, delivered in a voice that’s completely unbothered.
They never tell you That Poppy’s actual age. It’s intentional. The chaotic clothes, the doll eyes, the constructed image—everything is designed so you can’t quite figure out what you’re looking at, which is exactly the appeal. She lives in that space where age and innocence blur together, manufactured and calculated.
“Baby you’re the highlight of my lowlife.” Dumb hook. It shouldn’t work. But it does. Now everyone’s singing it.
Sara and Marcus were playing. The steak was tough and undercooked. Someone was going on about Bangkok. These are the details I remember from Blogfabrik’s opening last weekend.
The space itself is this coworking thing they set up in Kreuzberg for content creators—bloggers, photographers, videographers—who essentially pay their rent with content for the house magazine. It’s exactly the kind of thing that gets Berlin media people excited. If I were writing a gossip column I’d probably be going on about “prominent figures from the digital sphere celebrating a bold new venture,” but I’m not.
Basically everyone I actually like was there, which almost never happens. Drinks were free, the weather was cooperating, Sara and Marcus had decent music going. A couple of the women were talking about Bangkok and Amsterdam and Cologne. The steak was rough, but I wasn’t about to complain.
There’s this Saturday morning ritual with die ZEIT — the German weekly where you’re supposed to kick out whoever you brought home Friday night, make good coffee, get a warm roll with light ham, cross your legs on the balcony in the sun, and read with complete focus. No phone. Peak civilization. It’s aspirational stuff.
Ze.tt launched today. ZEIT’s new property for young people too cool for weeklies but too smart for RTL2. The editor promised it would generate “conversation material” — the kind of stuff you’d argue about in a shared apartment kitchen or link to in group chats.
The problem is the team clearly hasn’t decided what it wants to be. Is it long-form about young love, like NEON? Stupid lists, like BuzzFeed? Clickbait, like Heftig? Or actual journalism?
Right now it looks like a high school newspaper went online. Narrow topic blocks instead of photography. Pixelated screenshots. Obnoxious share buttons. Nothing of ZEIT’s supposed visual sophistication — just elements scattered and crude.
Orange on gray as the primary color. Whoever made that choice should actually be ashamed. Embedded Instagrams bleeding into warped GIFs bleeding into badly cropped screens. It might work on a Heftig audience, but not on anyone who can construct a full sentence.
The content’s equally chaotic. There’s a piece about a homeless blogger who inherited 1.8 million dollars after his mother’s suicide. Five sentences on oxytocin and its effect on neurotransmitters. Something about Johnny Depp making sick kids happy — BRAVO meeting celebrity gossip meeting social media.
The ZEIT online editor said they wanted ze.tt to bring disorder into their orderly digital journalism, unsettle their confidence, make them uncomfortable, try new things. A sandbox for young journalists to experiment. Fine concept. Not like this though. Not this half-formed.
The real question is whether they want an experimental lab that just messes around without worrying about credibility, or if they’re trying to actually matter with smart readers tired of clickbait recycling. That would require a real vision, genuine editorial conviction, something way more ambitious than a muddled cross of three existing magazines.
Soulless click farms are everywhere. They didn’t need to build another.
The editor promised engagement with readers, following the news together, taking their questions seriously. But this public launch is still “experimental” — they’re moving into regular operation in September. Hopefully by then the team will know if they actually want this to be good. Maybe they will. Maybe.
Minions are everywhere now. Pasta jars, phone cases, bedsheets, car air fresheners — they’re inescapable. I hit peak saturation years ago and just stopped noticing them, which is the only survival strategy. Your brain learns to filter them out or you go insane.
So I wasn’t expecting much when Stylight Magazine took current fashion’s biggest names — Karl Lagerfeld, Cara Delevingne, Donatella Versace — and reimagined them as Minions. Felt like the usual cheap branded humor, a grab for clicks by rendering celebrities as cartoon mascots. But it actually landed. Not in some false “we’re so quirky” way. It was genuinely clever.
There’s something about taking people whose entire existence is built on looking untouchable and turning them into dopey little objects. All that carefully maintained mystique just evaporates when you’re a yellow thing with googly eyes. Lagerfeld especially — a guy whose whole persona is refinement and control — becomes this unguarded thing. The pretense falls away.
The design itself is clean too. Not oversaturated or trying too hard. Just a neat execution that doesn’t get in its own way. Maybe that’s what Minions have needed all along — actual taste behind them instead of just pure relentless ubiquity. For once they actually belonged somewhere.
They made Sailor Moon branded sanitary pads. Not a joke product—actual pads with full character designs, multiple versions for different flows, the whole thing available in Japanese drugstores starting in August. Someone pitched this in a meeting and it shipped.
This is what total cultural domination looks like. Sailor Moon’s been everywhere for thirty years and it’s stopped being nostalgia or even a property you consciously buy into. It’s just there. You can put it on anything. A lunch box, a phone case, a menstrual product. People buy it.
The weirdness isn’t even the product. The show was always about a girl’s actual life—school, dating, her body, all of it. The period jokes were built in. So there’s something honest about slapping the characters on a product that deals with the routine biological fact of having a uterus. No euphemisms, no performance of daintiness. Just: this is a thing people deal with, you love these characters, here’s a product.
The sincerity is what works. No irony angle, no “we’re being edgy,” no meta-commentary. Just a company confident enough to build something people might want. And confident enough not to pretend they’re doing it for any reason other than selling a good product to people who care about the brand.
I’ll never use them. Not the audience. But there’s something interesting about a culture that can do this without any self-consciousness whatsoever.
There’s always this debate about refugees — security, integration, belonging, the whole political apparatus. What gets buried is the thing nobody actually argues about: they want to work. Not out of some narrative about becoming part of the community. They want money. A routine. A reason to wake up. The basic human stuff.
I kept running into it in conversations with people who’d just arrived. They were trying to figure out how to get jobs, and the normal systems didn’t reach them. Job boards assumed a network, language fluency, a past you could verify online. Employers looking to hire had no idea where to find them. Two groups that needed each other, completely unable to connect.
David Jacob and Philipp Kühn built Workeer to fill that gap — a job platform connecting refugees with German employers. No mission statement, no performance, just a system that works. Someone sees a problem, builds a solution, it functions. That’s rare enough to notice.
I think about it sometimes — how much friction exists between people who want to work and employers who want to hire, not because of anything personal, but because nobody engineered the connection. It’s not complex. It’s just an actual gap that had to be filled.
Summer in Tokyo tries to kill you. Either you’re drowning in humidity so thick you can taste it, or the Tsuyu season shows up and it rains for weeks straight. The city becomes a greenhouse.
But the kids dress for another world entirely. They move through it in these electric, specific combinations of color—the kind of outfit that only survives if you’re refusing to be invisible. In a city full of dark suits and school uniforms, if you want to exist as something other than background, you dress bright.
I kept running across photos of two kids, Jyuria and Colomo, both eighteen. Tokyo Fashion was all over them, and once I saw why. Their closet was pure Tokyo: Park, Nesin, Zzz”¦Tokyo. Sakura1Tama, Decortr, Miauler Mew. Anime merch stacked with a PlayStation bag. Everything about it should clash—and it does, but in Tokyo it somehow becomes its own logic. It makes sense nowhere else. You can’t take that outfit and drop it in another city. It doesn’t work. It’s a response to a specific place.
That commitment to brightness in the face of all that heat. Just deciding to be loud about it.
There’s this German thing where every year older people sit down and vote for “the youth word of the year.” They’re trying to figure out how kids are actually talking when they’re not sending each other nudes on Snapchat or spamming shit-emojis on WhatsApp. It’s absurd and also kind of sincere — they genuinely want to understand.
2015 gave us some gems. “Bambus” for cool. “Alpha Kevin” for whoever’s the dumbest person in the room — pure cruelty, no irony. “Gesichtspalmieren” when something was so painfully bad you couldn’t help but face-palm yourself into oblivion.
The ones that actually described something real stuck around. “Smombie” for people zombied out on their phones walking through the street. “Merkeln” after Merkel, meaning to do absolutely nothing, make no decision. “Skyler” as a verb for annoying someone, borrowed from the Breaking Bad character everyone hated. Someone invented “Maulpesto” just to describe the specific horror of someone’s terrible breath.
But here’s the thing about documenting slang: the moment you write it down, the moment adults vote on it and assign it meaning, it’s already dead. You can’t pin down language like this. The kids aren’t using these terms because they came up with them organically anymore — they’re using them because they were officially selected as “what we’re saying right now,” which is the complete opposite of how actual language works. Real slang dies the second it gets named.
By the time the voting committee publishes their list with definitions, kids have already moved on to whatever comes next. The chase is eternal and pointless, and everyone involved knows it. But they keep doing it anyway. There’s something kind of sad about it.
The Hunger Games franchise could have been great if it wasn’t built from the ground up for middle schoolers. Battle Royale understood what dystopia required — genuine dread, genuine consequences that stick. These films have the pieces for that: dead kids, a dictatorship butchering people, rebels getting executed in the streets. And then the filmmakers sand every edge down until it’s safe, managed, bloodless.
Not that I need pointless gore. That’s not the argument. But when your entire premise is a state murdering children for entertainment, and resistance fighters are being killed by the thousands, I don’t want to *imagine* that horror. I want to witness it. Feel it. Not have the camera turn away the second it gets uncomfortable or difficult. That’s what the books are supposed to be for, and obviously nobody reads those.
Still watching Mockingjay Part 2 when it comes out at year’s end though. Curious where they take it — Jennifer Lawrence, the final assault on the Capitol, all of it. I’m already annoyed because I know exactly how they’ll handle it — all careful, all managed, never actually showing the violence they keep saying is the point. But I’ll be there anyway.
You know that feeling after a brutal day — the kind that beats you down for twelve hours straight — when you get home and can think about exactly one thing? Food. Not just food, but the kind you’ve been fantasizing about since morning.
Sushi that’s sharp with wasabi and dark soy and pickled ginger. A burger stacked with real cheese and fries loaded with salt and mayo so thick it’s almost obscene. Melted cheese bubbling off bread, little sausages for dipping, cold grapes at the end to cut through it all. When it’s good enough, your face does things you can’t control. Your body just surrenders.
Good food looks exactly like an orgasm. Your eyes close the same way, your mouth goes slack, you make the same involuntary sounds. Someone built a whole website around this — photos of beautiful people caught in the moment of pleasure, asking you to guess. Orgasm or really good food? And here’s what I learned staring at these pictures: you can’t actually tell the difference. The pleasure response is identical. There’s no way to distinguish which kind of ecstasy you’re looking at.
So maybe really good food is as close as you get to sex that doesn’t require another person. Same intensity. Same complete surrender. Same reason you’ll be thinking about it later when you should be thinking about something else.
I love rankings. First, because they’re different every time depending on how you measure stuff, which means they’re complete garbage and also weirdly honest. Second, because they make people competitive. Third, because watching someone who didn’t make the cut convince themselves it doesn’t matter is deeply satisfying.
I get it, though. I’ve been on the outside of enough stupid lists to know exactly how you rationalize it. You tell yourself it’s meaningless, whoever made the list doesn’t know anything, the whole thing’s a scam. And like sixty percent of you believes that, which is honestly the worst number because it doesn’t give you any peace.
Some market research firm did a study on Germany’s most influential fashion bloggers. I’m assuming it shocked people. Some of the names you’d expect to see just aren’t there. And now I’m sitting here thinking about group chats and spin jobs and everyone pretending to be fine while visibly not being fine. The next fashion week is going to be tense as hell.
It’s that moment when your image of yourself runs into what everyone else actually thinks. Most of the time those don’t match. And when they don’t, that gap is where the resentment lives.
I’ll be straight: I’m not some huge Marsimoto fan. I could live without most of his stuff. Marteria’s voice thing, the recycled rap moves—take it or leave it. But he’s still better than 99 percent of what German music is putting out right now, which is basically just machines to separate stupid people from their money. So I’m waiting for the next Marteria album. He’s probably my favorite German rapper these days. Maybe. Who knows, really.
There’s this new track though, “Zecken raus”—Ticks Out—and the video is just a small tick bouncing through a dark forest without a care, doing its thing, while everything else seems pissed off about it. And watching this cocky little insect navigate the trees at night, you find yourself rooting for it. You actually want it to be your friend. Like, genuinely, you want that tick in your life.
Only 151 mattered. Everyone knew this. Bulbasaur, Charmander, Squirtle, and if you were a kid with any taste, you’d pretend there was nothing after those. Maybe Pikachu if the moment called for it. Everything past that was noise—oversized whales, talking keychains, whatever they kept dreaming up. The real ones fit in a single generation. They had personality. They had restraint.
Karolin Gu apparently agrees. She’s been illustrating one Pokémon a day—just from the original roster—and posting them somewhere. The results are small, detailed, weirdly charming. You see one and suddenly you’re remembering the exact feeling of that summer, the specific texture of the playground, the person you were trying to impress.
That’s what this is really about, I think. Not the cute factor, though they are cute. Not the artwork, though it’s solid. It’s the permission to return to a moment when the only problem was whether Manu had better creatures than you did. No taxes, no rejections, no thinking about the future. Just: can mine beat yours? And sometimes they could.
The thing about Karolin drawing these day after day is that it feels both pointless and necessary in equal measure. Like she’s preserving something that doesn’t actually need preserving because we all remember it anyway. But then you see a well-rendered Gyarados and you realize that’s not what this is. It’s not about memory. It’s about the fact that these things were actually good, and someone’s spending their time reminding us.
MoTrip decided the perfect setting for an emotional ballad called “So wie du bist” was a dark strip club. Everyone’s concentrated and sad, staring into mirrors, really feeling it. Where’s it more dramatic and deep than that? Nowhere.
I’m guessing MoTrip—Mohamed El Moussaoui—has spent some real time in places like this. Most people cry about breakups under rain with old photos. Mohamed’s emotional moments apparently happen surrounded by poles and neon lights. That’s how he feels things.
The wild part is who shows up: Lena Meyer-Landrut, the pop star who now wants to be called just Lena, working as a stripper with the same devastated look as everyone else. Makes you wonder what MoTrip did to end up with this many women looking destroyed. Probably never will find out.
There’s something honest about it, even if it’s ridiculous. A German rapper committing to this—strip club sadness as his whole emotional language—and getting a pop star to commit with him. That’s either genius or completely delusional, and I genuinely don’t know which is more interesting.
I watched a girl on BRAVO’s Facebook page refuse to click a link. Someone posted a weird photo and said “Click here to find out what it is,” and instead of clicking, people just waited in the comments. Then someone took a screenshot and posted it in the feed. Sixty-one likes. People actually thanking them for not making them leave Facebook. “Hab keinen Bock, auf den Link zu drücken,” one girl said—I can’t be bothered clicking, and apparently neither can anyone else.
It was everywhere. “Für die, die keine Lust haben”—for people who don’t feel like it. Screenshots of articles, answers to riddles, YouTube videos, all dumped straight into the feed so nobody had to leave. It hit me watching this happen over and over: the click is officially dead. Not broken. Not complicated. Dead. Young people don’t want it anymore. Clicks feel like friction, like a tax on their attention. So they’ve just decided not to click, and they’re forcing everyone else not to either.
We all did this. Publishers, creators, bloggers, magazines, everyone. We spent years feeding everything into Facebook because the reach was too good to ignore. We told ourselves it was inevitable. We told everyone else too. Now we’re trapped inside it. If I stopped posting to Facebook, I’d just disappear. So I keep doing it, and everyone else keeps doing it, and we’re all slowly getting smaller and more desperate, chasing an algorithm we’ll never understand for a company that could cut us off tomorrow.
The worst part is that people aren’t angry about it. They’re not resisting. They’re asking for more of it. They want to stay inside the feed. They want the thinking done for them, want someone else to pull the information out and hand it over so they never have to leave Facebook. It’s easier this way. Frictionless. And once you stop clicking, you stop discovering. Once you stop discovering, you stop bumping into things that exist outside the controlled feed.
I know I’m part of the machine now. Every post I write, I’m thinking about Facebook excerpts and algorithm positioning and how to package it all for the feed. And I resent it and I keep doing it anyway because the alternative is invisibility. We’re all doing this. We’re slowly dying inside a system we built ourselves.
What really gets me is how it all feels inevitable. Like there’s no escape and never was. Young people aren’t going to wake up and start exploring the open web. They’re not going to suddenly realize this is bad. They’re just going to keep asking for screenshots instead of links, and one day they’ll forget the internet was ever anything else. And we’ll still be here, feeding the machine, getting smaller payments for smaller audiences, until nobody remembers we ever existed outside this feed.
That one comment keeps coming back to me: “Für die, die keine Lust haben auf den Link zu drücken.” For anyone too lazy to click. It sounds trivial, but it’s the sound of a generation deciding they’re done with the open internet. And we’re going to watch it happen because we don’t have the power to stop it anymore.
There’s this song called “Lost.” MØ and Major Lazer made it, and for a while I couldn’t stop playing it — not because I kept discovering new things in it, but because it had already given me everything and I was trying to find that feeling again.
MØ—Karen Marie Ørsted—has this way of making everything sound like she barely cares. “Don’t Wanna Dance,” “Say You’ll Be There,” she just shows up and does it, walks away. You’d expect that to feel lazy but it doesn’t. It feels like confidence, like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing and sees no reason to perform about it.
“Lost” sits in that space between too much and not enough. The production is full but not heavy. Her voice just rests in it, amused, indifferent. The kind of song you can play anywhere—a car going nowhere, a pool party, alone at 2 a.m.—and it still works. It has that summer quality, the feeling of heat and stalled time, even though it’ll never actually come back.
I remember that year everyone was trying to predict what was next—the next big thing, the next cultural shift. Lots of wrong calls. But MØ was already there, not chasing anything, just making songs that sounded like right now. “Lost” was the one that stayed with me. I’d catch myself humming it without deciding to. Sometimes it still happens.
I found Suiyoubi no Campanella through Komuai, who raps for this Tokyo collective. One listen and something clicked—the production is precise and strange at once, nothing trying too hard. Music that doesn’t apologize.
It made me realize how tired everything else sounds. German pop is plastic. Rap is posturing. Rock is people who should’ve quit years ago. Everything’s playing it safe, negotiating with rules nobody actually wrote.
Komuai just raps. The beats are strange and right. There’s this loose-tight thing happening—like they figured out what they cared about and stopped listening to anyone else. Not profound. Just what music sounds like when people actually want to make something.
I know that sounds snobbish. But once you hear music that isn’t scared, everything else sounds like it’s asking for permission.
I have this habit late at night—scrolling through old contacts, half-horny and bored. There’s that girl from my friend’s party, someone I’d talked to a few times. The idea arrives fully formed: send her a picture of my dick. She’ll be shocked, impressed maybe. Except she won’t be. She’ll ignore it completely. And that’s when the brain weasels kick in. Obviously the problem wasn’t the stupid idea. The problem was execution. Bad angle. Bad lighting. I didn’t present it right.
Cobra Club exists to fix exactly this. It’s a game on Windows, Mac, and Linux built around the supposed art of photographing your genitals in their best light. Digital strangers evaluate your work in a simulated chat—rating the length, the girth, the angle—and coach you toward the perfect shot. As if that was ever actually the problem.
The game is clearly absurdist satire. But it’s so literally true to how some guy brains work that it loops back into something sincere. Maybe your dick does just need better lighting and a better angle. Maybe that’s actually been the problem the whole time.
I followed the attack counts from Germany that summer because I couldn’t quite believe what I was reading. Berlin. Dresden. Freital. Five men corner a family at a red light and beat them because of their faces. A jogger gets his head smashed. A kid takes a punch from a grown man because her parents look foreign. By June there were 130 recorded attacks. Fires at shelters. People throwing rocks at paramedics.
What got to me wasn’t the violence itself—people are always capable of that. It was how fast it became systematic. Three on one feels safe. Stay out of sight. Nobody important cares enough to stop you. By summer these men were showing up on Friday nights like it was a job, the only job that ever made them matter. Something to do when you have nothing else. Someone to hurt when that’s the only way you know to feel powerful.
I kept reading the same scenario described over and over. A family flees war. Loses half of everything. Travels for months through hell convinced there’s someplace safe to land. They get to a shelter. They look out the window. They hear screaming. They understand immediately what comes next if they step outside—what comes next on any Friday night when there’s nothing else to do and no one’s watching.
That’s not hypothetical. That’s what’s actually happening. Not once. Not in one place. Systematically. All over. The Germans are known for efficiency. Now you see what it looks like when it gets pointed at people who can’t fight back.
So imagine you escape war. You lose your family. You travel for months through absolute nightmare. You think you’re going to be safe. You open the window and hear men screaming at your kid. And you understand—this could happen anywhere. Safety is just a room with glass, and eventually someone tests whether it breaks.
Three things first. One: I actually loved “Where Is The Love?” when it came out—genuinely loved it. Two: I had a thing for Fergie back then. Don’t ask why. Three: by “I Gotta Feeling,” I wanted to scrape it out of my brain with something sharp.
The Black Eyed Peas became the opposite of what they’d been—just the soundtrack to dying nightclubs, the song playing while bodies grind on floors that stopped being clean years ago, while everyone pretends they’re having fun when they’re really just trying not to think. Soulless. Hollow.
I couldn’t even bring myself to click on “Yesterday,” the new one without Fergie. They’d sunk so low in my mind that I would have tattooed myself with the name of any other forgettable pop star rather than hear another one of their songs. But I played it anyway, and what I heard was nothing like what I expected.
I probably know Super Mario World better than any other game in the world. Maybe Pokémon Blue. Maybe Chrono Trigger. Link to the Past. But Super Mario World is the one that shaped how I think about games, shaped it completely.
I can’t count the hours I sank into it as a kid. Days, weeks, months, years. Every secret exit, every Star Road level, all the Special Worlds. I was the first person in my friend group to see it through to the end, to watch the Koopas grow mustaches in the credits. Though maybe I just hallucinated that whole thing on Fanta as a kid, honestly, who knows.
Then I found out about this speedrunner online—some guy who goes by PangaeaPanganennt—who doesn’t just play Super Mario World faster than most people can say the word Yoshi. He plays the whole thing blindfolded. Eyes shut the entire way through.
Alyssia McGoogan in grass, naked, shot by Alessandro Casagrande. It’s obvious why this works—the body is there, the light is perfect, there’s nothing between skin and landscape. But what makes it interesting is the comfort level, the fact that this doesn’t feel staged or self-conscious. It feels like they found the angle and didn’t overthink it.
Outdoor nude photography exists in this weird space where it’s obviously about sex but also totally isn’t. The eroticism is real but it’s not performing anything. It’s just documenting what happens when someone unbothered takes their clothes off outside and a photographer who understands light is paying attention. That’s the whole thing.
Casagrande’s work has no irony, no posturing. Just skin and grass and someone who knows what he’s doing.
There’s a photo of Hossein Derakhshan with the singer Lovefoxxx, both of them younger, both of them in a moment before everything changed. He was a blogger in the 2000s, when blogs still felt like the future—when millions of people were typing their thoughts, their politics, their obsessions into their own little corners of the internet. Some of it was noise. A lot of it was noise. But some of it was dangerous, in the way that real ideas can be dangerous. Hossein used his blog as a weapon against a rigid political structure, and the Iranian government noticed.
By 2008, blogs had already started to lose their grip. Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat were gathering people up into platforms that promised convenience and connection but really just wanted to monetize your attention. Hossein got arrested. A few years later, in 2011, he was convicted by Iran’s Revolutionary Court: 19 years and six months in prison, plus a fine of 30,000 euros. For writing on his blog.
He was released on November 19, 2014, after a pardon from Ayatollah Khamenei. He opened his laptop and found an internet that was no longer his. That had betrayed him without knowing it was doing so.
This is what he wrote about it: “Blogs were decentralized. They were windows into people’s lives, bridges between different worlds. They were cafés where you could actually talk to someone, where ideas moved freely, where a person could go deep on whatever interested them.” He was describing a web that actually existed, one he’d risked everything for.
But the stream had won. By 2014, that wasn’t how it worked anymore. People didn’t click on websites or follow RSS feeds. They scrolled. Algorithms decided what you saw, and you’d never know what you weren’t seeing. The whole thing had been quietly centralized, and nobody called it that.
I understand why it worked. The stream is frictionless. You don’t have to find anything; it comes to you. No opening new tabs, no browser, no effort. Just your phone, just scrolling, just the endless feed. The mountain came to you. And yes, it felt like freedom, or at least like convenience, which we’d learned to confuse with freedom. The cost was obvious if you bothered to think about it—your diversity of thought, your time, your control—but it felt so small compared to the luxury of not having to choose.
Except the diversity part was real. The algorithm doesn’t like friction, doesn’t like difficulty. It buries challenging ideas under videos of people falling down, listicles, the same opinion repeated until it becomes consensus. Hossein was clear about this: challenging thoughts get suppressed because they don’t play well with the ranking game that platforms built to keep you watching.
And the platforms have absolute control. You can post to Twitter or Facebook or Instagram, sure. You have a URL. But you can’t own it the way you owned a blog. You can’t change how it looks. You can’t even count on your own words staying visible. The platform decides the rules, decides the lifespan of your thought. Twitter limits you to a line or two, so you learn to think in slogans. You abbreviate yourself to fit the box. You adjust your thinking to get the likes and the reshares, because that’s the only feedback mechanism that exists.
Hossein called it personal television. You log into Facebook and suddenly you’re watching a stream of content carefully curated to be exactly what you might like. You never leave the platform. The algorithm learns you, shows you more of what you already think, and calls it personalization. It’s not. It’s capture.
The shift happened quietly. A decade ago, an authoritarian government imprisoned bloggers. A few years later, Instagram didn’t need to be blocked because filtered breakfast photos weren’t a threat to anyone’s power. The internet had domesticated itself.
“I miss the days when people read more than 140 characters,” Hossein said. “I miss publishing something on my own domain, with my own address, without worrying about promoting it across platforms so anyone would see it. When nobody cared about likes. When you could just write something and it could exist on its own terms.” He’s describing a feeling I never got to have, an internet I only know secondhand. But I understand the loss he’s talking about. We all do, even if we don’t admit it. We traded an open web for a convenient feed and called it progress.
BRAVO arrived every month like it had answers. I read every page without question, trusted it completely. It knew things about surviving adolescence that nobody else would tell you. It was scripture.
So it lands differently now, watching it teach the same old lesson to a new generation: here’s how to erase yourself and call it self-improvement.
The article’s called “How to Get Boys to Notice You: 100 Tips for a Killer Vibe.” It’s anonymous, which is perfect. It’s 100 different ways to say stop being who you are. Shave your legs. Shave your underarms. Always smile. Laugh at his jokes. Look up from below. Copy his gestures. Wear skirts because boys like girls who look like girls. Use blush. Each tip is a tiny instruction for how to compress yourself into something narrower and easier to want.
What’s genuinely dark about it is how systematic it is. There’s no room for accident or personality. Follow all 100 and there’d be nothing left of you but what the design prescribed. That’s not a girl; that’s a product.
I’ve watched people live this out. I remember being annoyed even years ago, seeing friends reshape themselves because BRAVO told them they were wrong. Everything about them was a problem waiting to be fixed. And now it’s the same playbook for the next set of kids, but it lands harder because it sounds like common sense, like this is just how the game works.
The thing about BRAVO is that it never felt like it was selling anything sinister. It felt like a friend. So when it teaches you that you’re a broken set of components—eyes that are the wrong shape, hair that’s the wrong texture, a personality that’s the wrong vibe—it doesn’t feel like betrayal. It just feels true.
Two guys held hands walking through Moscow and someone filmed what happened next. You don’t need context to understand why that matters. Russia’s the kind of place where doing that gets you hunted. The government doesn’t hide its position. Youth gangs operate openly. The law’s fine with it.
I haven’t been to Russia, but you don’t have to go somewhere to know what homophobia looks like when the state sponsors it. The video shows the predictable hostility — except there’s nothing predictable about it, which is the point. These aren’t edge cases or fringe extremists. They’re just kids who’ve learned to hate this particular thing, and they’ve learned it well because the culture agrees with them.
Living that way sounds impossible. The constant hiding, the calculation of which people around you would hurt you, the inability to be yourself in public. That’s survival, not life. But so is holding someone’s hand knowing you’ll probably regret it within minutes, knowing the cameras are running, knowing it probably won’t change a thing except maybe your own safety.
There’s defiance in that refusal to hide, even if it’s brief and even if the cost is immediate. Whether that means anything, whether it actually matters — I don’t know. But accepting fear as the price of existence, letting it keep you small and hidden, that feels like a different kind of death. At least in that moment, those two guys refused it.
Pop music is basically Rihanna and Taylor Swift — listen to both and you’ve heard all that matters. Everything else is just sad noise, the same beats and melodies and tired phrases looped forever. Of course both of them destroy anything else in their path. And one of them just escalates.
Rihanna’s “Bitch Better Have My Money” video gets meaner. She hacks, she saws, she curses her way through luxury and drugs and blood, with rich girls stripping for her, one tit after another. If you don’t walk out of that beautiful hell a little damaged, you’re past saving.
Bibi Bourelly from Berlin wrote it — she was 20, just curious what it felt like to do something for Rihanna. Kanye heard it and dug it. And writing this I feel like a BRAVO magazine editor and want to kill myself. So when does Taylor drop her blood-and-tits video?
Ferropolis itself is what matters first. It’s industrial ruins outside Berlin, the kind of place that would be depressing on any regular weekend. But for one week in July, it becomes a festival ground. Not glamorous, not polished, just honestly interesting. The stages are built into the landscape itself. You walk past sculptures. Nothing feels manufactured from corporate templates — it all feels like it happened naturally, even though obviously someone planned it.
The lineups are almost always worth paying attention to. That year the bill was Alt-J and Jamie XX, Toro Y Moi and Sven Väth, Kylie Minogue and Bilderbuch. The kind of mix that shouldn’t cohere but somehow does. You could move between sets and almost always find something worth staying for. Most festivals, you’re waiting out the gaps. Here you don’t have to.
There’s a specific energy to German festival season. The heat, the dust, the beer, the way thousands of people show up and for three days pretend they’re building something. Ferropolis does it better than most because the venue isn’t just backdrop. It’s part of why you came. You can’t have Melt anywhere else.
Every festival season I say I’m not doing it this year. And then July happens and I remember why Melt matters more than the others. Not just because of who’s playing. Because Ferropolis is actually somewhere. Somewhere real.
I watched a video from a Pegida rally in Nuremberg where someone stole the banner. Two guys, quick grab, vanish around a corner. The whole thing took maybe ten seconds. The people holding the banner looked stunned — like they couldn’t believe what just happened.
What got me was how it broke the spell for a moment. Pegida feeds on this feeling of strength in numbers, of being part of some organized movement. You’re marching with your banner, you’re surrounded by people who believe the same things, you feel powerful. Then the banner’s just gone. Suddenly you’re just some guy standing in the street looking stupid.
I don’t know if that actually changes anything. The rally kept going. But there’s something about the refusal to let it happen unopposed. Not trying to argue or debate, just showing up and saying no through action.
The weird thing is, watching it, I found myself thinking about what victory even means. Is it changing minds? Getting a movement to shut down? Or is it just being the person who doesn’t back down? I think maybe it’s the latter.
I asked my friend what she thought about feminism, and she looked confused before saying something vague about equality. Honest answer, probably the most honest one I’ve heard to that question in years.
I used to think it was straightforward. Feminism meant women should have the same rights as men, same opportunities, same respect. That’s it. Once you achieve that, the word becomes unnecessary—it’s served its purpose. Basic arithmetic, and it made sense.
But I watched it morph into something else. It stopped being about equality and started being about whatever complaint happened to be loudest, whatever drama was unfolding online, whatever someone wanted to perform for an audience. Some of it legitimate, most of it just noise.
The real problem is the word and reality got completely unmoored from each other. Feminism doesn’t describe the push for equality anymore—it describes a kind of performance, a set of arguments, a way of being on the internet. It became the container for whatever grievance was trending that day.
So now the word doesn’t point to anything clear. Young women hear it and look confused, which is probably the sanest reaction available. The word spent its capital and there’s nothing left but smoke.
I spent a few months in Tokyo and walked into my apartment after a long flight ready to cry. Gave up a much larger place in Berlin for a room barely bigger than the bed, a sink, a TV. But it could’ve been worse. It definitely was worse for plenty of people.
A photographer named Won Kim spent time in Japan, Finland, Australia, Sri Lanka, the US, and the Netherlands documenting people in the smallest rooms in the world. He called it “Enclosed: Living Small.” The rooms are the real subjects here—tight, dark, crammed. Not spaces. Just cells.
Some of the rooms Kim photographed are almost monastic, sparse enough you’d guess the occupant was just passing through. Others are completely packed: clothes everywhere, improvised bookshelves, decoration wedged into every corner. What interested him was that contrast—how some people let the space define them, and others refuse.
You could accept that you live in a box and keep it empty. But some people fill theirs anyway. They argue with the walls. They make the space say something about them.
Jessica Weiß did what everyone assumed she eventually would: she started a fashion line. At this point the trajectory is so familiar you could almost predict it — blogger gets big, offers come in, brand launches. Swedish bloggers did it. Italian photographers did it. Germany’s most famous fashion blogger was always going to do it too.
The line is called JOUR., with a period. She explained that she’s not technically a designer, which is honest. She came up through the industry instead, working at places like Les Mads and Journelles, understanding how things get made. Her partner, Pia Thole, is involved too. They started with six pieces. Basics: silk blouses, shorts, sweaters. Things she actually wears.
There’s something appealing about that constraint, I think. Everyone has a fantasy version of what their brand would be if they got the chance — usually it’s sprawling and overcomplicated. Starting with six pieces means you have to be sure about what you’re making. It’s the move of someone who’s been paying attention.
The real test is whether the pieces are any good. Built-in audience will buy it either way, so that’s not the question. But if she nails the basics, that’s worth paying attention to. A good silk blouse is harder to make than it looks.
The music video for GENER8ION and M.I.A.’s “The New International Sound Pt. II” features two kids from the Shaolin Tagou school in China. Xin Chenxi is nine, Chen Xi is fifteen. The school trains about twenty-six thousand kids total — basically an assembly line for discipline.
I saw the video first, then looked up the documentary. “Dragon Girls” by Inigo Westmeier is what actually gets at what the training is. You watch nine-year-olds moving in perfect formation with swords and you’re thinking about the hours. You’re wondering if they wanted this or just ended up here through circumstance.
The kids talk about missing home, missing people, and they do it with a kind of composure that’s unsettling. Then they’re back in the yard fighting each other, getting hurt, treating the blood like it’s nothing. There’s a moment where a girl is proud of a bruise. Genuinely proud of it.
After you know that, the music video feels different. The images are polished and they move well enough, but you’re watching something else now. You’re aware of what’s underneath the formation.
The training doesn’t really stop. The video goes viral for a week or whatever, and then it doesn’t matter anymore. But the kids are still there doing drills and kata and fighting each other in the dust. That’s the part that gets to me — the video is temporary, but the grinding just keeps going.
Jon Stewart came back on air after the Charleston shooting and said, “I have nothing for you, only sadness.” Just that—sitting there with his pen, no jokes, no framing. What he said next was the clearest thing I’d heard about race in America: not that this was a tragedy to process and move past, but that it was reality. Black people lived inside a country built on white history and the wound never closed because nobody wanted to acknowledge it.
I’d been watching him for years. There was something about the way he could make you think—not just laugh, but actually think about what was happening in the world—that nobody else was doing. He was leaving soon, his final shows coming up, and I wasn’t sure what happens when that kind of clarity leaves. But this is what he was for. In a moment when everyone else was hunting for the right words, he had the lucidity to say there weren’t any right words. You just sit with the sadness. You tell the truth and you don’t look away.
Curtis Blair fixated on Scandinavia—Sweden especially, Iceland, Norway—and made a series photographing women up there. “Nordic Girls,” he called it, shot in 2015 with Swedish models in London and Stockholm. There’s a book from it.
What interests me isn’t the obvious thing (blonde, tall, beautiful, all that). It’s how Blair describes what he actually sees: women who are genuinely free, genuinely self-possessed in a way most photographs don’t show. They’re part of a new feminist wave in the North, the generation that reclaimed the female body by refusing to hide it—body hair, menstruation, all of it just there. He photographs that refusal.
The work is patient. Analog, cool-lit, no softness or flattery. You can feel the film stock. The backgrounds—dark forests, clean lakes—feel observed rather than constructed. Most photographers are selling something. Blair just watches.
That’s what stays with me: not the subject, but the method. The patience. The refusal to flatter. That’s where the actual work is.
Morning used to mean stumbling through the house like something freshly reanimated, waiting for enough coffee to make sense of the world. Not one cup—that stopped working years ago. More like I’d need increasingly industrial amounts just to feel approximately human.
The frustrating part is it’s not laziness or some personal failing. Your body naturally releases cortisol at certain times—early morning, midday, late afternoon—to naturally push you toward wakefulness. But if you’re already hammering caffeine during those windows, you’re not adding a boost; you’re actually building resistance to it. Drink coffee at the wrong times often enough and it stops working almost entirely. You end up chasing bigger doses for smaller results, a kind of chemical treadmill you can’t step off.
So there’s this window—different for everyone, but generally a couple hours after you first wake up—where caffeine actually lands. You skip the morning rush, you skip the afternoon spike, and you time it right, maybe three or four hours in. I’ve tried it. The difference is real. You actually feel it.
But knowing this doesn’t make the zombie mornings easier. There’s still that first hour where I’m barely functional, where reaching for the coffee is more ritual than strategy, where the idea of waiting seems impossible. So I still drink it wrong, still build that tolerance back up, still end up needing more. At least now I understand why I’m tired all the time. That’s something.
I’d give anything to transplant my brain into 16-bit hardware and live out my days in Secret of Mana or Super Mario World. Actually, scratch that—I’d give a lot, but not my actual life. The point is, I love those games with a devotion that modern releases have never come close to matching.
The big publishers today are completely terrified. They pour millions into pixels that breathe and grass that moves with hyperreal precision, then act shocked when the game feels hollow inside. They chase YouTube consensus about what matters instead of actually designing something with real systems underneath. They’ve lost the plot entirely—decorating an empty house and calling it progress.
My first console was a Sega Master System. I had Alex Kidd, Sonic, even Michael Jackson’s Moonwalker for no good reason. What I remember isn’t technical limitation. I remember the shapes on screen, the colors, the exact weight of how Mario jumped. I don’t think of it as primitive. I think of it as right. That’s not nostalgia—it’s a genuine difference between then and now.
Modern games have so much stuff packed in, but somewhere along the way, something core got lost. The feel of movement. The satisfaction of a mechanic that works. The clarity of what the designer actually wanted you to do. Or maybe I just got older and stopped caring about graphics altogether. Either way, when I load up an old cartridge, something settles. The game isn’t trying to convince me I’m somewhere else. It just is.
Miley Cyrus hit the PAPERMAG cover that month, naked with a pig. The pig’s face was honest—genuine concern about what was happening.
By then she’d been in provocation mode for a few years. New nude shoot every couple of months, each one attached to some story about breaking free from the Disney image, being authentic, rejecting control. The nudity itself never bothered me. It was the repetition that started to feel like a trap.
Shock value has a lifespan. The same nakedness that made headlines three years earlier was just background noise by then. So you escalate. Add a pig. Find a new angle. Keep people looking. But you’re just feeding a machine that stopped being hungry a long time ago.
The thing that bothered me was that she could actually sing. When she wasn’t performing provocation, when she was just working, there was something there. Real talent. Genuine songwriter. But it all got buried under the strategy of being scandalous. Every project, every interview, every image cycled back to that one thing.
I’m not prudish about nudity. The body is what it is. But there’s something wasted about watching someone talented enough to not need gimmicks disappear inside one. The cover would be forgotten next month, replaced with whatever came next. But it stuck with me as one of those moments where you could see the trap closing—the thing that was supposed to free her had become what she couldn’t escape.
I spent 2015 glued to my phone like everyone else — Snapchat, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Periscope, YouTube, WhatsApp, Twitch. The apps blurred together into background radiation, and by then I’d stopped questioning it because it had become the default. You learned to live inside those feeds the way you learn to live in any environment, until it just was.
What strikes me looking back is how recent this all is. Decades earlier, pulling out a phone and sending video to someone across the world in real time would have seemed impossible. Yet by 2015 I wasn’t even thinking about it. Just pull out the iPhone, shoot, add cat stickers, send. Uncensored, real, immediate.
I watched Nadia Bedzhanova’s short film “Wasteland” around that time. It’s just kids in Moscow, New York, and Paris documenting their days — nothing precious, nothing organized, just the mundane stuff of being alive and young and connected. But it’s a time capsule. She captured something true about 2015, what it felt like to document everything in real time, without a filter between the moment and the world.
Looking back, there’s something accidentally historic about it. I wasn’t documenting for history, just living and posting. But the immediacy — what I did showing up on screens across the world instantly — made it real in a way nothing before had been. That’s what Bedzhanova caught. That’s what matters about the film.
It’s a weird thing to notice about people you follow online. Someone posts about loving a product, seems genuinely into it, and then weeks later they’re pitching a completely different product with the exact same energy. Different brand, different category, same performance of enthusiasm. And you realize they’re probably getting paid for these posts without mentioning it.
It’s not that they’re doing sponsored content. It’s that they’re doing it invisibly. They act like they discovered something and fell in love with it, sharing something personal, and meanwhile they got a check. Everyone needs money, fine. But there’s something deflating about the dishonesty. You follow someone because you think you know their taste, what they actually value. And when that recommendation might be for sale — when there’s no way to know if they like something or if they’re just reading an ad — something shifts. You lose a little faith in what they’re telling you.
You can usually tell if you watch long enough. There’s a shift in how they talk about things when there’s money involved. Once you catch it, you start looking for the signs, trying to figure out what’s genuine and what’s just work. And that changes how you listen to them. You’re not hearing a friend anymore. You’re analyzing patterns.
One of the recent episodes of Game of Thrones worked on me in a way the show hadn’t managed for a while. There’s this moment that lands exactly right—not because the writing is suddenly brilliant, but because the images are there and they carry weight. After watching it, I couldn’t stop thinking about visiting the actual places where they filmed these scenes. Not the sets, not the reconstructions—the real locations, the ground you could walk on.
I found an infographic from a Moroccan travel company that lays out where the major scenes were shot. The locations scatter across Europe like pins on a map: Malta, Iceland, Croatia, Spain, Northern Ireland. Each one a place you could theoretically drive to, book a hotel, stand in the exact spot where the camera was.
Some of these are obvious in hindsight. The cave where Jon Snow and Ygritte happened—Grjótagjá in Iceland, this narrow hot spring you could crawl into. The gate of King’s Landing isn’t some elaborate set; it’s the walls of Mdina in Malta, a real medieval city that’s been standing there for centuries while scenes got filmed in its streets. And everything beyond the Wall, all that frozen desolation—that’s not makeup and paint. It’s the Vatnajökull glacier, actual ice, actual snow, the kind of place where you’d freeze if the cameras stopped rolling.
There’s something strange about wanting to visit a filming location. It won’t change what I think about the story. It won’t make a bad ending retroactively good, or a good one last longer. The experience itself—standing on some rock in Iceland where actors performed lines I’ve already watched—won’t add anything real to my understanding of the show. But there’s an impulse there anyway. To see the place without the cinematography, without the color grade and the framing. To know what it actually looks like when you’re standing there with your own eyes.
I’ve felt this before with other shows and movies, this pull toward the real places behind the fictional ones. It’s tied up with something about how we consume stories, maybe. We spend hours in other worlds, compressed into screen dimensions, and there’s a strange moment where you want to make it physical again, to verify that these places exist somewhere in the actual world and aren’t just arrangements of light and pixels.
I’ll probably never make the trip. But knowing the places are there, that you could go see them if you wanted to, that changes something small in how the show sits with me now. It’s the difference between a story that ends when the credits roll and one that has geography, that exists somewhere you could theoretically touch.
You come to Berlin to dance in some warehouse until you’re soaked and your ears are ringing—which is the whole point anyway. Berghain, Chalet, Gretchen, Watergate. Everyone knows these names before they arrive, but finding them scattered across the city is a different problem.
Someone made an interactive map of the club scene, a registry that shows you what’s actually open and where. It’s practical: click around, see a venue, see its location. Berlin’s clubs move around constantly, so having everything in one place actually matters.
Chesters by Görlitzer Platz. Watergate down by Oberbaumbrücke. Heizhaus somewhere farther out if you’re making the trip. The map lays it all out so you don’t have to wander around hoping you recognize a building.
The real problem with Berlin clubs isn’t finding them. It’s getting in. Berghain will turn you away at the door regardless. But at least now you know exactly where to go when you want to get rejected.
I was unstoppable at Pokémon. Level 100 team, always perfect — Charizard, Mewtwo, Articuno, Mew, Dragonite, Zapdos. I’d spent months getting there, exploited every move set, every advantage. It felt like owning something nobody else could touch.
That was the deal: let us have this thing, we’ll grow out of it eventually, it’s harmless. Except some obsessions don’t work that way. You’re supposed to put them down and move on, but that’s not how it goes. The thing just gets quieter. You see a reference somewhere and the whole weight of it comes back like you never left.
These new BEAMS and New Era caps prove that Pokémon never actually left. It just got older with everyone who loved it. Someone still designs around it seriously, treats it like it matters, makes something clean and inevitable-looking that you want immediately. Not because it’s retro or cool or ironic. Because you’re still that person, somewhere underneath everything else.
I found one at a shop and just wanted it. Still do. Not to show anyone. Just to own that version of myself. Some part of me is still proud of the stupid irrelevant skill of building an untouchable team. Still hasn’t moved on.
The caps are probably sold out by now. Doesn’t matter. The point is that Pokémon and people like me never actually left. We just got quieter about it. BEAMS knew. That’s why the design works.
Sports Illustrated’s basically got four Kate Upton clips and they’re going to milk them forever. Beach, ice, space — same footage rearranged into different videos with different music, different themes. She’s laughing, dancing, smiling, just standing there.
I don’t care. I’ll watch every single one. It’s Kate Upton.
Nothing’s grabbed me in gaming hype lately. GTA V, fine. Bloodborne, sure if I’m bored. The Witcher 3, maybe eventually. Then Fallout 4 and suddenly I don’t care about any of that.
Beyond my Nintendo bubble, I only actually care about three franchises: Mass Effect even though that ending was a disaster, The Elder Scrolls except for the MMO, and Fallout. That’s it. Everything else can disappear from gaming. Civ 6 can stick around.
Why Fallout? Because no other game does it. It builds this post-apocalyptic world that manages to be sympathetic and dangerous at the same time, full of genuine mystery, where you can go anywhere and do whatever you want. It’s so densely packed with things to discover that it feels like an actual broken world worth exploring.
Fallout 4 is coming soon. I’m buying a new computer just to play it. Not joking. That’s actually happening.
I’m 31 now and I don’t have much use for the German YouTube ecosystem. Quick cuts, pseudo-funny outtakes, confused faces I’d love to throw in a bucket of acne cream and send back to the unemployment line. But you have to give them this: they’re the stars of a new generation.
Oscar-nominated director Nanette Burstein followed LeFloid, Joyce Ilg, and whoever the other guy was, either standing around at home and verbally vomiting into a camera or getting dragged through sweaty crowds of truant teenagers, and made something actually worth watching out of it.
What did I learn? It’s completely irrelevant what established adults—people who’ve already had their first time—think about people like Bibi, Sami Slimani, or Y-Titty. The only thing that matters is whether Chantal in seventh grade in Leipzig thinks they’re cool. She’s the future. Unfortunately.
I remember being at parties where rolling was just something people knew how to do, like it was coded into them as teenagers. I showed up late, helped pick songs, asked obvious questions about things everyone else took for granted. When someone handed me papers and a bag, I’d fumble through it the way you’d defuse a bomb based on a YouTube tutorial.
There’s a video—Suzie Grime, someone like that—showing exactly how. Pinch, roll, lick, twist. Simple. Clean. The kind of tutorial that makes you realize you were overthinking it. Except watching and actually doing it with people waiting are different things. Your hands shake. The paper tears. You remember you’re the anxious kid trying to look like you’ve got this.
Even after you’ve done it fifty times, there’s something absurd about the whole thing. The ritual, the mechanics, the fact that this one skill carries so much weight. Other people just know. They learned once and forgot it was ever difficult. I got better. Kept doing it. But I was always performing, not actually confident.
Later, you realize everyone was doing the same thing. You just weren’t watching close enough to see it.
Designer Pierre Cerveau sketched what he thought a Macintosh Phone would look like in 1984. There’s a lot he got right — the proportions, the way it’d sit in your hand, the sense that personal computing was going to shrink down to something you’d carry. He was picking up on Steve Jobs’s vision, that computers could be intimate and almost spiritual, and somehow that intuition pointed him toward something real even though the technology didn’t exist yet.
It’s strange how long it took after someone had already imagined it. Fourteen years from Cerveau’s sketch to the iPhone in 2007. By then we’d cycled through the Macintosh, the iPod phase, the iPad thing, and none of it felt quite like what people had been unconsciously waiting for until Jobs held up a phone that was mostly screen. Cerveau’s design was close enough to recognize but wrong enough in the details to prove that the future isn’t predictable — it’s just something you can guess at and occasionally get right by accident.
Miss Platinum is Ruth Maria Renner, a Berlin-based artist from Romania, and her music in German just refuses to fit anywhere obvious. Her tracks—Babooshka 2009, Lila Wolken, 99 Probleme—are personal and strange without seeming self-conscious about it. She sounds like someone who knows what she’s doing and doesn’t care if you follow.
Her new track MDCHN is a statement about women and power—the idea that there’s nothing men can do that women can’t. But it doesn’t feel like an argument. It’s just a fact expressed through music, delivered with complete confidence. That clarity is what makes it land. You hear that level of certainty and everything else starts to sound apologetic.
Food never really interested me. A brown bread sandwich and an apple at school, lentil soup or fish sticks at home, cheap soda from the corner store with my friends—I was satisfied with all of it. Happy even.
Now I’m lying in bed thinking about bacon cheeseburgers with extra peanut sauce, fried noodles stacked with meat, tuna pizza dripping with melted cheese. This is what I live for. Not the other way around. And you can tell.
Breasts and bacon. Those two thoughts have become my best friends. When I’m trying to fall asleep, when I’m jerking off to my own old photos from before I turned into a grotesque parody of myself—breasts and bacon, breasts and bacon, breasts and bacon. That’s the loop I’m stuck in.
I know how to stop. Obviously. It’s not complicated. Fewer noodles, less bread, less of everything, and I’d get my thin body back from when I was twenty. Willpower, they call it. Buy a bike, some running shoes, a gym membership, use them. How hard can it be? Exactly. But.
I’m not against movement itself. When we were kids we ran and rode bikes and played football like someone had deleted the TV from the world. We swam in the quarry and raced from one town to another. It wasn’t exercise, it was just living. A genuinely good life.
But now fitness is a lifestyle for people I hate. The self-optimizers with their detox schemes and running clubs and their tracking apps, the startup guys breaking their existence into metrics and career advancement, moving not because it feels good but because their body is a machine that needs to function better and serve them well. Sport became an elite thing, something owned by assholes. The kind of people who make me want to strangle them.
Even back then, if my friends had complained about being fat, I wouldn’t have understood it. Now everyone does it, regardless of gender. Even the skeletal fashion bloggers, whose flat stomachs are the star of every carefully composed photo. You’re posting your sweet potato fries from some trendy neighborhood, acting like you’ve never tasted a real potato, and meanwhile I’m sitting here choking down a burger. Other people run marathons. I feel accomplished if I only eat half a box of cookies.
How do they even do it, the ones who meet for brunch and eat a few fish eggs and a smear of carrot purée—then leave half of it on the plate? Don’t they want to scream? Don’t they want to throw themselves face-first at the food? It makes no sense to me. The thin ones would abolish McDonald’s entirely if they could, as if their preventing themselves from deep-throating a triple cheeseburger means nobody else should get to do it either.
I threw up once after Burger King. Wings and a steak sandwich. Haven’t gone back since. Maybe I should systematically poison everything I love until only celery and tofu are left. Maybe that would cure me of this.
I want back the time when food meant nothing to me. When I could transform myself for someone else without thinking about it. Before I started calculating how many animals died so I could live another day to eat more of them. Before this became a war with myself.
What’s a fat, self-hating guy supposed to do? The kind who’d wallpaper his apartment with schnitzel and shove joggers into bushes if he thought he could get away with it? I don’t know. I’m sitting here with my cornflakes and whole milk and honey, trying to figure out how to erase the fat without moving. Hoping I’ll suddenly care enough to stop. Knowing I won’t.
If I die tomorrow, don’t grieve for me. I’ll have eaten double-loaded pepperoni pizza while you wasted your best years in some overpriced vegan café drinking fennel and lemon soup or whatever bullshit. So now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check if I can still see my cock from above.
Everyone claims they can cook. Which usually just means they can turn on the oven without setting something on fire. Some people will absolutely panic if the asparagus spends an extra forty-five seconds in the water. Same word. Completely different thing.
I’ve watched cooking become performance. The internet did that. You need the right knife, the right pasta water, you need to know the best angles. It’s exhausting to watch and worse to actually do.
The actual thing — feeding yourself — is straightforward. You follow steps, you pay attention, you get better. But that became something else somewhere. A lifestyle. A personality. Everyone’s an expert on salt.
What most people want is to just make something edible without it becoming this whole production. They need the basics explained straight, without any of the theater. That’s not fun to film, so it doesn’t really exist.
Blogfabrik sits in a Kreuzberg courtyard off Oranienstraße, next to an ad agency, a late-night shop, and a tango studio. When I first walked through, the place was mostly scaffold and exposed brick—construction dust in the air, tools stacked in corners—but people were already working at tables, heads down over laptops like the unfinished walls didn’t matter.
Berlin attracts a specific type: people who’ve convinced themselves that hanging around other ambitious people will somehow make their work better. Designers, photographers, writers, kids with business ideas they haven’t thought through. Some of them actually make good things. Most of them are just here because rent is manageable and nobody’s telling them to get a real job. I’m somewhere in the middle, I think.
I claimed a spot at the end of a long table. Across from me, someone was arranging their notebook and water bottle with the care of someone performing the role of a creative person at work. Notebook just so, water bottle at the right distance, everything deliberate. The thing about working in a shared space is that you’re always partially performing—for the other workers, for yourself, for the idea of the place.
The website wasn’t done. The phones didn’t work. There was no official opening. But there was already a shape to it, a hum of people assuming they were part of something meaningful. Maybe they are. More likely they’re just here because they needed a desk and internet, like me.
Taiwan’s selling enormous penis-shaped popsicles at night markets right now. Handmade ice in bright colors—raspberry red, orange, strawberry—with anatomically detailed veins running up the shaft. They’re huge, apparently, the kind of thing you can’t bite through. You have to lick.
The appeal is straightforward: Taiwan’s hot, frozen treats sell, and if you’re making ice cream, you might as well make it funny. Someone decided to sell massive novelty dicks and just committed entirely to it. No irony, no winking. Just practical absurdity.
I’ve never been to Taipei, but I’ve walked enough night markets to know the vibe. Everything’s for sale next to everything else. A stall of giant penises next to fish cakes next to pastries next to something actually delicious. Nobody’s embarrassed about it. It’s just goods.
There’s always someone outside with a cigarette. At 8 AM before work, in the parking lot, at the party when everyone’s inside. They’re usually doing the thing—leaning, exhaling, that whole performance of not caring while visibly caring quite a lot. And they probably think it still looks good. It doesn’t, but I understand why they think that.
World No Tobacco Day happens every May 31st, which is almost quaint. Like the cultural moment isn’t already long past, like we’re all still living in 1985 and need an official day to remember that smoking might not be a good idea. The whole thing is a museum piece at this point. Smoking is already dead as a cultural force. What’s left is just people with their routines, trying to hold onto some version of themselves from ten or fifteen years ago.
I quit, eventually, after a lot of years of thinking I wouldn’t. Not because I suddenly believed it was bad for me—I always knew that—but because I got tired of the daily negotiation. The small lies you tell yourself to keep doing something you’ve decided to keep doing. At some point the weight of that got heavier than the want. These days when I see someone smoking I feel something like nostalgia, except it’s not for the cigarette. It’s for the person who needed it to feel like themselves. That person’s pretty much gone now. Just the habit remains.
Every creative I know runs on Adobe. Photoshop, Illustrator, InDesign—not luxuries. If you’re doing visual work for a living, these are what you use.
I went to the Creative Cloud event in Berlin that June. The Postbahnhof, about a thousand people, all of them depending on the same tools. There were talks about new features, updates to the software. But what I actually remember is just being in a room full of people who wrestle with the same interface every day, who know every workaround, who get excited about incremental improvements to software they’ll never stop using.
I couldn’t tell you what was announced specifically. The software moves fast enough that anything from 2015 feels quaint now. But the event itself made something obvious: Adobe controls the infrastructure of visual creativity for a huge number of people. If you make work like this, you’re using their tools. That’s just the reality.
There were art installations—I remember a helmet-thing called the EYEsect that was supposed to change how you see. The kind of object that makes perfect sense at a creative event and nowhere else. A Berlin collective called Klebebande ran some kind of contest. It was fine. The networking was what it always is: awkward and occasionally useful.
What I think about now is the dependency. Not bitterly—Adobe made good tools. Your work got better using them. But sitting in that crowd, you realize you’re part of a system. You pay for access. Your professional life, for a lot of people, runs on infrastructure they don’t own.
I probably wouldn’t go to one of these again. But I’m glad I went. It’s good to see the machinery up close, to be in a room full of people who understand what it costs and what it’s worth.
Every summer you hit the same circuit: Rock im Süden, Electro up north, Indie in the middle. After a few years it all blurs together. Same stages, same fields, same predictable progression. By August you’re tired and ready for something completely different.
I went to Sziget in Budapest once and felt something I’d stopped feeling at home festivals. The event sprawls across an island in the Danube, and the lineup was strong—Florence and the Machine, Avicii, Ellie Goulding, Limp Bizkit—but that wasn’t the point. What got me was the simple fact of being lost. Different sky. Different language on the signs. I’d never see these streets again. Walking back to my tent at 3am through the city felt like actual travel for the first time all summer.
The festival markets itself as the “Island of Freedom,” which sounds like corporate branding, but there’s something true in it. Not freedom from consequence or restraint. Just the freedom of being somewhere you don’t know, where you can’t rely on routine, where you have to actually pay attention to what’s happening around you.
That’s worth leaving for. Not the bands. Not the promise of liberation. Just the necessity of going somewhere real and letting it disorient you.
Taylor Swift went from being someone you had to apologize for liking to actually being interesting. Back when she was this blonde country singer singing about fairy tales, you could write her off. Now she’s figured something out. You can see it in every frame—the way she moves, how much control she has, the sense that she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Bad Blood” is the new song, and the video is basically a celebrity lineup—Lily Aldridge, Zendaya, Hayley Williams, Gigi Hadid, Ellie Goulding, Hailee Steinfeld, Lena Dunham, Kendrick Lamar, Karlie Kloss, Serayah, Jessica Alba, Martha Hunt, Ellen Pompeo, Mariska Hargitay, Cara Delevingne, Selena Gomez. All of them showing up.
Yeah, the whole secret-agent video concept is thoroughly played out. But this song is going to be inescapable—in your car, in the shower, at work, stuck in your head for years. You’re going to know it whether you want to or not. So you might as well watch Taylor and Selena jumping around an empty office building and accept your fate. Could be worse.
The desert in Fury Road is just dead. Water’s a legend, cities are scattered bone, everything between is sand and hostile sky. Miller doesn’t waste time explaining any of this. He throws a truck convoy into the waste and doesn’t let it stop. Two hours of machinery and drums and something like an electric guitar cutting the air in half. Max (Tom Hardy) is basically passenger—barely there, barely speaking, just holding on.
The pacing exists because stopping means dying. You feel it everywhere. The camera is always moving, always cutting between vehicles and faces and the landscape bleeding past. Engine noise, percussion, the technical precision of stunt work and editing is overwhelming on purpose. You don’t have room to notice the plot is maybe one page long. On a big screen in a theater you’re pinned to your seat. At home it would collapse, and maybe that’s fine. Some films are designed for a specific space, and this is one of them.
What matters in Fury Road is that the women are driving. Not accompanying, not being protected—driving. Charlize Theron, Zoë Kravitz, Rosie Huntington-Whiteley, Riley Keough, and others. They’re making decisions, holding weapons, keeping the convoy alive. The film doesn’t announce this or congratulate itself for including them. They’re just the people who matter. The camera stays on them. Everything the film does revolves around them, and by the end you understand why.
Nicholas Hoult as a cultist is committed, fine. Tom Hardy is basically furniture. But the women register differently. They’re not background. They’re the whole point.
There’s something almost old-fashioned about how serious the film takes its own premise. Most action films now are ironic—they’re winking at you, self-aware, treating the spectacle as the joke. Fury Road doesn’t blink. No one’s laughing. The survival is real. The desert doesn’t care about your backstory or your cause. It just kills you if you stop.
George Miller clearly understands this. No explanation, no philosophy, no room for anything else. Just bodies in motion against something that wants them dead.
What lingers after is specific and small. A desert that doesn’t discriminate. A convoy of women who refuse to stop. A film that refuses to slow down long enough for you to catch up. By the end they’ve reshaped something real and fragile out of nothing. The film lets that image sit there, unsaid, and then it’s over.
I flew into Tokyo on an Aeroflot flight from Moscow — the route wasn’t particularly full, and I had half the cabin to myself, which meant I could sleep in pieces rather than trying to pretend the experience was anything other than a long, uncomfortable interval between here and there. You just push through it. Eight hours of recycled air and bad movies, and then you’re supposed to arrive magically renewed.
The first moments in Japan were both the most vivid and oddly quiet. The airport hit you with the language first — the Narita announcements in Japanese, the constant half-smiles of the staff, the polite firmness of everything. And of course the luggage had gone somewhere else. Aeroflot, again. I stood at the back counter trying to communicate through gestures and bad English with a man who smiled regardless of whether he understood me, because what else could I do? I was already here.
Getting into the city had options. I could have taken the express train if I was in a hurry and had money to burn, or I could take the local line — the slow one that stops at what felt like a hundred stations, that runs mostly above ground so you actually see the landscape change from airport to suburbs to the beginning of the real city. Since most travelers rush, I was alone on the platform at ten in the morning, waiting for a train that felt like it was taking its time on purpose.
I bought a Pocari Sweat from one of the vending machines and thought about where I could go. Not Shibuya, not yet — everyone does Shibuya. There were all these other names on the map: Kamakura, Funabashi, Yokosuka. Places that probably had their own weird logic, their own neighborhoods where people actually lived instead of performed. The real Japan, the stuff you don’t see on Instagram, was supposedly out there somewhere beyond the tourist corridor. But I knew I probably wouldn’t get there, not on this trip. Not unless I had a reason to, or a friend dragging me.
Standing there, watching the train approach with barely a sound, it hit me that I could go anywhere from here. The city was right in front of me, every direction open. I’d made it to the place I’d wanted to reach for years. Not everyone gets that moment — the one where the thing you imagined actually starts. The doors opened. I got on. And it was real.
The Berlin Festival is May 29-31 at Arena Park on the Spree. Fritz Kalkbrenner, James Blake, Westbam, Agoria. There’s a detail this year that actually appeals to me: rafts from the Oberbaum bridge taking you straight onto the grounds. It’s the kind of detail that shouldn’t matter but does—arriving by water instead of trudging through a car park changes the shape of the evening somehow. Might actually go this time.
The Superstar took 2015. Everyone wanted it, myself included. But it overshadowed something that had owned the year before—the Stan Smith in clean white with green accents. One moment it was everywhere, people obsessed over it, the next everyone wanted something else. The Stan Smith just vanished.
The Stan Smith is such a simple thing. Leather, two stripes, a line of perforations on the sides. Nothing fancy. It’s the kind of shoe that makes sense whether you’re into fashion or not. White with green on the heel—it’s almost austere. That’s exactly why it works. It doesn’t try to convince you with complexity.
White Mountaineering still believes in that kind of minimalism. Their answer to all the color and chaos is to bring back the Stan Smith—pure white, clean, plain. There’s something almost religious about how they present it. Like it’s offering an answer to the noise.
Mid-May it should be back in stores. And maybe somewhere in all that Superstar madness—the colors, the variations, the endless hype—some people will remember that summer when the Stan Smith was it. Maybe they’ll skip all that and go back to something quieter, something that doesn’t try so hard.
You come down the stairs from the Akihabara station and immediately the street hits you - this wall of light and noise and screens, every surface bright and moving, selling something. It’s the future according to 1985, or maybe according to right now but turned up past human tolerability. Nothing quiet here. Nothing that’s trying to let you think.
The good stuff is hidden though. The street level is just the bait. You push through small doors, down alleys, up narrow stairs in buildings that look like they’re about to collapse, and suddenly you’re in whole separate worlds - entire floors dedicated to nothing but board games, corridors glowing red with DVDs the outside world isn’t supposed to know about, basement shops where all they do is sell plastic figurines, thousands of them, every franchise that ever existed.
Anime, manga, video games everywhere. Every era. Old cartridges next to new ones, rare things you thought were extinct sitting on the same shelf as the mass-produced junk. If you grew up with this stuff your stomach does something involuntary. The Super Nintendo games your friends had, the Mega Drive you always wanted but couldn’t have, the Game Boy that raised you. Here it all is, smiling at you, and your hand just reaches out to buy without your brain’s permission. Akihabara is a place where childhoods are preserved.
Then there are the maid cafes, girls in frilly costumes serving coffee, and the comic buildings that never seem to end, and somewhere in the middle of wandering between them you’ve lost track of how much you’ve spent. Every corner has something that shouldn’t exist - some franchise you didn’t know you wanted, some thing that’s erotic and weird and specific to someone’s very particular desires, some holy grail game you’d given up on ever finding. It’s the place for people whose taste doesn’t fit anywhere else. The dreamers. The ones who collect. The ones who need their fiction to be real enough to hold.
The claw machines with their cute prizes and the way the lights are designed to make you think you can win this time. The way your money turns into stuff faster than you can process it.
Akihabara isn’t somewhere you go to relax. It’s machinery, designed to function as a consumption engine, lights and sounds that keep your nervous system activated, keep you reaching. But there’s something right about it, too, if you’re wired this way. This is what that desire looks like when it gets a whole district. This is what Japan does with the things you’re not supposed to admit you want. They build a shrine to them, light them up, and watch people like us show up with our wallets already open.
I’ve been saying it for years in different cities, different bars, to people who either got it immediately or thought I was being ridiculous: the adidas Superstar is the only shoe. Not the only good one. The only one that matters. So when 2015 showed up and the Superstar suddenly became the focus of everything—entire magazine issues, fashion shoots, cultural retrospectives—it felt less like vindication and more like watching the world finally notice something obvious.
The new adidas Originals Series made the Superstar its subject, which is exactly what should happen when a shoe has been this good for this long. There was a fashion shoot across the roofs of Berlin, getting the new collection into that particular Berlin light. Eskei83 asked people who their Superstar was and why—which is actually asking something deeper, about the symbols we return to. Oliver Jopke documented creative makers around the city. And Alex Flach from Civilist, one of Berlin’s original skate shops, talked about how the Superstar became one of the first real skate shoes almost by accident, not through design ambition but through the simple fact that it was cheap and durable enough to actually wear.
The shoe has never been about innovation. It’s been about getting the fundamentals right and never overthinking it. Three stripes, rubber toe cap, clean proportions. In the seventies it was a basketball shoe. Then it crossed into tennis, into the street, into skate parks where people realized you could destroy it and it would still work. Then into hip-hop, but not as a trend—as something that was already there, already essential. The Superstar didn’t become an icon. It just outlasted everything that tried to replace it.
What does it mean to call something a Superstar now, forty years into its existence? I think the answer is that the shoe doesn’t try. Everything around it is trying—every brand, every product trying to be cool, trying to be innovative, trying to be something. The Superstar just sits there. It’s the same thing it was in 1969, essentially, because there was nothing in it that needed fixing. That’s maybe the deepest kind of cool there is: the confidence to change nothing.
I found out about Jessie Andrews the way most people do - through her adult film work, specifically the scene that made her name. Then I kept hearing about her other stuff. Model, DJ, jewelry designer, Instagram presence. All of it living in the same public space, no separation, no shameful hiding.
What got to me was how she just kept going. The script usually goes: do sex work, take the money, vanish into private life. Become someone’s secret. Jessie Andrews became someone’s colleague instead, someone to shoot with, someone with actual ideas in the room.
A photographer worked with her and said she was cool, they had chemistry, she brought as many ideas as anyone. Just normal professional stuff. No sense she owed anyone gratitude for basic respect.
There’s something that doesn’t quit about refusing to compartmentalize. Most people would hide - guard themselves against recognition, bury the work in a secret past, perform some kind of redemption. She just kept moving. Kept creating. Kept saying yes to jobs and expecting the world to keep up.
I don’t know what that costs her. But I know what it looks like from outside - someone who won’t be erased by one chapter of her life.
Lessa Millet did this chart a while back that named pubic hair styles with straight documentation and no bullshit — the Vaj Hairstylez. Now she’s done the same thing with breasts, twenty-four different versions, each with a name. The Owl, The Cold War, The Robot — the obvious ones stick in your head. But there’s something about the quieter ones like The Hillside and The Kisses and Just the Nipple. It’s specific without being cute about it.
The thing is, she’s just observing what exists. No big message, no performing acceptance, just documenting what’s there and naming it simply. The illustrations are clean and direct. No winking, no irony. She draws a breast and moves on.
I don’t know what the practical use is supposed to be. Self-recognition? A conversation starter? Just proof that whatever you have, some talented person thought it was worth drawing and naming? Doesn’t matter. It exists, which means the next person who looks at it finds themselves somewhere in there. Maybe that’s the point.
I still remember crying at the scene where Tai and the kids are riding the train back from the digital world. Just fully crying, like a child. Something about the ride home felt more final than the entire adventure, and it broke something in me.
Digimon was never Pokémon. Even as a kid I could tell it was the cooler, high-tech knockoff—all chrome and sharp angles where Pikachu worked through pure charm. But it didn’t have to win. It had something else.
Then came the sequels no one watched. The bad ones. Everyone remembers the one with Rika in it because we were all into Rika, which is a pretty clear signal about where we were developmentally. After that, nothing. Fifteen years of nothing.
Digimon Tri brings back the original kids, older now, reunited with their digital partners. It’s nostalgia marketing, the kind of thing that should feel cynical but somehow doesn’t. The opening theme is still exactly where it’s been since 1997. “Live your dream, because it will come true.” It’s burned in. “Walk your path, face the danger—you’ll understand what matters when the time has come. Be ready.” Yeah. I’m ready.
Japanese pop basically splits into two camps: idol groups, and everything else. The idol formula is crystallized—underage girls, bright school uniforms, cute-above-all-else, simple pop songs engineered to be likable. It’s an entire economy built on cute.
Hachigatsu-chan and Kanami Mochizuki decided to make an idol group but from outside the formula. Oyasumi Hologram is personal and honest instead of manufactured. Their voices are thin, almost fragile, but they’ve layered in this technopunk sensibility that more than makes up for the lack of vocal polish. Everything is a refusal.
“Note” and “Emerald” hooked me immediately—they have melody, bright vocals, English phrases mixed in—but there’s something authentically strange underneath that breaks the idol template. You can hear they’re working entirely outside the system.
Against groups like AKB48, Morning Musume, Momoiro Clover Z, they don’t have a chance. Those are massive operations with real backing and polish. Oyasumi Hologram is two people making something honest. But that’s where the power is—choosing to make something small and personal and entirely your own, refusing what the industry says you have to do. That’s worth something.
Kalle Ljung shot this on a GoPro a few months back, down from Argentina to the Melchior Islands. Two weeks in the Palmer Archipelago with some friends. The footage is just the visual fact of it—ice, water, whales, birds, bare rock. A place that would kill you without hesitation, completely empty, somehow beautiful in a way that feels almost hostile.
The Melchior Islands were discovered in the 1800s by a German whaler named Eduard Dallmann. I don’t know why that detail sticks, but it does—some guy in a boat, naming islands that would still be unnamed if he hadn’t shown up. Now Kalle films them with a GoPro. Time does what time does.
Watching footage of that place does something to you. Not about actually going there—I’m not booking a trip to Antarctica. But about what complete removal would mean. No news, no arguments, just weeks of ice and animals and being alone with yourself. People say they want that kind of escape. I think maybe they do, in whatever part of themselves keeps getting worn down.
I was completely into LEGO as a kid—had the membership card, had an entire room just for it. But I never watched the LEGO movies, never played the games, never even went to LEGOLAND despite living practically next door to one. That whole ecosystem just didn’t register with me.
All I wanted was the bricks. As many different colors and shapes as I could get. My friends and I would build these sprawling cities across the floor, entire worlds really, with treasure chambers and hidden passages connecting everything, modern apartments with tiny furniture, dinosaurs existing in the same space as spaceships existing in the same space as superheroes. We’d spend hours just making stuff, and the stories came entirely from whatever we decided to build.
I watched this documentary, “Beyond the Brick,” by Daniel Junge and Kief Davidson, about LEGO’s history and how it became this massive cultural thing. And it actually captures that original magic—the pure joy of building. But it also shows these adult collectors, men spending thousands a month on new sets, walls full of unopened boxes, tracking lists of pieces they’re still hunting for. I get it. I’m not far from being one of them.
Forget Christmas, Easter, German Unity Day—the biggest holiday in Berlin is May 1st, this shift between cops and party freaks, Kreuzberg turning into one massive celebration. Food and music and people everywhere, so many people, all trying to cram as much fun as possible into a few wild hours before they get dragged back into the crushing depths of normal life. Or so the story goes.
I celebrated it right. Confetti, vodka, good company moving through Görlitzer Park and the street parties around it. We danced, drank, made out. May 1st only happens once a year, so I handed the overpriced camera to whoever wanted it and waited to see what would show up.
The next morning, hungover, I plugged the SD card into my laptop. Hundreds of photos. Crystal clear and blurry, bright and dark, oversaturated and washed out. But that’s exactly right. That collision of sharp and soft, the full mess of it, is exactly what it was like. Forget Christmas, Easter, German Unity Day. May 1st is and stays the biggest holiday in Berlin.
Walking through Shibuya 109 on a Saturday afternoon, the first thing that hits you is the refusal to hold back. Neon makeup sprawling across entire walls. Plushies the size of small children. Platform shoes that could double as furniture. Graphic tees with such specific, elaborate illustrations they must be selling to five people. The schoolgirls in various states of uniform rebellion moving through it aren’t shopping. They’re attending some kind of temple to permission.
Because that’s what the place is. A building where the collective agreement is that more is better, weirder is the baseline, and nobody apologizes for the audacity of what they’re wearing. Cosplay, Ganguro, the pure maximalist fever dream of Japanese youth fashion all stacked on top of each other. Everyone is committed to looking like the most amplified version of themselves, and that commitment is the entire point.
I’m not the target. Built for teenagers with money and an appetite for costume. But there’s something oddly free about watching it operate. The permission to be as much as you want, in whatever shape that takes, without explanation or defense. Just: this is what I’m wearing today and it works.
Men’s section across the way, 109MEN’S. Same logic, different merchandise. I never bought anything but I got what it was offering. Not clothes. Permission. In a city that teaches you to shrink, that’s its own kind of valuable.
Cologne got Electronic Beats again in May, fifteen years into the festival’s run, with Roisín Murphy and Django Django headlining at E-Werk. The festival had been traveling—Warsaw, Bratislava, Prague—but Cologne was always home base, which meant something. The city doesn’t flinch at loud speakers or late hours.
Roisín Murphy’s production has this quality of severe restraint, everything minimal and precise, synth-pop that sounds like it took months to get sparse enough. Django Django were harder to categorize—they’d build these pop structures and then let them bend into stranger territory, which gave their music an honest friction. David August and Howling weren’t names I knew as well, but the whole lineup had this taste behind it, this sense of curation rather than just booking whatever drew the biggest crowd.
By the early 2010s electronic music had started to fracture visibly. You had the stadium-sized festival circuit on one end, the academic experimental stuff on the other, and the middle ground felt mostly abandoned. A festival that kept its sights high and still packed rooms felt genuinely uncommon. Cologne’s crowd was built for it—people who went because they cared about the music itself, not because it was fashionable or it was supposed to be fun.
I’d been thinking about curation a lot then, in design and music both. How do you hold a vision without being precious about it? How do you remain serious about quality without sounding arrogant? That festival was one answer. It said the obvious thing: listen to these artists. Names, date, venue, nothing else. That was enough.
The city always understood this. Cologne doesn’t need permission to move, to drink, to stay awake until the music ends and the sun comes up ugly. A festival that played seriously—that booked people like Murphy and Django Django and expected the room to listen instead of just move—fit perfectly into that landscape. Fifteen years, and they kept coming back because the city gave them something to work with.
A turquoise vending machine showed up on Alexanderplatz one day, right in front of Primark. You know the setup — thousands of people streaming through those doors every week, loading their bags with clothes made for almost nothing, cheap enough that you don’t really think about it. The machine was bright, eye-catching, offering T-shirts for 2 euros. A deal. Who wouldn’t bite?
Of course it was bait. Fashion Revolution had figured out something about how we compartmentalize injustice. Factory workers are underpaid, supply chains are brutal, children sew our clothes in sweatshops — I know it, you know it, everyone knows it the same way we know about animal slaughter, refugee drowning, all of it. Abstract wrongs that happen somewhere else. Necessary evils of the system. Fine. Whatever. As long as it doesn’t touch us directly.
So the machine showed videos instead of clothing. How these 2-euro shirts were actually made. The conditions. The wages. The human cost. You hit a button expecting a deal and got confronted with the reality instead. There was a donation button too, naturally — a way to feel like you’d done something, absolved yourself, and keep walking.
What stayed with me wasn’t the campaign or even the moral clarity. It was recognizing my own instinct in the people who walked past or stopped briefly to donate. That need to feel like you care without the friction of actually changing anything. The machine was smart because it knew that sometimes we need the emotional wake-up, the moment of contact with the thing we’ve learned to ignore. But it also knew that the feeling wouldn’t last. It can’t. Because wanting cheap clothes and accepting an ethical supply chain are incompatible, and we’re not ready to accept that incompatibility. So we donate, feel momentarily less guilty, and move on.
I wonder if that machine is still there, or if it was just a moment of disruption, designed to disappear before anyone had to act on the discomfort it caused.
I’ve got a thing about white sneakers. Blank canvas, absolute whiteness, zero compromise — they have to be nearly pristine. The ideal is still the adidas Superstar, but I’m not a zealot about it. If something nails the proportions and keeps the purity, I’ll look.
MoonStar, a Japanese sneaker maker, teamed up with Stussy Livin’ General Store on something that wasn’t on anyone’s wishlist but probably should have been. They took their “Rain Shoes” — these odd technical things most people never think about — and stripped them to “Monochrome,” basically the white version of a shoe that could’ve been boring. (There’s a black one. Nobody cares about the black one.)
What came out reads like a conversation between an adidas Superstar and a Converse Chuck Taylor. You see it in the proportions, the toe box, the way the side panel sits, but it’s not just a mashup. It’s more like someone studied what actually worked about both shoes, cut away everything else, and rebuilt it with Japanese precision. The details are the kind that only matter if you’re paying attention: the toe bumper hits exactly right, the heel counter has this curve that’s been refined over years of production, the laces have actual substance to them.
I haven’t held one, so all of this is speculation from photos, which are always lying a little. But what gets me is how it just looks like a perfect white shoe — no personality needed, no branding to do the work for you. Just the shape, the material, the whiteness.
Orkimides made pixel sprites of Game of Thrones characters rendered as Street Fighter sprites, and now I can’t stop thinking about this SNES fighting game that doesn’t exist. It’s just concept art. But the idea sits in my head like a tuning fork. Arya and Joffrey squaring off over King’s Landing, rendered in that beautiful chunky 16-bit style — you see it once and you want to play it.
Fighting games aren’t my thing normally, but Street Fighter feels right for Westeros. Everything stripped down to positioning, speed, and maybe one move that kills you. It’s almost medieval in its directness. Just two people in an arena, one wants the other dead, and that’s the whole story. You could map the entire show onto that. Arya’s speed against Joffrey’s paranoia. Jon Snow up against something at the Wall that doesn’t fight like anything human. Daenerys if she ever bothered to learn hand-to-hand.
The stages already exist in my head. King’s Landing for the Lannisters. Vast snowy places for the Wall. Essos deserts for Daenerys fights. The pixel detail work — the stonework, the texture, the snow — that’s the game I’m after. That’s what’s missing. Just needs someone with actual programming skills and a time machine back to 1995.
I don’t know what that game would cost. Everything I have.
Samantha Fortenberry photographs strangers naked in bathtubs. It’s straightforward work—people sitting in water, surrounded by whatever she decided would be perfect for that moment. Cookies one time, books another, confetti another. The series is called “Suds and Smiles.”
I’ve always thought there’s something about bathrooms that lets people drop the performance. You’re already exposed, already trapped in one place, already committed to doing nothing. The bathtub is where it becomes honest.
What Fortenberry’s photographs document is exactly that moment—the person who agrees to sit in a tub naked while a stranger photographs them. You’d think that would produce something sensual or vulnerable in the classical way, but it mostly doesn’t. Her subjects aren’t performing vulnerability. They’re just sitting there in water. The foam is on the surface. That’s the whole thing.
I think what I like about these images is how unselfconscious they are. There’s no trying, no one claiming the bathtub is a metaphor for rebirth or childhood innocence or any of that. It’s just the place where a person will sit still long enough for someone to document them doing absolutely nothing. And that honesty—the willingness to be that ordinary, that exposed—is actually more radical than the nudity.
The bathtub does this to you anyway. You fill it with hot water and climb in and nothing else matters. Fortenberry just photographs what was always true. Someone in water is someone at peace, or at least someone who stopped fighting. The rest is just foam.
I ran across this thing in Berlin called Flüchtlinge Willkommen where three people decided to place refugees into regular shared apartments instead of just letting them pile up in mass housing. The basic idea is straightforward: you’ve got an empty room because your roommate got it in his head to find enlightenment in India or whatever. Someone from Syria or Kenya or Russia needs a place to live. You weren’t going to do anything useful with those four square meters anyway.
The money side works out different ways—some people do these standing donations, where a bunch of folks commit to throwing in twenty euros a month, and some state programs actually cover the rent to move people out of the centers. Your new roommate learns German faster living with actual people in an actual apartment, faster integration, actual shot at getting on their feet instead of getting stuck in waiting mode.
What I kept thinking about was the part that doesn’t fit the logic. You’re not running a charity operation. You’re just sharing a kitchen and a bathroom and the weird hours of daily life with someone whose entire previous existence got erased. That’s not the same as feeling good about yourself for doing good. It’s something more ordinary than that, and also something harder. Whether you end up friends or just people who exist in the same apartment and nod in the hallway—that’s not something you control, and maybe that’s the actual point. You have a room. They need a room. Everything else follows from that, and you don’t get to script where it goes.
The city sells you convenience and you take the deal. Food whenever you want. Everything within reach. But at some point you notice what’s missing—space, mostly. The ability to move without thinking about surveillance or decency or what anyone else thinks. You miss the feeling of being in your body without permission.
There’s a fantasy a lot of people have. Mine involved walking into the woods and stripping down, just to feel what it was like to exist outside the rules for an afternoon. Free from clothes, free from the weight of civilian life. Most people would call that insane. Some people actually do it though. They hike naked. Not as a political move or a dare—just because they want to.
Roshan Adhihetty, a Swiss photographer, spent time documenting hikers who do this regularly. The photographs don’t hide anything: naked bodies moving through trees, sun and shadow, the ease of it. No performance, no apology. Just people who decided that civilization could wait a few hours.
I get it when I look at them. The appeal isn’t sexual, or barely. It’s about setting down the weight of living in clothes and rules and being watched. For an afternoon you’re just a body in the world, simple and honest. Then you put your clothes back on and go back to the city.
Maybe I’d do it someday. Probably not. But that’s not because it’s wrong. It’s because I’ve made peace with the trap.
The future was supposed to be insane. Time machines, hoverboards, self-lacing sneakers. Marty McFly had it all. Then October 2015 came and went and we got nothing. Still tying our shoes like people from the eighties.
Nike made a Dunk Low in the Marty colorway and didn’t ruin it. Red and white, exactly like the ones from the film. No power-lace gimmick, no BACK TO THE FUTURE stamped across the tongue, just the shoe that looked right. Someone clearly understood what people actually wanted.
I like when a brand trusts their audience enough to do something with restraint. They could’ve made it ridiculous, turned it into a full costume piece, another licensed product that exists because the IP is valuable. Instead it’s just the right shoe for the right reason. Clean. That’s the kind of thinking that doesn’t irritate me.
Look, I’m too old for Snapchat. Not age-wise, but in the I-don’t-care sense. Fifteen-year-olds with constant running commentary on their snack choices, drunk friends filming blurry garbage from parties that were already unbearable sober—I can do without all that. The whole thing’s too fast to even get a proper hard-on out of it, if we’re being honest, and that ruins it for half the people using it.
But I got curious what happens when you give Snapchat to someone actually old. Someone who still uses a real camera, who doesn’t really know what an iPhone is besides the glowing rectangle everyone stares at. You put the phone in their hands, show them how it works.
They don’t get it. Image appears, then disappears. Where did it go? Is it coming back?
You have to tell them: it’s gone. Deleted itself. That’s the whole thing.
Why would anyone want that?
That’s what all of them asked. Every single one. Why take a picture if you’re not going to save it? What’s the point?
For their generation, a photo was something real. You took it on film, developed it, got a print. It stayed. You could look at it years later, show someone, keep it in a drawer. It mattered because it lasted. The idea that you’d capture something and then immediately erase it seemed insane—almost disrespectful to the moment you just took it.
One older guy just handed the phone back and started reminiscing about instant cameras. Polaroids. The photo comes right out. Proof that something happened. You can hold it, pass it around, it sticks around. Not this vanishing act.
We’re all supposed to believe now that ephemeral is better. Modern, liberating, cool. Everything disposable. But photographs meant something once, specifically because they weren’t. They lasted long enough to actually become memories. Now you’ve got a few seconds before they dissolve into nothing.
Los Angeles isn’t what you picture. I’d built it up as palm trees and billboards and manufactured light. But the actual city, the one Jessica Morrow showed me, hides in the hills. Cactus and brush climbing those famous slopes, dry and overgrown, nothing like the image.
There’s the time thing too. While you’re finishing your beer, LA’s just waking up. That gap between the Hollywood in your head and what’s actually there—it matters. Those hills don’t match the myth. They’re better. Real.
I’d be on a plane right now if I could. Not for the myth. For the green.
K.I.Z. came back the way K.I.Z. does everything—without apology. They didn’t slip a single into the world with some tasteful announcement. They made a video that looks like it was pulled from a History Channel documentary about the world ending, paired it with a song where Tarek, Maxim, Nico, and DJ Craft spend three minutes congratulating themselves. No subtext. No irony guardrails. Just four guys celebrating how great they are.
It’s exactly what you’d expect from them, which is why most bands would hedge it somehow—a wink that says we’re just messing around. K.I.Z. doesn’t do that. They commit completely. That lack of distance is what makes it work. They’re not being clever about their narcissism. They’re just doing it.
What’s kind of refreshing is how much it cuts through everything else. Everyone’s so careful about optics and brand safety. K.I.Z. is just out here making the loudest, crudest version of themselves and presenting it straight. They’ve never wanted to seem reasonable. Every song is antagonistic by design, meant to get under your skin. If it’s not doing that, they didn’t think it was worth making.
They’re back with new music, and I don’t remember when the album comes out or care much. What matters is they’re still doing the same thing—loud, crude, unapologetic. Some artists grow out of that. K.I.Z. isn’t one of them. They came back as exactly themselves.
I was going to eat fried fish last night, drink Japanese beer, watch some stupid farm anime. Instead I spent three hours on Twitter getting into it with people who seemed absolutely convinced that every problem in their lives came down to exactly two things: gender and skin color. Not luck, not effort, not anything they actually did. Just those.
The whole thing started because this activist named Malaika went after one of the writers here—Jana—and when #NotJustSad got picked up by real outlets, Malaika decided it was only because Jana’s white. Not because Jana did the work well, just her face. I got pulled in defending that, which was dumb, but there it was.
What got to me wasn’t even the specific claim. It was how perfectly airtight the whole thing seemed. The system’s rigged, so nothing’s your fault, so why try. I get the appeal. I do this all the time. I’ve got a thousand excuses ready whenever something doesn’t work out—wrong body, wrong look, wrong time, nobody takes me seriously. They all feel true and they’re way easier than admitting you might just not be good enough.
Do men have it easier than women? Yeah. Do white people have it easier? Yeah. That’s real and it’s bad. But somewhere people learned to take those facts and use them as a ceiling on what they can do. The system’s broken, so I’m broken, so nothing matters. And then they spend all their energy proving the system is broken instead of just building something anyway.
I could do that. White guy, so obviously I should be destroying it, right? When I’m not, I could blame the gatekeeping, the resentment, the people who hate what I am. It would feel incredible. It would mean nothing was ever my fault.
But the honest version is way simpler. You didn’t get the job because you interviewed badly and your portfolio sucked. You didn’t get the girl because you don’t shower enough and you’re boring as hell. You got benched because you can’t keep your balance. It’s painful but it’s real, and it’s the only place anything actually changes.
What got weird was when people started attacking me for being white and male, like my opinion was automatically invalid because of what I look like. Which is—that’s the exact same logic, right? Judge someone before you listen based on their genetics. And when I pointed it out they just got angrier. “You don’t understand because you’re white.” Okay, so we both agree your demographic shouldn’t determine if people listen to you. Good. So why are we angry.
I’m not saying systemic stuff doesn’t exist. I’m saying it’s really easy to hide behind, and most people do, and I do too. I just hide it better because my excuses sound more thoughtful. I’m not more honest than anyone else. I’m just better at lying to myself in sophisticated ways.
I wanted fish and beer and an anime about farming. What I got was three hours thinking about how I do the exact same thing, how easy it is to point at the world and say “that’s why,” how hard it is to just look at what you can control and do it. Put in the work. Get better. Stop waiting. The system should change. But if you’re waiting around for permission, that’s a choice too.
A few months back I went to some kind of premiere for the new Turtles movie—maybe unofficial, maybe a press screening, I honestly don’t remember. Pizza and beer. Megan Fox was there, and at the time that seemed significant. I think she’s incredibly hot.
She stood on stage for two minutes, said something forgettable, and then she was gone. Stumbled off. Either drunk or bored or somewhere in between, the kind of checked-out you can see from across a room. It killed whatever I’d been feeling about the whole thing.
So I guess it makes sense that the painted version works for me. Bénédicte Lacroix, this French artist, reimagines celebrities as classical paintings on Tumblr. Megan Fox as the Girl with the Pearl Earring.
In paint, Megan Fox is still and present. Contemplative. There’s no performance, no checking out—just a face rendered with care, asked to mean something. She becomes someone I actually want to look at.
He’s done Emma Watson and Miley Cyrus and Rihanna, and they all gain something in the translation. They stop being the people you recognize from screens and become something quieter and stranger.
So yeah, the painting version works for me. Better than the real thing, which is a weird thing to discover about someone you find hot. But maybe that’s the point of the whole project—at least in paint, they get to just exist.
Takashi Miike made a film called Yakuza Apocalypse about a vampire crime boss and a gang war and schoolgirls and the apocalypse—or something in that neighborhood. Honestly, the actual plot doesn’t matter. What I actually remember is the giant yellow toad. Just this massive toad, inexplicably present in a gangster film. And that detail alone is enough to make me watch it.
I have no real idea what the toad is supposed to represent or why it exists in the story. Maybe it’s essential. Maybe Miike felt like including a giant toad and never looked back. Maybe I’m completely misremembering. None of it matters. When the home video releases I’m watching it, and the only thing I care about is figuring out what that toad is.
You run out of ways to impress people. Designer sneakers from Japan? Dead. Endangered fish from the Pacific? Doesn’t land. Models, cars, whatever—nothing sticks. So you keep escalating, trying weirder shit, because something has to work eventually.
ColorWare made a 24-karat gold Xbox One. Fifty of them, for some reason. The arbitrary limit is almost funny—like rarity suddenly makes this thing matter. Your friends would look at it for four seconds and go back to their phones.
The thing that gets me: it plays the exact same games. Grand Theft Auto doesn’t perform better on gold. Mortal Kombat doesn’t know what’s running it. The controller matches if you care about that, but hands don’t know precious metals. You know all this. That was never the reason.
It’s that moment you open the box when everything feels special and new and like you’ve finally done something. Five minutes of it. Then it’s just an expensive console and they’re still bored and you’re wondering why you thought this would be different.
I get it though. At least it’s honest—doesn’t pretend to offer anything but the visible fact that you spent money. Which is probably exactly why it doesn’t work. Everyone can see the gold. Everyone knows what it means.
A hundred and thirty Canadians left to join ISIS. That’s not a small number for a country that size. Suroosh Alvi made a documentary about them—how they got there, why, what it looks like from inside and from outside, if you’re a parent waiting for a phone call that doesn’t come.
The recruiters don’t sell ideology. Not first. They sell what kids want: you matter. You’re part of something. You have power, money, women, respect. All the things a kid sitting in his parents’ basement in Toronto doesn’t have. The documentary talks to the kids, their families, the ones who almost went and didn’t. Damian Clairmont’s mother is in it. Damian didn’t almost leave. He went and got himself killed.
What gets to me is how small it is—the space between bored and gone, between alienated and committed, between angry at the world and willing to travel halfway across the planet to blow it up. It’s not mysterious. You can slip through in six months if everything is lined up right. The recruiters know this. They’ve studied it.
There’s a community in Canada pushing back, young Muslims trying to be the voice that reaches kids first. I imagine they save some of them. I imagine some slip through anyway. The kind of desperation that makes you want to leave doesn’t usually respond to arguments.
The show opens with a kid from the 20th century waking up a thousand years later, and his first move is to find the one person he knew before the time jump, but she’s been dead for a thousand years. So he gets a job at a delivery company, gets adopted by a robot, and everyone treats the whole thing like a joke, which it is, but also isn’t.
Futurama ran for a few seasons before Fox killed it, brought it back, then killed it again because nobody at the network understood what they had. A cartoon about displacement and loneliness that was also genuinely funny. There’s the famous episode with Fry’s dog—and I’m not spoiling it, but if you’ve seen it you know what I mean. The show had permission to hurt you, to be more than just jokes about robots and space.
What made it work was how it never tried to make that sadness do the heavy lifting. It was content to be stupid and funny, and the loneliness was built into the premise like a background color. One minute it’s a joke about bending metal, the next you remember Fry can never go home, and that’s the actual architecture of what you’re watching.
Everything undersold itself. The premise could’ve been a tearjerker if it wanted to, but instead it was just a cartoon about a guy stuck in the future, going to work, hanging out with a robot and an alien, and occasionally remembering that he lost everything and there’s nothing he can do about it.
The second trailer dropped the other day and I watched it ten times. This despite knowing Abrams has let me down before, despite the effects getting bloated, despite everything being better in the original. The thing hijacks your brain. You rewind. You pause on frames. You’re asking questions you won’t get answers to for a year.
Who’s in black? What’s the stormtrooper angle? You go in circles and it feels necessary until it doesn’t.
I needed out. I found this 1977 documentary about making the original trilogy. No speculation, no marketing layer, just people talking about the actual work. The decisions and accidents from when nobody believed you could pull off a space opera without it being ridiculous. Shot on film that still reads as real.
There’s something cleaner about that. No mystery, no hype. Just the craft. That’s where it actually lives.
Adanowsky is Jodorowsky’s son. Jodorowsky, the guy who blew John Lennon’s mind and spent decades making things so strange they barely qualified as entertainment. So when his kid makes a music video featuring Stoya, two geishas, and what appears to be an infinite amount of pink, I’m going in assuming there’s a point.
The video is sex without a punchline. Adanowsky plays this character—the lover, the predator, the god who has it all figured out—and he commits to it completely. Mustaches, crosses, Stoya doing what she does, all drowning in pink. It reads like someone’s fever dream except the person dreaming actually had the resources to film it.
I can’t tell you what any of it signifies. The geishas, the religious symbols, why everything has to be this aggressively gorgeous and explicit. Maybe it’s all purposeful. Maybe it’s just about being so provocative that nobody can accuse you of subtlety. The kind of video you close out when your boss walks by. The kind of thing that reminds you how completely adrift your parents are on the internet.
But there’s something to be said for committing that hard to a vision. Not hedging it, not wrapping it in theory or irony, just putting this much sexuality and weirdness out there and trusting that some people will get it. That counts for something.
Watched the Fantastic Four trailer and felt nothing. Not anger or disappointment, just that flat recognition of, okay, here’s another Marvel film. The formula’s been stamped into everything: some comedy, action sequences that blur, whatever the actual story might have been gets buried under a quip about how absurd the whole thing is. Safe. Efficient. Dead.
Every Marvel film feels the same. Guardians, Captain America, Thor—doesn’t matter. They’re all executing the identical blueprint so smoothly that it stops being filmmaking and becomes factory work. I can predict the emotional beats before they happen. I know where the jokes land. By the third act I’m thinking about something else entirely.
The Jessica Alba Fantastic Four wasn’t good, but you could tell someone was trying. There was effort in it somewhere, misguided as it was. These new ones have abandoned that pretense. They’re just churning. And when they run out of new properties, they reboot the old ones and nobody even acts surprised.
The worst part is I’m going to watch it anyway. That’s what Marvel did to us—you watch them like you might half-listen to a podcast, half-scrolling through your phone. They’re engineered specifically not to demand anything. And that somehow feels worse than if they were just bad.
I sat with Christine in a café in Friedrichshain last week—someone who actually knows how to live online—and we talked about whether we’d stay in Berlin forever, whether anything here really anchored us anymore. She hit on something that wouldn’t leave me alone.
Eight years. Charlottenburg to Wedding, then Tokyo for a stretch, back to Neukölln, then Kreuzberg, then Prenzlauer Berg, another detour through Tokyo, now Friedrichshain. I keep feeling like I’ve played through every version of this city that still matters.
I’ve slept with women from both sides of town, come down hard enough to watch the sun rise somewhere near Potsdam, tried drugs I can’t even name anymore. Maybe just bad MDMA cut with who knows what. The point is I’ve done all the usual stuff—enough clubs and afterparties and beds that you’d think it would feel normal by now. Except it doesn’t. It just feels hollow.
My life these days is basically this: I only drag myself out if some agency’s throwing a free drinks party and I’m on the list. Street food markets packed with tourists? Overpriced garbage. Hipster flea markets? Keep it. Berghain? I’ve got no interest in hepatitis, thanks.
I’m not from Berlin. Small town in Bavaria, Buchloe, wedged between three bigger cities that made it irrelevant. No cinema, no McDonald’s, nothing. The video game shop where I spent my money closed because people kept stealing. I couldn’t wait to get out—London, Tokyo, Berlin, anywhere that felt far and big.
My feed has been filling up lately with people moving back. Friends who did the Berlin thing a few years ago, now posting pictures from home—cycling through wildflower fields, picnicking by lakes, drinking decent beer. There’s something in those photos.
Germany’s supposed to hate Bavaria, or at least thinks it should. Maybe there’s a reason. But here’s the thing: it’s actually great. If I ever have kids I’m doing whatever it takes to get them into a Bavarian school, even though I basically failed my way through one. Anything’s better than a Waldorf school run by people who think they understand childhood.
There’s a saying back home: everyone comes back. When I left for design school in Berlin, I thought that was hilarious—absolutely not, never, goodbye forever. I was out.
Now I’m scrolling through postcards from people who actually did go back. From Cologne, Hamburg, Berlin, back to Bavaria. Building lives there. The blue sky. The green mountains. And something keeps gnawing at me: what the hell am I doing here?
When I first moved, the answer was simple—the job. But for the last five years I’ve been telling myself it’s because Berlin is where it all happens, where the people who matter actually live. Maybe that’s true. I have no idea how much it matters.
I know people living in absolute nowhere who make good money and maybe go to re:publica once a year and just exist. They figured out email still works. Is Berlin actually essential or just necessary to believe in if you’re the type of person who moved here?
Maybe I miss the accent. Maybe I miss the landscape, something about the light, the food. Or maybe I’m making all that up—another story to tell myself because I’m bored and always have been. Didn’t I want to go back to Tokyo? Is going home a failure? Some kind of surrender? Would my younger self beat me for considering it?
Obviously I miss my family. I had good people around me growing up, a good childhood in the way those things actually count. But realistically? It’s not a place you go to create anything. Munich maybe, but nobody can afford Munich and I hate the Mercedes people more than I hate the hipster bloggers anyway, and at least I know what I actually am.
Everyone comes back. Will I? The world’s open and I’m wondering if I should move back to where I was born. Is that stupid? Am I giving up on something I haven’t finished? Was Berlin always supposed to be temporary? Where does anyone find anything real—closer or farther away?
Sometimes I envy people with normal jobs who have to live where they work. Does freedom actually paralyze you? Will someone walk by with actual problems and wonder why I’m having a geography crisis? Will I regret this if Berlin really is the center? Every question just tightens the knot.
So there we were in this cheap café on Frankfurter Allee, and someone cleaned up a dead pigeon that had been lying under the next table. Christine and I talked through it—whether leaving made sense, whether going back to the beer and castles and home cooking was possible, whether that was even what either of us actually wanted. And I keep coming back to the same thing: when is the right time to go back?
Came across photographs of the Australian coast by Janneke Storm, a photographer who shoots weddings for work and makes images like this on her own time. Just light and a model named Sophie in water that’s too blue to be real. The kind of image that makes you feel the salt and understand why people leave.
I’ve been looking at them for days. There’s something about good photography where it stops being representation and becomes necessity—not aspiration so much as longing. They’re not doing anything complicated. They’re just true in a way that gets past you.
Spring here is wet and allergic and miserable. Looking at images of Australian water makes it very easy to imagine leaving—actually leaving, not someday. Buying the ticket, getting on the plane. I know it won’t fix anything, but that’s what these photographs do. They make you believe for a moment that it might.
I brought an expensive camera to Comic Invasion and somehow managed to turn every single shot blue. Some setting I’d never bothered to learn, hidden somewhere in the menus. The EOS 700D has been the worst gear investment of the year.
I went in thinking the name had to mean something—that this was where all the manga obsessives and graphic novel fetishists actually gathered. Instead it was just a handful of Spanish hipsters selling Captain Berlin zines out of a warehouse in Urban Spree.
But Nathalie and Janos found an action figure of Jake and discovered this manga called Oishinbo that’s entirely about food, mostly fish. They got completely into it. My photos are still all blue and worthless, but they didn’t care, and honestly I didn’t either. We ate pizza and cake after, which turned out to be the best part of the whole thing.
Bad photos and decent food. Not a bad way to spend a day.
I was arguing with a friend in this café in Kreuzberg about whether German is actually dying—whether the language as we know it is slowly disappearing. I think about this sometimes. Languages mix with each other like genes, right? Mix in enough English, some Mandarin, some Spanish, and in a hundred years German is just gone. Replaced. That bothers me more than it probably should.
So why am I bringing this up? Because listening to Balbina reminds me it isn’t dead yet. It’s genuinely beautiful.
The language gets beaten down every single day. People misuse it, drag it through conversations that don’t deserve it, forget how to handle it. But underneath all that? It’s this intricately woven thing. Powerful and delicate at the same time, if someone knows what they’re doing.
Balbina knows. She has this new song, “Goldfisch,” and listening to it makes you understand what I’m talking about. It just… matters. When it’s sung like that, you remember why you’d want to save it.
The U-Bahn smells like piss and spray paint. Late nights, riding home, half the tunnel is tags. 1UP everywhere. Überfresh. Berlin Kidz. Names that mean nothing outside Berlin but inside they’re the whole conversation — who’s bombing where, who painted over who, who got arrested. The kids doing it are seventeen, eighteen, too young to care about consequences, moving through the city with cans in their jacket.
I never got into it myself but I watched enough to understand. The skill is there if you know how to see it. Some pieces are actual paintings — color work, letters that read right, composition. But that’s almost beside the point. The point is you’re taking something that belongs to everyone and no one, and you’re making it yours for a night. You’re on the roof of a moving train. You’re in a dark tunnel with ten minutes before the next one comes. Your hands shake a little, or maybe they don’t. You exist.
There’s a documentary moment in it, the one where someone films the kids riding on trains and laughing and it goes online and everything falls apart. That happened to some of them. They got arrested. They got known. But the pieces stayed. You paint over them, they come back the next week.
I think about this when I’m in Berlin now. The casual violence of marking something that isn’t yours, knowing it’ll be gone in a month, doing it anyway. That’s not a phase you grow out of — it’s something you replace with something else, something quieter maybe. But the impulse itself, the need to leave something behind, to be certain you were here: that doesn’t go away.
Japanese TV has been doing inexplicable shit for decades. Takeshi’s Castle was the first time most of us saw it — game show where elderly men got thrown into water — and I genuinely thought that was the ceiling. There’s no ceiling.
There’s a show right now where men sing karaoke while women stimulate them. That’s the entire concept. The guy’s supposed to finish the song, hit the notes, not completely lose it. It’s perfectly stupid.
What gets me is how it actually works as a show. The impossibility makes it watchable. You watch a guy’s face as he’s trying to navigate the second verse while someone’s actively working on him and it’s the funniest thing. Japanese television doesn’t do subtle or apologetic about the fact that it knows this is ridiculous. The absurd premise is the entertainment. You put a person in an impossible situation and see how they respond.
I could go to Japan and do the tourism thing. Temples, cities, late-night ramen, all of it. Or I could just sit through hours of game shows built around scenarios designed purely to see what happens when the world gets absurd. No deeper meaning, no lesson. Just watch.
There’s something almost clean about that approach to entertainment. A stupid idea executed with complete commitment, by people who knew exactly what they were getting into. More honest than another trip through Shibuya.
Three weeks in and you’re rotating ice cream and whiskey at eleven in the morning. The Notebook is on its fourth viewing. You’re not sure if you’re sad anymore or just committed to the performance.
Ben & Jerry’s made a beer. New Belgium brewed it. Salted Caramel Brownie Brown Ale, six percent alcohol, all the sweet brownie and caramel notes you’d get from ice cream but in a form that actually gets you drunk. It’s stupid but it works.
The beer tastes good, which is somehow worse than if it tasted like shit. If it was terrible you could write it off as a corporate cash grab. But it’s genuinely interesting, and the ABV is high enough to actually do something, so you end up buying a six-pack and then another six-pack. You’re not eating through a pint of ice cream anymore, you’re drinking through their beer, and the effect is about the same except you can pretend it’s more sophisticated.
Here’s the thing that got me: they added salt to the recipe. Salt in the beer. But if you’re the person this product is designed for, you’re already providing enough salt. Your tears are handling the seasoning. You don’t need them to engineer it in.
The Force Awakens trailer dropped in December and people acted like the world had just been saved. I watched it the next morning and felt that old pull — half genuine excitement, half the bone-deep certainty that this couldn’t possibly matter the way the original trilogy did.
Star Wars has this weird gravity now. The original films showed up at the right moment and felt like discovering something instead of consuming something. Everything attached to that name carries weight it shouldn’t. The prequels made that crystal clear, but here we are again, franchise machinery in full effect, everyone frantically tweeting about lightsabers.
The trailer is well-made. The new characters seem interesting. I sat there and felt something watching it, which is exactly what a trailer is supposed to do. But the feeling that kept following me was simpler: we already got the thing we loved, and it’s still there. Rewatching it won’t change it, and watching something new won’t recapture it. The moment those films hit is gone. Everything since then has been the industry trying to bottle something that only worked because it was real the first time.
I’ll watch The Force Awakens when it comes out. Probably like parts of it. But I’m already resigned to it feeling like a really good copy of the thing that felt like discovery. Nothing can fix that particular problem.
Raised by Wolves, a Canadian brand, makes slides that say FUCK OFF across the strap. Black, around thirty euros, and the message is the entire design. There’s something clarifying about that—no subtle messaging, no plausible deniability, just the two words in bold letters on something you wear to the pool.
Summer brings out the performance in everything. You’re supposed to look effortless in your swimming clothes, like you didn’t think about what you were wearing, like you just exist in nature looking good. Everyone’s curating their beach look, their pool aesthetic, trying to project the right amount of casual confidence. It gets exhausting to watch.
These slides refuse all of that. They’re ugly, deliberately confrontational, and they announce something true—which is that you don’t want to be bothered. You’re not there to impress anyone. You’re going to the water and you’re bringing your attitude with you. The design works because it’s honest. No metaphor, no hidden meaning, just saying it in the most direct way possible. That’s the kind of restraint that actually reads as cool.
I appreciate that about it. I appreciate anything that refuses to pretend.
Berlin has three types of people: the ones who get into Berghain, the ones who get rejected, and the ones who don’t bother trying anymore. If you’re in the last two groups, there’s now supposedly a way around it.
Pop-Kultur is a festival at Berghain August 26–28. Their pitch: “contemporary diversity and international representation.” Translation: they hired some real artists so maybe the bouncers will be slightly less awful. Doubtful, but here we are.
The lineup: Cocorosie, Sophie Hunger, Matthew Herbert, Kiasmos, Elijah Wood. Real musicians who actually know what they’re doing. They also made a point of not inviting certain YouTubers, which is petty but fair.
None of this matters though. You don’t care about the artists. You want to get inside Berghain. Tickets are 5 to 25 euros—basically nothing. You’re paying for a cover story to walk past the world’s most famous bouncer. Will it work? Who knows. But five euros is worth the chance if you’ve been rejected enough times.
I have a friend with a dog named Boris. According to her, he’s this charismatic little face—always making expressions. What I see is something else. Boris mostly just lies in the corner, staring at nothing, panting. He’s not particularly animated about anything. He’s neutral, mostly. But I find myself watching him and wondering what’s actually happening in there. What he dreams about. What he’d tell me if he could, when he’s at the dog park sniffing around other dogs’ asses, what thoughts are turning over in his head. What deep, world-shifting, utterly destructive things might be churning around inside him.
Then I found out photographer Lara Jo Regan published a whole book of dogs in cars. Keith Hopkins shot new versions of his ’Dogs in Cars’ series in Miami. I watched them and couldn’t stop thinking the same thing—what are they seeing out there? What goes through their heads while they’re being driven somewhere, noses to the window, completely absorbed in whatever they’re looking at?
You know you won’t get an answer. But you watch anyway.
Ask Siri in Russian about gay stuff and she blanks you. I’d blush if I could, she says. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. This emotion should be rated negative. So you don’t exist, but she says it nice.
Russia doesn’t acknowledge gay people—government acts like they’re not there, media treats them like infection, kids hunt anything different. It’s the country. But Apple put Siri in millions of Russian pockets already programmed to agree. Someone made that call.
There are young people in Russia who like someone of the same gender. No support at home. School’s hostile. Friends drop them. And they ask their phone a question and the phone tells them no.
I think what bothers me most is that it’s just cowardice. Apple could have fixed it. They looked at Russia and decided the effort wasn’t worth it, that the market pressure to be locally palatable mattered more than not building homophobia into software. Regular corporate calculation. Except you’re the kid on the other end of it.
Can’t unknow this now. Can’t stop being mad about it either.
There are people who could talk for days about the 90s—the games, the TV, the stupid shit that mattered when you were a kid. Radio Nukular is basically a podcast of those people sitting around for hours just talking. No structure, no real plan, whatever nostalgia tangent pulls them in.
Some episodes don’t work. The Simpsons one had technical problems the whole way through, and the Ghostbusters tape went so far afield I gave up listening. But then they recorded this nearly five-hour Super Nintendo thing that somehow worked even though one of the hosts clearly didn’t know half the games being discussed. It didn’t matter. They were genuinely interested, and you feel that.
If you’re someone who thinks everything was better back then, this is it. Maybe it was. Maybe that’s just how nostalgia works—we’re all wired to miss the decade we grew up in. Either way, listen while you’re doing other things. Dishes. Walking. Jerking off. Whatever. It’s just people remembering together.
Every time someone wins money on one of those game shows and they’re asked what they’d do with it, you get the same answers. A car. A house. Some ridiculous collection. And everyone nods along like these are normal dreams when they’re just the most boring version of having money.
What I’d actually do is hire Oliwia and Maca as personal cheerleaders. I know it sounds stupid. But there’s this photo—Giovanni Lipari shot it for C-Heads—and they’re in these perfect blue and white uniforms, and something about it just made sense. That’s the answer. That’s what I’d spend the money on.
You’d be embarrassed at first. Walking down the street with your actual cheerleaders, people staring. But once you stop caring what people think—actually stop, not just say you don’t care—it’s incredible. You’re at the bar with your friends and Oliwia and Maca are at the next table losing it. Moving through your day with constant genuine cheering right behind you. You bring someone home and they’re right there at the foot of the bed, losing their minds.
You’d probably think it gets annoying after a while. But I don’t think it would get old.
Christopher Lee drew Sailor Moon, Batman, Pokémon, all your favorite characters, and made them impossibly cute. We’re talking oversized heads, tiny bodies, the full chibi treatment. It’s the kind of thing that hits different when you already care about these characters—you’ve spent years with them in their proper forms, and then someone draws them small and soft and suddenly you see them completely differently.
Chibi design flattens everything. Make Batman tiny and round-headed and he stops being the point. He becomes approachable. Sailor Moon becomes something you could have a conversation with instead of just admire from a distance. The scale does the heavy lifting—something small can’t intimidate, can’t command the room. It has to be gentle.
What makes this work is that it’s not mocking. It’s the opposite of mockery. It’s affection rendered as art. You don’t spend time drawing every detail of these tiny versions of characters you don’t genuinely love. There’s care in that. Care and a certain kind of knowing—the kind that comes from having lived with these characters long enough to see them in a new way.
Lee pulled from everywhere—different franchises, different eras, characters that wouldn’t normally exist in the same space. But in miniature they’re all the same. They’re all equally harmless and equally cute. That leveling-out is the real point. Strip away scale and hierarchy and suddenly your favorite serious characters look like they should be on a shelf, holding hands, waiting for someone to play with them.
Everything shifts when you see them tiny like this. All the weight they carried drops away. The series is called “Select Your Hero,” which implies a choice, but there’s nothing to choose between once they’re all rendered this way.
Hisatomi Tadahiko photographs Tokyo the way it actually feels: empty, even when people are there. A girl sits on concrete in one frame. In another, someone stands alone in a parking garage. The city in his work is all gray apartment blocks and distances, and the people move through it like loneliness is the default setting.
There’s a lot of talk right now about Japan’s relationship problem, the statistics about young people avoiding romance, the huge portion of the population under thirty who’ve never dated. People treat it like a disease, a sign that something in the culture broke. But I think they’re reading it backwards. It’s not that Japan damaged itself. It’s that the country moved so fast into modernity—economically, technologically—that the old social scripts became obsolete and nothing new filled the gap yet. So people just opt out. They’re not rejecting connection. They’re rejecting what they’re supposed to want.
Hisatomi’s photographs document that condition without any apocalyptic framing. There’s no judgment in his lens, no attempt to make isolation look tragic or profound. Just the plain shape of a city where people have learned to be alone. Whether that’s a problem or just what comes next, I don’t know. The photographs don’t try to answer it either. They just show you what Tokyo looks like when the old ways don’t work anymore.
Tyler, the Creator doesn’t soften things. Cherry Bomb announces that immediately—track titles like “Blow My Load” and “Fucking Young” make it clear he’s not concerned with being liked. The album doesn’t try to seduce you. It just exists, committed fully to what he heard in his head.
What’s striking is how the production matches that coldness. It’s dense, textural, genuinely unsettling sometimes, but never accidentally. Every choice feels intentional. This isn’t background music and it doesn’t want to be. It demands attention in a way most artists are too cautious to demand.
I respect that kind of design commitment. Not trying to expand the audience, not softening edges to accommodate people on the fence. Just making the thing exactly as you hear it. There’s a purity in that approach, even when the thing itself is aggressive or abrasive.
Some of the songs are genuinely beautiful underneath the noise—”See You Again” with Kali Uchis floats in this weird space between intimacy and alienation. But mostly the album is more interesting than comfortable, which seems to be the point entirely.
Cherry Bomb isn’t for everyone, and it seems like Tyler made it that way on purpose. There’s something refreshing about an artist that committed to their vision, that uninterested in compromise. Whether you connect with it or not, you know exactly what you’re getting.
I was five when I watched The Little Mermaid, and Ariel did something to me that I understood halfway through. The red hair, the blue eyes, the way she moved through water. I was old enough to register what attraction felt like, young enough not to care that the whole proposition was impossible. That mixture of desire and futility stuck around longer than I expected.
Years later, Bobby Abley, the British fashion designer, decided to spend serious time making extremely expensive merchandise around Disney characters. Which meant, eventually, Ariel. Shirts with her face, with Ursula, with the full supporting cast. Prices that made you stop and think: is this about the character, or about what buying it says about you? That’s the question expensive merch always asks.
What interests me is how unironic it all is. No winking, no postmodern distance. Just a designer who clearly still cares enough to make beautiful things around a character from 1989, and people who might actually pay for them because they still care too. An admission that the feelings from childhood don’t really leave—they just get older, and then they become spending decisions.
I never bought one. The price was stupid. But I got it completely. The same logic that made Ariel matter when I was small, just running on an adult budget now, with higher stakes and less excuse.
The Game Boy’s sound chip was four channels, a handful of waveforms, basically built from spare parts. But that constraint is exactly why those sounds stuck. No room to hide or get fancy. The opening of Super Mario Land, the Pokémon battle theme, the little victory fanfare—they hit because they had to be immediate, memorable, and endlessly repeatable. A noise that works on you directly.
I still remember what the Game Boy sounded like at the swimming pool, barely audible over the water but somehow more real than anything happening around me. Tetris late at night under the blankets. The grinding boredom of waiting in the car while my parents ran errands. Nintendo’s sound design became the soundtrack to all of that, which means you can’t really hear it now without being back there.
That’s not nostalgia in the sentimental way. It’s something weirder—your brain hears four bars and it knows exactly what year this is from, how the light looked, what you were wearing. The sound does all the work. It doesn’t need to reach for anything or sell itself.
Most modern music lost patience with that kind of austerity. Everything now is designed to overwhelm you with texture, depth, novelty. But something about the Game Boy’s limited palette is unimprovable. Clean. Honest. People keep building dance tracks around it, remixing it, sampling it, and some of those work fine, but the original thing still has a weight that nothing built on top of it quite reaches.
I have two completely opposite opinions about Spring Break. First: would you really want to compress your soft, tragic body through a sea of thousands of drunk students while the sun drills into your skull and bass music doesn’t shut up? Second: party forever anyway.
Photographer Casey Kelbaugh clearly voted for option two. He flew to Miami to photograph what happens when people decide Spring Break is worth every consequence. The pictures are sharp. They show what it actually is—kids in water, kids screaming, kids recording other kids screaming, kids with the look of complete surrender. The whole thing organized around this one principle: if enough people are doing something stupid in the same location at the same time, it stops being stupid and becomes something else. Permission. Proof. A moment where you don’t have to pretend.
What I like is that the photos don’t judge any of it. They just document what people actually want when the social filter drops. Not pleasure exactly, just the animal need to be around other bodies in a state of sustained chaos. And maybe that’s the whole ritual—one week where you get to be completely yourself without the constant performance of the rest of your life.
I love getting a mention somewhere you don’t expect. Not in the usual places — angry Facebook comments, blogs doing damage control, the kind of internet corners where people are actively disturbed. Just somewhere normal, out of nowhere.
Jan Böhmermann and Olli Schulz were talking about the Tokio Hotel interview we did on their radio show Sanft & Sorgfältig. Ines conducted it — she doesn’t hold back. They weren’t exactly convinced the band had much going on, which is perfect because most Tokio Hotel fans have no idea what public radio is anyway. So they’ll never know to send death threats, angry Snapchats, and bloody Bill key chains from 2003.
If you want to hear them discuss it, jump to around the 45-minute mark. You can catch the broadcast, or grab it as a podcast if you want to look productive while lying in bed. Sunday mornings on radioeins if you’re one of the few people still listening to radio.
There’s this conviction some guys have that women are just waiting to see their dicks. Like it’s wired into the female brain—you send a photo out of nowhere and she instantly opens it and becomes a different person. Grateful. Awed. Ready.
What gets me is how absolute this belief is. A guy will look at his own dick and see something godlike, something capable of commanding immediate worship, and he’ll think “she’s going to lose her mind when she sees this.” No doubt in it. No calculation. Just pure conviction.
The actual response from women is different. There was this video going around—just women looking at unsolicited dick pics from strangers, reacting honestly. The most common response was a smile. Not the smile he was hoping for. More like the smile you give when someone is so confidently wrong about something that it becomes funny to watch. Except he’s not joking. He genuinely thought this was going to work.
The gap is almost beautiful in how absolute it is. What he sees as powerful and undeniable comes across as delusional. What feels like a bold move is actually a comedy bit. And the worst part for him—it’s not that she finds it offensive. It’s that she finds it funny.
I get the impulse, though. There’s a specific kind of horniness—late at night, alone, the world feels smaller and more possible—where sending a photo to a stranger seems reasonable. Where you can convince yourself that she might want this. Might be waiting for it. The male brain is capable of some beautiful self-delusion when the blood flow is redirected.
The whole point of waiting for a new season is that you build a ritual around it. Monday nights, cheap takeout, the slow consumption of a story over weeks. You’re not just waiting for television—you’re waiting for that specific shape your week takes.
Then the leak happens. The first four episodes of the new Game of Thrones season show up online before HBO even finished marketing them. They have names now: The Wars to Come, The House of Black and White, High Sparrow, The Sons of the Harpy. They’re real. Everyone knows they exist.
The choice seems obvious either way. Wait like a decent person and keep the Monday ritual, or do what thousands of people have already done and watch them all at once. But there’s something weirder happening in the middle—knowing they exist but not watching them. That knowledge ruins the anticipation anyway. You’re not waiting anymore. You’re choosing, over and over, not to do something you could do right now.
By the time the first episode airs officially, you’ve made the same decision a hundred times. It’s exhausting in a stupid way that nobody really talks about. Either way, the Monday ritual is already gone.
As a kid I was certain everyone would wear glowing clothes by the time I grew up. Not rave neon — actual luminescent gear, color-shifting as you moved. Because the tech would exist and it would look insane, so obviously everyone would do it.
Instead everyone dressed grayer as they aged. Beige, black, gray. Safe colors. Colors that let you disappear.
No New Folk Studio made Orphe sneakers. White or black base but the soles light up and pulse with color when you move. When you dance, specifically — the motion triggers them, so you’re painting light on the pavement as you go. They look cool even when they’re off, which is the hard part. Most light-up stuff fails that test immediately.
The shoes aren’t what I imagined at ten. It’s so much smaller — just the feet, and only if you know how to dance. The dream shrank. But something about the fact that it exists at all, that someone actually made this thing, even this diminished version, does something to me. It’s not what I wanted then, and I’m not sure it’s what I actually want now either. But here it is anyway.
Saw this illustration of Alf last week and just stopped scrolling. This Spanish studio called Hey Creative publishes a minimal pop culture drawing every day on Instagram—account’s called EveryHey. Started in February, and I check back regularly enough that I’ve probably seen a hundred of them by now.
The thing that works about them is the restraint. Bender’s there in about five lines. They captured Captain Planet without any of the melodrama—just the ridiculous hair and the face, perfectly stupid. There’s a Mr. Miyagi from Karate Kid that made me sit with it for a minute. “Wax on, right hand. Wax off, left hand. Wax on, wax off.” You know the bit. I was thinking about what that quote actually means, the way repetition and discipline become something like meditation, or maybe I was just spacing out. Either way, it stuck.
I’ve been making a mental list of what I want them to draw. Sailor Moon, obviously—that character design practically asks for clean linework. Kate Upton because I’m a little horny and also because it’s funny. The 3 Ninja Kids because I’m rewatching them and they’re this artifact from childhood that somehow nobody else remembers. Nostalgia is weird when it’s yours alone.
The account reminds you that simple ideas work. That consistency and care, even on something small, is something worth noticing. That’s the whole appeal, really.
An earthquake moved things just enough to rattle glasses off a table. A woman watched them fall and laughed—”It would be so humiliating to die here,” she said. Not panicked, just thinking out loud. The specific shame of it: ending in the wrong moment, in a place that wouldn’t make sense in the retelling.
That thought has stuck with me. The shame of it matters more than the thing itself.
I cried through the last episodes of Barakamon. Me—this bearded guy with a belly and a sharp mouth. Not because anything legendarily dramatic happened in those twelve episodes, but because the characters had gotten under my skin in a way that normally takes other shows years to pull off.
The setup is as ordinary as it gets. Seishu, a failed calligrapher, gets exiled from Tokyo to some backwater island to fix his art style, and he absolutely hates it. The place is full of yokels, his house is falling apart, and there’s this six-year-old girl named Naru who seems specifically designed to drive him insane.
You know how this story goes. Seishu gradually befriends the locals despite being kind of an asshole. He starts to realize that living on this sweat-soaked island is giving him exactly what he needed to work. And Naru, that relentless little pest, works her way into his cold, depressed, essentially dead heart.
There’s a genuinely dramatic moment near the end that I won’t spoil, but by then it doesn’t matter because you’ve already fallen completely for every person on that island. Miwa with her reckless energy. Ikko, the school principal who’s always smoking and passionately into fish. Hina, Naru’s sweet, painfully shy best friend.
I think about how anime does this—compresses emotion into thirty minutes so tightly that there’s nowhere for it to go except straight through you. You’re laughing at Tamako, the unhinged manga aunt who sees hidden homosexual drama in everything, and then suddenly you’re anxious watching young Kosuke confront Seishu about losing his style, and then you’re watching Naru come home and… I actually can’t talk about what happens. It’s too much.
About Naru—I wanted to adopt that kid immediately. There’s nothing forced or precocious about her, just genuine joyfulness and these complete observations about the world that make you realize how complicated yours has become.
By the end of it, all I wanted was to pack up and move to that exact island. Leave the stress, the pressure, all the bitterness. Live something quiet and real with Naru and Miwa and Ikko and the rest of them, far from all this.
On Tashirojima in Japan, there are more cats than people. The cats watch the fishermen work their nets. They wander through an abandoned school. On the highest hill, in pale moonlight, they mate without concern for observation.
The island emptied out. People left for better prospects somewhere else. The young especially went, seeking jobs and a future that didn’t feel prewritten. The tsunami came and took what remained of the place’s sense of possibility. But the cats stayed. Or maybe they came after. Now the island exists in the world’s mind because of them.
Landon Donohound and others filmed there. They wanted to capture what it looks like when a place is reclaimed not by nature but by animals, by the domestic gone wild, taking over human infrastructure. An abandoned school full of cats. A hilltop that belongs to them now. That’s stranger and sadder than any cute idea about a “cat island.”
I’ve seen stills from the footage. The cats are just doing ordinary cat things in a landscape built for people who aren’t there anymore. There’s something in that I can’t quite articulate—something about decline and persistence and the way life keeps moving even after everything changes. It stays with you.
Meaghan Liist designs the kind of work that doesn’t waste your attention—clean, purposeful, nothing extra. She made a series a few years back called “This Is Your Brain On Drugs” that I’ve thought about since, mostly because reductive work this good is harder to pull off than it appears.
Each drug gets one image. MDMA is a heart. Cocaine is a roller coaster with a line through it, the high and the consequence as a single shape. Speed is zigzags—pure acceleration rendered as pattern. They’re not explained or judged, just there: the image and what it means.
The heroin one is different. It’s less a poster and more like looking at something you shouldn’t, all collapse and void. I think that’s intentional.
You can buy them as prints now. There’s something honest about selling drug imagery as art to an audience that knows the subject—no winking, no apology, no safety guardrails. Just the image and whatever you bring to it.
I was in Paris years ago. Can’t remember why now, or with who, or what the actual point was. Some pale memory of walking around with a camera like everyone walks around with a camera there.
You don’t need another photo of the Eiffel Tower. The street vendors already own that moment. You’re not taking it from them. Everyone who ever went stands in the same place and shoots the same thing. The tower doesn’t get better for the attention.
Alex Brunet figured something different. He was photographing Kimbra, an American artist and photographer, and they didn’t bother with the famous stuff. Got some beer and locked themselves in a hotel room instead. Shot her raw—no concept, no location scouting, just actual work between two people who knew each other. The pictures you make because you want to see what comes out.
That’s what I want from Paris next time. Not the monument filling your viewfinder, but a real moment with a real person in an actual room. Good beer. A camera. The work feels bigger when the stakes are smaller.
Tyler’s dropped two new tracks—”Fucking Young” and “Death Camp”—and they sound like N.E.R.D at their best, back when Pharrell could make something brilliant without needing to announce that it was brilliant. The confidence is just there, quiet and infuriating in how rare it is. No forced posturing, no default gangsta-rap drama, no pretending that suffering is personality. Just craft, the kind that makes you realize how much of everything else is just noise.
I’ll get tired of them eventually. You always do. But that’s not today, and today they’re the only thing I want to hear.
Mexican kids figured out they can smoke poisonous frogs and get completely obliterated. Not lick them like Homer Simpson, actually smoke them. The compound inside is 5-MEO-DMT, and apparently the high feels like you’re dying. Which is apparently the whole point.
The drug shows up in dope forums as some kind of shortcut to the real thing — total ego death, complete dissolution, the actual article rather than some approximation of transcendence. The compound activates the part of your brain that’s supposed to just wait for death. Make it happen early.
I understand why it appeals. Everyone hits the wall eventually with drugs or sex or anything else that promises some kind of transcendence. The first time feels like everything, the second time less so, and somewhere around the thousandth time you realize nothing’s going to touch that initial hit. The toad route seems designed specifically to skip that entire learning curve, to go straight to whatever you’re supposed to feel when you actually die. Why wait decades for something that takes thirty minutes if you find the right amphibian.
Whether any of that’s actually healthy seems like a question people ask long after they’ve already loaded up and lit the thing. Probably not. But there’s something appealing about the logic — the direct path to the end state, the thing everyone’s chasing in roundabout ways anyway. Just compressed into a toad-smoke session.
I was never really a comic person. The Simpsons comics seemed too expensive, superheroes bored me, and despite being obsessed with Japan, manga never did much for me. I’m a TV person, always have been.
But the Adventure Time comics are something else. The covers especially—gorgeous, intricate, all different. Various artists from around the world contribute, and there’s this magical level of care in every single one. The kind of detail you wouldn’t expect in what’s nominally just a tie-in product.
If you haven’t seen the show, go watch it now. It’s like LSD, mushrooms, and MDMA somehow had a child together. Minus the embarrassing side effects. Mostly.
I couldn’t sleep in Tokyo once, so at sunrise I walked out into the quiet residential streets with cats and cockroaches and old men jogging, past empty parks and closed schools. The city at that hour was something else entirely — soft, strange, nothing like what you think Tokyo is.
Then I heard them coming. The businessmen, yawning in their suits, flowing through like dark water — those faceless hordes of modern samurai who serve with computers instead of swords. They don’t march through the train stations so much as pour through them, black rivers of exhaustion and routine. That’s the Tokyo image everyone knows.
Yuki Aoyama photographs these men, but she photographs them with their daughters. They’re jumping, leaping, grinning alongside kids who look both embarrassed and happy, both reaching for something — the sky, maybe, or just the pleasure of the moment. The series is called “Solaryman,” a mashup of salesman and sky, and that title does the work. It lifts these anonymous businessmen out of the commute, out of the gray picture everyone has of them, into something lighter and more real at once.
But the photographs don’t argue. They just show you another thing that’s true. These men are fathers. They have families and dreams and the capacity to jump around looking happy. They reach toward their daughters and toward something bigger than the job. That’s all it takes to unmask them — to show they were never really faceless at all, just men who got swallowed by an image.
Rihanna’s “American Oxygen” video lays out the contradiction without flinching. The title is the setup—oxygen is what keeps you alive, except here it’s metaphorical and suffocating. The video cycles through imagery of American life and death, side by side: the freedoms and the violence that props them up.
It’s strange because none of it is hidden. The police killings. The mass surveillance. The religious freedom laws that are thin cover for homophobia, like Indiana proved. You could read about it all in an afternoon. But there’s something different about seeing it packed into three minutes of pop music, set to production that sounds almost reverent. Like Rihanna’s acknowledging the weight of it without needing to perform outrage.
What gets to me is how little it matters that she made the video. I don’t mean that as a knock on her—she has one of the biggest platforms available. I mean that nothing changes from it. The killing continues. The listening continues. We breathe the same oxygen, toxic as it is.
There’s something knowing about that choice, I think. Making the statement anyway, even when you know it won’t fix anything. Not because she’s naive, but because the alternative is silence. She’s not pretending the video will change America. She’s just refusing to pretend America is something it’s not.
I’ve never found a turntable at Kreuzberg’s flea markets, but I understand why you’d look. Polaroid cameras, old Casio watches, lamps shaped like cats, sneakers that stopped being made ten years ago — the hunt is very specific. Everyone there is looking for something they didn’t know they needed until they saw it in a cardboard box.
SO36 runs a nighttime market every couple weeks, right after work ends. It’s one of those Berlin things that actually works — low pressure, free entry, no aesthetic agenda. You go there to unload your junk and walk out with someone else’s junk. Dr. Hartz and DJ Mutti spin, so there’s music and movement, a little bit of party energy mixed in with the buying and selling.
The whole cycle is very Kreuzberg: find it cheap, use it until it’s done, sell it, find the next thing. No one’s performing their taste or building a look. It’s just objects in motion and people deciding whose shelf they belong on next.
I’ve spent way too much time scrolling past breakfast. Not eating it, just scrolling past other people’s breakfast — all carefully filtered, each plate more composed than anything I’d ever make. Eggs and toast put through some warm vintage grain that makes the morning look like it happened in 1987.
Instagram keeps adding more filters like they’re answering a question nobody asked. New color grades, new light leaks, new ways to make ordinary things feel important. The idea never changes: take your mundane moment, apply some aesthetic treatment, and suddenly it matters.
The thing is, it works. You apply a filter and the world looks different. The colors get richer, the contrast snaps, everything has intention. So you keep doing it, trying combinations, layering effects, tweaking the strength. You’re not trying to fool anyone anymore — you’re trying to make reality match what it feels like in your head.
But there’s always another filter. Always another option, another way it could look. Instagram knows this. They keep releasing new ones like they’re selling cigarettes — same addiction, different packaging. You can’t stop, so they make sure there’s always something new to try.
At some point it stops being documentation and starts being work. You’re adjusting the colors on your coffee because you need it to be beautiful in the right way. And the funny part is knowing it matters to no one but you — maybe three people and a cluster of bots, which is basically the same thing. But you do it anyway, because the filtered version feels truer than the thing sitting in front of you.
Jon Snow’s on Seth Meyers doing a dinner party bit, trying to seem normal about it, but you can see it underneath—all that dread about what’s coming, the winter, the dark things in the north. He can’t just sit there and enjoy wine like a regular person.
I’ve always had this fantasy about Game of Thrones going a different way—Daenerys and Tyrion teaming up, taking over Westeros together, drinking and laughing at the whole thing with that kind of beautiful cruelty, toying with whoever gets in their path. Blood, fire, the usual. But Jon doesn’t get to think like that. He’s carrying something he can’t put down, and it follows him everywhere, even to late-night TV.
The thing that got me about that clip is realizing Jon Snow would actually be the worst person to invite to your dinner. Not because he’s a bad guy—he’s not—but because he’d carry that darkness into the room with him. He’d sit there thinking about death and duty while everyone else is just trying to eat and talk shit. You’d feel it radiating off him.
Some people make good dinner guests. They know how to leave their problems at the door, to just be present. Jon’s not that guy. His presence is a kind of honesty you don’t really want when you’re trying to relax.
I fall in love about seventeen thousand times a day. More or less, usually more. Vanessa Anela Moez. Rianne ten Haken. Airi Matsui. Anna with no last name brought back my whole thing for underarm hair, so clearly I’m inexhaustible.
This is Salem Mitchell from San Diego. She likes FKA Twigs and Naomi Campbell and Willow Smith. Her Tumblr’s full of good music and answered questions and selfies. She sings along to tracks with playback sometimes, does it well enough.
She looks like a chocolate cookie sometimes. The way something looks like it tastes good. She loves her grandmother. She’s on Twitter and Instagram saying cool shit. One of those people where you find something and want to send it to them but you don’t because what the hell are you doing.
Tomorrow I’ll be obsessed with someone else. This is just how it works. But right now it’s Salem, and that’s all there is.
I found this game called Pacapong, which is what happens when you take Pong, Pac-Man, and Space Invaders and decide they should exist in the same screen. Dutch developers called kingPenguin made it for a game jam where the theme was Pong, and that’s apparently all the justification they needed. It should be absurd—three foundational arcade games in one messy screen—but it isn’t.
It actually works. The paddle mechanics from Pong talk to the maze logic of Pac-Man, and both exist in the space where Space Invaders swarm. Donkey Kong shows up throwing barrels, which is the kind of detail that tells you people were having fun with this. The weird thing is it doesn’t feel like a novelty. It feels like someone figured out how to make all these systems coexist without one of them drowning out the others.
What strikes me is that no major studio ever thought to try this. Combining three foundational arcade games should be obvious, but it’s not until someone actually does it. That took a game jam deadline and some developers with time to spend on an experiment. Now that I’ve seen it, it’s inevitable. Before that, it wasn’t even on anyone’s map.
There’s been this generational debate about how to groom yourself down there. Totally bare or totally wild, carefully maintained or just letting it grow, on display or completely hidden—everyone settles somewhere different. For a while the trend was total hairlessness, but now you’re seeing this swing back toward the natural thing. Feminist reclamation of the bush, basically.
An artist named Lessa Millet made this illustration called “Vaj Hairstylez” that treats pubic hair like an actual hairstyle. The Punk, The Bed-Head, The Professional, The Vintage, The Fascist. She named them all. What works about it is that it takes something people usually don’t discuss except in embarrassed whispers and just decides it’s worth illustrating, worth thinking about as an aesthetic choice.
Some of them actually appeal to me. The Bed-Head, The Punk—there’s something there. The Toothpick looks like a mistake waiting to happen. The Razor Burn is its own horror story. The Cactus is pure self-punishment. Everything else is just taste, and taste varies.
What got me about the illustration was its refusal to judge. It’s just here are the options, here’s what they look like, choose whatever feels right. That’s more honest than most conversations about bodies manage to be.
John Oliver went to Moscow to ask Edward Snowden why the NSA keeps photographs of people’s genitals. That should tell you everything about the state we’re in.
Men send unsolicited dick pics constantly—to women they know, women they don’t, people they’ve never met. It’s everywhere. Casual, thoughtless, usually unwanted. The photos end up on phones, in messages, in clouds. And because nothing stays private anymore, the NSA has them too. Folders full of anonymous erections. Organized. Indexed. Sitting in a database somewhere alongside intercepted emails and phone records, all supposedly in service of fighting terrorism.
That’s the claim. Your dick pic is national security. I know how it sounds.
The only response that makes sense is to send a funny man to Moscow to ask the whistleblower the stupid question directly. Why are you storing all these photos? What does it actually accomplish? Snowden answers it straight: they’re not targeting people for sending nudes, they’re just collecting everything. The crude surveillance machinery runs in the background and you’re caught in it just because you exist and have a phone.
It’s absurd and serious at the same time. The government collecting intimate images under the banner of security. Individual people sending nudes because they’re bored or horny. Nobody wins. You end up in this reality where your worst impulses are archived and justified as counterterrorism. The only adequate response is to ask the stupid question directly.
I’m about to sound like the world’s most insufferable hipster, but I was already obsessed with Lykke Li when you were still discovering “Electric Feel” in Berlin clubs that have disappeared. You could look it up — I have the proof somewhere. My whole world was “Little Bit,” “I’m Good, I’m Gone,” “Dance, Dance, Dance.” I had “Youth Novels” memorized completely. If I had a functional memory, I’d argue it’s the best album I’ve ever heard, and somehow it still doesn’t embarrass me.
That was seven years ago now. Seven years. And since Lykke Li became famous — since the world knew her name — I’ve felt this weight. This emptiness. Not tragedy or anything, just that hollow thing that happens when someone you loved first becomes someone everyone loves.
There’s this running joke where she and I were meant to be, obviously, assuming Scarlett Johansson wasn’t in the picture. But the real thing early discovery does to you is make you feel like you own something nobody else does. Like you have a version of someone that’s entirely yours.
She just released “Never Gonna Love Again,” and the video is one of those perfect emotional storms. The kind that stays with you.
VIOVIO went quiet for a while. Not defunct, just silent — the kind of silence a brand goes into when it’s thinking about what comes next. For an independent Stuttgart label with people who actually care, you feel that absence. When something like that disappears, you notice.
They came back with White Gold. Jackets, shirts that fit like someone had opinions about them, proper button-ups. Nothing straining, everything direct. This is good streetwear: made by people who aren’t performing, just working.
What VIOVIO does right is a balance that kills most brands. Quality without arrogance. Skill without overcomplicated concepts. Style that doesn’t blur into the background. Everything feels intentional but easy, not precious or defensive. Just made well.
I’ve never understood fashion’s need to be urgent and important. Most labels seem desperate to matter, to say something, to be culturally significant. VIOVIO makes good clothes and lets them be. That restraint is almost radical now.
Seeing them come back with something this solid after the quiet period — that’s worth actual attention. Not because it’s limited or carries some story, but because they clearly knew what they wanted and did it right. That’s the whole thing.
Five euros at a flea market, years ago, got me a Game Boy with Tetris on it. I don’t regret that purchase for a second. That gray box is still a time machine. Super Mario Land, Link’s Awakening, Pokémon — stuff that holds up.
The SmartBoy is an iPhone case that turns your phone into a Game Boy. You slot in cartridge modules and play Metroid II, Gargoyle’s Quest, Harvest Moon on your current device. The appeal is immediate.
But you’re carrying your iPhone and a thick Game Boy case. Both devices. The actual Game Boy is thinner. You could carry the original instead. I don’t entirely see the logic, though the draw is obvious — playing these games without needing to dig out old hardware. It’s a compromise that makes sense if you want everything on one device. The real fix would be Nintendo releasing these games on iOS, something they should’ve done years ago. Until then, the SmartBoy exists as a workaround.
Martin Pavel brought his Daily Portrait project to Berlin. The concept’s straightforward: you photograph someone naked, they photograph you, you photograph the next person. Daily photographs, published daily, for a year straight.
The math gets funny if you think about it - Berlin has three and a half million people, and one portrait a day would take ten thousand years to photograph everyone. That’s not the point. The point is the daily ritual. Show up, stand there, let someone photograph you without clothes on. Next day, you’re the photographer.
There’s something about that kind of daily work that strips away pretense. You can’t hide behind concept or technique when you’re repeating the same simple gesture every single day. The commitment itself becomes the work.
Pavel started this series in Prague years ago. This is the fourth edition. The Berlin version runs for a year. If you know someone in the chain or want to join, you can apparently reach out to him. Some of the participants might be familiar. Probably most aren’t.
It’s the kind of project that probably shouldn’t work - too vulnerable, too simple, too dependent on people actually showing up day after day. But maybe that’s exactly why it works.
Trollface got trademarked by Carlos Ramirez in 2010, right after he posted it on 4chan. Now he makes between five and fifteen grand a month off it. And before you say anything about the internet being a free space or memes being communal property — yeah, you’re wrong. Carlos has the paperwork.
Here’s the thing: he sensed it was big. Most people would’ve watched Trollface spread and felt good about contributing to culture or whatever. Carlos was like: no, this is mine. He trademarked it. Now when game studios or T-shirt artists want to use it, they pay him. And if they don’t, he sues.
There’s something almost admirable about the shamelessness of it. Not the suing — that’s expected. But the original move was pure: make something, own it, profit. No pretense about art or community or any of that. Just business.
The sarcastic conclusion in the original post is that everyone should do this — quit your job, trademark every stupid meme you see online, get rich. Obviously that’s a joke, but it’s funny because it’s not entirely wrong. The infrastructure is there. Memes don’t magically escape property law. Carlos just saw that first and acted on it.
And honestly? I can’t even be that mad about it. It’s completely cynical, but at least there’s no pretense. He made something people loved, he owned it, he profits. Clean transaction.
Beatrice Eli’s “Die Another Day” has been stuck in my head for days, and I think it’s because I needed to hear someone just say it plainly. Not as inspiration porn, just as fact. You’re living now. This is it. Stop waiting.
She’s Swedish, plays punk-adjacent stuff, doesn’t waste time with the usual moves. The song is stripped down—the title does the work and the music just backs it up. There’s no moment where she’s trying to convince you of anything. She just knows this already, and she’s telling you because you clearly need to be told again.
What gets me is how tired she sounds of people putting their lives off. Not in an angry way, but like someone who’s watched enough people regret enough things. The whole thing is crude and direct. No apologies. No trying to make living sound noble or romantic. Just: get out of bed, do something that feels like living, listen to this song if you need a push.
I think about how many times I’ve heard this message and still didn’t believe it. Still treated today like it was just the waiting room before my real life starts. And then you hear it again from someone who sounds like they’ve actually lived enough to know, and for some reason it lands different. Not because the message is new. Because the person delivering it isn’t asking for permission or validation.
The song doesn’t try to fix anything. It’s not going to change your circumstances. But there’s something about hearing someone that sure of themselves, that clear about what matters, that helps. For a few minutes you feel less alone in knowing better but doing worse.
There’s a venue in Berlin called Neue Heimat on the RAW-Gelände, basically two enormous falling-apart industrial halls facing the Spree. The kind of place you can’t tell is active until you see people inside it.
When they announced they’d be fully open Thursday through Sunday, I wasn’t interested in the party lineup. I was drawn to how plainly they described what the space was: four thousand square meters of concrete, designed for families and kids and dancers in equal measure. No atmosphere layer, no brand, no concept to sell you.
Most venues have carefully constructed a story about themselves. The Neue Heimat just opens the doors. The decay isn’t ironic. The scale isn’t engineered for Instagram. It’s honest in a way that’s become uncommon—you’re paying for access to a real space, not for someone’s vision of what a space should mean. That simplicity is worth something.
The best parties are the ones where you can look in any direction and see someone you know. Good company, good drinks, everyone comfortable just being there.
I ended up at one last week where Joko was quietly launching a black t-shirt he’d designed. Not the kind of event that normally registers, but the thinking behind it made it stick—the whole concept was about understatement. That a piece of clothing should fit your actual self rather than perform something about you. Show style without announcing it.
I’ve owned maybe a dozen black t-shirts over the years. They’re a kind of uniform. You throw one on and you’re neutral. The fact that neutrality requires more confidence than wearing something loud is a weird detail of fashion nobody talks about. But that’s what he was putting a name to.
Eva Padberg was there, the Dandy Diary crew, all these people who seemed to understand that ease without effort is actually the hardest thing to pull off. They probably recognized themselves in the idea immediately.
The whole thing was low-key. No speeches, no buildup, just people around something simple that someone had clearly thought hard about making. There’s something quietly ambitious about designing something that looks effortless.
You’re at some gallery opening on a weeknight. Cheap beer tastes fine in the dark. You’re nowhere near home and tomorrow you’ll drag yourself to work with this same hangover you’ve had for three years. Emma, Tom, and Vincent live inside that exact space—the soap opera “Ecke Weserstraße” tracking them through the stretch of time when you still believe you can sustain this forever.
The show used to air on HauptstadtsenderALEX but has since scattered across YouTube, though the format seems beside the point. What it documents is that particular German mode of half-living: nights dissolving into mornings, work as something you show up for still half-drunk, the Spree and the flea markets and whatever the neighborhood keeps offering. It’s not trying to make any of it meaningful. Nobody’s having a transformation. There’s just texture—the specific weight of time when you’re caught between being young and actually becoming something else.
I’ve always had more patience for work that captures those in-between spaces without turning them into mythology. Not aspirational, not cautionary. Just a moment that stretches longer than it should, people existing in the gap and not pretending there’s some lesson underneath. The show understands that. It doesn’t romanticize the precarity or try to turn the aimlessness into depth. It’s just the corner, and something keeps happening there, night after night, the same faces or different ones wearing the same tired expression.
Berlin had plenty of these corners in whatever moment this was filmed—that stretch when the city still felt possible, when you could waste time there without worrying about the timer. The show captures that without commenting on it. That absence of narrative judgment, maybe that’s the most honest thing about it.
If you lived that version of Berlin or any city, you’ll recognize yourself in there. If you didn’t, you’ll at least see what other people were doing while they thought they had infinite time. The footage exists now, scattered across YouTube. The corner is still there. Someone is probably still there with a beer, waiting for a morning that never quite arrives.
When you think about German pop music you’re up against Helene Fischer, Frei.Wild, Unheilig. By the time Xavier Naidoo enters the picture you’ve already checked out. It’s not a scene built on faith.
So Balbina matters. She’s writing about what people are actually thinking, actually stuck with—no performance of wisdom, no lectures. Just clear writing about real things. That clarity is rare enough to land differently on each listen.
Her new song is ’Langsam Langsamer,’ her album is ’Über das Grübeln.’ Slow, Slower. About Brooding. The titles alone tell you where she lives. The songs are dense, layered, built to survive multiple listens. That’s not a limitation. That’s the whole point. She trusts you to come back, to sit with something instead of moving on.
That kind of patience in pop music barely exists anymore. Easier to build something obvious and disposable, throw it out, move on. So I keep thinking about what she’s doing, the fact that it’s possible at all.
The Berlin Senate shut down Görlitzer Park’s special status. It used to be one place in the city where weed was basically fine—10 to 15 grams and nobody would touch you. Now that’s gone. The reasoning is sound: kids found cocaine packets on the playground, a child with a joint in his mouth, parents asking what it takes before the city does anything.
So they cracked down. There’s a smoke-in tonight, people showing up in protest. The organizers made a point worth considering: if the city cares about protecting vulnerable people, why shut down this one park instead of getting homeless people out of the gymnasiums where they’re living? Why not address the actual catastrophes? Find something visible, crack down hard, declare the city’s serious again. Every politician pulls this move.
Berlin used to be the place that didn’t play this game. Used to be you could do weird shit there without the state coming down on you. Guess that’s just over now. Another European capital trying to look respectable.
Google’s April Fools’ jokes were actually funny, which is to say they were the only ones that worked. When the company still had some kind of personality, they’d drop something sharp every year. You could catch Pokémon on Google Earth one April, find Pac-Man on Google Maps in Berlin the next.
The Berlin Pac-Man thing made sense in a stupid way. You don’t want to go outside—the weather is garbage, the wind is knocking you sideways—so instead you chase a yellow dot around a map. Pointless. Perfect. The kind of thing you do instead of whatever else you were supposed to be doing that day.
What’s stuck with me about it is how low-key it was. Just a link, no announcement, no download, no brand moment. You clicked it and there it was. It felt like hanging out with someone who actually had a sense of humor, who wasn’t performing being cool. That’s what Google managed to be, back then.
These things got weird pretty fast. Somewhere along the way they realized they could announce the prank beforehand and make sure you knew it was coming. The whole point used to be the surprise. Once you start promoting your spontaneity, it’s not spontaneous anymore. Google figured that out and just gave up. Now it’s all about hashtags and official apps and making sure everyone sees you getting the joke.
That Pac-Man link, though. That was just dumb fun. The kind you don’t think about while you’re having it.
I knew Laura Carbone when she was writing on The Fucking Fuck, a blog that doesn’t exist anymore. Early 2000s internet, the kind of place that felt essential because it was the only space for this particular kind of thinking — scattered, urgent, unmediated. She moved past blogging like everyone eventually does.
I saw her again in Berlin around 2010 with her band Deine Jugend at Klub International. Music was becoming the thing, replacing the need to document everything. Five years after that she released a solo album called Sirens. It’s not straightforward indie pop — there’s melancholy running underneath it, a refusal to make things sound better than they feel. The new single “Heavy Heavy” distills that idea. Nothing showy, just something that needed to exist.
I’m still not sure why certain people stick with you across years and format changes. Laura’s one of them.
There was this playlist once — every song that played on Skins. Chemical Brothers, Bloc Party, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Ludacris somehow. Toro y Moi was on there too, “Low Shoulder,” this track that existed for like five minutes on Pandora before it disappeared. That show ate years of my life, and the music was wired into all of it, the exact right sound for feeling like everything meant something.
Skins eventually collapsed into itself, but Chaz Bundick kept working. His music lives in this space between groovy 70s pop and indie production — dense and textured but easy, the kind of thing that feels made from inside someone’s head rather than for an audience. You can study it or let it wash over you. Both work.
Sometimes I think about how weird it is that artists you half-forgot years ago are still out there making work, still alive, still relevant. Most things don’t last like that.
Israeli artist Amit Shimoni made a series called “Hipstory” where he reimagines historical figures and leaders as contemporary hipsters. Angela Merkel with piercings and tattoos. Che Guevara in a beanie. Nelson Mandela in full ironic drag — nose rings, vintage-store aesthetic, the works. He turned the concept into merchandise: prints, pillows, phone cases.
There’s something stupid and perfect about it. These are people we’re trained to treat as serious, now dressed up in the contemporary costume of cool detachment. The gap between their imagined weight and their new aesthetic is where the humor lives. Aesthetics shift so fast that each generation thinks it’s figured out style, then twenty years later everyone looks back mortified.
Why does this work? It’s not saying anything important, not really. It’s more like a visual joke that doesn’t need to go anywhere. But maybe that’s the strength of it — not everything requires meaning. Sometimes the whole idea is just what it is: serious figures in hipster costume, absurd and complete.
Watching Super Mario 64 on a supermarket display screen in 1997, my brain just stopped working. This was something completely outside my experience — a gateway to a new dimension of what games could be. The controller looked like a prop from a science fiction movie, the 3D graphics made no sense, and I stood there unable to comprehend what I was watching.
I’ve got to say though — I’m a SNES guy. Always have been. Pixel art, sprite work, that whole aesthetic — that’s where I live. The SNES was the best thing the entertainment industry ever made, in my opinion. Everything since has been trying to recapture something it already perfected. But Super Mario 64 shattered all of that in about thirty seconds.
Twenty years later, a programmer named Roystan Ross did something kind of beautiful — he rebuilt the entire game from scratch on modern hardware. Not an emulation, but an actual reconstruction. It runs in a browser now, in HD, and you can play through the first level. It’s the kind of technical accomplishment that would’ve seemed impossible when this blog started.
I never got the N64 the way everyone else did, but this rebuild made that 1997 moment finally hit. Like I’d been feeling something real at the time, but couldn’t quite see it until someone showed me what it was.
I want my MacBook pristine, that cold aluminum glow, untouched by the world. And then I see someone’s laptop covered in stickers—band names, place pins, the actual evidence of living—and I want that instead. But stickers happen by accident, accumulating over time without plan. You end up with something haphazard that might’ve been cool once.
Jolt, out of San Francisco, made something nobody asked for. A MacBook case with LEGO studs molded into it so you can click bricks directly onto your thousand-dollar computer. They asked for $30,000 on Kickstarter and got it. The idea is you turn a status symbol into a toy, turn a precious object into something you actually modify.
Which is absurd and maybe perfect. You’re paying for industrial design so you can snap colorful plastic onto it. Your laptop gets heavier, bulkier, less of what you bought it for. But also, the thing stops being precious. It becomes a platform for whatever you want to build. A Death Star. A color grid. Whatever. You own it enough to change it.
I don’t know if it actually works, if the bricks stay put, if anyone keeps the case on after the novelty wears. But that’s not the question. The question is whether you want your expensive thing to be a product or a tool for your own design. I still don’t know which I am.
You end up carrying your phone through Berlin like an anchor. You’re looking for a good burger place, or a café that doesn’t serve flat whites to influencers, or a shop where something costs less than a month’s rent. The phone promises to answer these questions. Usually it just takes you to wherever the algorithm thinks you should go.
I learned the hard way by wandering around Kreuzberg one afternoon with a dead battery. No map, no GPS, just me and the actual streets. I ended up somewhere I wasn’t planning to be, found a café that had been there for years with no reviews, no Instagram stickers on the window. It was better than anywhere my phone would have sent me.
There’s a map — or was — that does the opposite. Printed thing, nicely designed, marked with actual places. You pull it out, navigate like a human being. No notifications, no machine learning, no database tracking where you go. Just the city and paper and the small discipline of having to actually figure things out.
The map itself looked good enough that you didn’t feel like a tourist carrying it. But that’s not the real point. The point is what changes when you’re not looking at a screen. You have to think about space differently. You look at the actual streets instead of following a blue line. It sounds like nothing, but it changes how a city feels.
I never owned the map. But I remember thinking: yes, this is right. This is how it should work. You make decisions instead of following suggestions. You see things your phone would have optimized away.
That might just be nostalgia. Probably is. But there’s something real in it. A map doesn’t care if you ignore it. Your phone keeps track either way.
Instagram will nuke a photo of a nipple within hours but let recruitment videos sit there for weeks. The priority makes no sense. Mark Zuckerberg talks about community safety, but what he’s actually enforcing is this ancient squeamishness around female bodies that nobody even consciously decided to care about anymore. It just got coded in, automated, inherited.
The girls of Iceland decided to call it out. They’re part of #FreeTheNipple, stripping down as a protest against the fact that their bodies are somehow more threatening to Silicon Valley than actual extremism. One of them nailed it: society’s fine with women being sexualized—by media, by men, by institutions. The moment a woman owns that and shows herself on her own terms, suddenly it’s obscene. The algorithms freak out.
There’s a kind of bitter efficiency to how easy it is to censor a breast and how hard it apparently is to moderate anything that actually matters. You draw a line, you enforce it, you get to feel like you’re doing something. The alternative—actually thinking about what’s dangerous and what isn’t—that takes work.
The Icelandic girls are pointing at something stupid and refusing to pretend it’s serious. They shouldn’t have to. But the fact that they do, the fact that undressing reads as radical, is maybe the clearest evidence that they’re right.
I didn’t know you could do that until I saw Romano. Metal and rap seem like they shouldn’t work together—different origins, different energy, different everything about how they move. But watching the clips, him standing there expressionless in a bomber jacket with braids down his back, it clicks: they’re closer than they seem.
Both demand intensity. Both come from refusal. Metal is the distortion that makes everyone uncomfortable; rap is the precision and the speed and the refusal to apologize for any of it. Put them together and you get something that feels true in a way most music doesn’t anymore—uncompromising, strange, exactly what it sets out to be without hedging.
Romano doesn’t look like he’s trying to prove anything. He’s just standing there, doing it. The framing I found him in—this paradise bird in a prefab building—caught something real. He’s not performing coolness; he’s just unmovable, letting the music do whatever it’s going to do.
The fusion stops making sense as a novelty the moment you hear it actually work. It stops being metal-and-rap and starts being just music, built from speed and weight and a voice that doesn’t know how to stay still. He’s not splitting the difference between genres; he’s just taking the parts that matter to him and stacking them up.
I don’t know much else yet, but that’s what gets me: he sounds like the only way he could make music is both of these things at once. Not because it’s interesting. Just because that’s what he is. He’ll be performing somewhere in Berlin soon, probably, and I’ll watch him the way you watch someone who isn’t performing—someone who’s just doing the thing they know how to do.
I had this thing for Nora Tschirner back when German television was inescapable and MTV still existed. She was in everything—bad movies, good comedies, these shows I half-watched with the kind of attention you’re not supposed to give people. The way you notice someone beautiful against your own will, when you’re young enough that it still registers as a small humiliation.
Years pass, and people become whoever they’re going to become. Then one day you hear a song and realize it’s her voice, but it doesn’t sound like an actress auditioning for a music career. The actress you thought about has a band now—Prag, just her, Erik, and Tom—and they’re actually serious about it. Something shifts when someone you’ve only seen through characters suddenly sounds like themselves. Not performing. Speaking.
The songs don’t reach. “Bis einer geht” is about the end of something, and she sings it the way you’d say it to a friend at night when you’ve stopped pretending. “All die Narben” is about the marks things leave, about carrying damage. There’s no sentimentality, no camera awareness. Just someone describing what happened and what it felt like.
It’s easy to be suspicious of this kind of thing—actor-turned-musician usually means a tax write-off and three people watching from the venue bathroom. But there’s something real about watching someone you’ve been watching for years actually speak instead of perform. Even if there’s still a stage involved, it doesn’t feel like one. That’s the difference I notice. That’s what matters.
There are two kinds of people in Berlin: those who get past the Berghain door, and everyone else standing outside in the cold getting shut down. The door guy takes one look and shakes his head. That’s the whole religion of the place. Berghain isn’t a club—it’s rejection as policy, and the rejection is the entire point.
A Berlin designer named Malte Jensen understood this and made The Birdhain: a tiny birdhouse modeled after the actual club, complete with lights that glow in the dark. It’s on eBay right now as an auction, proceeds supposedly going to art projects. The noble framing.
The real joke is this might be the only way most of us ever actually own Berghain. The bidding was around 200 euros when I last checked, with most of the auction still to run. It’s just a box. But a bird can’t get rejected at the entrance, which is more than I can say about the real thing.
The doubt comes first, naturally. “If I get naked, will Google own me?” Steffi asks, standing in a room somewhere in Germany before a FEMEN action. It’s such a ridiculous question that it almost makes sense. You’re about to strip to your waist and write political slogans across your chest, and your worry is Google’s algorithmic memory. But it tracks — there’s something about making yourself this visible, this deliberately exposed, that makes you hyperaware of invisibility. Of being captured, recorded, catalogued.
Two German journalists embedded with FEMEN’s German cell for a documentary. They filmed the planning, the hesitation, the moment when someone decides that bare skin is worth more as a statement than as concealment. Then Steffi throws her shirt aside, picks up a marker, and the philosophical doubts seem to evaporate.
Feminism in Germany’s been splintered for years. You’ve got the careful digital campaigns, the established publications with their agendas, the think pieces that will find a way to use anything — even tragedy — to push their particular line. And then you’ve got people who just remove their clothes and write “Don’t cum on human rights” across their chest. It’s the least mediated form of protest possible. No slogans, no signs you can photograph from a distance. Just the body, the words, the street.
What gets me is that it works, even though it probably shouldn’t. The system’s more offended by nudity than by corruption, more threatened by exposed flesh than by injustice. So you weaponize the thing they find most unbearable. It’s honest in a way that most activism isn’t. No pretense. No appeal to reason. Just: look at what you’ve made me do.
I don’t know if it actually changes anything. Probably depends on who’s watching and what they’re already willing to see. But there’s something undeniable about it. You can ignore a sign. You can’t really ignore a person standing in front of you with words written on her skin.
Superstars used to be white. That was the shoe — white with the three stripes, everyone had them, everyone wore them. Then Pharrell Williams and adidas released the Supercolor Pack, which was fifty Superstars in fifty different colors. A rainbow, basically. Each one the exact same shoe, just in a different color.
The idea was that you got to pick. Not be given the white one because that’s what Superstars were, but actually choose the version you wanted to wear. Pharrell said something about it being equality through diversity, everyone different but all part of the same thing. It’s the kind of thing that could sound corny if it wasn’t true, and I think he meant it.
I’m not someone who gets precious about sneakers. But there was something appealing about the moment when a uniform suddenly became a choice. The white Superstar works — it’s neutral, it matches everything, it’s what everyone else is wearing. But what if you just didn’t want white?
The pink one was the one I wanted. That bright, almost aggressive pink. Not apologetic. Just pink.
I never really tracked whether the Supercolor Pack mattered after it dropped, whether people felt genuinely liberated by having options or whether it was just a nice collaboration that faded. What stuck with me was that moment of feeling like something opened up, like you could suddenly choose. The shoes themselves were secondary to what they represented. The pink one especially — I remember that pink.
Axel knew his vodka—not in the pretentious sommelier way, but because he’d actually spent time with it. He knew the Swedish distillery, the history, which details mattered. He could talk about it without performing. The knowledge was just there.
We had cocktails that looked designed rather than poured, bright and careful. I don’t remember the taste. I remember how it felt to hold something someone had thought through, that small attention you notice without meaning to.
Late in the evening, a little drunk and satisfied, we took a taxi home. A table full of people, good drinks, good talk. Those are the nights worth remembering, even when you forget what the drinks tasted like.
April rain, gray and persistent. The kind of morning where you want something warm but you’re sick of coffee. Not sick of high, exactly, but sick of the sitting around waiting for it to hit, the pointlessness of timing your own intoxication like you’re measuring for a recipe.
Someone made hot cannabis chocolate, and I get it now. It’s not subtle or clever. You just hold a cup, something bitter and dark and warm, and you drink it. No waiting. No wondering if it’s working yet. Just the simple fact of it—the taste, the heat in your hands, the slow move through you. It’s not a revelation. It’s the opposite of revelation. It just is.
Rainy mornings used to mean something to me, or I thought they should. Now they don’t. You wake up, the weather is shit, and you find something warm to hold. That’s the whole transaction. No lesson, no epiphany, no reason it means anything beyond the fact that you’re not cold for a while. And that turns out to be enough.
I get why Selena Gomez matters. She’s got the same thing I do underneath—that constant hum of depression and solitude sitting under whatever face you put on for the world, because the alternative is falling apart completely. In that V Magazine spread she’s topless, which is what got the attention, but what actually stuck was everything she said underneath the photographs.
She talked about being eighteen and in her first love, how when you’re that young and the world won’t shut up about you, it can feel like it’s just you two against everything. Something real and desperate in that. She said she wouldn’t trade it for anything, which is what you say about relationships that actually mattered even though they ended.
Then she got to the part that counts. There was a time when she couldn’t leave the house. Couldn’t, not wouldn’t. Being seen, photographed, just existing in public was too much, so she stopped. Wouldn’t go out, wouldn’t even buy groceries, made herself crazy sitting with her own head. She’s climbing back out now, slowly. It’s a process.
That’s what matters about it. Not the nudity or the celebrity machinery, but the fact that she just said it plainly: I was depressed. I hid. Now I’m getting better, sort of. No lesson. No silver lining. Just the shape of it—what it feels like from inside. I know that exact feeling, and I know how much harder it is to name than it is to stand naked in front of a camera.
Print’s supposedly dead, but every few years some book claws its way out of the corpse and becomes a thing. Fifty Shades of Grey was one of those things. A barely twenty-one-year-old named Anastasia Steele, a billionaire asshole named Christian Grey (the names are exactly as stupid as they sound), and six hundred pages of poorly written BDSM fan fiction that somehow became the biggest book in the world.
Here’s what nobody wants to admit: it’s Twilight fan fiction. The author, E.L. James, started posting it online as ’The Master of the Universe.’ Same characters, same dynamic, just swapped the vampire stuff for handcuffs and a contract. She changed the names, rewrote it as a book, and suddenly everyone’s talking about it like it’s transgressive and dangerous, like it means something.
But it didn’t mean anything. It was safe. Aggressively, boringly safe. The BDSM was sanitized. The writing was wooden. The characters had no chemistry. What made it work wasn’t authenticity or craft—it was permission. The book gave people a way to get off without actually being sexual. A way to think about fucking without having to fuck. The transgression was a story. The scandal was just marketing.
I watched it happen everywhere. Airport shops, train stations, on commutes. Almost everyone kept the cover turned inward, which is the funniest thing about it. This was supposed to be the book that liberated people sexually, made them feel dangerous and free, and instead it just shifted the shame. You could think about dominance and bondage as long as you were embarrassed about the thinking.
What got to me wasn’t the book’s badness. Bad writing is fine. It was what the success revealed: that we’d rather read someone else’s fantasy than have our own. That we need permission from a published author to imagine sex. That we want transgression as an idea, as a cultural thing, but not as anything we’d actually live. We’ll buy the scandal. We won’t be the scandal.
The book’s dead now. Or dying—there was a movie that was somehow worse, which tells you everything. The culture moved on to the next scandal, the next book promising edginess and delivering corporate safety. But Fifty Shades left evidence. Evidence of the gap between what we actually want and what we tell ourselves we want. That gap is pretty sad when you think about it.
An urban planner named Jakob Schmid made an interactive map of Berlin’s nightlife, showing where the bars and clubs cluster, where people actually spend their nights and money. Mitte, Kreuzberg, Friedrichshain light up in all the right places. It’s a clean visualization, and there’s something different about seeing it all mapped out at once versus just knowing it from going out.
What I like about it is the honesty. No mystique, no narrative about discovery—just here’s where the clubs are, here’s where the money goes. Once you see a neighborhood that way, mapped out like that, it changes how you think about it.
Kate Upton’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Sports Illustrated keeps running the same beach footage from years back, and after The Fappening, there’s nothing left to imagine anyway. She’s become background noise.
The new Swimsuit Issue landed with actual fresh faces — Caroline Wozniacki, Lily Aldridge, Gigi Hadid, Chrissy Teigen, Emily Ratajkowski. That’s the thing about novelty: it wakes you up again. You can’t run on fumes forever. The same image, the same name, the same everything — it all flattens into nothing after a while.
I’m not interested in thinking too hard about what that means. It’s just how attention works. You want what you know until you don’t, and then you want something else.
Look at these Adventure Time Doc Martens. Finn on one boot, Jake on the other, or both if you’re committed. The real damage is thinking about all the versions that don’t exist yet—green BMO, purple Marceline, pink Princess Bubblegum. I want them all. It’s pathetic to want something this badly over cartoon boots, but here’s the thing: you see the character and something lands. You remember what it meant, or who you were, and it feels possible that a boot with Finn on it could matter again.
Anonymous is hacking ISIS. Stealing social media accounts, tearing down websites, trying to choke off the propaganda machine that’s pulling kids worldwide into their orbit. Internet kids taking on a terrorist organization with passwords and exploit code. Medieval cosplayers getting dunked on by bedroom warriors. Whether it actually changes anything is beside the point.
I was twelve when I called into an Austrian kids’ TV show because they were giving away a Super Nintendo with Donkey Kong Country, and a green Game Boy on top of it. I had to guess what was wrong with a picture riddle—there was a lion where there shouldn’t be—and I got it right. They mailed it all to me. That was the best day of my life. Actually, genuinely the best day.
The SNES and I were inseparable. Not just because owning one made me cooler at school, though it did—every weekend my mother and I would drive to a different flea market hunting for games, any games. Eventually the dealers knew me. I’d show up and they’d hold stuff aside. Nintendo wasn’t just a company that made consoles; it was the only thing that mattered. Super Mario World, A Link to the Past, Star Wing—those games didn’t feel like entertainment, they felt like permission to live somewhere else. I played them. I played and played and played.
These days I fire up Civilization 5 or GTA or Mass Effect and halfway through I’m wondering if I should be doing something real instead—making money, finding a woman, building something. Back then I never had that thought. I didn’t play Secret of Mana or Chrono Trigger—I lived in them. I knew every pixel, every corner, every shortcut, every glitch, every enemy. Not just knew. Loved.
When I got stuck I didn’t just load the next game. I bought magazines for tips, called Nintendo’s hotline, sat with the problem until it broke. There was no internet, just me and whatever was blocking the way. And when a game ended, it didn’t end. I played it again, with friends, alone, until I’d wrung everything out of it. Then I’d pop it into an Action Replay and see what the cheat codes could break.
I’d warp through walls in Zelda to hear what NPCs said before I was supposed to meet them. I’d softlock myself in Chrono Trigger trying to skip scenes. I played for seventy-two hours straight because my cartridge reader was broken and I couldn’t save. Not one second of that felt wasted.
Here’s what I actually believe now, and I’ve believed this more and more: the Super Nintendo was the peak. Everything that came after couldn’t touch it. The 16-bit pixels and the chiptune sound—that was the sweet spot where the technical limits forced developers to be creative instead of just throwing power at a problem. When you set the game in motion you knew exactly what you were getting.
Modern games feel like they’re dragging you from one cutscene to the next. The level design is just scaffolding for a story that’s too bloated to work. But put on Super Mario Kart at a party, or Super Bomberman, or Super Street Fighter II, and suddenly those pixels turn into universes. The sprites become characters. The chiptunes become anthems. It happens instantly.
I can’t look at an N64 or Dreamcast game now without wondering how we didn’t laugh ourselves sick at those polygon triangles. But sit me in front of Star Ocean or Probotector or Parodius and I swear my heart rate actually changes. My hands know what to do before my brain catches up.
I thought each console generation would only get better. Club Nintendo magazine and those hype videos about the N64—they did their job. I sold my SNES and everything I owned for it. Nintendo knew exactly how to manipulate me. The marketing worked.
I don’t regret the N64 exactly. Ocarina of Time and Majora’s Mask—those mattered. Super Smash Bros mattered. But lying awake at night I think about my SNES. What it was. What I gave up.
For the past few weeks I’ve been in Facebook groups trading old consoles and games. Buying them back, one at a time, paying way too much, because that’s what they cost now. And yeah, I’m becoming that person. The one who’s seen enough generations go by to know nothing’s getting better. Maybe I’m just having a midlife thing, romanticizing the past, warping it, making myself the tragic figure in a story that’s probably just… regular. Maybe I’ll end up like one of those old men at the window yelling at kids for not understanding how good it was. Little useless shits.
But I was twelve. I called into a TV show and won a Super Nintendo and a green Game Boy. That was the best day of my life. And all I want now is to be twelve again and step into those worlds for the first time, knowing nothing.
I stumbled onto the Japanese charts the way you find anything interesting online—by accident, clicking through something, and suddenly realizing you’ve entered a completely different world. The bands here aren’t just different from what gets played in the West. They operate by entirely different rules. NMB48, B´z, JYU—names that feel like they’re from another planet, and the music backs that up.
What gets me most is how specific everything is. Japanese pop doesn’t reach for universality the way Western pop does. It knows exactly who it’s for and commits completely. The idol groups especially—they’re constructed with this mechanical precision. Personalities designed, choreography drilled, every element controlled. There’s something unsettling about that level of curation, but there’s real craft underneath it too.
The production is lush and strange in ways that sound almost psychedelic, though it’s not actually drugs in the mix—just producers operating without whatever taste orthodoxy constrains Western pop. Different reverb choices, different synth stacking, no anxiety about sounding too cute or too dense. The result is this hyper-colored, almost overwhelming pop that’s nothing like the clean, minimalist production you hear dominating American charts.
I started listening to these tracks the same way I look at Japanese design: not trying to fit them into familiar categories, just watching how a completely different set of values creates something that makes sense inside itself. Western taste isn’t the baseline here. The music is made first for Japanese ears, Japanese bodies, a Japanese moment. What travels beyond that is almost incidental.
It’s a useful reminder that pop music is radically cultural. Our charts aren’t natural or universal—they’re just what we’ve gotten used to. Japanese kids aren’t weird for loving these songs. We’re weird for not seeing why they’d be anything but obvious.
I keep thinking about what else I’m missing just from staying inside the English-language bubble.
I keep coming back to Truck Torrence’s work. He posts under 100% Soft, which is the perfect name for it: takes characters from every dark corner of pop culture and softens them. Pastels, rounded lines, a relentless gentleness. The Ghostbusters arriving at a tea party. The Bride from Kill Bill rendered as if she’s apologizing. Shaun of the Dead characters as if the zombie apocalypse is just background noise they’ll laugh about later.
What stops me short is that there’s no winking. Most of the grimdark-to-pastel work I see online has this look to it, like the artist is checking if you’re laughing at the joke. Torrence just does it. The drawings are solid, the colors are chosen with thought, and he moves on. No performance, no claim.
I think he’s interested in the person underneath the character. Who is the Bride when she’s not killing people? What do the Ghostbusters look like at rest? It’s not subversive or clever. It’s just a different way of looking.
I don’t think I’d want to make work like this. Sustained cuteness requires a kind of discipline I’m not built for. But I respect it, and I keep going back to these images. There’s something calming about watching someone take characters you know — their weight, their history, their darkness — and just… soften them. Render them gentle. Not as commentary. As fact.
I can’t sleep so I’m deep in the Arte archive at three in the morning, looking for something to keep my brain from looping. I find this documentary about ISIS—specifically how they funded themselves. Not the usual terror doc. This one’s about money.
The scale of it hits differently. They were making around ten million a day through illegal oil sales alone. Not a thousand, not a hundred thousand. Ten million. A day. That’s not a cell in some basement. That’s an actual economy, just one built on extortion and blood. Someone had to manage it. Someone had to think about margins and cash flow.
It reframes everything. Al-Qaeda suddenly looks small, almost quaint—a scrappy outfit by comparison. You realize what you were actually fighting wasn’t some shadowy force. It was something with spreadsheets. Logistics. Supply chains. The bureaucracy of terror.
That’s what stays with you. Not the violence—documentaries about this stuff traffic in that already. It’s the bureaucratic reality of it. The evil was banal, which somehow makes it worse.
I don’t know what to do with that information. You can’t unknow it. But it changes how you think about the whole thing—what we fought, what we were fighting, what we pretended to fight. It’s not clean. It never is.
Fell down a Harajuku Hipster rabbit hole this week. It’s a Tumblr that just collects kids from Tokyo, Seoul, Shanghai—whoever’s walking around with the kind of confidence that comes from not checking if what you’re wearing is supposed to work together. Schoolgirls in Shibuya layering colors that shouldn’t sit next to each other. Models from Seoul who make you think they’ve figured something out. Guys from China in outfits that look like three different aesthetics somehow became one person.
I used to think style was about taste, about knowing the rules well enough to break them correctly. Watching these kids, I don’t think they know any rules. They just got dressed and didn’t apologize about it. That indifference to consensus—that’s what separates the people who look like themselves from the people who look like an idea of what they should be. Most fashion blogs get that backwards. They show you people who nailed it. This just shows you people being themselves, and somehow that’s more interesting.
I’d been down a rabbit hole of documentaries—heavy ones, atrocity after atrocity—when I stumbled into this German TV show around midnight. Durch die Nacht, “Through the Night,” just follows two guys, a rapper named Haftbefehl and comedian Oliver Polak, driving around Offenbach at night. The episode I watched jumped between depression, döner kebab, mothers, carnivals, Jewish history, and Udo Jürgens like it was all part of the same conversation, which I guess it was.
Late-night browsing—whether streets or screens—lands you in strange places. This had that no-thesis quality, just a mood. Two people who clearly know each other, a car, darkness outside, talking the way people actually talk when nobody’s watching. No interview structure, no payoff designed in advance.
What caught me was how human it felt after hours of scrolling through atrocity documentation. Not healing—I’m not naive enough to think döner and banter fix how the world looks. But there was something about it that stuck, some small reminder that people still drive around at night, eat, talk about their mothers, and occasionally make each other laugh.
I remember watching Missy Elliott’s videos and there was always this kid dancing. She had moves that made you sit there thinking about how unfair it was that anyone could move like that. I must have watched those clips a hundred times, and she was always there, just completely in control. I didn’t know her name—just that she was impossibly good at something that seemed simple until you tried to understand it.
That kid was Alyson Stoner. Years later I found out she’d gone on to become a choreographer and director, the kind of person who translates that natural gift into an actual career. Not long ago she put together a tribute to Missy with her crew, and it was genuinely good.
There’s something about those Missy Elliott videos that feels untouchable now, sealed in a moment that won’t come again. But seeing Stoner return to that space, still moving like she always did—it made me realize why we were all watching in the first place. She still had it.
’When You Were Young’ was the sound of 2006 for me. I listened to it enough times that I probably heard it more than my own voice, the kind of song that doesn’t wear out no matter how much you play it. The whole Sam’s Towns album hit like that — massive, perfect — and The Killers never made anything that big again.
A heartbreak was happening around then. The song became its soundtrack, maybe because it was playing at the right moment, maybe because I decided it should be. Either way, I couldn’t listen to anything else for months. Every time it came on, it felt like Brandon Flowers was describing something he couldn’t possibly understand about me, which is probably how you feel about any song that actually matters.
The Killers didn’t save me. But the song was there, and that was enough.
“Majora’s Mask” was always the weirder Zelda. Three-day cycles, a moon descending toward the earth, the same world recycled and reshaped across the loops. Most people point to “Ocarina of Time” as the peak, but anyone who actually spent time with “Majora’s Mask” understood it was the stranger masterpiece — darker, more ambitious, uncompromising about what it wanted to do.
When Nintendo announced the 3DS remake in 2015, it made sense. The N64 original had technical limits — frame rate stutters, 3D that was mostly unusable. The new 3DS had improved processing, a display that actually handled depth without forcing you to hold it at a specific angle, and a real second stick instead of that circle pad compromise. The hardware finally matched what the game was trying to achieve.
The game’s cycle structure — three days repeating, every NPC on their own schedule, the same locations seen from different angles across the loops — worked better on a portable system where you could drop in and out. You could actually live in those three days, track the minor character arcs between cycles, sit with the game’s specific sadness. A handheld version made the design breathe in a way the console original couldn’t.
The new 3DS itself was that rare hardware revision that justified its existence. Swappable plates meant you could change its appearance. The buttons were sharper, the processing faster, nothing compromised. It was the kind of update that said Nintendo had listened to what worked and what didn’t, rather than just chasing sales.
I remember thinking that if you were going to revisit a classic, this was the right choice at the right moment. Something about that grim Zelda felt more true — not the safer heroism of “Ocarina of Time,” but something that actually refused to look away.
The “Style” video is this perfect moment where Taylor figures out how to be cool — actually cool, not trying-hard cool. She’s bored, detached, moving through rooms in a 70s haze with some guy who doesn’t matter. The video gets it right: that feeling of moving through someone else’s life like you’re already gone, already elsewhere.
It’s a masterclass in casual indifference, which is harder to pull off than actual passion. The song builds this architecture of not caring — the production is meticulous, the melody is barbed, and the whole thing moves like she’s barely paying attention when she’s clearly calculated every second of it. That’s the real trick. That’s what the song is actually about, and what makes it land.
Every Friday I make a list. Ten things to do, ten small reasons to think the weekend might be worth something. Here’s what I’ve got this week.
Charli XCX covered “Shake It Off” and it’s better than it has any right to be. Taylor’s version is in your head already, burned there by radio and grocery stores, but XCX does something that makes it sound fresh again. Different vibe entirely. Good for driving.
Don’t buy the Kanye Yeezy 750 Boosts. They look like the corrective shoes my friend had to wear in grade school because one leg was shorter than the other. I genuinely don’t know who asked Kanye for these or why he delivered — he’s usually got good taste but he committed to making something aggressively terrible. Almost impressive, honestly.
There’s a party at Prince Charles called I ♥ Engtanz if you’re in Berlin. It’s for people who want to stand physically close to strangers without it feeling weird. Starts at eight. Get dressed up a little. The whole concept is just proximity and music as an excuse to be bodies in the same room.
Fap Fapp is an app for…well, the name says it. It teaches you things about spending time alone. That’s the entire product. No judgment, just existence.
Riot Simulator exists so you can destroy things with no consequences. You’re the crowd, everything else is an obstacle. That’s the design and it’s weirdly satisfying.
Read “If You Aren’t Rich by 45, Give Up” because it tells you something true: time is the real enemy, not effort or luck. You’re in a race that started before you were paying attention and the finish line is visible. The prize is waiting — a nice house, a nice life, the quiet contentment of trying hard enough. Pick your move now while you still can.
Silicon Valley season 2 is coming and I’m more excited about it than seems reasonable. These people and their terrible startup deserve more episodes.
Stop shaving completely. All of it. Seriously think about the hours you’ve spent removing hair from yourself or paying someone else to. That’s time you could use for literally anything else. More hair is objectively better.
Eat only blue food all weekend. Blueberries, ice cream, a döner soaked in food coloring. Make it work. You probably won’t wake up as a Smurf but the idea is funny enough.
There’s a Tumblr called 35-24-35 that’s thin women in very small bikinis and nothing else. I’m sitting here with a burger dripping on my stomach watching people who’d never eat one, and something about that feels honest. Friday night as it actually happens.
I’m no good at waiting. The gap between seasons felt like stolen time, just refreshing pages that had nothing new to say. Game of Thrones had this gravity to it though — the kind of show that made the wait feel less like patience and more like withdrawal.
A documentary called A Day in the Life covered one full shooting day. Nothing revolutionary about the concept, just the crew working through take after take, the rehearsals and adjustments, the small conversations that build a scene. The actual work is visible beneath what ends up on screen — the accumulated exhaustion that looks effortless when you’re watching at home.
I’d put it on when the wait felt impossible to justify. Not because it solved anything, but watching people work at something with that kind of care — the repetition, the exhaustion — made the waiting feel less stupid. Made me remember why I cared in the first place.
I’ll be honest: I loved sitcoms in the nineties. Friends, Scrubs, Malcolm in the Middle. The ones that actually felt like something. Then television got cuter and meaner. HIMYM showed up and something in comedy died—some essential thing about character and warmth, replaced entirely by irony and smugness.
Fresh Off the Boat grabbed me in a way I didn’t expect.
Eddie Huang is a hip-hop obsessed kid from D.C. who shows up in nineties Florida when his Taiwanese parents open a steakhouse in the suburbs. He doesn’t fit anywhere. The kids at school mock his lunch. The one Black kid suddenly sees his social ladder within reach. Girls look right through him. He wants in and everyone’s keeping him out. Simple setup. Eddie’s a lovable underdog—and I mean genuinely lovable, not some manufactured indie-film underdog. He’s just a kid who wants to belong.
Randall Park plays his father as a man desperately trying to be American. Constance Wu plays his mother as someone genuinely unhinged. The show has no laugh track and it’s not a joke factory. It’s about a family surviving in whitebread suburbia without losing themselves, which is funny because these people feel like people.
I stopped believing in sitcoms years ago. Then I watched this and remembered why they matter: not for jokes or clever premises, but because you actually want to spend time with these people. Eddie’s desperation to fit in reads as real. His mother is absolutely feral in the best way. That’s the whole show.
I’ve only seen two episodes. But I’m already committed to seeing where this goes. There’s something honest about how Eddie’s treated—not as a punchline, just as a kid who doesn’t belong. Everyone’s been that kid.
His mother alone is worth the price of admission. That character is legitimately incredible.
The thought experiment is stupid but inevitable: what would Friends look like if someone rebooted it in 2015? The core stuff wouldn’t change—the breakups, the desperation, the way they can’t function without each other. But everything else would invert. Rachel’s closet becomes a studied Instagram aesthetic, the coffee shop turns aggressively artisanal, and Ross somehow acquires a podcast nobody listens to. The characters would stay identical underneath, still needing and failing in the same ways. Just now they’d know they were performing it.
We get superstars fed to us constantly — through competitions and viral moments and carefully managed brands. And I’ve chased enough of them to figure out it doesn’t matter. The people who actually change how I think and work are almost never the ones with the biggest platforms. They’re photographers I found by accident, musicians nobody’s heard of, designers solving problems sideways. That’s the group that matters.
As someone who makes things, I notice the difference pretty clearly. The superstars worth paying attention to aren’t famous because they won a competition or went viral — they matter because their work teaches me something. Maybe it’s how they use color. Maybe it’s the way they see space. Maybe it’s a solution to a problem I didn’t even know how to approach. These aren’t people I follow because everyone else is watching them. They’re people I follow because they’re actually doing something.
Most of them are complete strangers. Some are people I know personally. A few are probably dead. The common thread is they’re the ones whose work I’m actually thinking about when I’m working myself. The rest of it — the ones with the biggest numbers and the most polished brands — that’s just noise, even when they’re genuinely talented.
I stopped trying to figure out who the “real” superstars are a while back. I just pay attention to whoever’s making something that pulls at me. That’s the whole system right there.
Kitsune Mura is a village in Japan full of small, beautiful foxes living together. They spend their time chasing camera operators, which is already perfect, but the idea keeps pulling at me: what if I just sold everything, got a fox costume, and moved there? Integrated myself completely and stayed forever. Became one of them. Because after thinking about it for years, I’m convinced foxes are the best animal on earth.
Sitting at your window with mediocre weed, watching it turn to ash, and all you really want is someone to share it with. Not making a thing out of it, not performance, just someone who gets it, who’d sit down and smoke without needing to talk around it. That’s the whole fantasy when you’re alone at night.
High There! is supposed to be the answer. It’s basically Tinder for stoners — sign up, swipe through people looking for smoking partners, find someone locally who isn’t completely unbearable, and theoretically you’ve got company. That’s the whole app.
Except it’s Android only right now, which is irritating because the people you’d actually want to smoke with probably have iPhones. Maybe Apple thinks it’s too much of a risk. Maybe they’re protecting the brand from the stoner association. The funny part is that Apple came out of actual hippie culture — the real thing, not the lifestyle-aesthetic version — so you’d think they’d be past worrying about it by now. But apparently the corporation just can’t get there.
Miley Cyrus made “Tongue Tied” to tell you exactly what she thought about still being Hannah Montana. Not with words, but with movement, with skin, with direct stares at the camera. It was 2010 and she was done with the child-star agreement—you know, the one where the audience gets to keep you frozen in time in exchange for career opportunities.
The video isn’t subtle. She’s kissing women, dancing in ways that would never make network TV, existing in a space designed to be uncomfortable for the parents who’d grown up watching her. It’s crude on purpose. The sexuality is the point, not a side effect. She was using her body as a tool to break something.
What I respect about it is how deliberate it is. She understood exactly what she was doing and who she was breaking free from. This wasn’t artless teenage rebellion or shock value for its own sake. It was strategy. She was reclaiming the narrative about herself—about her body, her sexuality, her right to be something other than what people had decided she was supposed to be.
The weird part was that this process had to be public. Her transformation, her sexuality, her growing up—all of it had to happen on stage. So maybe making it explicitly sexual was the only way to actually own it.
Asics flew me out to London last weekend for some anniversary thing—twenty-five years of the Gel-Lyte III, European launch of a new Tiger colorway. The event was at one of those deliberately secret locations, just an address texted when you arrived, which turned out to be a basement somewhere in the city with an arcade setup and proper Japanese food.
Plenty of Asahi Superdry on hand, which is always the right answer, and green tea for people thinking ahead. The arcade wasn’t novelty stuff—you could actually sink into the games. Some sneakers had this glow-in-the-dark thing that worked better than you’d expect, which is the only time I’ve seen that tech look genuinely cool on a shoe.
I spent most of the night with Leni from For The Story, Christiane from InTouch, and the turnschuh.tv crew. We exhausted the arcade, hit the sauna at the hotel when it seemed appropriate, then eventually ended up in the bar doing that thing where you’re the last people talking because nobody wants to be the first to leave. These nights are good because they don’t announce themselves—you just look back and realize you had one.
There’s this thing that happens when you’ve been online long enough: you start recognizing the patterns instantly. Dead blogs announce themselves. The generic WordPress template nobody bothered to customize. The endless scroll of stolen Reddit posts, reblogged memes, BuzzFeed listicles with one sentence of commentary attached—usually just “Lol” or “Same.” That’s the entire post. That’s someone’s contribution to the internet today.
I’ve been clicking through blogs for two decades and I’ve watched them hollow out completely. There’s so much content now that it’s easier to just aggregate than to think. Why write something of your own when you can grab whatever’s trending and throw it on your site? It gets engagement. It gets traffic. Nobody seems to care that there’s nobody home behind the screen, that the whole thing could run on autopilot.
Some of these exist entirely to discuss blogging itself. How to monetize. What software to use. Which plugins drive traffic. It’s this weird hall of mirrors where the medium became the message in the most literal, exhausting way—everyone recycling the same tutorials, the same life hacks, the same monetization advice because actually having something to say is apparently too much work.
The copying gets to me. Someone finds a good piece elsewhere, reprints it almost exactly—rewrites a sentence, changes some adjectives, rearranges a paragraph—then posts it with no link back, no credit, no acknowledgment. Just theft dressed as curation. The whole early internet was built on a weird generosity of linking, of credit, of the idea that lifting people up was how the ecosystem thrived. That completely vanished. Now it’s just mining.
What’s genuinely depressing is how many blogs have zero personality. No point of view. No sense that a human being with actual opinions lives there. The author photos are missing. The About pages read like SEO copy. You could shuffle the posts in any order and lose nothing. And somehow these ones get the most followers. They’re the McDonald’s of blogging—inoffensive, predictable, instantly forgettable.
Then there’s the dishonesty. You see a product recommendation and there’s no disclosure that the author got paid for it. Maybe it was a sponsorship. Maybe a commission. The reader has no idea because apparently honesty doesn’t monetize as well. If you’re making money off something, say it. It’s the most basic contract between you and the people spending time on your site.
Most bloggers with any real reach have just stopped thinking. They amplify whatever’s already loud. They didn’t form an opinion—they just grabbed the one everyone’s already making and repeated it back slightly quieter. Zero stakes. Zero friction. It’s participation without actual thought.
The design is another tragedy. I understand wanting your site to look special, but the basic deal is still: Can I find what I’m actually looking for? Most blogs are labyrinths built so the creator feels clever. Recent posts scattered. Archives buried. Everything “artistic” and unusable. It drives me crazy.
Some sites are basically just advertising platforms now. More than half the posts are sponsored. The entire thing exists to rent out attention to brands. That’s fine—everyone’s got bills—but at least own it. The fiction that there’s some authentic vision behind a feed that’s two-thirds promotional is just insulting to everyone clicking through.
What kills me is the dishonesty seeped into everything. Plagiarism. Fabricated expertise. Manufactured enthusiasm. Wholesale lifting from other people and calling it discovery. I get why people do it. The internet’s crowded. It’s tempting to cut corners. But every dead blog still getting engagement, every repackaged idea, every stolen post—it all thickens the fog a little more. Somewhere under all that noise there used to be something worth reading, and now you have to work to find it.
This video made the rounds of Japanese women saying they’d date foreign guys. The setup’s transparently built on a fantasy—the one where being Western, foreign, and vaguely interesting-because-you’re-different automatically means something. The video basically says: no, that’s not how it works. Attraction is specific, individual, indifferent to your origin story.
Should’ve been obvious. It was obvious. Except hearing it from women felt different than just knowing it was true.
I’ve spent years pulling visual language from Japanese culture—in design work, in what I look at, in what I’m into sexually if I’m being honest. Somewhere I confused my attraction to the culture with what women from that culture might want from me. Which is stupid when you say it out loud, but takes longer to actually feel stupid about it.
The funny part is the video didn’t kill what I’m attracted to. It just made it less interesting because it made it more real. Less about me and some fantasy version of Tokyo, more about actual women who don’t exist to confirm anything about me.
Which is probably better. Just doesn’t feel like it.
We rented out a hotel sauna in London for an afternoon. Me, Simon, Hikmet, Dominik, a few others. People I do stupid things with. The idea was straightforward: half-naked people in an overheated room throwing white towels around until something gave. We hit that limit in about twenty minutes.
The physical reality was hard to ignore. My gut jiggling in slow motion, waves of damp flesh with every movement. Everyone else somehow still looked composed, or at least didn’t look like they were melting. That’s the point where you stop feeling self-conscious and start feeling like a cartoon character in a steam room.
A hotel employee opened the door. I watched his face work through it: confusion first, then understanding, then professional courtesy. In that moment he became the owner of a story, something he’d probably tell for a while. He asked us to leave very politely, but you could read what he was thinking.
We got dressed and left.
I don’t think about it much anymore, but when I do, it’s not as a funny anecdote. It’s a moment where a group of people decided to be completely ridiculous and then actually followed through, no apologies, no pretense. There’s something worth keeping in that kind of commitment.
Those fifty-cent ramen packets with the shelf life of forever—they taste better than they have any right to. There’s always been a stack somewhere, backup food for when money runs out or I stop caring about effort. David Chang’s Lucky Peach video takes that bottom-shelf staple and transforms it into lasagne, which is the kind of absurd alchemy that happens when a chef with real skill decides cheap food is worth taking seriously.
There’s something honest about that move. Proving that what everyone ignores can actually be interesting, that you don’t need fancy ingredients or a reservation to eat something worth thinking about. The video isn’t really about lasagne or ramen. It’s about taking what’s already in your cupboard and deciding it matters.
Kim Laughton deleted the textures from Grand Theft Auto V and drove around Los Santos with a camera, documenting what the city looks like underneath all the visual detail. What you get is pure geometry—the wireframe skeleton of a place, all the structure and none of the seduction. It’s depressing in exactly the way you’d expect a city stripped of everything that makes it feel alive to be depressing.
The game works through texture, and I mean that literally. Everything about GTA V’s design depends on surface: the weathering on the buildings, the sheen on the cars, the ads screaming from every available surface. That’s what makes Los Santos feel like a real place, like somewhere worth exploring or corrupting or just existing in. It’s overwhelming by design. Take all that away and you’re driving through a diagram, a layout with no ornament, no reason to be anywhere.
What gets me is how little separates the two. The underlying structure is identical, but without the texture layer the whole emotional quality of the space collapses. It starts to feel post-apocalyptic, like you’re driving through a city after everyone left, or before the world was finished. Just infrastructure with no life. Just the plan without any flesh on it.
It’s smart work because it makes visible something you never really see while playing: how much of the game’s world is painted on. The feeling of excess, of a space too rich and detailed to take in, that’s entirely surface. Strip that away and the game reveals that it’s always been a lot smaller than it felt.
I actually love Mean Girls. Not in a guilty-pleasure way, but genuinely love it — it’s sharper and funnier than films three times its budget, and everyone in it is perfectly cast. So when I heard they made a mobile game, I knew I was going down. “Mean Girls: The Game” looks like a soulless tie-in cash grab, which is exactly what it is.
But I’m playing it anyway. I’ll download it, watch the film on repeat while I’m grinding through whatever passes for gameplay, probably eat ice cream straight from the container. I’ll waste hours on something that’s almost certainly terrible. And I won’t regret a second of it.
There’s a sketch by an artist named Takumi of what a Studio Ghibli theme park could look like. I’ve been staring at it because it captures something that actual theme parks don’t even try for anymore: the feeling that you’re stepping into a place that was already there before you showed up.
Ghibli worlds have weight. The bathhouse in Spirited Away works because you can feel the damp, the age, the purposes it’s been put to. Everything’s cluttered. Everything serves multiple functions. You believe that spirits actually live there, that the spaces existed before Chihiro walked in. That’s the opposite of theme park design, which is all optimization and throughput — every square foot engineered to move people along, to catch them at the gift shop.
A real Ghibli park would have to betray everything that makes those worlds work. The moment you try to build it at scale, to make it functional, to herd crowds through it, you remove the deadends and side streets and forgotten corners that make you feel like you’re visiting rather than consuming. You’d end up with immaculate theming and nothing else — all costume, no life.
So maybe the best version is the one that never gets built. Takumi’s sketch gets to stay unspoiled, preserved in pixels, existing in the imagination of everyone who’s stared at it long enough to dream themselves inside. Some things are better left unrealized.
I got real into Marina and the Diamonds a few years back. “I Am Not a Robot,” “Mowgli’s Road,” “Oh No!”—there was something about those tracks that just worked. Even the ones that didn’t hit as hard had this weird sincerity underneath them that made you believe she meant it.
Then you sort of forget about artists like that. You move on, listen to other things, and they become a memory. But Marina keeps dropping new stuff, and somehow it always brings you back. “I’m a Ruin” is her lane—glossy electropop with hooks that catch you, lyrics that feel like they mean something without trying too hard. She’s not reinventing anything. She doesn’t need to.
What I like about Marina is that she doesn’t seem to care about being the biggest or the most important. She just makes music that’s hers, and that’s enough. You either get it or you don’t. There’s something cool about that kind of indifference. It’s confidence, but the quiet kind.
Every time I see her name pop up with a new track, there’s this small thing that happens—this moment where you remember why you liked her in the first place. Not everyone does that for you.
I didn’t buy this book for the art history. There’s a naked girl smoking on the cover, and that was the whole pitch. Opened it and got what I was looking for—more naked girls, more weed smoke, same unbothered vibe.
Richard Kern’s been photographing downtown culture since the ’90s, documenting the people orbiting music and fashion and art. Contact High collects mostly work from the ’90s and early 2000s—images of people very high, not performing for the camera, just existing. The pictures don’t apologize. No soft focus, no narrative, just bodies and smoke and that specific contentment that comes from being thoroughly stoned. Kern knew how to look at that without blinking.
Twenty-five euros for the book. It gives you what Kern does best: beautiful people, naked, high, unbothered. No theory, no apology, no pretense.
A woman posting online gets maybe a dozen messages a day. Guys asking her to do things, insults dressed as flirtation, pictures she didn’t ask for, threats wrapped in compliments. Kelly Svirakova, a YouTuber under the name MissesVlog, stopped quietly deleting them.
She made a segment called “Kelly kommentiert Kommentare”—Kelly comments on comments—where she reads what actually landed in her inbox, classical music playing underneath. Just reads it straight. No outrage, no mercy, no turning the thing into a moment.
“I want to cum in your face.” “You need a real man to heal your head.” “Suck my dick?” The grammar barely registers. The intent is always the same.
What gets me is the flatness of it. She doesn’t react with rage or perform victimhood. She just shows what the comments are, which somehow hits harder than any reaction. Here’s what I receive. Here’s what these men write when they think it’s anonymous. Here’s the internet.
Late nights in LA look nothing like what America is supposed to be. Miller Rodriguez photographed people moving through lit rooms and bright streets doing exactly what they want—no darkness to hide in, no basement door policy, just pure visibility and zero apologies. The transgression is all out front. There’s something actually darker about that kind of honesty, about being seen, than any basement ever was.
There’s a Backstreet Boys movie and I’ve lost my mind in exactly the right way.
The original post was just pure reaction in German — four sentences of someone losing it about five men they’ve been in love with forever. Nick, Kevin, Brian, A.J., Howie. A film. I’m sitting with this the way you sit with things too good to be true, waiting for someone to tell you it’s getting cancelled.
I’ve been doing the pop culture thing long enough to understand something about desire. You want what the system tells you to want, then you want what the system tells you is shameful, and if you’re lucky you eventually stop apologizing. The Backstreet Boys have always been in the shameful column for me. Seventeen years old and certain about five men I’d never meet. And then thirty years pass and you realize you were never wrong — you just understood something before you had language for it. A studio greenlit a movie about them, which means somewhere, someone admitted it too.
The logistics of watching it are secondary. The internet has pathways. What matters is that it exists, that five grown men who spent their whole lives making people feel something decided to do this. Permission, finally.
I’m not sorry about any of this. I wasn’t in 1998 and I’m not now.
I’ve been following Tove Styrke through a few really strong singles—’Call My Name,’ ’High and Low,’ ’Million Pieces’—and there’s a quality to her work that reveals itself on the third or fourth listen. ’Ego’ is her doing that sparse, Tokyo-at-night aesthetic, the kind of pop production where nothing’s wasted. Sweden’s got people who understand that better than most.
There’s a Rihanna issue of i-D Magazine and some weeks she looks like the coolest person alive and other weeks she looks like a disaster, but both versions of her deserve to be on my wall.
I tell myself I’m above wanting things. Ate local greens for five years, dismissed fast food, judged people staring at their phones on the train. But then McDonald’s started selling Big Mac sauce in bottles—in Australia, naturally—and I realized I’d been lying the whole time. The sauce was always going to be good. Admitting it is just cheaper than pretending.
The hunger for things doesn’t disappear, it just gets more expensive. A camera with 50 megapixels because your phone isn’t enough. A smart ring that shows you how many people liked your tweet in real time—yes, someone invented hardware specifically for the feeling of sitting on a train wondering if anyone saw your post. A clip-on lens that promises to make your iPhone photos look professional. These are objects that say something about who you want to be without you having to explain it.
And then there’s the stuff that’s just funny. Kim Kardashian made a photo book of selfies and somehow convinced people to buy it. That’s genius in its purest form. A Nike Air Force 1 in white and red for Black History Month looks clean, whatever that means anymore. A Hello Kitty collaboration with a Japanese streetwear brand feels like it shouldn’t work but it does. Louis C.K.’s comedy special costs five dollars online and it’s probably the best five dollars I’ve spent.
Somewhere in California, there’s a marijuana vending machine. The future they promised us turned out to be: convenience, automation, every need turned into a product you can want on demand. It’s perfect. It’s ridiculous. It’s exactly right.
I spent years convincing myself I was above the hunger. Turns out I just had better taste in what I wanted to want.
My roommate Leni is starting a blog. She had one years ago—fashion and lifestyle stuff—but it just faded the way most blogs do. Not a dramatic collapse, just a quiet descent into irrelevance. She stopped posting, forgot about it, moved on.
Now she’s launching “For The Story.” Same subject, but this time across three languages: German, English, Russian. Which is very Leni—ambitious without being calculated, just sincere. She doesn’t explain decisions like that, she just makes them.
There’s nothing strategic about it. No audience research, no brand positioning, no waiting for the perfect moment. She cares about fashion, about stories, about whatever she’s thinking about, and she wants to write about it. If people read it, great. If not, that’s also fine. That’s actually the healthiest way to start something—the moment you’re optimizing for an audience that might not exist, you’ve already lost the point.
I don’t know if it’ll last. Leni’s inconsistent and most blogs die anyway. But something about starting again, knowing you failed before, knowing it might fail again, and doing it anyway—that’s the only way anything actually works.
In Harajuku, the animals dress better than Berlin’s entire fashion scene. Machi the fox and Neko the cat are there listening to MUCC, existing in a reality the rest of us barely touch. It’s the first thing that hits you about Japan—everything there seems to know something we haven’t figured out yet.
Shirobako is just about making anime. Rooms full of people drawing frame by frame, the impossible labor of it, and somehow you end up caring about every single decision. You sit down for one episode and wake up at 3 AM having forgotten about anything else. I’ve been caught on BOMI lately too, some track with a title my browser won’t translate, but it gets in your head and stays there.
I found Sailor Moon for the Super Nintendo in a bargain bin years ago, hours from anywhere, and I played it until someone actually screamed at me to stop. You run left and right and hit things and it’s perfect. Plastic Little by Satoshi Urushihara has that same pull—manga about a girl catching whales in space, and he loves drawing breasts exactly as much as I do. No apology, no irony. The sexuality just exists, matter-of-fact and unapologetic.
Michael Rougier’s photographs of Tokyo in 1964—teenagers in full rebellion, pure otherness in black and white—those images stay with me more than anything recent. That’s the Japan that gets under your skin. Then there’s Hikari Shiina, who knows exactly what men want and builds her work around it without any distance or apology. Just the thing itself, direct and honest.
What Japan has that Europe can’t manage is permission. Garlic cola exists—Jat’s Takko, actual garlic flavor, no explanation. The Tokyo Fetish Festival happens. Everything coexists without the need for irony-coating or apology. You see a fox in Harajuku dressed better than you and nobody’s trying to make it a joke. It just is.
Kanye brought Paul McCartney and Rihanna into the studio and came out with ’FourFiveSeconds.’ The song sounds like nothing any of them usually make—it’s quiet and kind of broken. The video’s black and white, everything restrained and held at a distance.
The song works because nobody’s trying to prove anything. Rihanna sounds like she’s asking a question nobody knows how to answer. McCartney barely registers, which is exactly right. It’s the kind of track that shouldn’t exist but does, and you understand why once you hear it.
I’ve never been interested in Kanye’s narratives about his own genius. That gets old fast. But sometimes the actual work surprises you—moments where what he made matters more than what he thinks he made. This is one of those.
The video stays with you because everything in it is minimized. No spectacle, no proof of concept. Just four minutes that feel heavier than they should, like everyone involved knew this shouldn’t work but made it anyway, and the video’s only documenting that impossible fact.
Someone had the idea to get a bunch of artists to each redraw a scene from the original Pokémon opening. Not remake it in a coherent way — just hand off different chunks to different people and see what happened. The result was like watching your childhood memory get processed through a broken photocopier, twisted and refracted through everyone’s personal style until it barely resembled what you remembered.
You’d recognize the framework. Pikachu is still there somewhere, Misty shows up, the general shape of that intro you’ve seen a thousand times. But then the artists would take their moment and run with it, and suddenly you’re looking at something unhinged — proportions wrong in ways that shouldn’t be funny but are, animation choices that go places the original never considered. Some of them were genuinely polished and beautiful; others were gloriously broken.
I found myself laughing at moments I hadn’t expected to. There’s something about watching artists dismantle something so carefully constructed, so locked in pop-culture amber, and just do whatever they wanted with their piece of it. The individual weirdness stacked up into something that felt less like a tribute and more like a fever dream version of a memory.
The original opening is this perfect artifact — perfectly paced, perfectly scored, the exact right length and energy to sell an entire world and a promise of adventure. Everyone of a certain age has it lodged in their brain. Watching different people interpret tiny sections of it revealed how much of that memory is pure machinery, carefully engineered nostalgia. But it also revealed something else: how much people wanted to play with it, to add their own thing to something that felt untouchable.
That’s what made it work. Not as a coherent product, but as proof that even the most locked-down pieces of culture could still surprise you if you just let people fuck with them a little.
April 12 meant something that year. Season 5 of Game of Thrones was coming and the internet was holding its breath. The trailer had just landed and everyone was watching it, talking about what would come next. You’d see it everywhere—the same excitement, the same countdown. Winter is coming. Winter was definitely coming.
There was something genuine about that moment of collective waiting. Not everyone gets to be excited about exactly the same thing at the same time anymore. You’d plan your evening around it, get your snacks, make sure you were sitting somewhere good. It felt significant in a way that’s hard to explain if you weren’t paying attention.
Looking back on it, that feeling was for a version of the show that never quite arrived. But that specific energy—the sense that something was about to happen—that I remember clearly. That’s what stuck around.
In February 2002 we got home internet for the first time. A 56k modem, which meant that everything moved at the pace of 5 AM, me stumbling home after a terrible party, drunk enough that the world had gone all swimmy and sideways, just trying to get to my bed before I threw up on myself. That’s how slow everything was. You’d click and wait. You’d wait some more. You’d think maybe something broke. Then finally the page would load, ten years later.
I’ve always thought of myself as a maker rather than a consumer — at least that’s what I’ve always told myself. So that same month I got myself a website, nothing fancy, just some pages I’d thrown together in Word about me and the people around me, some of whom were attractive and some of whom really weren’t. I wrote about stupid things. The kinds of stupid things a kid writes about when nobody’s really expecting to read it.
I wrote there for whoever might stumble across it — my older sister, the neighbor’s dog, whoever. I’d ramble about who we’d destroyed in Super Smash Bros that afternoon, which Fanta flavor actually tasted best, whether a girl from another class would let you touch her. Just … kid stuff. Half-formed thoughts. Whatever struck me that day.
Why am I telling you this ancient history? Because it means I’ve been doing this for longer than a decade now. Long enough to watch countless people start blogs and quit. Some of them were actually talented. Most of them probably became plumbers or insurance adjusters or just disappeared entirely. That’s fair.
And yet. Despite spending half my life typing weird thoughts and observations into the internet, I’m surrounded by people who feel this burning need to tell me, constantly and in every possible way, how I’m doing it wrong. How I could be doing it better. These aren’t suggestions — they’re orders dressed up as questions, advice I never asked for, delivered by people who’ve never created a single meaningful thing in their lives.
This blog, or this dispatch, or whatever you want to call it, attracts all kinds. People say I write too much. People say I write too little. That I should be more serious, more irreverent, more provocative, more careful. Too much sex. Not enough sex. Too many opinions. Not enough jokes. I sit there reading these messages and just think: Why would you even tell me this?
I’m genuinely restless in the worst way — this constant anxiety that I’m missing something crucial, that I need to reinvent everything right now, immediately, or I’ll regret it forever. So I try new stuff constantly, ideas that nobody else understands but which make perfect sense to my peculiar brain. Today this blog is one thing. Tomorrow it’s something different. Today it’s serious. Tomorrow it’s frivolous. Today it exists. Tomorrow I’ll burn it down and start over. It’s like trying to find the right position to fall asleep — rolling left, rolling right, rolling left again until finally you find it.
I’m trying to find my place. The place where I can do what I actually want to do, the way I actually want to do it. And somehow, every time, I end up back where I started. That pattern never breaks.
You want to know what that means? It means I’ve tried every single half-baked suggestion anyone’s ever thrown at me. Every piece of advice, every criticism disguised as constructive feedback, every “what you really need to do” from people who’ve accomplished nothing. I’ve tried it all. And you know what? All of it was garbage. Failed experiments. Broken projects. Things I started and abandoned. Ideas that made sense at 3 AM and looked ridiculous in daylight.
Here’s what I’ve learned: If you’ve built something you actually care about — a blog, a YouTube channel, even just a website where you dump your thoughts — and people keep showing up to tell you how you should be doing it differently, then yes, stay somewhat open to feedback. But also ask yourself: who exactly is this person? What have they built? What gives them the right?
You’re where you are because you’ve poured everything into this thing. Your time. Your attention. Your passion. You made choices. You set priorities. You sacrificed things. You kept going when you could have been doing anything else, anything easier, anything more social, anything that would actually pay your bills or impress anyone. But you didn’t. You kept going with this, whatever it is, because you wanted to. Because something in you needed to.
So why should some person who’s never built anything substantial, who’s never committed to anything, who’s never actually tried, get to tell you how to do yours? They don’t know. If they did, they’d be doing it themselves instead of sitting on the sidelines throwing rocks. They’d have their own thing. They’d understand what this actually costs.
I got internet for the first time in February 2002. A lot has changed since then. Technology has changed completely. The internet is barely recognizable compared to what it was. But one thing hasn’t shifted an inch: I still want to scream what I think, what I love, what I hate into the void and actually mean it. I still want to make something that matters to me, even if it matters to no one else.
And if you’re like me — if you’ve got something you’re building, something you care about — then for God’s sake, keep going. Don’t let some person with no skin in the game talk you into doubt. Don’t let their criticism become your roadmap. Keep your eyes on what you actually love and stay with it. That’s the only way any of this survives. That’s the only way any of us survive.
I wasn’t always a Nintendo kid. Early on I was all in on Sega — Sonic, Alex Kidd, Ecco, that whole weird corner of gaming that didn’t become the default way everyone played. Saying you preferred Sega feels like admitting you picked worse, except I didn’t feel like it was worse. It was just different. It was mine.
The Game Gear was objectively a disaster. The screen went dim if you looked at it sideways, batteries evaporated, the thing got hot enough you couldn’t hold it. Even as a kid you knew it was broken. The Game Boy was doing it right — indestructible, boring, practical. The Game Gear was what you wanted if being into things that didn’t make sense was your whole aesthetic.
Never owning one probably sealed it. There’s something about not getting what you wanted as a kid that crystallizes it into permanent preference. I don’t know if I loved Sega or loved the story I told myself about loving Sega, but thirty years later the difference doesn’t matter. It’s the same feeling either way.
Picking the console that lost becomes part of your identity in some dumb way. You’re the person who went sideways. You had taste that didn’t match the market. Most of the time that’s just dressing up a bad bet as principle, but I couldn’t help thinking about it that way. Still can’t. Sega forever, whatever that means.
Katy Perry’s 2015 Super Bowl halftime show was loud and expensive and very committed to being a spectacle. But the only moment I cared about was this backup dancer in a shark costume who clearly had no idea what was happening. His partner was executing the choreography, totally locked in, and this guy was just sort of moving around like he’d woken up seconds before they went live. Not in a funny way—just completely lost. I watched him instead of the actual performance the whole time, and that tells you everything.
I’ve got a PS4 sitting around with GTA V and Dark Souls and all the things you’re supposed to have strong opinions about if you want to be culturally relevant. What am I actually doing? Spending a hundred hours on the toilet playing Fantasy Life on my 3DS. This small, cute game is a colorful, addictive drug and I cannot put it down.
The setup is ridiculous. You’re a layabout living in an attic in some fairy-tale kingdom. One day a sketchy butterfly shows up and essentially forces you to get a job and save the world because the sky is falling and the monsters are getting aggressive.
But underneath all that bubblegum sweetness, there’s a message: your existence is worthless if you’re not working toward something. It doesn’t matter what you do—cook, soldier, carpenter. The point is you have to do something. The game is deeply anti-idleness dressed up as a cute game about fishing.
Visually, it’s not doing anything revolutionary. It’s a 3DS game. The hardware has limits. But the world is so stuffed with charming characters and oddly attentive creatures that you want to live there. The music is genuinely great—it lodges in your brain.
I can’t explain the addiction. You start one more quest thinking “just one more” and suddenly hours have passed and you’ve said that a hundred times. The people here are aggressively endearing. They all have small stories and they all want good things for you. The game feeds you rewards constantly, and right when you think it might get dull, a dozen new quests appear that are stranger and bigger than anything before. More areas to explore. Fish you haven’t caught. Bosses you haven’t killed. Dungeons to clear. Your quest log is perpetually full of requests.
I’ve lost a hundred hours to this thing without noticing and without regret, and I’ve barely started. I haven’t tried most of the job classes. There’s bonus content I haven’t touched. Side quests everywhere. The sheer volume comes at the cost of depth, but that’s not a flaw—it’s the point. Someone needs ten golden apples and you will get them.
If Animal Crossing felt too slow and you grew up playing JRPGs, this is what you’re looking for. It looks like Hello Kitty on a sugar rush, but underneath is something closer to digital cocaine—nostalgia mixed with genuine novelty. It challenges you without frustrating you. Motivates without burning you out. You fall into it immediately.
Paul Robertson and Ivan Dixon took Homer’s drive to the nuclear plant and rendered it in bright, blocky pixels. It’s the intro we’ve all seen countless times, but they made it worth watching again.
The Simpsons has spawned endless versions of this opening, but something landed different here. Maybe it’s just that someone finally made it look genuinely cool while the actual show’s been terrible for years. Or maybe there’s something pure about watching a familiar scene collapse into pure geometry and arcade color.
I could watch it loop forever. Not out of nostalgia or whatever—I’m past that. But because it’s just well-made and knows what it’s doing. That’s the rarest thing.
I thought Yumi Zouma’s “Catastrophe” was a Japanese enka artist. Obviously not. But I’m ten listens in, so something’s working.
The song sounds like everything indie music settled on in the last five years: pleasant, undemanding, a melody that doesn’t try to impress. Just sits there, quiet, not asking anything from you. Soft but not precious.
That initial wrong assumption probably helped. I came in expecting one thing and got another, and somehow the mismatch made it feel like a discovery instead of just another song passing through.
You learn fast in Germany that you can’t repost a photograph without risking legal destruction. Jan Böhmermann found out the hard way when he shared a photo on Twitter—a Nazi, shot by photographer Martin Langer, nothing crazy. The cease-and-desist came immediately. A thousand euros for one tweet.
It’s alien if you’ve spent time online anywhere else. The US has Fair Use, which assumes culture needs room to breathe. Germany’s copyright law assumes the opposite. Every image is a potential lawsuit. You can’t share a meme without a lawyer’s letter showing up in your inbox.
Böhmermann’s response was perfect: he remixed the photo and posted it again. Exactly what the law deserves.
The real problem is that German copyright law is ancient and nobody with power wants to fix it. The people making money off the current system are the same people who’d have to change it. So the internet in Germany stays frozen. You can’t reference work freely, can’t build on what’s already there, can’t do any of the sampling and remixing that actually makes internet culture work. It’s written like the law is from 1975.
I’ve lived here long enough to stop expecting it to make sense. You just learn which risks are worth taking and which aren’t. Sometimes it’s a meme. Sometimes it’s Böhmermann remixing a photograph of a Nazi. The law’s too stupid to know the difference anyway.
Ines was at Fashion Week in Berlin, doing what she does—catching people off-guard with the questions that matter. This time she asked who, out of Simon Desue, LeFloid, and Sami Slimani, they’d most want to blow if it meant saving the world. Three options for models, designers, hangers-on, the whole machine.
Sami got nothing. Completely shut out.
There’s something darkly honest about Fashion Week as a venue. Everyone’s there together, everyone knows exactly who these people are, and when you ask something crude and direct, they’ll actually tell you what they think. It’s like a referendum on relevance and sex appeal run in between runway shows. Sami wanted to matter. Apparently in this room, at this moment, he didn’t.
Sometimes you win those kinds of tests. Sometimes you don’t.
She’s all over the place. Berlin TV sets, clubs, airports to warm beaches where she’d rather swim with dolphins than watch them on TV. You’d think someone living like that would get swallowed by the city’s noise and hedonism. There are plenty of people who moved to Berlin young and ambitious, and now they basically live in the basement of Berghain, completely sucked in. But Palina’s different—she’s stayed intact somehow.
She said something about having an internal compass, something that tells her how much of what is good for her. Growing up in Berlin helps with that; you don’t fall apart from too much stimulation when it’s just the landscape you’ve always known. But it’s more than that. She genuinely loves what she does—DJing, the TV work, the constant movement. When her fingers start twitching from not spinning records in a while, that’s what gets her out of the house, not the city pulling at her.
The thing that struck me was how she talks about adventure. Getting lost in a jungle not knowing if there’s a cab after nine at night. Accidentally ordering something so hot it’s barely edible. Swimming and suddenly there’s a dolphin next to you. That’s better than the TV version. She’s chasing that feeling, that moment where the world isn’t mediated through a screen.
Berlin matters to her in a specific way. Not as a tourist version of itself, but as home. The city she grew up in, where she walks the block with friends, plays arcade games, eats well. She’s not running from it or toward it—she just lives there the way you live anywhere, and happens to work there too.
What got me was her answer when I asked if she’d ever worried about losing herself in the city. Not really. She’s got this rootedness that comes from actually being from Berlin, from understanding it as a place with a particular energy, not as a playground. But also: love is her motor. That’s what she said. Love for what she does, for the people she knows, for the sheer strangeness of the world. As long as that’s running, she’s not afraid.
She’s a child of immigrants, grew up in Berlin during its messiest, most complicated decades. When I asked about cultural diversity and all the fear-mongering stuff—the marches, the anger—she didn’t perform a position. She just said she knows how good people can be to each other when there’s respect, and how destructive fear is when people don’t bother to know the facts. The people marching in those protests scare her. That’s real. But she’s not letting that fear run the show.
Small details stick with you. Her hair, which she says is so damaged the split ends have split ends, somehow always looks perfect because she can just twist it into something in two seconds and it looks different every time. Vodka, not beer, is her thing. She’s the person who will try anything—snake soup, a two-meter iguana, whatever’s in front of her. She laughs about herself getting sucked into the internet and not leaving the house for seasons, but then she snaps out of it because there’s too much world to see.
At the end, when asked what to watch next, she said ’Modern Family.’ Manny is the best. That’s the kind of recommendation I trust—not what sounds smart, just what genuinely landed for her.
Back when Uffie still mattered, when Cory Kennedy was the it-girl of the moment, when your sister—now probably deep into whatever drug habit she picked up—was just getting dragged against her will to her first dubstep rave, Hipster Runoff was the most important website in the world. For me, for anyone trying to figure out what actually mattered in that scene, it was the template.
Carles, probably someone no one has ever actually seen in real life, took the current indie darlings and dragged them through the mud. He hated the trends everyone was buying into, especially the early attempts from Lana Del Rey, Grimes, and Lorde to make something of themselves. His hate was irony, his love was cynicism, and the truth lived somewhere in between.
I’m not going to write some earnest essay about what Hipster Runoff even was, because it doesn’t matter anymore. The site is dead—as dead as the weird subcultural category it named. After a year of silence, Carles decided to auction off the whole thing online, which feels about right. That’s how everything ends up these days.
In his farewell, Carles reflected on going back to the old scene locations and finding the same people years later, still wearing the same stupid clothes, still proud of themselves. He wondered if the scene had ever existed or if he was the only one actually living, if maybe he was just naive the whole time. All those feelings about youth and hope and something better had crystallized around this arbitrary cultural immersion. The scene looked identical to how it had always been—same kids, still asking each other if you’d heard this band or caught that opening where they were pouring free drinks. Was the scene real? Had it only existed in their heads? It was nothing and it was everything. He’d lost himself somewhere in it.
The auction of Hipster Runoff tore a hole in my internet heart. It made me realize what I’d been avoiding: those values and hopes from back then are just ruins in my memory now, and most of the people who were there are gone or dead. Carles was my model for how to think about this stuff, and I never even saw his face.
YouTube authenticity is the easiest product to sell because it seems like the one thing you can’t buy—realness, access, a person without a filter. These guys build empires on it. The kids believe it because how could thousands of people be wrong? But Böhmermann, who spent a career on German television identifying elaborate bullshit, kept it simple in an interview: the whole thing is designed. There’s no version of these people that exists outside the system keeping them profitable.
The contracts are too complicated to read. The posting schedule is calculated against the algorithm, not inspiration. Every moment of spontaneity has been discussed in a meeting. Brand deals are baked into the plan from day one, even when they’re presented as surprises. A kid buys the merch thinking he’s buying a piece of something real, and maybe the person selling it has forgotten that’s what he’s doing—he’s just being himself, except his self is an extremely well-paid performance.
The system is so complete that it works. You can’t break character when you’ve stopped knowing there is one.
A Bathing Ape just dropped Dragon Ball merch, and there’s something satisfying about watching a high-fashion brand treat anime like it’s obvious why that matters. Because it is.
I remember when a Dragon Ball shirt meant something different. You were the guy with the weird Japanese cartoon thing. Now it’s just cool. That shift isn’t because Dragon Ball changed — it’s because enough people stopped caring what anyone else thought, and the rest fell in line.
ABAP doesn’t overthink it. They’re not doing novelty or irony, just putting Son Goku on a shirt like it makes sense. And after nearly forty years, it does. The kids who grew up with this are adults now, they’ve got taste and money, and they’re not pretending to be embarrassed anymore.
Your shame was never about the thing itself. It was about what you thought people thought about you for liking it. Now the people are in on it. Different energy.
Five hours into GTA 5 and I couldn’t beat this one street race. Same pattern every time: I’d be winning, then something would clip me—a parked car, a light pole, something I didn’t see coming—and I’d be finished. Two hundred attempts, maybe more. At some point you stop counting.
My grandmother came in and watched me fail. She made some observation about braking late or holding the button wrong, the kind of backseat comment that would normally make me want to scream. Instead I just handed her the controller.
She’d never touched a controller in her life. She picked it up like she was born holding one. No learning curve, no questions about the buttons. Three minutes. One race. She won.
What got to me wasn’t the losing itself. It was the way she understood it instantly, like her hands already knew. The smoothness. The absolute certainty. She’d never played a game in her life but she moved like someone who’d been doing this forever, like pattern and instinct were the same thing.
There’s this moment when you get older where you realize you’re not actually good at the things you thought you were good at. I’ve been playing video games for twenty years. And I just watched my grandmother figure out in three minutes what I couldn’t crack in two hundred tries.
Dreams about Tokyo come most nights. Not the tourist version—the real thing, moving back, waking up to food that actually tastes like something and existing without turning every moment into content. That’s supposed to happen this year if the money works out. For now there’s Crunchyroll, cycling through anime like it’s going to help. Switch Girl, Nobunaga Concerto, No Dropping Out. They’re good but they’re also constant proof of what they’re not. The food especially. Fresh fish the way it is there. You know it won’t fix anything but you can’t stop thinking about it.
Japan Festival is in Berlin this weekend—Urania, near Wittenbergplatz. Not Tokyo, but I’ll take a few hours somewhere else. Manga, games, sushi, kimonos, cosplay. Twenty-six euros for a ticket, less if you’re still a student. It’s what I’ve got for now.
Ines used to write for this place - sharp observations, whatever came to mind. She wrote about terrorism in Germany one week and tamagotchis the next, wrote about girls kissing, just real thoughts scattered across posts. That was nearly five years ago now. She moved to Hamburg, got a job at an ad agency, mostly disappeared except for occasional Twitter updates about her actual life.
SALZ.IO started appearing late last year. Her blog. Fashion, DIY, design - things she actually cares about making. She wrote about giving herself three months to decide if she’d keep going with it, if the project would stick. Something about 2014 being when she deliberately carved out time for creativity, that it helped, so she decided to keep the practice and write about it.
The site’s full of love, she said. It is. There’s something about watching someone actually do the work. Not the talking stage - the actual making time and filling it. That’s what Ines is doing.
Sometime in February, every winter-locked European city looks the same—black coat, black pants, black hat, black mood. You watch it happen every year without anyone really deciding it’s happening. The sun disappears around November and everyone just agrees to dress like the world ended, for three months straight. It’s not discussed. It’s not conscious. It’s just what happens when the light dies and nobody questions it.
Then you get to Tokyo in February and it’s like the rules work differently there. The kids in Harajuku look like they didn’t get the memo about winter being a time for restraint. Neon pink, acid yellow, electric blue—the kind of color saturation that shouldn’t work in winter but somehow feels completely natural when you’re watching it move through the streets. Hello Kitty mixed with Pokémon. Cartoon donuts on someone’s jacket. Outfits that would look insane anywhere else, but here they’re just normal Tuesday.
What really makes Harajuku work are the small brands that exist completely outside the international conversation. 6%DOKIDOKI. OMOCAO. Prismic Prism. These places set the actual tone. Designers like Murakami and Shoshipoyo are part of it, but they’re not the thing. The adidas and Nike and MCM you see everywhere—that’s just ballast. Everyone wears it, but it doesn’t make you look like you understand something about how fashion actually works in Tokyo.
I think about why we design the way we do when it’s dark outside. There’s something almost feudal about the idea that you have to match the weather, that restraint and darkness go together like they’re physics instead of a choice. Europe did this thing where winter equals muted colors equals some kind of mourning. It got baked in so deep nobody even sees it anymore. Tokyo just rejected it completely. Looked at February and said no. There’s no irony in it, no performance of being fun and zany. It’s just refusal. It’s just color. It’s just kids who don’t think they need permission to wear yellow in the rain.
Charli XCX and Rita Ora made a video and the real star is this older guy in a leopard thong. He shows up, he dances, he grins—completely unbothered.
Watching him, I realized this is who I want to be when I’m that age. Not trying to look young, not performing anything. Just comfortable enough to dance in whatever outfit, grinning the whole time because you’ve got nothing to prove and you know it. The way he moves, the ease on his face—just a guy alive in a moment. I want to be Johnny.
Deichkind released a new video for “Denken Sie Groß” and it’s everything you’d expect from a band with zero restraint—chaotic, colorful, completely absurd. The song is pure adrenaline and attitude, made for that moment when you’re running on fumes but need to convince yourself you can keep pushing. They included a warning about not watching if you’re high, which seems fair. Spring tour if you want the live version.
Every year people are standing in the rain waiting for some delayed show. The whole thing’s there if you want it—networking, photographs, good clothes. I used to think I should want it. Honestly, I stopped. Now I’m home in sweatpants with warm cheese and spicy sausages, playing GTA, and I’m completely fine with that choice. The clothes are sometimes great, but the week was never about clothes anyway. It’s about being somewhere you can be seen, and I’ve never been bothered enough by visibility to spend an evening getting wet for it.
In Cambodia, three Norwegian fashion bloggers tried to live on factory wages. Anniken, Frida, Ludwig—young, styled, used to 600 euros a month for clothes—suddenly couldn’t afford a toothbrush. They documented it for Aftenposten because they wanted to see where their clothes actually came from, to understand the people on the other end. You can watch the film with English subtitles if you want.
The people making clothes are people like them. People like me, probably. They want to look good, they care about what they wear, they have taste and style—they just were born somewhere else and ended up in a factory instead of at a fashion party. The gap is obscene because it’s so clean. The money you spend on a week of shopping in Oslo is someone else’s monthly survival. Not abstract. Specific: a toothbrush is impossible. Enough food is impossible.
In Oslo the three of them were living that life—guest lists, parties that matter, clothes every week. Then they lived for months on what a factory pays, and that money became everything. The same 600 euros became their entire existence. Not a budget. An economic fact that meant hunger.
I knew this already. Everyone does. But knowing intellectually that your cheap clothes are made by exploited labor and actually watching someone from your own world—young, styled, just like you—live that labor for a week is different. They weren’t activists or investigators. They were just people who looked.
I didn’t change after watching. I’m still the person who sees something beautiful and buys it without thinking too hard about the cost somewhere else. The system is engineered that way. Even when you know, the knowing doesn’t undo the wanting. The thinking doesn’t stop the buying.
What stays is the toothbrush. That specific, small, stupid detail. The most basic thing, the thing you buy without noticing, and it was impossible on that wage. That’s the weight of it.
Toyah Diebel made a makeup tutorial once: how to look like Kathrin Oertel, the woman who became the face of PEGIDA (Germany’s anti-immigration protests) while insisting she was just a regular, concerned citizen. Follow the steps and you’re her exactly—which is entirely the point of the satire.
What gets me is how clean it is. The look can be replicated. The mythology of these people being ordinary, not radicals, just trying to preserve something—it’s all surface. Makeup. You assemble it like any other costume.
I doubt the people watching understood what was happening. Some probably did and hated it. Some might’ve thought it was sincere. The best satire doesn’t announce itself. It just says: here’s how you do the face, and lets you figure out what that means.
Found an old V Magazine with a full-page nude of Miley Cyrus, which would’ve been genuinely scandalous in 2008, back when her Hannah Montana posters were everywhere. She’d spent the next decade systematically burning down that image, though, so by the time this magazine dropped it didn’t even feel like scandal anymore. The wig was just a costume, and she’d been shedding it for years.
I never had one of those Hannah Montana posters, but I remember them—that manufactured smile, the wholesome factory product you could buy at any mall. Watching her walk away from it all and actually commit to being someone completely different, loudly and unapologetically, that was the real moment. The magazine spread is just paper. What mattered was her deciding to demolish the version of herself that made her famous, and then actually doing it.
I met people who grew up in the DDR and they all wanted to talk about the food. Not from some deep nostalgia—just people remembering what they ate. The East German government didn’t hand out abundance. You got rations, basics, whatever it could manage. That’s what you cooked from.
When that’s all you have, you learn fast. The people I talked to remembered specific meals—potato dishes, bread soups, meals that actually required skill to make work—and they remembered them as genuinely good food. Not some noble poverty narrative. Just meals they enjoyed.
Thirty years later the DDR is gone and these people are still cooking the same recipes. Still making what their mothers taught them. Still knowing exactly how to stretch what you have.
I keep thinking about what constraints actually do to the work. Everyone talks like creativity needs unlimited options and deep pockets and every resource available. But then you look at what actually gets made when you’re working with just enough. Something cleaner happens. The thinking gets real. Nothing wasted.
East German cooking is still happening. Still good.
Friedrich Liechtenstein, Germany’s most beloved punk musician, shaved his beard. Just like that. The face that had been obscured and distinguished by facial hair for years vanished into whatever he wanted to be instead. I remember seeing the photos and honestly not recognizing him at first. That’s the thing about iconic looks — they calcify. You see someone with the same face and hair for long enough and it becomes who they are. The look and the person fuse.
Spring always hits different for men. There’s this weird biological impulse to shed what you’ve been carrying through the cold months, to show up differently. Most of us just cut hair or grow a beard or buy new clothes. Liechtenstein took it further. He erased one version of himself completely. What remained underneath was still him, obviously, but it felt like meeting a stranger who knew all your secrets.
It’s the kind of thing that shouldn’t matter as much as it does. The music is the same. The voice is the same. Everything that made him worth paying attention to is still there. But appearance does something to how we recognize people, how we hold them in our minds. When you take that away, you create this small shock every time you see them. You have to look at the actual person instead of the image you’ve stored.
I wonder if that was the point. Or if it was just time for something different. Either way, the unrecognizable man was still Friedrich Liechtenstein, just one you’d have to meet all over again.
Sailor Moon was the show where everything mattered. Some weird creature was trying to destroy the world, and Bunny and her friends had to stop it, and it felt like life and death even though it was absolutely ridiculous. Then a song would start playing, and suddenly it actually was life and death. The music in that show was doing all the heavy lifting. The story was fine, the fights were fine, but when those songs came in—when you heard “Force of Eternity” or “Only You Alone” or whatever the German dub had called them—that’s when you felt something real.
Watching it on RTL2 as a kid was its own specific trauma. It was supposed to be a kids’ show, just another cartoon between programs, but you’d sit there absolutely wrecked while your parents walked past without understanding why. A group of teenagers in sailor suits saving the world shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. The songs made it hit. There was something about the way those tracks would swell underneath a moment where one of the characters realized they couldn’t save everyone, or where they had to choose between their normal life and their duty—it made you believe that this actually mattered. This fake teenage girl drama actually mattered.
I remember specific songs doing specific damage. There was one about love, one about eternity, one about flying through clouds that felt impossibly sad even though I couldn’t explain why. I’d sit very still with my face pointing at the TV, which was probably the least subtle way to hide that I was tearing up at a show about magic girls. The German soundtrack had this melodramatic energy that actually worked. It leaned into the emotion instead of winking at the camera. It treated the material seriously, and that seriousness is what made it devastate you.
What’s strange about revisiting those songs now is that they still work. You can tell they were designed to hit you, to make you feel the weight of what these characters were doing. The production was cheap, the dialogue was sometimes silly, but whoever handled the music understood emotional manipulation in a way the rest of the show couldn’t quite touch. A violin melody, a swelling chorus, a moment where the song drops and you hear just the character’s voice—it’s basic technique, but it still works.
There were maybe ten or twelve of these tracks that did real damage, each one tied to a specific moment or just better produced than the rest. The weird part is that Sailor Moon probably didn’t invent this feeling—it just captured it and put it on television. There’s something about the story of people who have to sacrifice their normal lives for something bigger, who have to be brave even when they’re terrified, and when you pair that with the right music, it becomes something that lives in you. The show itself was fine. The songs were what made you care.
Emojis have basically become our language, honestly. Little angels, pizza slices, yellow faces attempting to mean something. It’s kind of ridiculous and it mostly works. But there’s one that actually wins - the pile of shit with eyes.
The poop emoji doesn’t try. It’s crude, silly, completely shameless. That’s all it does. You can throw it into almost any conversation and it lands because there’s nothing beneath it except the obvious thing. Shit. With a dumb expression. That’s the whole message.
Everything else on the keyboard is designed to smooth things over, to make emotion digestible and safe. This one’s just crude and honest and completely uninterested in being anything else. Somehow that simplicity beats all the carefully crafted sentiment around it.
I’ve had Ibeyi’s “Ghosts” running through my head for weeks now. Lisa-Kaindé and Naomi Diaz, those French-Cuban sisters, doing these creeping atmospheric tracks that just sit in your skull without trying. The kind of music that doesn’t announce itself.
The A Bathing Ape and Hello Kitty collaboration keeps catching me. Baby Milo and Hello Kitty shouldn’t share a space, shouldn’t make sense together, but the execution is clean. No fuss, no apologies. Sometimes that’s the best design.
I went back to Shibuya in my head recently, which is dangerous. I was there once and stood at that scramble crossing in front of the Starbucks, watching all that movement at once, thousands of people crossing simultaneously, and something about it broke my brain in the best way possible. I remember thinking I’d move there forever. I also remember knowing that was a lie even as I was thinking it.
Ping Pong is the thing I can’t get out of my head though. Taiyo Matsumoto’s anime about two kids obsessed with table tennis. Should be forgettable but it’s not. The writing is sharp and the visual style is completely its own thing. There’s this emotional coldness running through it that shouldn’t work but does, and I find myself thinking about it constantly.
I also somehow spent sixty hours in Fantasy Life on the 3DS, which was not supposed to happen. Opened it one afternoon because I was bored and next thing I knew I’d lost most of a month to this small nothing game about an unemployed adventurer being pushed around by an obsessed butterfly. It was stupid and I loved it completely.
There’s Bristlr, which is just a dating app for people obsessed with beards. Sign up, find someone with the right facial situation, and then you’re running your hands and lips through it. The whole specificity of desire is funny — narrow enough to need its own platform.
I’d read Kenza Zouiten’s blog forever if I had to pick just one. I have no idea what she’s writing about most of the time, whatever parties and travel and Tokio Hotel stuff. But something about it keeps pulling me back. I’ve never been to Stockholm, but I’m certain everyone there just looks like her. Everyone. The whole city.
Some months you just find yourself pulled in ten different directions by things that have nothing to do with each other. No cohesion, no throughline. But there’s something honest about admitting that’s where your head is, what’s actually catching you, not what you think you should be paying attention to.
I listened to “Sober” and it’s just there. No effort showing. Donald Glover floating over something like Michael Jackson, singing about something minor and romantic without making a thing about it. That’s the whole point. He’s done it so many times by now that he doesn’t even have to announce what he’s doing. Act in a TV show, make an album, direct a film, whatever. Just move between them like they’re not different languages.
The song is airy. Loose. It doesn’t try to prove anything, which is maybe the only way to actually prove anything anymore. Most artists are so busy showing you why they matter that they forget to just exist in the work. Glover remembers. This is just a guy singing, and that’s enough because he’s actually good.
Chrissy was too young and wore adidas Superstars with white socks pulled short, the way they were supposed to be worn. We’d find her at parties or behind the abandoned house, the one with the broken windows and a door that wouldn’t shut right. She didn’t stick around. The shoes did.
Superstars II. adidas Originals. They were better than everything else — Air Max, Chucks, Ballerinas, all of it. I can’t separate them from her now, which probably isn’t fair to the shoes, but that’s how these things work. An image gets stuck and you can’t shake it.
I wonder sometimes what happened to her. Whether she still wears them. Probably moved on to something else years ago. But I know why I never did.
These four guys—Daniel, Etienne, Simon, Nils—were launching a 24-hour stream channel. If you knew German internet at all, you’d recognize them somewhere: GIGA back when that mattered, Game One, various projects over the years. Always making something, always hungry.
They were doing it completely unfiltered. No network, no algorithm deciding what went out. Just them, streaming live, and if enough people subscribed, they wouldn’t have to get real jobs. That was the actual plan.
I’d been following their work for a while. Podcasts in the background while I walked around, let’s plays running while I pretended to work. They didn’t have that usual internet polish where you feel someone performing for the audience. There was something honest about just wanting this thing badly enough to look stupid pursuing it. I’d talked to one of them, Eddy, not too long before, and the more I thought about it, the more I respected what they were betting on—that being actual about what you want matters more than positioning yourself correctly.
But respect and success aren’t the same thing. The internet is built to punish this kind of thing. It wants optimization, algorithm games, the right strategy. What they were betting on was that none of that mattered if you were real enough and consistent enough. Maybe they were right. More likely they were both right and fucked.
I was genuinely curious how it would go—not as a recommendation or anything, just a genuine hope they’d pull it off. The goal itself, never having to work a normal job, is reasonable when you say it out loud, even if the path there is completely insane.
Elodie Bambi Tann’s photographs document something specific: youth when wine, drugs, and love are the main events, when you’re surrounded by people who feel things the way you do. Her early work came from her shared apartment and the house parties that seemed to contain entire worlds. These photographs are strong and real and intimate—no styling, no distance, just what happened and what it looked like.
What gets me about her work is the honesty. She captured the temporary moment that everyone secretly wants to live but most people miss while it’s happening. The particular warmth of being young with the right people, in the right place, at the right time. The kind of thing that only feels perfect in retrospect.
There’s a question underneath: did she somehow photograph the perfect youth, the one everyone desires? Or is every moment like that when you’re actually living it, and you only recognize the distance after? Her photographs suggest she understood something—either something about youth, or just about how to see it. Either way, the work stays with you.
“Pendulum” has been stuck in my head since LP1 came out. The video just dropped, and it’s exactly what the track needed—FKA twigs alone in a studio space, dancing with the kind of focused intensity where you can’t tell if it’s work or pleasure. Every gesture precise, nothing wasted.
She’s always had this thing where sensuality isn’t about performing seduction—it’s about the body knowing what it needs to do. The video makes that clear. Just her, the movement, no narrative. No justification.
What strikes me about LP1 is that it doesn’t sound like a debut. It sounds like someone who’s been developing this vision for years and finally had the resources to pull it off. “Pendulum” sits right in that space—the production, the layered vocals, the confidence of knowing exactly what she wants and getting it.
Sports Illustrated runs these behind-the-scenes videos of Kate Upton all the time. She talks about a photoshoot, or how great it is being a model, or magazines her family had around the house, and meanwhile she’s just wandering on a beach like she’s naturally there. Then it ends and I’m aware that I haven’t learned anything, haven’t taken away anything except the obvious fact that this is a commercial for a magazine that’s basically just selling the concept of Kate Upton.
But it turns out that doesn’t bother me. There’s something about the way she exists in front of a camera that makes the whole thing irrelevant. She could be reading the phone book and I’d probably still watch. It’s not purely attraction, though that’s obviously there. It’s presence. The ease of someone who knows how to just be.
So they’ve got me. I see the machinery and I’m fine with it.
All I really know about Chip Tanaka is that his melodies are permanent now. They’ve been playing in the background of every thought since I was young enough to hold a controller, and they’re not going anywhere.
Hirokazu Tanaka composed the sound of my childhood—Dr. Mario, Donkey Kong, Metroid, Tetris, Super Mario Land, EarthBound. He was Nintendo’s in-house composer. Every track with his name on it hit different. There’s something about those 8-bit arrangements that nothing modern comes close to.
He played a set at Red Bull Academy’s Cart Diggers event in Tokyo, the kind of thing where you sit and listen to someone explain the architecture of sounds that built you. But you don’t really need the event. You just need to remember what those games felt like, and how they never actually left you.
I don’t know much with certainty, but I know this: old video game music means more to me than anything being made now. I can hum it in my sleep. It’s burned in so completely it’s part of me now. He built something that lasts.
You always knew Olli Schulz would work with Palina Rojinski eventually. She’s Germany’s most visible pop-culture presence, the kind of person who shows up everywhere because everyone wants her to, so it was only a matter of time before he made a move. The video for “Phase” features her, along with Donnie O’Sullivan, photographer Oliver Rath, and someone with the most gloriously unpronounceable German name: Gisbert Wilhelm Enno Freiherr zu Innhausen und Knyphausen.
Olli probably just wanted something simple with her, but these things expand. You get more people, more ideas, more whatever. By the time you’re done you’ve got this crowded little world in the frame, all these faces existing in the same three minutes. There’s something fitting about calling a song “Phase”—everyone passes through.
If I had to choose between world peace and this sushi sweater, I’m taking the sweater without a second thought. No hesitation, no pretending to deliberate. I’d start yelling about it before they finished asking the question, waving my arms around like an idiot.
It’s the commitment that makes it work — an entire garment dedicated to illustrated sushi, treated with absolute seriousness. No winking, no irony. Just a sushi sweater.
I don’t just want to wear it. I want to hold it, love it, maybe bite it. Which is less weird when the whole thing is designed to look like food — salmon and avocado and rice covering every inch. At least I know what I’m having for lunch.
Every year, someone heading into Dschungelcamp does a Playboy spread first. Last year it was Gabby Rinne. This year Sara Kulka and Angelina Heger.
At this point the pattern is so locked in that it barely even counts as news—you’re waiting to hear who got the offer, and you already know what’s coming next. The names change, the faces change, but the rhythm stays exactly the same. Magazine spread, jungle camp, hidden cameras. It’s become one of those things that’s so predictable you can see the whole cycle before it even happens.
Chris Anderson draws sneakers the way someone might draw cars if they actually gave a shit about cars. Adidas, Nike, Converse—just the shoes, clean lines, and somehow they make you want to go back and buy something you’ve probably owned five times already.
There’s something about the work that stops you. Not because the drawing is technically perfect, though it is, but because he’s looking at objects everyone else ignores. We walk around in these things every day and never really look at them. Your feet hurt or they don’t. The rest is invisible. But in these illustrations the sneaker becomes worth looking at. The curve of the sole, the way the leather catches light, the stitching, the eyelets—details that matter if someone points them out to you, and suddenly they’re all you can see.
I’ve owned enough Superstars to know what he means. There’s a reason certain shoes keep repeating in the rotation. They’re not precious objects, nothing comes with a story. But there’s something about the shape, the weight, the way they mark and age over time. The ones that become comfortable because they’ve already been worn in by someone else’s feet a hundred times before you got them. Anderson’s work has that feeling—it’s not celebrating the shoe as a status symbol or a designer object. It’s just looking closely at something ordinary and letting that be enough.
My grandfather fled Lithuania during the war. Years later I got a box of his old negatives—photographs from before he left, from a time and place that no longer existed. Reason enough to go back to somewhere I’d never actually lived.
I ended up at a small disco in a small village, barely speaking the language, knowing nobody in the room. I just started taking pictures. Pure outsider, but people let me be there. They danced and drank and existed while I pointed a camera at them, trying to hold onto something that felt temporary even as it was happening.
I wasn’t chasing some grand documentary project or trying to preserve a vanishing culture. I just wanted to understand something about where I came from, maybe hold onto a moment I could feel slipping away. When you show up somewhere with a camera, your reasons get muddy pretty fast. You just keep shooting.
What stayed with me was the uncertainty of it all. No guarantee the pictures meant anything, no assumption anyone else would care, no safe reason to be doing this at all. He wanted to document something before it disappeared. That’s the best kind of project—unguaranteed, personal, driven by something genuine rather than something you can explain away. You don’t need permission. You just need to care.
I keep thinking about what it must have felt like to walk back into that office. After what happened, after losing people, to sit down and just make the next issue. Charlie Hebdo, the magazine that wouldn’t stop drawing, wouldn’t stop pushing back. They came back.
The cover is what stays with me. The Prophet himself in their unmistakable style, tears on his face, holding a sign: “All is forgiven.” Not some big show of toughness or defiance. Something quieter—the refusal to become what the violence wanted you to become. To say there’s still room for mercy even after they tried to silence you for exactly the things you won’t stop doing.
I don’t know what else to call that except real. Just showing up, just doing the work, just refusing to disappear. That’s the part that mattered.
Masafumi Nagasaki is 78 and naked on an island in Okinawa, the southern tip where Sotobanari sits by itself. He got there by walking away years ago and never coming back. Built a hut. Doesn’t wear clothes. Is apparently happier than you or me.
I think about this sometimes, the way you think about things that aren’t really possible but feel like they should be. The escape fantasy gets rehearsed constantly—quit the job, leave the city, find some warm place where nobody knows you and you don’t have to be whatever version of yourself you’ve been performing. Masafumi didn’t just think about it. He did the whole thing.
The stories about him always lead with the naked part, which makes it easy to dismiss as eccentric. But that’s not the point. The point is that he left a world that was running fine without him and built something different, something that’s just his. No performance, no optimization, no algorithm measuring whether you’re good enough yet.
I don’t know what his days are like. Whether he thinks about the life he left or whether that’s ancient history by now. Whether the solitude is peaceful or grinding. But he’s there, and he hasn’t come back, and there’s something in that fact that sits with me—not as an instruction, just as proof that the thing you dream about when you’re stuck in traffic or in a meeting is at least physically possible. Someone did it. He’s still alive on that island, and by all accounts he’s alright.
Brazilian artist Butcher Billy thought: what if Kim Jong-un was Batman? Or Super Mario? Or just went straight for Hitler? He built a whole project around these dumb hypotheticals called “Friend Or Foe” — pop culture icons with a dictator’s face. The result is genuinely absurd: one of the world’s most brutal murderers rendered as a cute comic-book character. Evil in primary colors.
There’s something perfect about taking the most terrible person imaginable and pasting him into somebody else’s life. Strip away the camps and the propaganda and what you’ve got is just an illustration. A joke. A pudgy man in a plumber’s outfit. It’s funny because it works, because human evil doesn’t actually look that different when you take away the context.
I wonder if Kim Jong-un ever sees something like this and thinks about himself the way normal people do. Someone probably showed him once. That meeting probably didn’t go great. But theoretically, theoretically there’s a version of the world where a dictator sees his face turned into a cartoon and understands, for one second, how small that makes him look.
Billy’s got the right idea: take the monstrous and render it cute enough to put on a t-shirt, cute enough to laugh at, and suddenly it’s not mysterious anymore. It’s just a man in a comic book.
Miley had just blown up the Hannah Montana thing and everyone was waiting to see what she’d actually do. The Bangerz Tour was the answer - not a press release version of rebellion, but something genuinely in-progress.
Cheyne Thomas shot the whole thing on Polaroids. Los Angeles, Helsinki, London - just hanging with her, documenting the tour in the gaps between shows. There’s something about Polaroids that forces you to be honest. No digital undo, no filters, no second takes. Just what happened when the camera flashed.
The photos ended up in V Magazine under “With a Little Help from My Fwends” which is the kind of joke that only works when you’ve actually been there the entire time. And that was Cheyne - not a hired photographer, just a friend who knew how to use a camera.
What gets weird is how little those photos actually confirm. Everyone had a story about who Miley was supposed to be - the rebel, the victim, the exploited kid, the provocateur. The Polaroids don’t really support any single narrative. They’re just someone moving through a moment, caught by a friend. More complicated and less useful than any story the internet wanted to tell.
I still think about those photos when that era comes up. Not for what they say about Miley, but for what they document about friendship and documentation and the difference between watching someone and actually seeing them.
I’d own a continent by now if I got paid every time I fell in love. A small one. Today it’s Roos Vughts. I don’t know anything about her except that Dave Fransen photographed her for Satiety Paper, and these pictures—straightforward, natural, beautiful—are enough.
There’s this YouTube genre where they show American teenagers Japanese pop music for the first time, and I get why it works. Most of these kids have grown up on whatever’s on TikTok or Top 40 radio, which means they’re primed for one-or-two-minute hooks and maybe a feature verse. Then you hit them with AKB48 or Perfume and their brains actually short-circuit.
It’s not just the sound, though J-pop productions are obsessively polished in a way Western pop isn’t anymore. It’s the scale of it. A K-pop or J-pop act isn’t a person, it’s an apparatus. Fourteen members in synchronized formation. Costume changes mid-song. Layers of production so thick you can practically see them. The visual information alone is overwhelming if you’ve never encountered it—it’s designed to be watched, not just heard, and it commits fully to that in a way that seems almost quaint to American audiences who’ve been trained to half-listen to everything.
Add in the idol system itself, which feels utterly alien here—girls manufactured, trained, presented as a product in a way that would cause a moral panic in the US but is just normal business in Japan. The fans know it’s a fiction. They go along with it anyway. There’s something almost honest about that, in a weird way.
I stumbled into J-pop the same way a lot of people do: through anime soundtracks, then a rabbit hole of recommendation videos, then suddenly I’m watching Kyary Pamyu Pamyu’s bizarre, hyperreal pop world and thinking, yeah, okay, I get why Westerners lose it. It’s not better than Western pop. It’s not worse. It’s just… more. More intentional about being more. It doesn’t apologize for the artifice—it leans into it so hard that the artifice becomes the point.
If you threw BABYMETAL or Hatsune Miku at those same teenagers, yeah, half of them would probably have an existential moment. And they’d be right to. There’s something genuinely strange about J-pop when you first encounter it, not because it’s foreign, but because it’s so thoroughly committed to being what it is. No apologies. No pretense of authenticity. Just pure, uncut manufactured pop, and somehow that honesty is more refreshing than anything on American radio.
Saw H.P. Baxxter in an EDEKA supermarket ad the other day. Just him grocery shopping, checking prices, nothing dramatic. Which is its own kind of funny when you’re used to thinking of him as the guy jumping around on stage in the 90s screaming “How Much Is the Fish” to massive crowds.
Scooter defined a specific moment—late 90s Germany, electronic and punk, that band designed to be impossible to take seriously and equally impossible to ignore. H.P. had this manic presence that somehow worked, that strange alchemy where commitment and excess created something real. You don’t get a lot of bands like that.
They’re still around, which is more than most bands from that era can say. I don’t keep up with their new music, but the commitment is clear. And now there’s this—H.P. in a supermarket ad, endorsing grocery deals, visible and working and doing exactly what aging rock and electronic musicians eventually do, which is show up in commercials.
It’s not sad the way you’d expect. It’s just true. He was famous, he’s older now, the world doesn’t need the maniac on stage anymore, so he’s here. Still the same guy who made a song about fish prices. The energy just found a different channel.
I’m not sure what it says—about time, about fame, about the people who soundtracked your teenage years. But it’s something.
Game One is dying. Not the kind of death where there’s a funeral and people say goodbye properly. The kind where the show gets moved to Comedy Central, then back, then forward again, each decision taking another year off its life until one day they just stop. Etienne Gardé, one of the creators, talks about how it’s not that they got worse—they filled every requirement, met every quota the network wanted. But it doesn’t matter. Somewhere in an office, someone decided the thing that made tens of thousands of people happy wasn’t worth the slot anymore.
This stings partly because Gardé and the others at Rocket Beans aren’t bitter about it in the cheap way. They’re not ranting about corporate gatekeepers, though plenty of that would be justified. They’re just clear-eyed: this is how television works. The money flows different ways now. The audience isn’t watching at 8:15 pm anymore. They’re watching when they feel like it, in formats that don’t exist on cable.
I’ve watched that show for years. Not religiously, but when I needed something that felt like actual people talking about actual things instead of whatever the broadcast people think I want. Game One was never trying to be a product. It was four guys who’d been together since GIGA, a channel most people have forgotten but which somehow shaped an entire generation of how to make entertainment. They’d be on camera for six hours sometimes, barely a script, just riffing. Now that’s unthinkable in broadcast. Now that gets you killed.
What’s compelling about Gardé in this interview is his refusal to pretend any of this has an easy fix. He knows YouTube is a dead end unless you’re making makeup tutorials or pulling faces at a camera for twelve-year-olds. The view counts don’t come with money. You need either massive audiences or you need people to actually pay. For a guy who spent twenty years building trust with an audience, that second path is the only one that makes sense. So they’re launching their own channel on Twitch. Not as a YouTube play. As a television station. A sender, which is the word they use and the right one. A thing that just runs.
The thing Gardé keeps circling back to is how much they refuse to sell. He won’t do the thing where you fake loving a product for sponsorship money. He won’t reshape what they make to chase clicks. He knows that would kill the only thing they have, which is that people genuinely care what they think. He’d rather have three thousand people paying three euros a month than three million people not paying and not caring. There’s something almost defiant about that right now.
What depresses me about German television—and Gardé names this directly—is how little it tries. Every successful format is a copy of something American or British. There’s no risk. The networks have public funding or they don’t, and if they do, they can waste it on anything because nobody’s really watching. So you get conservative programming that barely works. Meanwhile the internet kids are building stuff on the side, getting audiences the networks can’t reach, and then the networks don’t know what to do because they don’t speak that language.
The money situation is broken in a way that’s almost funny. The public broadcasters in Germany throw billions at programming. Most of it is forgettable. Meanwhile Rocket Beans—four guys with a camera and good taste—has to ask their audience to chip in. Gardé’s right that this is insane. You pay for everything—music, film, cable. But independent creators? They should work for free? The only reason the internet hasn’t completely collapsed under that logic is that some people have enough taste and stubbornness to make things anyway.
The crowdfunding setup matters though. He specifically didn’t use Patreon or Kickstarter. Didn’t promise specific deliverables. Just: if you want this to exist, help us build it. There’s something honest about that. It means the project lives or dies based on whether people actually want it, not based on some venture capital bet that it can be optimized into profitability.
I think about what it costs him—what it costs all of them. They spent a decade on broadcast, building something, and then the broadcast people slowly killed it by degrees. The sensible move would be to take a real job, work at some production company making corporate videos. Instead they’re betting everything on Twitch, which could collapse tomorrow, which has no history, which is just this thing that exists right now. Most people wouldn’t do that.
Later in the interview Gardé does the thing where you know you’re aging—complaining about students and their entitled attitudes. But what sticks is a story he tells, something he heard from Jerry Seinfeld about an orchestra trudging through rain to a gig. They stop to look through a window at a family decorating a Christmas tree, and one of them says how can anyone live like that. That’s the choice, isn’t it. Most people get the warm house. Most people don’t have the thing they care about getting rained on. Most people, sensibly, choose the house.
Gardé’s not choosing the house. He’s choosing the gig. And he knows nobody else has to care about that. The show will run or it won’t. The internet will watch or it won’t. But at least it’ll be theirs. That matters more than it probably should.
Mighty Morphin Power Rangers was everything to me at twelve. Not the sequels—those don’t count. The originals. That was it. A group of teenagers with a secret, fighting in giant robots against obviously cheap monsters, the same setup over and over. It probably shaped me more than my actual teachers did, though I might be romanticizing it now.
The red ranger was the coolest thing alive until some guy in a white suit with a ponytail showed up and I had to reassess everything.
The Fine Brothers made a video where they show kids today the original series. Their reactions are exactly what you’d think—they’re watching plastic monsters get thrown around in phony little dioramas, terrible animation, the whole amateur operation. But I remember thinking it was transcendent. I remember it feeling completely real. So either I had shit taste at twelve, or there’s something about that kind of earnest, low-budget spectacle that only works if you’re the right age for it. Probably both.
Winter mornings are a specific kind of misery. You wake up in the dark, shower in the cold, and all you can think is: please, anything but this. But you go out anyway. You freeze all day. You come home and you’re still cold.
So somewhere in there you watch a video of Kate Upton on a beach. Sun on her, water blue, she’s in a bikini like being warm is just the default setting for her existence. It’s the kind of content that’s supposed to make you feel better but doesn’t. It just makes you aware of the gap — that warmth is real, somewhere, but not where you are.
The weird thing about escapism is it cuts in the wrong direction. You’re not thinking “I want to go there.” You’re thinking “why am I not there?” Which is somehow more depressing than just accepting you’re cold. At least that’s simple. This is a reminder that simple warmth exists and you don’t get to have it.
By Friday you’ve given up. Blankets on the couch, old episodes playing, tea going cold. Not because you’re okay with winter — you’re not — but because wanting something impossible just wears you out. Easier to wait it out and let spring show up eventually.
Gunsmithcat is the online name for Luis Quiles, a Spanish illustrator whose work hits different than most art commentary. His collection Flesh Market is relentlessly dark—girls on their knees for a handful of likes, children carved up by cute video game characters, people medicated into a functional gray. He illustrates homosexual Teletubbies, loan sharks rendered as predatory flesh, censorship as bodily violation. All of it with a sickness that feels less like satire and more like documentation.
What stays with me is how little distance there is in the work. He’s not being ironic or scoring points with clever critique. He’s showing you what’s already there, what we’ve already accepted. The images are explicit and uncomfortable because they’re accurate—not metaphorically, but literally. That’s where the real revulsion comes from. We see ourselves in them.
2014 could have broken you or saved you — I’m still not sure which it did for me. At least the music made sense.
I cycled through the same songs all year. Lorde, St. Vincent, Robyn, FKA twigs, Arcade Fire. They just kept working no matter what else was happening. St. Vincent’s guitar sound alone was worth staying, all those fractured angles and precision. Lorde sounding like she’d already figured out something you were still struggling with. Robyn just moving forward like the world couldn’t slow her down. FKA twigs making something so strange and specific that nobody else was even trying.
The rest of the playlist spread wider: Perfume Genius, Great Pagans, Wild Beasts, Jessie Ware, Lykke Li, Angel Olsen, Yumi Zouma, The War On Drugs, Elderbrook, Grouper, Woman’s Hour, Blood Orange. Different moods for different times of day. Different ways of being alive. Songs that understood something about you before you understood it yourself.
Good songs age differently than years do. You forget what 2014 actually was, who you were talking to, what happened in the news. But you remember the songs. They don’t fade like everything else fades. They just become part of how you think now.
Lindsay Lohan was everywhere once — that Disney kid, the Mean Girls girl, the whole trajectory from untouchable to completely wrecked. The mugshots, the rehab, the years when she just disappeared. It’s the kind of public destruction that’s weirdly fascinating and genuinely sad at the same time.
So here’s Lindsay, still breathing, putting out a street-style collection with Civil Clothing. She called it “My Addiction,” which is either the ballsiest or dumbest thing I’ve seen from a comeback attempt — a wink at the drug history that basically obliterated her public life. I have to respect that. It takes actual nerve to name your clothing line after your own rock bottom.
The clothes themselves are minimal. Neutral tones, clean lines, nothing demanding about them. She photographs well in them. I don’t know what I actually think about the collection. That feels beside the point anyway.
What’s interesting is just that she exists, still. Still moving, still making things, not completely erased by the machinery that had her. Whether the clothes are any good doesn’t matter much. It’s a moment where someone who got thoroughly destroyed is doing something normal, with a joke about her destruction literally built into the product. It’s rare to see that kind of nerve.
The new Deichkind video has everyone hopping around like their triangles never went out of style. Five guys of a certain age, no sense of fashion, and somehow still making music that matters to people who absolutely should have moved on by now.
I can’t forgive Deichkind for “Leider Geil.” That song somehow outlived its own decade, which is the worst kind of immortality — drunk guys on the U-Bahn forever, every Friday night, screaming those lyrics like a personal anthem. But I remember when they were good. “Ich betäube mich,” “Komm schon,” “Bon Voyage.” They made music that felt dangerous, or at least clever. Then somewhere around 2010 they started taking themselves seriously. Blinking traffic cones, gallery openings, the whole retreat into “art.” It felt like watching a friend get pretentious.
“So ’ne Musik” is exactly what you’d expect from them now — solid, slick, completely self-aware. The video looks expensive. They clearly still have that weird kind of reach, that cultish devotion. The new album’s called “Niveau Weshalb Warum” and the track titles alone (“Der Flohmarkt Ruft,” “Porzellan Und Elefanten,” “Oma Gib Handtasche”) feel like they’re in on the joke about how ridiculous German music culture can be. Or maybe they’re past jokes entirely and that’s just what songs are called now.
I don’t know if I’ll listen to the whole thing. But I watched the video, and I remembered why they got under people’s skin in the first place — that mix of stupidity and intelligence, the refusal to choose a lane. They’re still that band. Just older.
I’m one of those people who figures out what works and then just wears it forever. UNIQLO, DIESEL, Adidas - specifically the Superstars. I’ve worn the same shoe for years because once you find something that fits right you don’t need to think about it anymore. The Made in France Consortium version costs more but doesn’t really change anything. A shoe that works is a shoe that works.
Consistency matters to me, though not in some precious way - just in a lazy way. Why spend energy choosing again if you already know the answer?
It’s the same with everything else that catches my attention. The controllers from old consoles had real substance, actual weight to them. Now you can get stickers of them for your laptop, which is just people wanting to keep that feeling around. I understand that.
Headphones are their own joke. Beats sound like you’re inside a garbage compactor, but at least Hiroshi Fujiwara’s fragment design collaboration made them look presentable. You’re still wearing bad headphones, just less obviously.
The car fantasies are mythology. The Mercedes SL 63 AMG, the Ferrari, the Harley with Dyna Guerrilla on the side - these are images of a life you’d never actually want. The girl-magnet mythology, the total freedom, leaving everything behind. It’s appealing until you think about it for thirty seconds. But the object holds the fantasy anyway.
Gaming actually mattered though. PlayStation was real. Final Fantasy VIII is an actual memory, not a fantasy. The 20th anniversary edition is expensive and stupid but I understand wanting to keep that close. Same with magazines like WASD - actual paper, actual writing about games like they’re worth thinking about. That sticks.
I play Monopoly and lose and get genuinely angry at people for taking my fake money, but the Zelda edition just looks cool on a shelf.
You figure out what matters and you stick with it. Sometimes it’s smart, sometimes you realize years later you picked wrong. But at least you’re not constantly questioning yourself. Which maybe is just giving up. But it feels like knowing something.
I’d have been the world’s greatest teenage girl. I’m certain of it. I would’ve invited my friends—Anna, Laura, Thu—and we’d have done that thing where you cake makeup on your face at midnight and eat ice cream straight from the container and laugh at how much better you are than the boys at football. The kind of night where nothing happens and everything matters.
There’s something in me that watches teenage girls do this and feels a clean, uncomplicated envy. Not just for the freedom—though that’s part of it—but for the feeling of it. The texture of the friendship. The permission to exist inside something that small and precious.
Sure, I was born with a cock, and that comes with advantages. You move through the world differently. Socially, sexually, in obvious ways. But I’d still feel strange calling Janos and Ming-Lee and Paulchen over to drink white wine and laugh while we stuck glitter stickers on each other’s chests. There’s something I don’t get to have. Something I’ll never know.
Rebekah Campbell made a short film called “Teenage Girl”—just girls without limbs, moving through a space with whatever bodies and imaginations they had left. And that was enough for them. That was everything. That was the thing that broke me a little when I watched it.
Anna, Laura, Thu—if you’re real somewhere, I hope you knew what you had. I would’ve been the best version of myself with you. I’m absolutely certain of it.
Charli XCX’s “Breaking Up” sits in that gap between the 80s and 90s, all synth and forward momentum, and it doesn’t convince you to end anything. It just makes what you already decided on feel less like failure and more like moving your body out of the way.
The song understands these endings — your person gradually stops reaching out and you tell yourself it’s fine. There’s always a best friend who’s somehow become more important than you are. You can be in the same room and be completely alone.
Charli makes it sound easy. That synth just keeps going like nothing’s stopping it. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe the hard part isn’t deciding to leave. Maybe it’s the year before, when you’re still showing up and pretending you don’t see what’s happening.
I listened to this after something ended that was already dead months before we admitted it. The song didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know. It just sounded like someone else understood that specific thing — waiting too long and then moving on anyway. Sometimes you don’t need to be convinced. You just need to hear that someone gets it.
You’re three hours into staring at the TV and nothing’s worth watching. The Xbox is still downloading some update nobody asked for. Everything else is garbage. So your brain keeps circling back to something old—your Game Boy, that little piece of plastic that actually had games worth playing.
Two Dutch developers named Zane Amiralis and Joshua de Haan made an adapter called HDMYBOY that lets you plug a Game Boy into an HDTV. Suddenly Tetris, Link’s Awakening, Pokemon Blue (everyone agrees the red version is worse)—all those games that mattered—appear at full size on whatever giant screen is taking up space in your living room.
There’s something beautifully stupid about it. Chunky tetrominos stretched across 60 inches of modern display. Tiny sprite art that was never designed for this scale, now rendered large. It shouldn’t work, and yet the second you hear the idea, it’s obvious. The games are good. They were always good. The screen size changes nothing except maybe making you admit you spent decades watching them on something too small.
Going back to old games isn’t really nostalgia. Nostalgia is memory playing tricks. This is closer to an apology—not for the game being primitive, because it wasn’t, but for all those years of squinting at a three-inch monochrome screen when you could’ve been watching this. It’s giving the kid who played Game Boy a second look at something that was already worth looking at.
I don’t know if the thing actually works, or if there’s lag, or if the image holds up on modern displays. Someone looked at a 30-year-old handheld and decided it deserved to be bigger. That kind of sincere, pointless idea is something I can get behind.
I like Pharrell Williams. Which is weird, because now I’m sick of him. Look, “Happy” makes me want to burn down a radio station, but underneath that the guy seems genuinely cool. He’s got real connections, real access to things you can’t normally get. Good company, if you ran into him.
But he’s everywhere now. Gwen Stefani’s new video. Shoes, some of them decent until he got his name on them. Handbags. Every luxury brand with money to throw around suddenly needs a Pharrell collaboration, doesn’t matter if the idea’s actually good. He’s just part of the machine, saying yes to everything.
Then Karl Lagerfeld puts him in Sissi costumes with Cara Delevingne and makes them sing. Cara’s cool, I like her, but she has my friend Tobi’s exact face from eighth grade, and watching that face in royal couture is deeply wrong. I don’t have words for how wrong it is.
Pharrell, you have enough money. You’re set for life. Stop saying yes to every project. Take a year off. Go back and watch your old N.E.R.D videos. Remember how to be cool. That’s the Pharrell I actually loved.
First winter day and I’m already dead inside. Not the poetic kind—just the cold that makes you move faster without moving at all, and you dress for it by grabbing whatever was black yesterday. Coat, pants, boots, gone. Everyone looks the same, which is exactly the point. Winter here means you pick a uniform and stick with it.
I was looking at street fashion photos from Tokyo—Harajuku, Shibuya—from those last months before the cold really set in, and it was like watching people from a different planet get dressed. Bright colors, actual patterns, oversized pieces clashing in ways that shouldn’t work but somehow did. Not fashion-magazine stuff. Just kids putting outfits together without asking permission from the season.
As someone who thinks about this stuff—how people assemble themselves, what they’re saying without saying anything—it was jarring. Nobody does this here. You don’t see kids dressed like that when it gets cold. It’s like everyone’s agreed that color is impractical.
I don’t know if it’s cultural or just that teenagers in Tokyo don’t have the surrender instinct people up north do. Maybe they don’t have a reason to look like everyone else. Either way, there’s something I recognize in that refusal to let the season decide your visual life. Not that I’m going out to buy neon next week—that’s not the point. It’s more that watching people dress without apologizing for it, without letting utility kill everything, reminds you that you could choose something different whenever you actually wanted to.
In ninth grade my best friend Marc handed me three CDs full of porn. First one was those “teen” videos—thirty-year-old prostitutes in pigtails and school uniforms. Second was terrible quality Dolly Buster files, basically unwatchable. The last disc was packed with hundreds of megabytes of naked old women, the kind you’d see advertised late-night on TV—”Call us!” I actually went through some of it. Some of them weren’t terrible to look at, even for eighty-five. But it did nothing for me.
So I’m looking at this photo of Madonna and it hits the same way. Her body is objectively impressive—tits still there, still somehow perky, the surgery actually works. If I was into older women, this would be my paradise. But I’m not. It leaves me cold.
Miri, Hime, and Hikaru of Rhymeberry don’t rap about the usual things. Love, friendship, orange juice—that’s their lane, not money or street cred or any of the stuff that supposedly matters in hip-hop. Which should be completely stupid. It’s not.
After AKB48 took pop, Babymetal took rock, and Charisma.com claimed electronic music, there weren’t many genres left for cute Japanese schoolgirls to work through. Hip-hop was just sitting there undefended. When Tokyo Girls’ Update interviewed them about the gap between their image and their music, their answer was simple: we’re actually good at this. And they meant it.
Their videos have this cheerful, unguarded quality that’s rare in hip-hop. You see them cruising the city, throwing parties, rapping about what’s on their minds. No posturing, no armor, no performance. It’s the opposite of the usual theater where everyone’s supposed to sound desperate or wounded or dangerous. They just sound like people who wanted to make music together.
That directness gets to me. They’re aware they’re cute, and they don’t care if that makes their music illegitimate in anyone’s eyes. No angle, no strategy, just three people doing something because it seemed fun. Maybe that’s rarer than it should be.
Monday morning I’m groaning into coffee while somewhere in Hong Kong, students are crashing against the gates of government. Hundreds of them, helmets, umbrellas against the pepper spray. Some get hurt. Some get arrested. This has been going on since September.
They want democracy. They want elections that mean something. They want some separation from mainland China. I don’t blame them. You watch their faces in the footage and you see people who’ve run out of patience with the alternative.
Isobel Yeung covered it for VICE—moving through crowds, talking to the kids doing this, the people opposing them, catching moments where you can almost feel the desperation. There’s a difference between reading that protesters got tear-gassed and watching someone actually in it, actually talking to Joshua Wong, actually there. It makes it real in a way that a news summary can’t.
I’m somewhere warm and safe drinking coffee. They’re risking something I’ll probably never have to risk. That’s the contrast I keep coming back to.
Claire Oelkers, an entertainer and TV presence I know mostly from magazines and music television, made a series about what “German-ness” actually means when you strip away the clichés. Not the official version - the one buried in places most people don’t explore.
Hamburg ended up being her subject, and one episode lands her in an SM club in the red-light district. She spends time with Kalle Schwensen, who runs the underground scene, and his circle. There’s something almost journalistic about the approach, except she’s not maintaining distance. She’s just there, watching how people move through their world, what rules bind them together.
The SM scene is its own complete structure - rituals, community, a kind of social order built in the margins. You see it from the outside and suddenly realize this is what the city actually looks like beneath the tourism, beneath the creative mythology it sells. The real character of a place isn’t in the neighborhoods everyone knows about. It’s in the clubs where no one’s performing, where people are exactly what they are.
I chose Berlin years ago over Hamburg and never really wondered what I’d missed. But watching Claire move through these spaces with genuine curiosity rather than any agenda, the choice itself starts to feel smaller. You realize it wasn’t about which city was “more” anything. It was about where you could find people who weren’t pretending to be interesting. And that’s everywhere - you just have to know where to look.
When I was a kid I used to lie awake imagining aliens visiting Earth, arriving with technology and magic and whatever, transforming this boring world into something better. We’d be best friends, me and these misunderstood creatures. Then I played Civilization: Beyond Earth and now I just want to vaporize the slimy bastards.
God knows I was hyped for this game. After dumping an estimated twelve years into Civilization V, I couldn’t stand looking at those dead historical figures anymore—Napoleon, Gandhi, Washington. I wanted more. More than Earth. I wanted to rule the universe.
The premise is simple: Earth’s so polluted and packed that various international factions shoot rockets full of colonists to a distant planet. They’re supposed to build a new civilization there. Hence the title. You land in dense jungle. Around you crawl slimy bugs and enormous worms. A mutated jellyfish waves from the beach. Green smoke rises in the distance. Congratulations: there’s no going back.
If you’re a hollow person whom Call of Duty has emptied of all critical thought, the next hundred hours are basically: one more turn, one more turn, one more turn, endlessly until something inside you breaks. But if you’re like me—someone pathetically born into an era where ruling the universe isn’t an actual career—you get to live out perverted power fantasies here that most games won’t let you touch. My name is Marcel and you’re all my subjects.
I started out wanting to befriend the aliens. After a while they got so far under my skin that I embraced “purity” and wiped out everything with more than two legs. Africa and some American grandmother had already worn me out. More cities, more cities, my empire growing and growing, and I almost came just thinking about it.
But Beyond Earth has three real problems. First, the quotes. In the old games you’d get genuinely historical ones that made you feel like you were actually moving through human history. Now your advisors hit you with made-up bullshit every time you unlock something. Long-winded corporate gobbledygook explaining that you’ve discovered a technology to make solar collection drones more efficient. Who cares. They should’ve spent that writing effort somewhere useful.
Like problem two: there’s barely anything to do. Coming from Civ V drowned in expansions, you land on this new planet and suddenly you’re bored. Yeah, you can dig around a bit, fight a bit, trade a bit. But only eight civilizations? Bland wonders and annoying satellite probes? It’s thin.
And three: the AI is still maddening. Either braindead or unbeatable. Worst is when it takes control of a city you built in your own territory and suddenly starts expanding onto tiles you didn’t want it to touch. The new city just decides itself where to spread, and of course it avoids the copper deposits and alien resources you need and grabs everything useless, leaving the good stuff for your enemies. It’s infuriating. Sometimes total war is the only answer.
I get why serious fans see Beyond Earth as Civ V stripped down and painted green. I see it too. It’ll probably only feel complete after two or three expansions, which means dumping more money in and doing the whole thing again. Standard practice now.
But I love the head rush when I boot it up, when I settle in and click through a few hundred turns into the night. If I’m going to be a tyrant over anything, might as well be a digital universe. And if we ever do get catapulted onto an alien planet, at least I’ll know how to handle it. Maybe I’ll even befriend the aliens by then. Until that day comes, I’ll keep vaporizing them virtually instead.
Hannah showed me Anna’s blog. Twenty-two, from Denmark, posts gorgeous visuals about watches, makeup, good food. Then I watched her video about maintaining dreadlocks. For one moment her arms went up. That’s all it took for Anna to make me into someone who finds armpit hair attractive. Apparently I’m officially more evolved than all of you now.
Except the video wasn’t even about that. It was genuinely about dreadlock care. But there’s this second where her arms go up, and instead of what everyone else does - the stupid face, reaching for the wax strips, all the shame around it - I just thought about… yeah. You know where my head went.
I’m not attracted to every woman with armpit hair. I’m not indiscriminate about this stuff. Most women I like at all. But Anna’s armpit forests are something else. They’re this bright spot against all the hairless, smooth, totally neutered version of femininity everyone’s supposed to want. She’s just existing in her body, not performing, not making some big statement. Just living. And somehow that’s what got me.
Is this what a fetish is? I don’t know. But Anna’s definitely responsible. And I’m not complaining.
I see this image on Facebook constantly. White text on black: something about protecting your photos from commercial use under the new terms of service. Perfectly formatted to feel like a legal stand, the kind of thing that seems urgent until you realize no one actually wrote it with any legal knowledge.
People share it thinking they’re striking a blow at the machine. Zuck. The algorithm. One more repost and they’ve finally fought back.
Here’s what I know though: it doesn’t work. If you genuinely think Facebook is going to audit millions of profiles to identify who posted the protective image and carve out exceptions, you’re operating on a beautiful level of magical thinking. Facebook’s got entire teams of lawyers whose main job is basically laughing at things like this. They’re not afraid of your screenshot.
The only real option is to leave. To actually delete the app and stop using it. But that’s never going to happen. Not really. The network’s too woven in. Habit runs too deep. So people share the image instead.
It’s all theater. Share it, get some likes, feel like you’ve done something, move on. The platform doesn’t care. But you get to feel like you fought back, and that’s the whole trade: you get the sensation of acting, Facebook gets your engagement, and everyone goes home satisfied except nothing actually changed.
I don’t say this to be cruel. I’ve watched smart people share this post and genuinely believe they’d made a stand. What gets to me isn’t that Facebook doesn’t care—obviously it doesn’t. It’s that we’ve all agreed the gesture counts as the act.
The post cycles back around every few months with slightly different wording. People share it. Nothing changes. We all do it anyway, fully aware of what we’re doing, which is somehow worse than being deluded about it.
The new Star Wars trailer dropped and everyone’s losing their minds, and I’m sitting here with nothing. No spark, no anticipation, nothing at all. Star Wars just doesn’t work for me, never has, and a shiny new trailer isn’t changing that.
Part of it is that I’ve always found the whole thing kind of embarrassing. Lightsabers don’t make sense as weapons—they’re inherently absurd—and apparently now they have little glowing testicles coming off the hilt. Somehow that’s worse. Jar Jar Binks was so tedious I couldn’t even work up proper hatred for him. The classic characters feel like they’re from another era. Yoda’s a puppet. Vader’s been through so many revisions he’s basically a different character than the one people pretend to love.
I should like this. I genuinely like rebellion stories—in film, in games, in books. Theoretically Star Wars is tailor-made for me. But the moment it starts, something breaks. It doesn’t land. It’s not a quality problem exactly; it’s just that it’s not for me. And at some point you stop fighting that and accept it.
So enjoy the hype, everyone. Enjoy the December premiere. Star Wars stopped being cool in 1983 though, and J.J. Abrams isn’t going to fix that. Game of Thrones is where the actual compelling stuff is happening.
If some old woman crawled out of the bushes and offered to skip me ahead a few months to April, I’d say yes before she finished talking. That’s where we are with Game of Thrones right now.
The show doesn’t come back until spring, which is somehow not causing mass riots. I honestly don’t know how people are functioning. Just going to work, eating dinner, living their lives, completely unbothered. If I didn’t see them doing it, I wouldn’t believe it.
There’s a trailer for season five now. Doesn’t show much—they never do—but enough to make you itch. It’s online with a Twitter signup if you want regular reminders of what you’re missing until April.
There’s this moment where Jennifer Lawrence is crying into the camera, surrounded by rubble and smoke and heat, telling the oppressed masses that the time for revolution has come. In about two minutes, I went from someone who didn’t really care about anything to someone who wanted to burn it all down. Well, almost.
The first Hunger Games was a slog—Battle Royale meets The Running Man, with Katniss methodically killing crying kids while you waited for something to happen. Then Catching Fire showed up and fixed everything. Dark, bloody, depressing. If someone defended Twilight to me, I’d have deserved the right to smack them.
Sitting in the theater while the screen exploded—visually, emotionally—I kept wondering if this spark would actually jump to younger people who maybe never knew revolutions existed outside of history class. Like, Mom, Dad, is it okay to be against the government? Apparently the answer is yes.
Mockingjay strips away Harry Potter’s teenage-fantasy nonsense and Bella Swan’s fake romance and drops you into a world where things have clearly gone wrong in ways that don’t feel that far from ours if you think about it for five minutes.
The film keeps one hand over your eyes whenever things get too harsh. Blood starts spraying, the camera cuts to something prettier. Dead bodies never look really mangled or wrong. The piles of bones feel like set dressing from adventure movies. It’s fine, don’t worry, it’s not real. Which is fair—these are YA books, written for people who are supposed to be dreamy and experimental and self-aware. But let’s be honest: in a world where the internet keeps Jennifer Lawrence’s spread legs a click away, this hand-holding feels almost sweet.
Revolution means pain, means death, means terror. Mockingjay Part 1 tries to show that panic without giving horror the stage—bombs hit hospitals, soldiers massacre each other, bunkers fill with despair. It’s all Hollywood, all bombast, like everything else.
But what separates this from soulless Bay-style spectacle is the thought-noise it leaves in your head when the credits roll. Sure, Hunger Games is basically a collage of stolen pop-culture moments. And honestly I don’t care which of the two pretty boys the lead ends up with. But the fact that kids might actually ask themselves how far we are from Panem—from those twisted power structures—that matters more than the fact that Part 1 is basically a slow setup with a cliffhanger and nothing resolved.
Real talk: when kids in Bangkok got arrested for throwing the three-finger salute from the movie, that proved the thing works. When the only things breaking through to Gen Z are YouTube and porn and Call of Duty, at least some Hollywood blockbuster can shock them awake and plant something that might make them fight for what’s right.
Assuming the governments don’t get clever first and figure out how to use the youth against themselves. How to weaponize media into something that strangles any rebellious idea before it breathes. Panem’s closer than you think.
SNEEZE Magazine released a skateboard set with Mulan and Jasmine drawn exactly how I imagined them as a teenager—massive breasts, tight jeans, holding each other like they’re about to have sex. Peter Chung did it, a Korean-American artist, and he basically rendered pure fantasy without pretending any of this serves the actual character narratives.
The deck is beautiful. Black and white, clean enough to look expensive even though I’d destroy it the first time I tried to ride it. Around 130 euros. I’d buy it immediately if I could actually walk anywhere without falling on my face. There’s something appealing about owning something gorgeous you’ll never use—the idea of it matters more than the object.
I’m already thinking about what he should do next. Arielle and Pocahontas. Tiana under Cinderella. Belle with Snow White. Just give me the whole lineup. These characters completely stripped of their narrative function and drawn like this. That’s the whole thing.
I still think about Spirited Away at random moments. The way No-Face moves through the bathhouse. The sound of the train. I’ve watched Miyazaki’s films enough times that they’ve woven themselves into my thinking like memories of places I actually lived, except they were never real.
Mami Sunada spent a year inside Studio Ghibli filming during a specific moment: Miyazaki stepping back from directing, the studio faced with a transition nobody was quite ready for. He captures the animators in their routines, the precise exhaustion of frame-by-frame work, the daily labor of translating imagination into motion. The documentary is mostly about work—what it costs to maintain those standards for decades without compromise, and about the invisible people who do the actual drawing while one name becomes synonymous with the entire output.
There’s something unsettling about watching a film where the subject is a master reaching the end of an era. Not because Miyazaki is diminished—he’s still sharp, still visionary—but because the camera catches the moment when his creation has to learn to exist without him at the center. An ending pretending to be a transition.
I’m not sure what comes next for Studio Ghibli. The films that matter to me are already made. But there’s something strange about having those films documented this way, seeing the people behind the magic while he’s still alive, still aware of how the spell is being pulled apart. The mystery doesn’t fade when you see the craft underneath it. If anything it deepens—knowing these weren’t miracles, just people, tired and exacting, making something that would outlast them.
The documentary doesn’t offer conclusions. It just shows the work, the moment of transition, and then stops. Miyazaki is still there, the studio is still there, but something has shifted. He’s not coming back. Maybe that’s right.
Kiko Mizuhara in the GL 6000 and Freestyle Hi Spirit—those Reeboks just sitting there, not trying to do anything but exist. There was a moment when sneaker design understood that simplicity was enough, and the GL 6000 is that moment in shoe form. Clean lines, almost flat geometry, everything in service of not announcing itself. What stuck with me was how perfectly the shoe solved its own problem, and then stopped.
You ever fantasize about swapping lives with someone for a while? Just picking up and living in a different city as a different person, with different routines, everything novel instead of worn smooth by familiarity. Claudia Zalla, an Italian photographer, wasn’t content to fantasize. Timberland was running this campaign called Life-Swaps, moving creatives around Europe, and she signed up. Came to Berlin, took on the life of a blogger named Willy Iffland for a few days.
The whole thing was obviously a brand exercise—Timberland probably had logos splashed all over the documentation—but that doesn’t make the core idea uninteresting. Claudia rode the S-Bahn, visited burger joints, walked along the Spree. Lived in his daily shape for a few days. What gets me about it is how much your perspective changes depending on who’s looking. A place you’ve stopped noticing, that you move through without seeing, becomes visible again the moment someone else arrives to see it for the first time. Claudia was essentially showing Willy his own city back to him.
That gap between how you live your routine and how a stranger might see it—that’s probably worth remembering more often than we do. Your boredom is someone else’s fascination. What you take completely for granted is what they came all this way to notice. Your Tuesday morning is their story.
S Club 7 is reuniting for a tour. This is actually happening, yeah. If you missed them somehow, I’m not here to judge, but you know the deal: “S Claaaaaaab!”
I never could pick a favorite. Tina Barrett had something going, Jo O’Meara another angle entirely, Hannah Spearritt was just cute, Rachel Stevens existed beautifully, and the boys held their own. I watched the show religiously, memorized every song, and yes — jerked off to their FHM spreads when I should’ve been doing homework. Didn’t think about it much back then, just happened.
They don’t look the way they did. But the moment “Don’t Stop” or “Natural” or “S Club Party” starts playing, I stop thinking. Just become fourteen again in my room, throwing myself around like I’m actually there.
Tour kicks off in May. Birmingham first, then Manchester, Glasgow, London. None of that’s near me, but that doesn’t matter. I’m renting the van, dragging whoever’s left, and making the drive. Worth it.
I watched journalists from major outlets sit in front of a camera and read aloud the tweets they get hit with every single day. Emma, Julie, Katie — people you’d recognize if you paid attention to cable news or the internet. They weren’t reading compliments.
It starts fairly standard. Playground stuff: “I didn’t know sluts were allowed to have opinions.” Then it gets darker. “I’m going to rape you.” “I’m going to go house to house and shoot you all.” The velocity is what gets you — the escalation from stupid to violent, like someone leaning on the accelerator.
What struck me wasn’t even the crude threat-making. It’s that they had to sit down and perform this publicly for anyone to register it as real. Women have been telling people about this forever. The daily harassment, the rape threats, the sexual violence dressed up as banter — it’s just what happens when you exist on the internet and happen to be a woman. So they read it aloud. Made it a thing you couldn’t scroll past or pretend you didn’t see.
The message underneath is simple and mean: if you’re getting this, don’t close the laptop and cry about it. Show people. Make them look. And if you’re the one sending it? Stop. Or accept that you’re exactly what you sound like.
I don’t care what celebrities look like. Jennifer Lawrence gets a new haircut, Ryan Reynolds wears a new suit, Kim Kardashian gets a new ass—and everyone treats it like it’s important. It’s not. None of it is.
Then sometimes you see a photo that stops you cold.
Taylor Swift on the Wonderland cover looks real. Not the blonde pop princess everyone’s supposed to care about, not the polished thing built to sell. Just a person. Someone existing without performing. There’s nothing fake in that frame, and that’s actually rare.
I don’t know if it’s the photography, the lighting, or if I’m just being weird about it. But there’s something honest in there, and honest doesn’t show up much in celebrity culture. Maybe that’s why this one matters to me, when nothing else does.
September’s bleeding into October and suddenly nothing in your closet works anymore. That first morning when the air’s actually cold and you realize you’ve been pretending the season wouldn’t change. All your favorite pieces are too thin. Everything looks wrong.
I spent years resenting this time of year. Cheap thermal layers, bulky jackets that made me look defeated, looking progressively worse the colder it got. Then I started noticing people who just seemed fine with it—nothing performative, just solid pieces that worked, worn like they weren’t even considering the temperature.
StreetWear brands like WoodWood, Nudie Jeans, Cheap Monday understand what the cold actually needs. A good parka doesn’t have to feel like wearing a tent. Quality denim works better when it’s freezing. A backpack built right becomes something you stop thinking about—it just holds your life and you trust it.
The real stuff is small. A seam that doesn’t split. Color that lasts. Fit that survives six months of daily wear. Pockets you can use. When you’re living in the same clothes for half the year, these things matter. It’s not vanity—it’s just paying attention.
There’s a green parka I think about sometimes. Or a black piece with something you notice only if you’re looking. Not because it’s trendy, but because it’s what you reach for when it’s dark and you’re moving fast and you need something that works. The season’s brutal enough without making yourself look like you’ve surrendered.
Darren Ankenman shoots for Purple. Someone asked him about his work with a model named River—the concept, the meaning, what he was saying with these photographs. And he basically said: That’s River, she’s great. That was his answer.
I respect that. There’s usually so much required apparatus around photographs of naked women. You’re supposed to have an intellectual framework, a position, something that proves you’re looking for the right reasons. You need theory. You need meaning. You need to show you’re thinking and not just feeling desire.
But that’s not what’s happening. You see a beautiful woman and you want to look at her. That’s it. Desire, vision, whatever you want to call it—it doesn’t need explaining or defending. Ankenman just refuses to play the game and I think he’s onto something. All the machinery around the image doesn’t change what’s actually going on. It just makes the admission feel easier.
We like looking at bodies. Women’s bodies, specifically. And instead of just admitting that, we build these frameworks around it. All this theory, all these arguments. But everyone knows what’s happening. Everyone looks. The only thing that changes is whether you’re honest about it.
Every year, neo-Nazis from across Europe would come to Wunsiedel, a small German town, to march. They were drawn by Rudolf Heß—Hitler’s deputy—whose grave was there from 1988 until 2011. Even after they moved his remains, the marches kept coming back, an annual ritual connecting old Nazis to new ones, which probably made the townspeople want to leave and never return.
For years, there wasn’t much anyone could do. A legal march stays legal no matter who’s marching. But someone in Wunsiedel figured out something elegant: what if you turned the march into a fundraiser against itself?
Anonymous donors pledged ten euros for every meter the marchers walked. The money went to Exit Deutschland, a program helping people leave the neo-Nazi movement. So these people showed up to march for their ideology, and they ended up funding the escape routes for people trying to abandon it.
The town decorated the route with banners—wordplay in German, things like “If the Führer only knew.” There was free banana for reasons I’ll never understand. By the end, ten thousand euros had been raised for the exit program.
The brilliance was structural. These people came to perform strength and belonging. Instead, they became unwitting fundraisers for the opposition. Not defeated through argument or counter-protest, just rendered absurd—made into a joke they were too committed to their march to even see they were part of.
Sometimes the best activism is the quietest. It doesn’t need rage, just a clear-eyed understanding that someone’s deepest convictions can be used against them.
Mariko Goto’s set in Tokyo was genuinely surreal. She was opening for Negoto, this Japanese girl group, and the crowd in the front rows was entirely middle-aged men, sweating through their glasses, vibrating with fandom and desperation. It was loud and pathetic and very Japanese in a specific way.
Then Mariko walked out in a white dress and something broke. My friend had warned me she was different—which in Japan is basically an accusation—but she said it with genuine excitement. She wasn’t wrong. Mariko came on like she had nothing to lose and nothing to prove, and the room shifted.
Her new song is a love declaration to smooth-tooth dolphins. A love song to whales. That’s the whole picture right there. The dolphins are worthy of genuine emotion and devotion. The men shuffling and sweating at the front, at forty-five, are not.
There’s something clean about that clarity. She’s already written the song, already committed the feeling to something that will never know her name. The men in the front rows will shuffle out and wait for the next girl group to walk on stage.
A far-right party in Dortmund filed a city council request asking for data on how many Jews are registered and where they live. For security purposes. Their Facebook statement explained it as a reasonable administrative concern: they needed demographic information to analyze potential threats from proxy wars. To keep people safe, obviously.
The punchline is built in—next week ISIS advocates for gender equality, right? But the actual thing is how flat it is. Not a rally, not performed evil. Just someone sitting at a desk, filing paperwork in the language of government. They know that once something is written down in the right format with the right justification, it feels legitimate. Like maybe it’s a question that’s supposed to be answered.
The version of evil that actually works is the kind that doesn’t perform. It just sits there, patient and official, waiting for the next person to think it’s reasonable.
Someone made a Berlin U-Bahn-style map except it’s dealers instead of stations. Udo’s a megaspinner. Dolli’s elevator doesn’t work. With Malte you don’t discuss anything. Every person listed with a character note, not just a location. The bureaucratic confidence kills me — someone spent time on this, actually built it out like they’re documenting a functional municipal system.
It’s Berlin, a city weird enough and big enough to have an in-joke ecosystem that dense. Someone spends an afternoon on a joke that resonates with a few thousand people and that’s enough. It circulates. The specificity is everything — the character notes, the architectural details, the embedded warning system. You know nobody’s actually using this to buy anything. That’s not even the point.
The point is the precision, the commitment, the way the joke takes itself seriously. Making something this specific, this detailed, this confidently useless. I imagine printing it out if I lived there, pulling it out to show someone who might get it. They either would or they wouldn’t. Either way, that’s the whole thing right there.
I want Kate Upton for Christmas. Not the idea of her, not her career or brand—just her, whatever that means. I know how that sounds. Crude, obviously impossible, missing the point of Christmas, all of that. But at least I’m saying what I actually want instead of lying about wanting a PlayStation while thinking about something else.
That Sports Illustrated video from her first shoot probably started it. 2011 maybe, her rookie moment. She’s laughing about something off camera, moving around with zero self-consciousness, no idea what she’s doing to people. There’s a realness to it that’s hard to describe without sounding stupid—the laughter, the movement, none of it performed. You can believe in it for the three minutes the video runs.
Everyone’s Christmas list is the sanitized version of desire. Gadgets, clothes, status objects. World peace if they’re feeling noble. But it’s all the same impulse underneath: you want something that makes you feel something, and you dress it up in the respectable version. I just skipped the dressing up.
The video made its rounds online. She became what she was always going to become—famous, processed, turned into content. That specific moment, the one that grabbed me, got buried under a thousand other moments. The machine took over. She became a brand and that laughter became a product.
I never got my Christmas wish. Which is fine. Most people don’t. At least I asked for what I actually wanted.
So if you thought Kim Kardashian’s astronomical ass—engineered down to the molecule to break every platform at once—was the apex of what she’d show us, you’ve been wrong before and you’re wrong now. The woman can move around. She has other angles.
I’m not going to pretend her body is a work of nature. It’s a work of will and money and surgery, rearranged so many times that calling it authentic feels almost delusional. But there’s something weirdly undeniable about that level of commitment. She wanted a specific thing, restructured herself accordingly, and somehow made it culturally inevitable. Vogue. Billionaire orbit. The whole machinery bent to her vision. Most people don’t have that kind of drive, so why am I wasting energy resenting it?
I’m giving up on the resentment, the act of standing above it all. She’s the Cleopatra of right now, our contemporary absolute monarch, and if that means buying whatever magazine insists she looks exactly like her photographs, then I’m in. How could I doubt something printed? Heil Kim Kardashian.
Shohei Otomo probably can’t escape the fact that his father created Akira. That’s not something you get to put behind you. So he didn’t try—he just went in a completely different direction and became an illustrator, which is its own kind of honest response to inheriting that weight.
His work captures Tokyo the way you actually see it when you’re tired enough not to perform. Crowded trains, convenience stores, teenagers staring at phones, salarymen who’ve completely given up. The city as machinery, running itself into exhaustion. He documents it all without trying to make a point about it, which somehow makes the point more obvious.
There’s a new exhibition called “Flat Bend” showing some of his pieces—stuff pulled from the hours when Tokyo shows itself without pretense. Late night, nobody watching, just what the city actually is when you’re awake enough to see it clearly.
I think what matters is that he didn’t inherit his father’s aesthetic or try to prove anything. He just looked at the place long enough to understand it, then drew what he saw. You can’t fake that kind of attention. People feel it.
Jean-Paul Goude photographed Kim Kardashian for PAPER Magazine. Goude’s built a career on images designed to provoke—so putting him in front of Kardashian, whose entire operation is built on provocation, makes a kind of sense.
She’s been at this long enough that there’s no pretense left. The sex tape. The reality show. The app. The selfie book. Each iteration slightly more transparent about the transaction—she’s selling her image, mostly her body, and we’re paying in attention. What’s almost honest about her is that she doesn’t hide it. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
The release framed it as her breaking the internet with her ass, which is the same tired line they use whenever a famous woman with a notable body releases photographs. But the pictures probably work fine. Carefully composed. Perfectly lit. Designed to generate exactly this kind of half-interested commentary. Which is the whole point.
I don’t have much to say about it. It’s spectacle working exactly as intended.
There’s this process to find it. Talk to the old man in Viridian City, let him show you how to catch Pokémon. Fly to Cinnabar Island. Surf the eastern coast, that narrow strip where the game’s code starts to tangle. Eventually it appears: a corrupted block of pixels, data bent into something almost physical. Missingno. Missing number. We called it that because there wasn’t anything else to call it.
I still don’t know how we heard about it. This was before the internet was everywhere, before strategy guides got solved in real time. Through playgrounds and hallways and the weird underground network of childhood rumor, it reached us anyway. And once it did, we weren’t just kids catching monsters in a handheld game. We became something different—explorers at the edge of something we weren’t supposed to touch, and that feeling was electric.
The mythology around it was darker than the glitch itself. Missingno would corrupt your save. It could breed infinitely. It held power no normal Pokémon should have, some kind of incomprehensible strength that only made sense as an error. Nintendo’s warnings only made it more appealing. In an era when games shipped broken and stayed broken, when a corrupted cartridge was just forever your problem, Missingno was genuine danger. You knew catching it might destroy everything. You knew there was no guide, no community, no way to fix it. The designers hadn’t accounted for this.
What I miss isn’t the glitch itself. It’s the space it occupied. Games left room for mystery, for genuine unknowns, for something truly untested and genuinely risky. We lived in the margins of the code. We tested limits nobody had anticipated. There was something clean about that—some kind of freedom I don’t think we get back.
I got completely absorbed in Terror in Resonance last summer. Two orphans blowing up Tokyo to avenge their childhood, hunted by a burnt-out cop and an unraveling secret agent, with a high school girl accidentally swept into the whole thing. The soundtrack is Yoko Kanno. That’s the show that made me remember why anime matters.
Sword Art Online II is a procedural set inside a video game where kills are real. Kirito goes in undercover as a woman to track a killer, meets Sinon (a sniper with actual trauma), and they move through this virtual Tokyo picking apart a mystery. It shouldn’t work. It mostly does.
Tokyo Ghoul is what you watch after Attack on Titan leaves you wanting darker. Monsters eating people in a modern city, the protagonist caught between worlds. The drama isn’t in the fighting—it’s in not belonging anywhere.
Fairy Tail is for people who got lost trying to keep up with One Piece. Same adventure energy, tighter story, a flying blue cat named Happy. It’s stupid and charming.
Non Non Biyori does the opposite—a girl moves from Tokyo to the middle of nowhere and befriends the local kids. It’s restful in a way most media isn’t. Renchon is one of the best characters ever written.
Sailor Moon Crystal won’t grab you like the original, but even a lesser Sailor Moon beats most of what else exists. Some stories only land if you’ve read the manga, but that’s fine.
Persona 4: The Golden Animation is the game adapted. If you haven’t played it, the premise is solid: murders in a small town, a mystery that pulls a group of friends into literal TV screens, a teddy bear mascot. I’m completely into Chie Satonaka, though honestly everyone is.
Danna ga Nani wo Itteiru ka Wakaranai Ken is five minutes per episode and each one is a small brain event—married couple, she’s driven, he’s a nerd disaster, her brother is unhinged. It’s funny mostly because I can’t believe it was greenlit.
Psycho-Pass is Minority Report as anime. They scan your psyche and decide if you’re dangerous. Dark reading gets you arrested, therapy, or worse. It’s solid sci-fi dressed in anime skin.
Space Dandy is a shallow alien hunter traveling space with a vacuum and a cat, chased by impossible people, hunted by a man with planets growing out of his head. It sounds stupid because it is, but it’s from the Cowboy Bebop director, and that combination means something. I had almost too much fun with it. The protagonist loves women the way I do, which probably says more than I want it to.
Lara Kleiner made a map that works in the dumbest, smartest way possible. It’s the Berlin U-Bahn redrawn so every burger joint becomes a station — Tommi’s in Mitte, Burgeramt in Friedrichshain, Burgermeister in Kreuzberg. Not real stops, of course, but the idea sticks anyway.
What it does is make the hunt feel intentional. You’re not wandering around hungry hoping something good appears. You’ve got a route, a reason to be somewhere, permission to turn eating into a project. You could theoretically hit all of them — every spot a destination, every line a journey — and by the end you’d be completely stuffed, probably ten kilos heavier, honestly feeling pretty sick. But you’d also know the city in a way that matters. Not the monuments, not the history, just where to actually eat well. That’s the map’s real information.
Once you find someone who actually sells real weed—not the brown dust that smells like dried dog shit, but good weed—the last thing you want to do is spend it on getting high with people who claim to be your friends. You want to cook with it. You want to treat it like an ingredient.
The problem is most people have no idea how to do this. You end up with burned brownies, charcoal cookies, pot tea that tastes like punishment. It’s depressing.
“Herb: Mastering the Art of Cooking with Cannabis” is the actual solution. Over 200 pages of recipes, beautiful photography, and explanations of the chemistry behind it all. Clear enough to understand even when you’re high, which is kind of the whole point.
Haven’t made any of these, but the appeal is obvious. The idea of cooking with weed the way you’d cook with any ingredient—respecting the material, technique-driven, something good enough to serve—feels like the only move once you know what you’re doing. The difference between smoking and cooking is like the difference between drinking whiskey and using it in something.
The whole amateur-hour thing—singed edges, overpowering taste—is what you get when people treat it as a novelty instead of a craft. This book treats it as a craft. That’s the shift.
Found a Japanese horror trailer that’s basically Red Light Green Light, except when you lose, your body explodes in a spray of gore. The film is Kamisama no Iutoori — As the Gods Will — and it’s exactly as committed to its own shock value as you’d expect from something made to go viral on 4chan.
A group of schoolgirls (Sayaka Tomaru, Sayaka Yano, Miku Nakahara, Miko Terada, Hina Aizuki, Kaori Yuki) are playing the game when the horror kicks in. Not subtle. Not metaphorical. They literally explode. The trailer doesn’t look away.
There’s something interesting about Japanese horror being willing to mix sexualization and violence so directly, without pretending they’re separate impulses. The fanservice and the gore use the same visual language. The camera is equally committed to both.
I don’t know if the full film is any good. The trailer is doing what it’s supposed to: show the moment that feels transgressive enough to make you curious. It’s not trying to be subtle or ironic. Just showing you what happens, how it looks. That’s it.
The first time I saw Mark Gevaux I thought his ribs couldn’t possibly be as good as people said. How could they be. He’s got one leg, a dead eye, and a look that makes you instinctively distance yourself. You know the type — the creepy uncle everyone’s got, the one people stop talking about when you walk in the room.
But Mark makes the best ribs in London.
He’s The Rib Man now. Used to be a butcher before an accident took his leg, before he couldn’t work the way he’d always worked. So he found something else to do. Something that still meant understanding meat, the skill, the care — all the things that made him good at the first job.
These days he’s out on the London streets with family and friends, and the line never stops. People come back. The ribs taste like he’s spent years perfecting them, thinking about nothing but this one thing, and maybe he has.
There’s something about it that lands different. Not the neat redemption story, not the movie where a broken man becomes unbreakable. But the real one, where you lose something essential and instead of folding you just figure out another way to do what you’re actually good at. Same hunger, different stage.
If you’re in London, find him. And maybe leave the creepy uncle at home.
When I’m at home eating pizza with friends—cheap wine going down in embarrassing quantities, something half-watched on the screen, half the time scrolling through stuff that has no business being on my phone—I look like I’m doing exactly that. Comfortable shirt that’s too soft from too many washes, grease on my sleeve by the second slice.
Danuta and Karolína came at this differently. The Slovak and Czech streetwear label DEARFRIENDS dressed them for the same exact scenario and somehow they looked like they were doing a shoot. Blue sweatshirt. White socks. Red Ash Ketchum hat. It was obscene.
There’s something about that contrast that messes with you. The models managed to make sitting around look like it meant something. I remember seeing their designs—there was a goat, I think a skate deck—and the whole thing clicked. This is what these brands do. They make you want to dress for an event that’s just your living room.
The shoot worked because there’s nothing coy about it. These are attractive women wearing nice clothes, and you know exactly why you want to look at them. That directness—no artistic distance, no pretense—is more effective than anything self-conscious could be.
I open my eyes and the sun’s already too bright. My alarm—this ancient piece of shit—never went off even though I set it for eight. Monday morning and I’m supposed to feel ready, like I’m back in the world.
Truth is I disappeared for weeks. Completely off the grid without explanation. Anyone paying attention would’ve noticed the gap, and I’m sure some of you had opinions about it. I’d been running something online with Leni and Ines, but I stepped away to tunnel entirely into something new. An idea that arrived one afternoon fully formed and impossible to ignore. The kind of thing that could be worth everything or absolutely nothing. Too early to know.
I can’t talk about it. Not because I’m being coy—I just know that early ideas die if you expose them. They need to stay dark. So I disappeared for weeks, worked day and night to get my part done, handed it off to people with actual resources. People who might actually do something with it.
Now I’m waiting. Their move. I’m back, ready to rebuild whatever I was doing before.
This whole thing is basically me using a lot of words to tell you that I can’t actually tell you anything.
I open my eyes and the sun’s too bright. My alarm never rang. I’m back holding something cold and my phone, stepping into the light. The whole world should know it. For anyone who needs more, there’s a picture of a farting lizard. You’re welcome.
Everyone told me Taylor Swift was trash. I had to learn it early, absorb it from older siblings, from the kids in school who read music magazines, from that guy who wouldn’t shut up about which artists were “real.” Hating her was the price of not being laughed at. So I paid it. Years of it. I said the songs were shallow, the videos vapid, made sure I looked the right way when her name came up—unimpressed, bored, above it all.
I stopped doing that. At some point the effort of pretending just wasn’t worth it anymore. Taylor Swift is good. “I Knew You Were Trouble” is good, “Safe & Sound” is good, “Shake It Off” works. These aren’t accidents—they’re songs built to do something and they do it. The writing is tighter than people want to admit, the hooks land, the production knows what it’s doing. You can dislike it, but pretending it’s incompetent is just noise.
“Blank Space” is not her best work. I’ll give anyone that one. The video is so boring I had to stop watching halfway through. The melody’s fine, the lyrics are fine, but nothing about it hits the way her stronger songs do. And yet I still listened to it again because she’s made enough good work that I trust her even when she’s just coasting. That’s the bar—not whether every single is perfect, but whether the person is worth paying attention to.
There’s something about admitting you like something everyone told you to hate. You feel stupid at first, then you stop caring. The thing is, Taylor Swift’s music was never the problem. The social cost of admitting it was the only thing that mattered, and once you stop paying that tax, you realize how arbitrary it all was. She was always good. You just weren’t allowed to say so.
You know the situation. Your supplier got arrested, your stash is gone, and you’re standing around broke wondering what to do next. This is where Francesco Moracchini’s machine comes in. It’s called the MO-CLEAN/14, but people know it as The Banker.
The whole thing is a dark joke. Supposedly you feed it money and it scrapes cocaine off the notes and collects it for you. Which is funny because most euro notes actually have cocaine on them—bankers, dealers, people throwing cash around clubs, rich people with nothing to do, all of them passing contaminated bills around. It’s just a fact of circulation.
So Moracchini made a machine that’s basically commentary on all of that. Money contaminated by what it buys. An ATM for desperation. The kind of art that works as both a joke and a genuine observation about how things actually work, all of it the same thing. He makes work like this a lot—stupid and smart at the same time, hitting you before you know what you’re even supposed to think.
Hose runter, Beine breit, Foto gemacht—and sent. That’s the phrase running through my head after the Snapchat leak. A few hundred thousand photos got pulled out of the servers, and sure, most were garbage—a dog, a burnt pizza, a sunset. But the people who like digging through other people’s intimate moments started sifting for nudes, and that’s the part of the story that sticks.
I understand the intellectual argument. Bodies are bodies. Doesn’t matter what kind—everyone knows what they look like and what they’re for. People have sex. People masturbate. Jennifer Lawrence does it. Kate Upton does it. Some kid in a high school somewhere does it. The fact that someone took a photo shouldn’t destroy their life, but it does, because we live in a world where evidence of having a body becomes evidence of shame.
That’s the stupid part. Everyone sends nudes. The shame is manufactured, and anyone who’d judge someone for that is just a repressed asshole who’s never going to get laid anyway. That’s not theory. That’s what I actually think.
But then there’s the other side, and I can’t quite talk myself out of it. The moment you send a nude, you’re betting. Betting that the person on the other end is who you think they are. That they’ll respect it. That their phone’s secure. That nothing will go wrong. And if you’ve paid any attention to how these things actually work, you know those aren’t great bets.
Three women have photos of my body. A student in Stuttgart who loves cake. A dentist’s assistant in Munich who climbs mountains. A designer in Berlin who hates math. We traded because that’s what happens when there’s attraction and trust. I don’t regret it. But the moment I hit send, something shifts. The intimate moment becomes a digital object. Documentation. Something that could end up anywhere. The moment was real. The photo is just evidence.
So I’m stuck between two things. Intellectually, it’s fine. Bodies aren’t shameful. Everyone has one. Everyone does things with it. But practically, I know what happens to photos that get out. And that gap—between what I think is true and what I’m actually willing to risk—is where I live.
I still haven’t figured out how to feel about that.
I used to stand in the mirror and think, okay, this body is fine, nobody’s actually going to care. Then I found out Brandy Melville cares. A lot.
The brand makes clothes in two sizes: Small and smaller. Their whole business model is exclusion. That’s the product. A Brandy Melville shirt is basically a certificate saying you’re the right kind of thin.
Girls started complaining on Twitter. ’I’m too fat for Brandy Melville, it’s breaking my heart.’ The brand’s response was direct: buy keychains, those fit everyone. No expansion, no plan to change. The exclusion is the entire point.
There’s something almost honest about it, I guess. Most brands pretend they’re for everyone. Brandy Melville is explicit: you either fit or you don’t. That’s the whole thing. You’re not buying a shirt, you’re buying proof that you passed.
I don’t know if it’s cruel exactly. It’s a brand selling clothes to a specific body type—that happens. But Brandy Melville isn’t hiding what they’re doing. They’ve made a choice and they own it. Some people get in, some people don’t. The keychains are for the people who don’t.
2011 is gone. I can’t pull up any real shape to it, just the vague sense that it happened. But somewhere in that summer Kate Upton shot for Sports Illustrated Swimsuit in the Philippines, and there’s a video of her between takes—happy, genuinely happy, not performing for the camera the way you’d expect.
She had this thing where she didn’t look like a model posing. She looked like someone you might actually know. That was the whole appeal, honestly. Not some impossible fantasy, just a girl who was beautiful and seemed to actually like being there. The camera caught her the way she was, and people couldn’t stop watching it.
I watched it way more times than the year itself deserved. There’s something about a moment caught honestly on film—someone at the actual beginning of something, before the whole machinery gets hold of them—that sticks longer than anything you lived through. 2011 is dust now, but that image is still clear.
Yulin, in Shaanxi province, has a meat festival. Every year, fifty thousand dogs and cats—mostly illegally bred or stolen off the street—get killed and cooked for it. I went to see what that looked like. The cages are cramped, animals packed in barking. The vendors stand behind stalls that reek. You see dogs waiting and meat already hanging and the casual brutality of it all hits different when you’re standing in it rather than reading about it on your phone.
The animal rights activists show up every year to protest. The vendors and festival goers have an answer ready: the West kills hundreds of thousands of cattle and pigs annually. Nobody’s picketing the slaughterhouses. So why is dog meat worse? It’s actually not a stupid question. The double standard is real—we keep ours as pets and eat theirs and pretend we’re morally superior. That part stayed with me.
There was a boy at the festival with his dog. He didn’t want to eat it.
When I asked what the meat tasted like, the response was simple: “Like lamb.”
Made it to Friday, which these days feels like its own achievement. Usually means I’ve actually organized something for Saturday — people coming over, need food, need music that doesn’t make everyone regret being there by the third hour.
Building a party playlist is tedious but important. Too much energy at the start and people burn out. Too mellow and they’re on their phones. There’s a balance that carries the evening without asking too much of anyone. This one has around 250 songs, mostly shuffled so nothing feels choreographed.
Action Bronson’s on there because that casual aggression works. Kendrick because he’s the artist people actually want to hear. Charli XCX because sometimes the weird stuff that shouldn’t work actually does, and it breaks up the predictability. Then other things I like mixed with party fuel. Shuffle and don’t stop.
I put it on and there’s that critical first song. Either it lands or we’re sunk. Usually by the seventh or eighth track, nobody’s thinking anymore, they’re just in it. The music becomes part of the room — something everyone’s moving to without noticing.
Most parties are forgettable. But there’s always that moment where everyone’s present, the music hits right, and it feels like maybe this is what anything’s for — just hanging with people you don’t have to perform for. The playlist gets you there if you’re lucky.
The ritual requires three things: the space, the company, and enough beverage to stop caring about the sequence of films. Someone starts queuing things up. Someone disappears to get something to smoke. By the fifth film, the room smells like mutual surrender and bad decisions. No one planned this progression. It doesn’t matter. The point isn’t the films—it’s the state you enter and how long you can stay there.
Early in the night: Lammbock or something like it. German stoner comedy, the kind of thing that makes everyone lean toward the screen. You’re not high yet, just getting there, and it’s the right entry point. Dumb, affectionate, no stakes. Then American Pie, which works every time because everyone’s seen it, everyone knows the timing, there’s something comfortable about laughing at the same jokes you laughed at ten years ago. Mean Girls follows naturally—cruel in ways that matter, satirical without smugness. Lindsay Lohan was genuinely beautiful then, and the film used that while also making fun of it. No contradiction.
By the third or fourth film, depending on pace, you can go heavier. Battle Royale if the mood supports it—Japanese brutality, kids killing each other on an island, the kind of film that sticks where Hunger Games slid right off. Or The Hangover, just chaos matching chaos. No apology, no pretense. Entertainment first. By this point you’re past wanting anything respectable.
Someone always suggests something embarrassing. Cruel Intentions sits somewhere around midnight, ostensibly because the narrative matters but really because you want to watch beautiful people do terrible sexual things. No one pretends otherwise. You watch it. You enjoy it. Move on. Sometimes there’s someone in the apartment you’re trying to impress, and the film serves a function. Sometimes it’s just five people getting progressively stupider, which is its own companionship.
Then a break point. Maybe Billy Madison—Adam Sandler as useless—or maybe Spirited Away, which lands differently when everything else has been trash. Miyazaki’s film is genuinely beautiful, and the contrast matters. It reminds you that cinema can do more than entertain while you’re wasted, even if that’s all you’re asking of it right now.
Pulp Fiction gets screened with quiet reverence. Everyone knows it. Everyone can recite pieces. There’s something satisfying about returning to a film that shaped how you understand how movies work. The dialogue, the structure, the sheer confidence—it holds up, and you know it will, and that’s worth something.
By the end you’re beyond words. The apartment is destroyed. The vodka became undrinkable hours ago. You’ve stopped making sense. The conversation has devolved into shared references, inside jokes, nonsense that only exists in this specific state. Everyone’s staying over anyway. The next day you’ll find glasses in weird places. You’ll smell like smoke and weed. No one will talk about it much. You’ll just do it again in a month.
When you think about Israel, you get the missiles and the rubble — the newsreel version, the one that’s designed to be easy to understand and hard to look away from. But there’s another country there, the one where the actual business of being young and restless and vain happens in suburban bedrooms and parking lots, the same as anywhere else. Nobody’s filming that part.
Dafy Hagai photographed it anyway. Her book, Israeli Girls, grew out of a project she started to document the feeling of being that age in that place — which turned out to be mostly about her own childhood. She grew up in a suburb of Tel Aviv, and what ended up in the photographs is basically her memory of herself. She made one rule for her models, some of whom were friends: they had to remind her of who she’d been.
The work doesn’t try to say anything big. It’s just girls, the actual substance of youth in a suburban context, the endless small vanities and boredoms and conspiracies that matter completely while you’re living them and then you forget them almost entirely. That specificity is the whole thing. You could shoot the same photographs in Los Angeles or Berlin or Tel Aviv and they’d register the same way — the light on a face, the confidence of a pose, the reaching for something just out of frame.
There’s so much absurd content coming out of Japan’s pop world every week that it all blurs together. But some weeks certain things stick. This week: thick girls, dying heroes, and synchronized dancing that actually works.
There’s a trend they’re calling chubbiness. In Japan anyone over a certain weight gets labeled overweight, which is absurd when you consider the entire male population seems to have a fetish for anything with the word “girl” attached — schoolgirls, girl feet, girls’ dormitories. So there’s a whole subculture of men who prefer the rounder type. There’s a group called Big 3 with a song titled “Pochative ~ Body mo Heart mo Glamorous” that’s literally just footage of hamburgers, pancakes, and fried chicken for three minutes. I’m not complaining.
Miku Hatsune, the virtual idol everyone’s been orbiting for years, is getting her own car now thanks to Daihatsu. There’s already Miku toothpaste, Miku umbrellas, Miku game consoles — every conceivable object has a Miku version. The car feels like it should be the endpoint. Except for the guy who needs more than the life-size body pillow to fall asleep next to.
Daiki Sugimoto made a video about Super Mario at the end of his life. All his friends and enemies, running out the clock. There’s something heavy about watching beloved characters age, because you can’t help thinking about your own mortality — about the stuff you loved when you were young that doesn’t make sense anymore. The video hits the exact amount of melancholy it should.
I stopped watching timelapse videos years ago. Everything gets one these days — cities, events, crowds of people. It’s the same visual trick applied to infinite subjects. But darwinfish105 made one of Tokyo that pulled me in. Dense crowds, elevated shots of a city that feels like it’s vibrating with too much life happening at once. I guess there’s always room for one more.
FEMM wrapped up the week with “Wannabe,” a track with hooks that dig in and choreography that’s been rehearsed a thousand times. It’s designed to get stuck in your head and make your body move even when you’re not trying to move it. If that stuff doesn’t make you twitch along a little, you’re probably already dead inside.
Long distance is its own special torture. You watch each other jerk off over Skype, you try to dirty talk through the lag, you pretend that counts as sex. It doesn’t. You both know it doesn’t. You come, you close the laptop, you feel worse than before.
The We-Vibe 4+ is what gets invented for exactly this situation. Vibrator for her, app for you, control it from thousands of miles away. Pulses, waves, surprise vibrations—whatever rhythm you decide to send her. At least you’re doing something. At least you’re not just watching.
I’m skeptical it actually fixes anything. Sex through an app still feels like you’re fucking a screen, separated by servers and time zones and the basic fact that she’s not there. But I understand the appeal. You’re alone. She’s alone. But at least you’re touching her somehow, even if it’s just a vibrator you bought her, even if it’s sad and mechanical and nothing like the real thing.
The fantasy is that it keeps her from leaving you for someone who’s actually there. Someone local, someone who can take her out and fuck her without scheduling it six months in advance. The reality is different. But you try anyway. You spend the ninety euros or whatever it costs, you download the app, you press buttons thousands of miles away.
Pharrell’s been showing up in anime spaces. After that animated-hat appearance in the Miku Hatsune video—”Last Night, Good Night (Re:Dialed)”—he’s now opposite a wistful manga girl in his “It Girl” video, both of them drifting through space. It’s the kind of thing that would’ve felt like you were in on a niche in-joke a few years ago. Now it’s just what he’s making.
The whole video leans into anime and manga aesthetics without apology—visual language, sensibility, all of it. It doesn’t read like he’s discovered anime. It reads like he actually gets it. He’s making what he wants to make.
What gets me is the openness of it. A few years back, liking anime or manga felt like something you kept separate from your mainstream taste, something you didn’t advertise. Now a major artist is just making videos about it and nobody’s pretending it’s weird. Because the truth—and I think most people know this—is that anime and manga are doing things Western studios won’t. The storytelling, the visual risk-taking, the willingness to leave things strange and unresolved. I’ve thought so for years. I think a lot of us have. We just weren’t supposed to say it out loud.
Those Ello invitations came with passwords that looked like they were generated by throwing words at a wall. Soldiers-round-life. House-found-species. Country-give-flower. Something about the randomness felt like a promise—that you were getting into something real, something that didn’t care about your data.
For six months, Ello had been existing in near-total obscurity. Then suddenly last week, invitations flooded everywhere, and nobody quite knew what to do with them. A few brave souls signed up, dragged their friends along, and then the media noticed. All at once, it was the hot thing. Facebook was dead, everyone who mattered said so. Here comes Ello—supposedly the future, and it looked like a half-finished Tumblr theme.
The pitch was seductive: no ads, pseudonyms allowed, nudes allowed. A genuine alternative to Facebook’s surveillance capitalism. Some of the coverage was almost giddy about it. “Ello positions itself as the answer to Facebook’s overregulation,” one tech writer wrote. The LGBTQ community especially had a reason to look—Facebook’s real-name policy had been pushing people away. Here was something that didn’t care.
The numbers were wild. Twenty-seven thousand new users signing up every hour. The growth looked like something that actually mattered. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that almost everyone signing up hadn’t really thought about what happens next. Andy Baio, who worked at Kickstarter, laid it out clearly: Ello had taken in $435,000 in venture capital. Venture capitalists don’t hand over that kind of money out of goodness. They’re waiting for the exit. The plan is always the same: get the users, get the data, get bought out, and then cash out.
This is how it always goes. Facebook wasn’t built to be evil—it was just built to grow. Growth needs money. Money needs an exit. And once the exit happens, the thing you loved gets absorbed into something you don’t control anymore. MySpace went the same way. StudiVZ got bought and killed. It’s a pattern that never stops.
Being online in 2014 means you’re not a person to these companies. You’re a data stream. They’re not creating platforms for you—they’re creating machines to collect you and sell you. We march from one to the next like there’s no other option. The idea that we could build our own things, host our own spaces, create our own networks without depending on anyone—we’ve been trained to forget that’s even possible.
The tools exist, actually. WordPress, Ghost, Jekyll. People could run their own spaces for a few euros a month, build networks directly with friends’ sites. Own their words. Own their links. But it takes work, and work requires motivation that most of us don’t really have. It’s easier to complain when Facebook changes the algorithm again, easier to create a group called ’I Want the Old Timeline Back’ with 62 members and feel like you’ve done something. Then move on. Post something else.
What will Ello become? No idea. Maybe it gets bought by Facebook or Google in a year. Maybe it actually becomes something. Maybe it just gets forgotten, like everything on the internet eventually does. But before you bet on this new network being your salvation, I’d stop and think about whether there’s actually any other way to live online. Whether you’ve exhausted all the real options, or just stopped looking because it was easier not to.
While Hong Kong was in the streets demanding democracy, McDonald’s was running a Batman special. The Diner Double Beef came with salty fries and a fizzy drink that tasted like green tea and apples, and if you couldn’t leave your apartment, they’d bring it to your door.
I don’t know what McDonald’s thought this was doing. Running a comic book promotion while the city was in upheaval wasn’t thoughtless exactly — just capital being capital. The burger didn’t care about politics. It was just food. It sold in good times and bad, protests or not, because there’s always someone hungry and a chain that will deliver.
You can find something funny or depressing in that depending on the day. That afternoon in Hong Kong, it was probably both at once.
I get hammered all day with notifications and loud opinions and hot takes streaming past faster than I can absorb. All I want is to sit by a window with some tea and let my mind drift. The internet doesn’t cooperate.
Then Hannah sent me this link to Melanie—MelGoesCrazy on YouTube—and I clicked without much expectation. One watch and something just quieted. This might be the most relaxing content I’ve ever sat through. “Hello, people on the internet,” she says in this even, unhurried voice, and then she’s just there. Gentle. In no rush. Like she has nowhere to be but exactly where she is.
She makes the standard YouTube fare—how-tos, outfit posts, those rambling “let’s talk about” videos—but there’s something different about the way she moves through it. When she starts talking about her first avocado tree, about dreadlocks and vegetarianism and making art, you don’t want to jump ahead. You want to lie down and close your eyes and let her voice take you somewhere else. Everything about it feels like permission. Whatever she’s doing, whatever she’s into, it’s contagious.
People with PS4s and 4K setups don’t like admitting that handhelds are fun. I stopped pretending somewhere last year, when my Nintendo 3DS XL became the only thing I wanted to use.
I was sick for a weekend and played Fantasy Life for hours, barely putting it down. I’m still at the beginning—haven’t touched most of the professions—but something about it just clicked. The game had this pull that made everything else disappear. By Sunday I knew where every monster spawned without even thinking.
The New Nintendo 3DS LL is coming to Japan, and they made this commercial for it that’s almost offensively charming. There’s a J-pop artist named Kyary Pamyu Pamyu who recorded a song called “Kisekae,” and it’s the kind of earworm that gets into your head and stays. Everyone I know who’s heard it has been looping it for hours.
There’s something disarming about watching something commit to being earnest like that. No hedging, no irony, just: we’re going to be cute and we don’t care if you think it’s stupid. The commercial just sits with it. That kind of directness is rarer than you’d think, and it’s hard to argue with once you see it.
I watched a Hertzfeldt couch gag buried in a forgettable Simpsons episode, and the moment his style hit the screen, everything shifted. The animation changed completely - jagged, hand-drawn, alive in a way the show hasn’t been in years. His whole thing is controlled chaos: ink and intention, not much else. When you watch his longer pieces, space and time get weird. You feel like you’re inside someone’s nervous system coming apart.
The post I read joked about how many drugs you’d need to create something like that. Fair point. There’s something hallucinogenic about his work, something that dissolves the rules. But it’s not an accident - he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s chosen the roughness, the not-finishing, the deliberate discomfort.
Thirty seconds on The Simpsons is this moment of actual strangeness breaking through the most formulaic show on television. The living room probably doesn’t look quite right. The characters probably move wrong. And it works because that’s the point. Every time something experimental gets greenlit on mainstream TV, even briefly, it’s worth noting. It means someone said yes to weird.
You’re halfway through the night wandering the internet looking for nothing in particular when you find a Chinese restaurant that’s grinding poppy seeds into ramen to make it addictive. An abandoned building rotting in central Tokyo. Someone making art from pills. A video of the Game of Thrones intro but every time it cuts to a new location someone’s eating soup. These are the things that happen when you let the web pull you wherever it wants to go.
The algorithm didn’t hand you any of this. You just found it, or it found you, and suddenly you’re deep in some stranger’s sketched Tinder matches, a ranking of Simpson’s couch gags, photos of a house built entirely for trees. Kirsten Dunst apparently had to tell everyone that your selfies aren’t your life. Japanese cookbooks have a quality of wrongness to them that you don’t fully understand until you look. PornHub started a record label. It tracks in a way that doesn’t make sense but also somehow does.
The best part of the internet is the specificity. Someone documented that two thousand lights covered the streets of Hong Kong. Another person built a camera lens from a plastic cup and it actually worked. The web’s where the weird and the mundane coexist without judgment. A guy eating soup in the background of a credits sequence can be important enough to edit together. The stupid particular things. The things that shouldn’t exist but do because someone cared enough.
You end up with seventeen tabs open. Half of it gets bookmarked. The rest disappears into history. You probably won’t click any of it again. Doesn’t matter. You found them. That’s the part that sticks.
I watch the 11(ELEVEN) video and it’s pure visual noise from the start. Glittering dancers, strange puppets making sounds, cars smoking through Seoul streets. I have no idea what it’s actually about and I don’t think that matters. It’s designed to overwhelm, and it works.
Hitchhiker’s not a household name outside K-pop, but inside it he’s been everywhere. He produced ’My Lady’ for EXO, ’Show Show Show’ for Girls’ Generation, ’Danger’ for f(x) — massive hits shaped by their respective acts and the industry machine. This is what he does when it’s just him.
There’s something about Korean pop that lets ideas get genuinely weird in ways that would get filtered out in Western markets. The idol system, the production budgets, the willingness to embrace total visual chaos as an aesthetic choice — it creates a scene operating on entirely different logic. Most labels would see a concept like this and start cutting things. K-pop just keeps adding.
His label’s making promises about the album being some unprecedented fusion of music and visuals. Maybe. But 11(ELEVEN) already works. It’s the kind of thing that makes you grateful expensive music videos get weird in South Korea.
I remember staring at that old tube TV in my room, four of us crammed in front of it playing Super Smash Bros. like it was the only thing that mattered. I was always Sheik—unbeatable, or so I thought. That was years ago. Childhood, basically, though I was already old enough to know I was living through something good.
Nintendo’s bringing it back. A new Smash Bros. is hitting the 3DS next week, with a Wii U version coming later. Over fifty characters, all the Nintendo standbys—Mario, Link, Zelda, Pikachu—plus hidden ones you’d unlock by grinding through the single-player modes. It’s the same formula that always worked: pick your fighter, pick your stage, bash the other person until they fly off the screen.
The new version has this amiibo thing, where you can scan those little figurines into the Wii U version and they fight alongside you. Gimmick or not, I get the appeal. These games have always been about the characters, about muscle memory and muscle testing each other.
I’m not sure I have the time to sink into this the way I did as a kid. But knowing it exists, knowing I could pick up a 3DS and have that same feeling again—that’s something. The game hasn’t changed what it does. And what it does still works.
Spent a Friday night making up a list of stupid things to do. Nothing better going on.
Join Ello, the social network that was supposed to murder Facebook. I joined. Lasted maybe forty minutes before I realized nobody on Ello wanted to talk to anyone either. Left immediately.
Go to a party and actually try discussing something. The quietest supporting actors in old silent films. Whatever year barn swallows were important. That time my printer had a paper jam. Watch how fast people check their phones instead.
Buy a CD. It’s pointless given streaming exists, but there’s something honest about it.
Ask the bouncer at Berghain—Berlin’s most unapproachable techno club, basically a bouncer who judges souls—if he knows where Q-DORF is. He won’t. Won’t care either.
Sleep with someone who has your exact same name. Still waiting for that coincidence to happen.
Cover every Sami Slimani poster in the city—he was some TV guy nobody remembers—with pictures of a solitary, sad sausage. Just the sausage. Just… vibes.
Try to change Berlin’s motto from “Poor but sexy” to “Which sauce for your döner?” which is way more accurate anyway. That one never got off the ground.
Sit quietly in memory of OZ. No idea who that even is at this point.
Only eat things whose names rhyme with “parent-teacher conference,” “windshield wipers,” or “Thorsten.” It’s impossible. That’s the whole thing.
There’s this South Park episode where Cartman disguises himself as a Japanese robot named Awesomo to trick Butters into confessing his secrets. Money Boy found that robot and made it a music video. The message is simple: he’s awesome.
Sebastian Meisinger runs Money Boy, which is either a brilliant art project about online culture or exactly what it looks like—a guy with a Facebook page, a Twitter account where he says controversial stuff, and weird takes on whatever music genre he’s feeling that week. He gets dunked on constantly. Other rappers go at him. He’s the internet’s punching bag.
But then he makes a video where a robot just repeats that it’s awesome, and suddenly the whole thing makes sense. You can’t be mad at a robot. You can’t prove it’s wrong. It just exists, being awesome, and that’s the argument.
I don’t know if this is good music or a joke or commentary or all three. It doesn’t matter. Money Boy figured something out about how online life works—how persistence and sincerity and a little bit of absurdity can flip what people think of you. Everyone wants to be mad at him until he’s something you can’t quite pin down. A robot. A mystery. Someone awesome.
Waking up in someone else’s apartment in a city that isn’t yours—that’s the kind of temporary escape fantasy everyone has at some point. Not the tourist version, just living like someone who actually belongs there, knowing their streets and shortcuts, understanding why they chose this particular place.
Timberland put together a life-swap weekend where creative types from different cities traded places for a couple of days. A designer from Barcelona with a writer in London. Someone from Berlin shadowing a photographer in Milan. Just switching lives, experiencing each other’s routines and cities from the inside. I’m curious what you actually learn that way—not the beautiful monuments or the famous museums, but why someone chose where they live, what their actual routine looks like, how a city reveals itself when you’re following their lead instead of wandering through alone.
I hate football. Really hate it. Not the kind of person who makes an exception for the World Cup or anything like that — for me football is basically the religion of the stupid, the hobby of the clueless, the love of the masses. But sometimes I’m jealous of people who worship football, because they get to read magazines like 11 Freunde, and holy shit, what a magazine. The October 2014 issue has this article about the loyal fans of smaller clubs, the ones who show up in any weather to cheer on their team no matter what happens, no matter if they win or lose. It’s like a love letter to that whole way of living. The rest of the issue kind of lost me — interviews with managers and trainers nobody’s heard of, talking about how you turn a club successful, which decisions matter, where the money comes from. I could feel my brain just shutting down. But that first part. I understand why people love this magazine.
InStyle is basically all advertisements. It’s in the Guinness Book of Records as the magazine with the most ads ever published, which I absolutely believe. You pay four euros for the pleasure of looking at pictures of clothes and cosmetics and handbags. There’s one Giorgio Armani ad that came with a black VIP card you could cut out, and I did, and suddenly I felt like I mattered for a few seconds. Cate Blanchett looked at me from another page and I felt something I probably shouldn’t admit. Then there was this ad for a Philips electric toothbrush where the model is literally pressing the thing between her legs like whoever designed this knew exactly what women and girls actually want to do with a pink electric toothbrush. They could just call it a vibrator and be done with it.
The third thing I grabbed was DIE ZEIT Wissen, which is basically a guide to getting through puberty. It’s aimed at kids whose bodies are suddenly doing weird things, growing hair in places they didn’t know they had, and some asshole named Torsten is trying to touch them after spending the last few years calling them fat. Congratulations, you’re a teenager. The magazine’s supposed to help. There’s a whole section where young people talk about surviving what’s simultaneously the best and worst time of their lives. Nomi stands in front of the bathroom mirror. Jannik goes to the gym. Levin goes to parties. Susanna joined the circus school. Real stuff, real people. It’s so much better than BRAVO, which is just teenagers blushing and dads freaking out about their daughters discovering sex. Maybe this one actually works.
VICE’s war documentaries have this quality where you’re actually in the room. Bullets are flying, the sound is raw, and there’s no mediation between what’s happening and what you’re seeing. Most news organizations maintain distance. VICE doesn’t.
Their new series, Ghosts of Aleppo, is five episodes of Free Syrian Army fighters in a city torn between government forces, extremist groups, and criminal operations. It’s not clear who controls what or why. The documentary follows people just trying to navigate that chaos—survive the day, make it to the next one.
There’s no attempt to give you a neat political takeaway. It’s just footage of people in an impossible situation. That’s more honest than any amount of analysis or careful framing. You watch, and you understand what it costs to stay alive when the war is happening in your neighborhood.
2 Chainz ordered a three-hundred-dollar cheeseburger from Serendipity 3 in New York. Le Burger Extravagante: caviar, truffle, gold leaf — the works. The ingredients are so fresh you have to order a day ahead. This is from GQ’s ’Most Expensivest Shit’ series.
The gap between this and McDonald’s is objectively stupid. But watching it, what struck me was that you’re not paying three hundred dollars for a better burger. You’re paying for the concept of having a three-hundred-dollar burger. The caviar tastes like salt. The gold leaf is literally nothing. The truffle probably adds something real. But the money is mostly buying you the name, the scarcity, the story.
There’s something almost honest about that, which is weird. Most luxury goods pretend to be proportionally better — that a designer bag is three times as good as a regular bag, that expensive wine actually tastes three times better. This burger doesn’t bother with that lie. It just costs three hundred dollars, and that gap is the entire product. You’re buying the experience of having done something ridiculous, not a superior cheeseburger. That’s absurd, but at least it’s transparent about what it is.
Part of me just wants a decent cocktail sometimes. Something sweet, properly made. Not the cheap stuff you’d force down at a dive bar, but something that tastes like the person pouring it knew what they were doing. Formulas that have held up for fifty years because they work.
Nick Barclay, based in Sydney, made a series of minimalist prints of classic cocktails—Manhattan, Cosmopolitan, Bloody Mary. Each one stripped to its essential shape. No garnish illustrations, no flourish, just the lines of the drink itself.
I respect the approach. These cocktails have real history, and treating them seriously through minimal design is genuine respect, not irony. They don’t need explaining. Just the image.
There’s something in his design that mirrors what makes these drinks work in the first place. They’re not complicated formulas—they’re simple enough that they’ve stayed unchanged for decades, and that’s exactly why they became classics. It takes repetition and consistency to turn something into tradition, and his prints seem to understand that weight. He’s not being clever about the subject. Just clear.
Nintendo’s 125 years old today. Started as a playing card company in Kyoto—the kind of origin story that would seem too neat if you invented it. The whole arc, from cards to owning a generation’s childhood to somehow still mattering, almost writes itself.
But it’s Mario. This short, angry plumber who became the most recognizable video game character ever made. What you realize looking back is that Miyamoto and his team understood something fundamental about how movement and space work together. They cracked it so completely that everything since just follows their playbook.
Fell down a Did You Know Gaming rabbit hole the other night and there’s genuinely strange stuff in those old games. Design choices that seemed intentional and turned out to be accidents. Details no one was supposed to find. It’s the kind of thing that reminds me why I still care about looking at how games are actually built—not for nostalgia or because Mario is some sacred text, but because the thinking that goes into making something that simple and durable actually work is valuable. That’s where the craft lives.
The Isley Brothers’ “That Lady” from 1973 is one of those samples that’s been everywhere in hip-hop for so long it barely reads as a sample anymore, just part of the standard vocabulary. Kendrick took it for “i”—just him, the sample, that warm horn line and the groove it sits in, nothing else. Two minutes of him rapping like he’s halfway through a thought, casual enough that you almost miss the control underneath.
“i” announced his return after the gap between good kid, m.A.A.d city and whatever was coming next. I remember the first time I heard it and just thinking, yeah, okay—there he is. That feeling of recognition when an artist you’ve been waiting on just… shows up. Not always with ceremony. Sometimes just a track.
The song is called “i.” One letter. It’s the kind of title that only works when you’re good enough to pull it off, a kind of minimum confidence statement. It wasn’t the full album, just a preview. Just “here’s what I’ve been working with.” And it made me curious what else he was sitting on. A track this stripped-down as your first word back—what does that signal? A shift? A confidence? Just a moment, just proof that he was still thinking about music?
I don’t know. It sits with me well, is all. Doesn’t need to be bigger than what it is.
I was scrolling through Netflix one afternoon, caught in that same cycle where nothing looks decent, and I wasn’t about to watch Family Guy for the 97th time. Then I saw BoJack Horseman.
A horse was the star of a 90s sitcom called “Horsin’ Around.” Twenty years later he’s a washed-up drunk living in a Hollywood villa with his unemployed roommate, trying to write his memoir. Will Arnett voices him with this exhausted flatness that’s perfect—the voice of someone who’s run out of anything interesting to say about himself.
The premise could play as full cartoon absurdity, but it doesn’t. Instead it becomes this sharp, ugly comedy about Hollywood eating its own. About being famous and then not being famous. About the specific cruelty of that transition, the panic when you realize you peaked at thirty and everything after that is management.
Diane’s his ghostwriter, which is the smartest setup for the whole thing—she’s trying to make sense of his chaos from the outside, same as we are. Aaron Paul plays Todd, this genuinely good-natured guy who somehow stays functional while everyone around him burns through substances and bad decisions. Watching him navigate that wreckage is half comedy, half just anthropology.
The show doesn’t perform its darkness. No strings, no soundtrack swells. Just the daily, unglamorous reality of desperation. The panic. The drinking. The clinging to relevance that’s already gone. I went in expecting a gimmick show and found something that actually understood the texture of failure.
I grew up inside Super Nintendo games built from pixels - snow-capped mountains, dark caves, the infinite ocean. All of it real in your head. That was never supposed to stick with you past adolescence. Pixels were a placeholder, a technical limitation we were supposed to graduate past.
But Octavi Navarro never got that memo. He’s a children’s book illustrator who posts pixel art on Tumblr, and it’s some of the most complete work I’ve seen in years. Pieces like “Midnight Carnival” and “How I Met Your Grandfather” - they’re not trying to impress you. They’re not trying to do anything. They just sit there, detailed and patient, pulling you into these small worlds. You want to step inside them.
What gets me is the constraint itself. You’re working with maybe a few dozen colors, limited resolution. That forces something honest. Every choice is visible. Navarro understands this. The work has this unhurried quality that almost nothing else has anymore. There’s no need to sell anything to you. It just exists.
I’m not sure nostalgia is the right word for what I feel anymore. It’s something else - the belief that there’s still something worth reaching for in this medium, that real craft can live inside limitations. That constraint isn’t a problem to solve, it’s just the shape of the work.
His stuff exists as prints and merchandise now - the usual shuffle. But that’s not what matters. What matters is the actual feeling of looking at one of these pieces. It’s the same thing I felt as a kid staring at a screen. Which is enough.
Summer ends in Berlin and nobody pretends it’s anything but a death. The sun tries—I’ll give it that—but the air thins when you’re moving fast through these streets. Leaves go yellow when they lose the fight with time. Your heart gets harder when that’s exactly when you need it to be soft.
Berlin in autumn is like watching a good friend disappear. You start thinking harder about what you actually want, why you’re even here. You stop going out. You work instead, anything to stay busy, to avoid the question, because what else makes a life worth remembering?
When the trees go bare and the streets turn gray, the city’s ugliness surfaces. The ugliness that hides under the summer noise, the laughter, the parties—it’s always there but only shows itself when there’s nothing else to look at.
I walk the same streets. Same broken buildings and spray-painted walls. Same gray sky pressing down. Every autumn the life evacuates. The pulse gets quieter. The adrenaline dies. The nights stretch on forever.
The music goes underground. The people who came here to escape, to disappear, they find the dark season comforting now. Not partying anymore—just surviving. Autumn is their enemy.
Everyone feels it. You belong here or you’re just passing through, doesn’t matter. When summer leaves for somewhere else, it takes one thing with it: that feeling from the first week you arrived. The feeling that your whole life was starting over right then. The certainty that lasted about three months.
Winter at least has the decency of honesty. It’s what it is. But autumn plays games—I reach for it like a kid, no please, don’t go, you can’t leave, keep this feeling here—and it just looks back at me cold and does its cycle again. I can’t stop any of that.
Berlin in autumn is like standing next to a good friend who’s dying. All I can do is say goodbye quietly and promise I’ll live well without him. That I’ll actually earn the memories I let slip by. The hand goes cold. Then it’s not there anymore.
Outside, trees are cold, streets are blank. No laughter, no music, no pulse. Bodies in black coats move past, and I watch them. The fact that these same people were dancing on some beach three months ago, naked and high and with someone they actually loved—they’ve already forgotten. Not just the nights are getting colder.
My doubts get louder in the fall. Was it actually wise to burn my old life to the ground to start here? Was Berlin even the right choice? Am I doing anything now that’ll matter in a year, five years, ever?
Summer’s the distraction. Autumn’s the mirror. A mirror I can’t turn away from. I see myself, nobody else, and every year it asks the same thing: Did I actually do anything with this time or did I just let the city swallow me?
I sit and watch the dark-dressed people around me. Their lives seem to revolve around answering that question. And I think: okay, maybe the heat dying doesn’t mean I die. Maybe I can do more than promise myself next summer will be better.
More parties, more drugs, more sex, more love, more money, more success. Whatever this summer couldn’t give me—for whatever reason I’m telling myself—the next one will. Except it won’t. I’m the reason all those hot days and humid nights didn’t become the kind of memories that matter. Nobody else is responsible for that but me.
I waste so much. Not just food, not just resources, but time—actual time that I could’ve lived in instead of just waiting. I know it’ll all flash past at the end, and right now there’s barely anything there worth remembering.
Berlin in autumn is like a good friend saying goodbye. Before he goes, he makes me promise: don’t just wait for him to come back. Don’t let the blank months become nothing. The trees will be bare, the streets will be colorless. But he wants an answer. Every year, he wants an answer.
People need enemies. That’s what I’ve noticed anyway. Not just actual adversaries—imaginary ones, the kind you can point to and say there’s the problem. Societies run on them. So we get a rotation: one year it’s Putin calmly invading, the next it’s ISIS, al-Qaeda, Kim Jong-un, whoever plays the part well enough. The ranking shifts constantly, sometimes dramatically. One decade Bashar al-Assad is the worst thing alive, the next we’re almost friendly with him.
What gets me is how precisely the moral calculus aligns with economic interest. Saudi Arabia executes people for witchcraft, for blasphemy, for nothing at all. They disappear journalists. But they never seem to climb the charts. Maybe because they sell us oil, or we sell them tanks and missiles. Evil gets ranked by convenience, not by body count. The enemies that matter are the ones that move markets. Everyone else can wait their turn, or never get one at all.
There was this line in Emma Watson’s UN speech about knowing men who won’t ask for help because of what it means about their masculinity. Not the applause moment but the quiet one, where something true gets said and hangs there.
She was arguing something logical: feminism isn’t women’s thing because the system that crushes women also locks men into a box. Different mechanisms, same cage. You can’t have a world where women’s voices don’t count without also having a world where men can’t admit they’re struggling. They’re connected.
I’ve been around long enough to notice feminism shift from being what women wanted to something everyone could be part of, and something actually changes when that happens. When it’s not a cause you’re supposed to support but something you’re allowed to own. Watson was just naming it. Making the obvious visible. Saying it out loud in front of the room.
HeForShe is a terrible campaign name—pure corporate—but the actual argument is clean. Men have to be part of fixing this because men built most of it and men benefit from it being blown apart. Not as saviors, not as performance. Just: a world where you don’t have to perform a gender every second is a better world to live in.
It’s unclear what gets fixed by a moment like this, what lasts beyond the applause. What I know is that the moment itself was clear. Someone said something true. That’s the part that sticks.
A cookbook where every recipe uses condoms as the main ingredient. Condom sushi, stuffed condoms, condoms over rice. Japanese author Kyosuke Kagami titled it something like “Condom Dishes I Want to Make for You” — and he wasn’t joking around.
It’s obviously a gimmick, but the kind that actually works. The premise is so absurd that you stop and think about what he’s really doing. The entire thing is a PSA about safe sex, STIs, unplanned pregnancy — but instead of the standard public health lecture, you get a novelty cookbook. Most messages like that dissolve the moment you look away. This one sticks because it’s weird enough to be memorable.
That’s the real craft: finding a hook so unusual that the thing you actually need to talk about sneaks in underneath. Whether the food would taste good is completely beside the point.
I’m on a Murakami binge. Shameless about it. He’s one of the best writers alive, has been for decades, probably will be forever.
The problem is knowing where to start. Norwegian Wood? Hard-Boiled Wonderland? 1Q84? Each one feels like it demands something different from you. You can see why people freeze.
Enter The Bakery Heists—a short story, illustrated by Kat Menschik, that works like a demo. Read it in an evening with a beer or coffee. By the time you’re done, you’ll know if Murakami’s your thing or not.
The plot is stupid in the best way: two guys are hungry, so they decide to rob a bakery. That’s genuinely the setup. Everything that happens next follows that completely dumb logic.
The story never explains itself. There’s a woman. There’s something that might be a curse or might be nothing. There are rules nobody enforces. A lesser writer would tie it all together—make it mean something. Murakami just leaves it there, suspended, like he’s shrugging.
This passage stayed with me: “God and Marx and John Lennon are dead. We were hungry, that much was certain, so we wanted to do something evil. But it wasn’t hunger that drove us to evil—it was evil that drove us by making us hungry.” It’s existential by accident, almost. Two dumbasses explaining why they’re about to commit a crime, and somehow it sounds profound.
What’s brilliant is he treats the small and stupid as if it matters. The robbery, the woman, the rules, the maybe-curse—they all sit in the story with the same weight. Nothing gets solved. Nothing gets explained. You’re left just slightly off-balance, which is exactly the feeling I want from the fiction I read these days.
If you like it, you’re ready for the bigger books. If you don’t, you’ve lost nothing but an hour. The book’s cheap and short, so there’s no reason not to try.
A young Muslim woman looks directly into the camera. “In my religion,” she says, “we are taught tolerance toward women. And you have no respect for women.” She’s part of #NotInMyName, a UK movement where Muslims are publicly distancing themselves from ISIS, reclaiming their religion from something that’s claimed it for atrocities.
I get why they had to do it. When something monstrous wears your identity, you have to say out loud: that’s not me. You can’t assume people will figure it out.
The video works because it doesn’t sound defensive or rhetorical. Just people stating what their faith actually means to them, no filter. Maybe it won’t reach anyone already radicalized. Maybe it changes nothing. But it still matters that they said it, put their faces to it, took this back.
There’s something almost physical about having to reassert your identity when something else is wearing the same name and committing atrocities in it.
Japanese commercials operate on a completely different logic. I keep falling down these rabbit holes every few months, binging hours of stuff that would never get approved anywhere else, caught in a space where the normal rules of what makes sense just don’t apply.
What gets me is how sincere it all is. A polar bear speaks with genuine emotion. Someone zones out in complete bliss over yogurt, giving the product their total undivided attention. Office workers move with this unhinged hyperactive energy like they’ve been awake for three days. The strangeness isn’t self-aware—it’s committed.
The ads aren’t trying to be weird *at* anyone. There’s no winking, no irony, no one testing boundaries. It’s just Japanese commercials existing in their own space, where a talking bear is as normal as any character, where yogurt deserves your complete emotional commitment, where work is cranked up to this manic intensity that somehow rings true within the logic of the world.
I’ve watched enough of them now to see there’s a coherence underneath the chaos. It’s a different kind of sense. And when I hit the ones that are so fully committed to their own internal logic that they loop back around to something almost true—that’s where it gets good. That’s why I keep coming back.
The video was nothing special—Iranian teenagers dancing to Pharrell’s “Happy,” moving around in daylight, completely ordinary, goofing off and smiling. They got arrested for it. By Wednesday they had their sentence: one suspended prison term, the rest getting six months suspended plus ninety-one lashes each. For a dance video.
An Iranian police officer quoted in the press said young people should avoid people like them, that authorities would identify troublemakers quickly. He sounded terrified—not of the kids themselves, but of what they represented. Just teenagers expressing joy without permission, without asking first. Apparently that’s threatening enough to warrant physical punishment.
In May, Hassan Rouhani tweeted that happiness is a human right, that you shouldn’t be punished for behavior driven by happiness. It was the right thing to say. It also changed absolutely nothing. The sentence was already final. The lashes would proceed.
You look at that video now and it’s hard to understand what about it warranted ninety-one lashes. Just teenagers dancing to a pop song, just happiness. In a reasonable world, nothing. But we don’t live in that world, and in this one, apparently that’s enough.
Jennifer Lopez at 45, mother of two, from the block, shows up in a “Booty” video doing that classic Madonna panic thing—desperate to prove she still matters the way she used to. But Iggy Azalea’s got the better response: a video where she rubs her enormous ass against an old woman’s. No irony. Just commitment.
2014’s been all about big asses anyway. Nicki in jungles. Jennifer trying to matter again. Iggy and her grandmother. If that’s your thing—and apparently whose isn’t—it’s been your year.
Someone mentioned a Netflix party. We had a car and nothing better to do, so we went. This was the advantage of living with people who got invited places—no convincing required.
The Komische Oper had been converted into a prison cafeteria. Orange Is The New Black theme, House of Cards cocktails, the usual marketing machinery. I saw Jan Böhmermann. Taylor Schilling was somewhere in the crowd. Other faces, names I didn’t catch and wouldn’t have kept anyway. The party was pleasant and immediately forgettable.
Then someone handed me a box on the way out. Free Netflix subscription, which I accepted thinking it was a gift until I realized it was a trap.
We got home and stopped leaving. Days became a loop of screens: BoJack Horseman, Orange Is The New Black, Lie to Me, something else I’ve forgotten. The apartment was dark. We ate at the couch. This is what Netflix actually sold us—not entertainment, not the free month, but this specific moment right here, the one where you stop trying to leave and accept that you’re going to be here for a while.
Pharrell’s adidas sneakers landed in loud primary colors — red and blue against black. The kind of shoes that announce themselves. This fits his whole approach. Music, fashion, his personality, all the same brightness and commitment. Never hedged, never compromised.
The collaboration includes jackets, which completes the idea. What stands out in his work is how unmistakable it is. You know immediately who made these choices. No committee, no second-guessing, just complete commitment to the vision.
I wouldn’t wear them. Too much color, too much noise. But I notice he never hedges. Never tries to make himself smaller or quieter to appeal to people who prefer restraint. He just makes the work and moves on.
A small dog inheriting a fashion empire is funny because it’s not actually that different from how fashion works already.
Salvatore Reviu was some kind of Italian fashion magnate who, on his deathbed, decided everything should go to Domenico—his lap dog. The campaign comes with videos where different people tell different versions of how this happened, each one supposedly true, each one obviously not. You’re watching ads pretend to be documentaries pretend to be rumors.
So now a dog runs the brand. Designers show up with sketches, marketing people present their campaigns, fabric arrives, collections ship, magazines publish features. Everything moves the same way it did before, except the person at the top doesn’t understand human language.
Which is maybe more honest than the usual setup. Fashion has always been held together by everyone agreeing to treat completely arbitrary things with absolute seriousness. A dog could do that. Better, even—at least the dog wouldn’t pretend it understands what’s happening. You’d get a clear answer. That’s more than most executives give you.
Grimes has some stickers in POP magazine now. Black and white, actually usable, the kind of thing you tear out and actually apply to something. She’s also photographed in natural light looking good, and I’m partially in love with her. I know the internet has complex opinions on Claire Boucher, but I don’t care. The magazine doesn’t help—it’s designed to keep rotating beautiful people past your eyes every few pages, new faces constantly. At some point you just give up and flip through looking at pictures.
I grabbed two other magazines at the same kiosk. Brand eins has that aggressive, bright design that makes you feel smart just holding it. Tight layouts, dense ideas, the sense that the art department spent weeks on spacing alone. Inside there’s a piece about Japanese people who’ve basically rejected the productivity grind entirely. They’re sleeping through it instead of competing, saying no to all the “study, obey, drink” machinery. It’s clever in a way that matters. Less clever is the full-page giveaway for a motorized scooter with built-in speakers. Some Berliner probably won it and now rides past my window slow and loud. My quality of life has decreased measurably. That’s the worst article any magazine has published.
Retro Gamer arrived at the right moment. The Game Boy retrospective lists exactly the games I’m playing right now—Tetris, Pokémon, Super Mario Land 2. When I was a kid, cartridges cost too much to buy, so we lived through the magazines instead. Same expensive math, different format. You’d read about the games you couldn’t afford like they were scripture. This magazine brings that back—clean typography, earnest reviews, the feeling that someone still cares about documenting this stuff.
The DDR games section though. East Germany had computers and games, people played them, it’s real and documented. But they looked bad, and I’m far enough removed to feel only intellectual curiosity. No connection, no resonance. Just distant history.
I tore through Attack on Titan in two days. Twenty-five episodes of people walled in, waiting for the exact moment everything breaks. A giant tears through and people start dying in numbers you can’t process. The camera doesn’t look away.
What got me was how seriously it treats the premise. No winking, no irony. The destruction is just fact. The fear comes through in small details—frames tightening when the giant appears, the sound design, deaths rendered without distance. It just escalates.
The series does something anime rarely bothers with: it makes the scale of disaster genuinely hard to hold. You’re watching the world end in real time, and the show understands that apocalypse isn’t cinematic. It’s just grinding and terrible. Plot twists land because you’re too unmoored to see them coming.
I didn’t know what I was walking into. Something to kill an afternoon. Instead I got something heavier than a show about giants eating people had any right to be. But that’s what execution of a stupid premise does—sometimes you end up with something that actually matters.
Ten years I’ve been at this. Putting work out there, inviting people to discuss it, think about it, just sit around talking about pop culture or whatever else lands. And for ten years I’ve watched strangers unload their worst thoughts in the comments. Something about the internet gives permission. You open a door and everyone who’s had a bad day suddenly has a target.
I talked to Kelly—MissesVlog—a while back. She seemed like someone who’d made peace with it, figured out the math, decided the noise was worth what she was doing. But something snapped. She made a video about the dark side of YouTube and she’s actually crying. Not performing, not playing it up. Real tears. What she’s asking for is almost nothing: a second of thought before typing something cruel.
If you feel the need to hurt a stranger, she feels bad for you. Not angry. Sorry. Which is somehow worse.
When I interviewed her before, she had this almost generous way of looking at it. A friend told her something she believed: people have bad days, come home angry, and need somewhere to dump that anger that won’t get them arrested. The comments section becomes the trash can. She was at peace with that then, or at least resigned. But resignation wears thin.
If her video makes even one person close the browser instead of typing something cruel, something changes. They could collect stamps, stare at a wall, anything but send cruelty into the void. Probably won’t happen. But she’s asking. Begging, really. That has to matter.
Every few years some official committee of older Germans gathers to vote on what they think youth slang should be, which is roughly as useful as asking fashion magazines to predict what teenagers will actually wear. In 2014 they came back with a list so aggressively divorced from reality that you wonder if they polled at a convention for substitute teachers.
The whole thing is fundamentally broken. Real slang doesn’t get voted on. It either catches on because it fills a gap, because it sounds right, because it spreads on the platforms kids actually use—or it quietly dies. You can’t legislate authenticity.
That said, some of these weren’t terrible. FOMO actually stuck globally because that feeling is real. Twerking needed a name. Foodgasm is stupid but true. Those words earned their place.
Then there are the ones that exist purely for the gymnastics of it—Obamern for “eavesdropping,” Tebartzen for “buying expensive stuff you don’t need.” They’re creative in this trying-too-hard way that’s almost endearing. Look, we can make words.
The best are the compounds that shouldn’t work but do. Immatrikulationshintergrund—literally college background—for someone useless at anything practical because they chose university. Bürgersteigdeko for dog shit on the sidewalk. Fappieren for jacking off. These aren’t reaching for cleverness; they just fit exactly what they describe, and they sound right.
The whole competition is ridiculous and kind of touching all at once. You can feel this desperate need from adults to prove they’re listening, that they get it, that they’re still relevant to youth culture. And the words themselves tell you what was occupying German teenagers in 2014—what stressed them, what they wanted to name and make jokes about.
If I’d been asked, Fußpils would have my vote. Beer for the road. Practically a philosophy.
I can’t remember the last time I heard anyone use Immatrikulationshintergrund unironically, but the word itself still makes me laugh. Sometimes the best slang is the stuff that sounds too absurd to work, and then somehow it does anyway.
I’ve wanted Marty McFly’s shoes from Back to the Future 2 for way too long. Not even because they’re particularly cool sneakers, but because something about that movie got into my head young and never really left. Every time I rewatch it, those shoes show up and I feel the same stupid pull.
You can actually buy them now. Sort of. The real Nike Air Mags are unobtainable and expensive. These come from a Halloween costume company, officially licensed by Universal, hundred bucks, lights up in different colors, USB port, collector’s box. Everything the movie ones had except the self-lacing. Everything except the magic.
It’s a clean scam, honestly — take something people want but can’t have, make an official knockoff, sell it to the nostalgic. The shoes themselves are fine. They look right, they glow, they work as a costume. But there’s something deflating about wearing them, like going to a cover band and pretending it’s the original.
I haven’t bought them. Not because I’m above it, but because what I actually want was never the shoes. It’s something else — something connected to that movie, that time, that feeling. And you can’t order that with a USB port, no matter who licensed it.
Japanese kids learn fifty-some words for rain. Not fifty variations on “rainy”—fifty distinct things. Rain that falls from trees. Rain that starts gentle and turns heavy. Spring rain, summer rain, autumn rain. A word for each one.
I wake up to rain some mornings and barely register it. Gray sky, cold, water streaking the glass. Maybe something like “shit weather” under my breath and then I move on.
Design studio Nendo made an installation for Maison & Objet in Paris around this gap. Small bottles, each one holding a different state of rain. Just sitting there, making the weather look like something with texture, something worth looking at twice.
Japanese does something interesting with precision. The language got specific enough that rain stops being just weather and becomes a spectrum of distinct conditions. There’s a word for rain dropping from leaves and that changes what registers in a rainy day. The variation becomes visible. Something that was just weather becomes its own moment.
I don’t know if those bottles in Paris actually made anyone reconsider rain. Most people probably just walked past. But the idea holds anyway: once the language exists, the variation becomes visible. Hard to unknow what you’ve been taught to notice.
“Midnight City” got played so much I stopped actually hearing it. Good song, sure, but saturation kills anything eventually. So when “In the Cold I’m Standing” showed up—new to me, anyway, though it’s actually from 2005—I was willing to listen.
The track has that Sigur Rós, Mogwai sensibility: patient, atmospheric, designed for solitude. The video is just smoke and stillness and a bird overhead. No flash, no trying. It works better that way.
I don’t think M83 is going to tour in any direction I’ll reach. And I’m fine with that. Not everything needs to be a live event. A song like this does its job in the dark, and that’s all it needs.
The Kirishima Thing is a 2012 Japanese high school film built on a simple premise: the star athlete disappears, and everything below the surface starts to show. Director Daihachi Yoshida uses the different social groups—athletes, musicians, the cinema club outsiders—as a kind of prism. Same event, different people, completely different understanding of what happened.
What hooks you is the structure. There’s no real exposition; you’re just thrown in and the film lets you figure it out by watching the same moment unfold from multiple angles. A scene plays once with the jocks, then again through the cinema club kids, then from somewhere else entirely. At first it’s confusing, but once you catch on, there’s something genuinely elegant about it. You start to see how much perspective shapes what you think you know.
The cast helps. These don’t feel like types; they’re specific and alive. Awkward, ambitious, loyal, petty, desperate, horny—all the things actual teenagers are. The film doesn’t condescend to them. It takes them seriously, which means you do too.
I think what surprised me is how much it lands emotionally. Not in a sentimental way—the film never indulges in that. It just shows up, lets these people be themselves, and lets you care about them without making a big deal about it. There’s real affection for the characters underneath the structure-shifting.
By the end you’re swimming in all of it—first love, friendship, jealousy, the weird intensity of school fandom, that specific apocalyptic desperation teenagers feel when they think everything’s ending. The film somehow holds all of that without falling into schmaltz. It’s just showing you how much these people matter to each other and to themselves.
I don’t know if you can experience something exactly like this outside a Japanese school context. The way those clubs work, the hierarchy, the social pressure—there’s something specific about it. But the emotional architecture underneath feels universal. That moment when you realize your whole world is actually fragile and small and probably not ending the way you think it is.
Every few days the same thought comes back: everything used to be better. The light was different, your friends were different, the whole world felt more interesting and alive. It hits hardest when you see something like David Lo’s illustrations. He’s a Chinese artist who drew all the toys we actually cared about in the eighties and nineties—the ones that felt like they meant something. The Game Boy, obviously. Hot Wheels. Super Soaker. G.I. Joe. The Talkboy if you remember that one. The Rubik’s Cube. Just the toys that mattered.
There’s something about the way he drew them that captures why they mattered. It’s not just the object itself. It’s the weight of it in your hands, the specific plastic smell, the feeling of playing with it in your room when time moved at a different speed. The design of these things was deliberate in a way that’s harder to find now. Colors, shape, texture—someone cared about all of it. David’s work gets at that.
I could ask what he missed, which everyone does, but that’s not the real point. The interesting part is that someone noticed those specific objects enough to treat them seriously, to draw them like they mattered. Maybe that’s what nostalgia actually is—someone finally saying yes, that was real, that deserved to be taken seriously.
This goes out to every Twitter junkie out there. Every person who can’t stop themselves from making jokes in the replies. Everyone addicted to the back-and-forth. Because here’s the thing: I’m taking this back. Again. Finally.
The official account here had become something really sad. Just a link dump. No voice. Every couple months I’d pick a fight with someone or retweet something bittersweet, but mostly it was just dead. That’s not what you want from a space where you’re supposed to actually think.
I had a separate private account too, supposed to be mine, where I could vent and argue with other bloggers and just be a mess. But I let that die too. It turned into this pathetic half-dead thing sitting there.
So I realized what I should do: kill one and bring the other one back. Make something that actually has opinions again. And that got me thinking about Twitter when it was different. When you could say things that were too much for people. When you could defend some weird way of living and mean it.
Most of the old tweets from back then are gone now. The ones from nights that got genuinely dark. The ones that were too honest. The ones where I was actually standing up for something. Gone. You don’t realize how much disappears just because you’re not paying attention.
So last night I did it. Killed the private account. Took over the official one. Made it something real again. Opinions, links that aren’t just noise, actual thoughts.
Nothing revolutionary. Just me deciding that this space should mean something instead of slowly disappearing.
The worst part of Mondays isn’t Monday itself—it’s the moment your alarm pulls you out of sleep. Nothing prepares you for it. The sound is designed to be awful, a jolt, a punishment. You open your eyes to darkness and the immediate weight of the day ahead.
I read about this device called the Barisieur, designed by Joshua Renouf at Nottingham Trent University. It’s an alarm clock that brews coffee while it wakes you up. Instead of that grinding beep, you surface slowly into the smell of hot coffee. The sound is still there, but there’s something else pulling you forward. By the time you’re awake enough to think clearly, there’s a cup waiting.
It solves nothing, really. You’re still waking up. Monday is still there. But the sensory path feels gentler—smell before sound, warmth before the cold shock of the day. It’s the kind of small intervention that designers keep circling back to: how do you make the inevitable less hostile?
I don’t know if the Barisieur actually made it into production. It was a graduation project, which means it might exist as a prototype, or it might just be a photograph and an idea. There’s something fitting about that ambiguity. The promise of a better morning living in that space between possible and real, forever out of reach.
I whistle Super Mario World without thinking about it. Tetris themes, Secret of Mana, the whole catalog is just embedded in me. My iPod is loaded with video game remixes — Chrono Trigger, Final Fantasy XIII, Ocarina of Time — and the title themes from Grandia and Terranigma and Illusion of Time have burned themselves into my brain permanently.
Video game music means more to me than basically all Western music combined, but not because it’s inherently better. It’s just that I’ve heard it constantly my whole life, so it had more time to sink in, more chances to become part of how I think and feel. It’s the true soundtrack to growing up, this constant ambient presence that shaped me without me ever really noticing.
Red Bull made a documentary about Japanese video game music, focusing on that golden 8-bit era when composers like Hidenori Maezawa and Masashi Kageyama were basically inventing what game music could be. They flew to Japan and talked to these people, got the real history of how this all happened.
If you ever spent hours with a Game Boy or a Super Nintendo, watching these composers talk about writing those melodies is something else. You hear the context and then you hear the songs again and suddenly you understand why you can’t get them out of your head. It’s not about the cultural significance or the history or any of that — it’s just about recognizing where part of yourself comes from.
Sailor Moon Crystal arrived as a proper manga adaptation after the franchise had sat quiet for years — Takeuchi’s story straight through without the 90s anime’s divergences and filler. Bunny’s still lazy. The girls still don’t want this. The animation budget finally existed to make the transformation sequences feel like something worth looking at.
I caught it online as it aired, which was the only functional way to see it since the release situation was a bureaucratic mess — regional licensing, DVD regions, the usual fragmentation that comes with global distribution. The actual watching was simple enough: efficient pacing, clean art, the story moving with intent rather than stretching to fill time slots.
What makes Sailor Moon work is that it’s fundamentally about five teenagers who’d rather be anywhere else, pressed into cosmic responsibility because the alternative is worse. Usagi would prefer to sleep. Ami would prefer studying. They resent this job. And that resentment, that sense of duty as burden rather than calling, matters more than all the magic around it. It’s what makes them actually feel like people instead of hero types going through motions.
Revisiting the series as an adult, I noticed how little it pretends otherwise. Takeuchi doesn’t trick you with destiny rhetoric. She just shows you five ordinary girls dealing with an impossible situation, and the series trusts that’s enough. Apparently she was right.
I’d played GTA V for longer than I should admit. Hours in Los Santos, the usual chaos—mugging pensioners, starting gang wars, driving recklessly. The game doesn’t ask anything of you. It’s just a sandbox. That’s all it needs to be.
When the PS4 and Xbox One versions arrived in November 2014, I felt the pull to go back. Better graphics, faster load times, the whole city in higher definition. Same game, but richer.
The trailer showed what that meant—Los Santos rendered more sharply. Better textures, better light. It’s a strange thing to want, a game you’ve already beaten replayed just because it looks nicer. But that’s how it works. You see a world you know in a new skin and suddenly you’re imagining another hundred hours in it.
By January the PC version would be out too, but you know how the cycle goes. The game gets in your head. You’ll come back to it, with better hardware or without.
Clouds at normal speed are wallpaper. Compress a day into four minutes and they become characters — shifting, revealing light you never notice in real time.
There’s a timelapse of Tokyo’s sky shot across different neighborhoods, and it’s one of those things that seems simple until you watch it. The appeal isn’t really Tokyo, though. Any city from above works. What works is seeing a place the way you never do from the ground. Not higher up — just differently tracked. Compressed time shows you the city as a system. Weather moves through it. Light rewrites the architecture.
I’ve watched a lot of these over the years. They used to feel profound in a way that made me uncomfortable, like I was supposed to learn something about transience or beauty. Now they just feel like what they are: four minutes of a place I don’t live, speeded up. Still worth watching. The clouds move like they’re thinking. The light turns the streets a different color every few seconds. By the time it ends you’ve watched the city change clothes a dozen times.
Italian artist Ale Giorgini spent weeks on a series called “That’s Amore!” — illustrations of famous pop culture couples in this warm, lived-in style that makes them feel like they’re standing in a room with you. Homer and Marge Simpson. Batman and Robin. Charlie Brown with Snoopy curled next to him. Popeye and Olivia Oyl. John Lennon and Yoko Ono the way you imagine them alone.
What works isn’t that Giorgini is being clever. He’s just recognizing weight when he sees it. These pairings have lived in culture long enough to feel real — sometimes more real than couples you actually know. You’ve spent more time with Homer and Marge than with most of your relatives. You know the shape of their relationship better than you know your neighbors’. Batman and Robin’s dynamic — the trust, the tension, the unspoken reliance — gets discussed more carefully than most marriages.
Pop culture pairs stick because they solve something about connection. Popeye and Olivia Oyl are ridiculous but also kind of perfect: he’d move mountains, she’d mock him for it, and somehow that’s love. Charlie Brown and Snoopy are the realest relationship in comics — mutual disappointment, absolute loyalty. John Lennon and Yoko Ono felt like they invented something together, even if half the world thought it was a disaster.
Seeing them isolated like this, just the two of them in Giorgini’s warm domestic space, is different than seeing them in sequence or in dialogue. There’s nothing to do, no conflict to resolve. They just exist together. It does something.
The series runs longer than what’s shown, which means there are more couples I haven’t recognized yet. I like not knowing. The game isn’t the point. It’s that moment when recognition lands — when you see two figures and the entire shape of their relationship becomes visible.
For years I had a stock answer when people asked if I’d ever buy a smartwatch: no. Not interested. Then Apple showed the Watch at a keynote in 2014, and I remained uninterested. Geometry and minimalism bolted to your wrist. The future was fine, but I wasn’t buying into it. That’s when I learned something about myself: I’m not immune to want. I’m just waiting for the right version to come along.
A designer named Alcion took Apple’s official renders and did something small: made it round. Removed the angles. The proportions shifted, the screen adapted, everything felt like it understood what a watch should be. I looked at it and felt the pull immediately. Not because the round shape was revolutionary. Because someone had seen Apple’s design and known instantly how to make it better.
Apple’s Watch felt like a statement about technology’s future. Alcion’s version just looked like a watch. That’s a bigger difference than it sounds like. Apple’s design was forcing an idea onto your wrist. The round one made something you’d actually want to touch.
I don’t need a smartwatch. I still don’t. But seeing that redesign made me understand exactly what would have changed my mind. It’s a small gap—one designer, one choice about shape, and suddenly the whole thing makes sense. The version you didn’t know you wanted, waiting in someone else’s portfolio instead of on your wrist.
Marteria’s been making songs I keep coming back to — there’s something about the way he moves through them. “Kids,” “Lila Wolken,” stuff that sticks. So when he came out with a love song to Rostock, his hometown, I was ready for it to feel obligatory. Hometown anthems are easy to get wrong.
He didn’t get it wrong. There’s no cynicism in it, no distance — just him naming the place and what it means. That only works if you’re actually rooted somewhere, if the memory is real. He could have played it cool, but he didn’t. He went sincere and local and it felt earned.
Rostock’s a port city in the north, quiet outside of who lives there. Marteria made something that feels like it’s really for them, not for anyone else. That matters.
I downloaded Hatoful Boyfriend as a joke and ended up spending hours completely absorbed in it.
It’s a visual novel where you’re at this school surrounded by pigeons. That’s the premise. The game doesn’t explain it or apologize for it — you just show up, meet these bird characters, and start making choices about who to spend time with, which classes to skip, whether to take that job. Everything feels small and manageable at first.
Then it stops being funny. Not all at once. You make some choice that seemed harmless and suddenly you’re in a gang war, or you’ve accidentally summoned something, or an ending you thought was happy starts looking like a trap. The tone shifts without warning. What were romantic comedy beats become something unsettling, then tragic, then deliberately strange. The writing commits to each shift completely, which makes it work.
The secret is that the game actually cares about narrative. Every detail matters. That throwaway line from chapter one comes back in chapter three. Missing homework has consequences. The relationships develop in ways that feel earned rather than scripted. When you restart and try a different path, you realize how much is branching beneath the surface — how many different stories can come out of the same school year.
I kept reloading, trying to understand the logic. Which choices matter, which don’t, how to get through without catastrophe. But part of the game’s strength is that some catastrophes are unavoidable. You hit certain points and the story locks in, and there’s nothing to do but see where it goes.
What gets to you is the sincerity. The game takes the pigeon dating sim completely seriously. It builds a world with rules and stakes and characters that feel like actual people (who happen to be birds). That commitment to the premise — the refusal to wink at the absurdity — is what makes the emotional beats land. When something sad happens, it’s sad. When something is beautiful, it’s actually beautiful.
I thought I was downloading a joke game and ended up with something that made me care, that had something to say about choice and consequence and the way small decisions collapse into big endings. That’s not what I expected to find in a game about dating pigeons.
I’m doing this thing where I eat only fish and salad and the occasional bean, and I’d nearly convinced myself it was sustainable. Then Clifford Endo, who runs some food blog in Brooklyn, posts a recipe for pizza where he replaces the dough entirely with fries.
That’s the whole post. Pizza base made of potatoes.
I don’t even need to see the full recipe to know what he’s done, and it’s maddening because he’s operating from a place of complete clarity. He looked at the unspoken rule—the one that says you eat pizza or you eat fries as a side, but never both, because that would make you a deviant—and he just ignored it. Demolished it. Said the rule doesn’t apply.
Everyone’s done this in secret. Folded fries into their pizza, that quiet transgression, and never mentioned it because admitting it would mean admitting something about yourself. But Endo put it on display. Made it intentional. Made it impossible to pretend you don’t want it.
And the infuriating part is that there’s no principled argument against it. Not health, not tradition, not restraint. You can only sit with the fact that you want it, and you always have.
I still buy magazines. Three or four a week, whatever looks interesting enough. Last time it was SPEX, Nero, and something called Total tierlieb! that turned out to be almost entirely pictures of animals.
SPEX is the serious music magazine—intellectual, self-serious, the kind of publication that treats pop music like it’s philosophy. The writing is genuinely good. Clean, thoughtful, better reported than what passes for music criticism most places. This issue has something on Blumfeld for their twentieth anniversary, apparently pretty intimate. But the second I see their band name my brain checks out. I get tired. Fall asleep. It’s not the magazine’s fault or the band’s fault, just something that doesn’t click between us. Always has. So I end up respecting SPEX completely and being unable to actually read it. Smart writing about music that doesn’t make me want to listen to anything.
Nero is different. Japanese-English magazine, aimed at young women mostly, and it’s one of those rare things where you can feel the editorial intelligence in every decision. Interviews with HAIM, photo essays from Tokyo, Sky Ferreira on some manifesto idea, illustrations, concert photography, profiles of kids with actual style. The design is clean. The pacing works. Everything feels chosen. It’s feminist in the way that matters—not announced, just in what gets space and how. As a designer I can see the work. As a reader it just feels right.
Total tierlieb! is mostly pictures of cute animals. Baby foxes, guinea pigs, dogs. Little photo stories, profiles, merchandise. It’s completely sincere and completely pointless, which somehow makes it better than the rest. I actually wanted to staple myself into it, live permanently on the page between the baby foxes. It exists in that strange space where the least necessary thing becomes the most honest.
My best friend back then lived with his mother in the apartment downstairs, and they had an NES. That meant we spent whole days on Super Mario Bros., The Legend of Zelda, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles before we’d demolish whatever pasta bake his mother had made. The thing is, most of you weren’t even born yet.
The NES was a revelation for people who are now around forty—which is to say, ancient. In 8-bit pixels they’d hack away at little blocky shapes on plain backgrounds. The real action happened in your head. Without some imagination, all you saw on that flickering tube TV was a handful of soulless dots. But if you had the knack for it, you became an adventurer, a treasure hunter, a god.
But what happens when you put that machine in front of people whose brains have been shredded by 4K televisions and 3D cinema and high-end consoles? Kids who don’t even blink when soldiers explode in pristine graphics? Maisie Williams and some of her friends actually ran this experiment.
Shepard Fairey was coming to Berlin in fall 2014, and it was his only European stop. Mural project, some afterparty with Hennessy and a DJ set—details that didn’t really matter. The draw was the work itself.
By that point in his career, Fairey wouldn’t shut up about why public walls were the only platform that counted. Not galleries, not sealed indoor spaces—the street. Street art reaches people who aren’t expecting it, who are just passing through. Most of us ignore the walls around us. Street art makes you see them.
The freedom was another thing he kept returning to, explicitly. No market, no institution, no frame. His work was everywhere by then, already commodified and familiar. But a fresh mural on a Berlin wall, painted right there, that was something else entirely. That wasn’t a poster or a reproduction. That was the thing itself, public and temporary and actual.
I liked that he still went after it even at his level. Berlin made sense. The city has history with walls, with public art that carries weight. A mural there means something.
Sailor Moon never actually stops selling. You’d think after twenty-some years and however many product cycles that people would be done buying, but they’re not. Bandai just announced new lingerie sets — each one matched to one of the Sailor Guardians, colors and styling designed for each character. Which is exactly what you’d expect them to announce, at exactly this moment in the cycle.
There’s almost a comfort in how predictable it is. The show was designed to sell products from the start; the only variable has ever been what kind. Transformation sticks, then dolls, then costumes, then cosplay pieces, now lingerie. The economic logic stays the same. The audience just ages along with it and apparently never actually stops.
I don’t have a moral complaint here. The pieces themselves are fine. What struck me is how complete the machine feels now — like Sailor Moon transcended being a show and became a permanent product line. Other anime come and fade. Sailor Moon keeps generating new things to want. The series itself was four seasons in the mid-90s. This just never ends.
It’s honest in a weird way. No pretense about what this is. Just nostalgia plus fanservice equals money. Sailor Moon basically wrote that playbook. Everything else learned it from here.
Burger King Japan introduced the Kuro Burger in September — a completely black cheeseburger with squid-ink bun, squid-ink beef, black cheese, the works. Five bucks if you’re there at the right time.
The goth humor is too obvious. What’s actually interesting is that dark aesthetics are mainstream enough now that a global fast food chain figures there’s a market for it. Somewhere in Tokyo someone is eating this and taking it completely seriously, no irony, and that’s just Tuesday. That might be the real death of goth — not rejection but absorption. Respectability through commodification.
Food companies are smart about color. The burger doesn’t taste black, but you’re not paying for taste anyway. You’re paying for the visual, the moment, the thing you can show someone. Japan understood this before most places — they treat weird food like real food, no winking at the camera.
I’ll never have one. But there’s something right about it existing, about someone out there treating a black fast food burger like it’s normal.
Her 2009 debut was everywhere for me back then — “In for the Kill,” “Quicksand,” “Bulletproof.” She got the 80s-revivalist thing right without making it feel like costume parties, which most people can’t manage. She did.
Then silence. Depression, personal things, the downward pull that sometimes just swallows people. Years of it.
Elly Jackson’s back now, solo — Ben Langmaid’s gone — with a new album and “Kiss And Not Tell.” The video’s ridiculous in the best way. She’s surrounded by phones. Ancient rotary ones, absurd customized ones, phones that shouldn’t exist. That kind of pointless visual obsession is what makes a song feel like an event instead of just a track.
The thing itself slides right back into that synth-pop space she used to own — clean, bright, just enough sadness underneath. No reinvention. No apology. Just: I was gone, I’m here now, we continue. There’s something quietly stubborn about that, and I respect it.
I’ve been waiting for this without knowing I was waiting. Her music mattered when it came out, and it matters now — the kind of thing that ages better than you’d think because it never tried too hard to be cool in the first place. It just was cool. That’s rarer than it sounds.
Blogger outings are the actual best — genuinely, not in some ironic way. Everyone shows up in various states of tech obsession or design delusion, you pile into some ridiculous scenario (a limousine, this time), and for a few hours you’re just hanging with people who think about the same things you do and don’t pretend to be normal about it.
This one was Berlin, the IFA, and Western Digital had funded the whole thing to show off their My Passport Wireless, an external drive that backs up your files across devices without cables. Not revolutionary — just the practical answer if you’re the type who shoots constantly and never organizes anything. I barely tracked the specs, but that was the pitch.
What actually stuck was the event itself. Glasperlenspiel played, this electronic duo everyone in Berlin loves for reasons I still don’t fully understand, and the rest of us just drifted around talking about trips and food and the best corner shops for 2am beers. The usual people showed up — Thang, Leni, Janos, Natalie, and maybe a dozen others I hadn’t seen in a while. There was something frictionless about it, how quickly you slip back into friendship with someone when you’re actually in the same room instead of just following their posts.
By the end we’d somehow decided, and it made sense in the moment, to drive the limo past one of these late-night shops and grab beer like we’d found a cheat code. It was stupid and perfect — the kind of decision that only exists because everyone’s together and nobody’s thinking about content.
I spent years thinking anime had replaced Western animation in my head. The energy, the honesty, the sex—American cartoons felt slow by comparison. But The Simpsons never left. It’s still there, some older circuit, voices I’ve known longer than most real people.
Converse made a 25th anniversary edition with Simpson characters on the shoes. Sixty euros, mid-September onward. Standard collaboration product.
The Simpsons doesn’t feel like nostalgia though. It feels real. Homer’s stubborn idiocy that somehow doesn’t destroy everything. Lisa’s intelligence hitting against the family’s stupidity. Bart’s pure destructive instinct. Even Marge—tired in a way that’s almost philosophical. These characters don’t try to be anything else. They just are.
I’ll get the shoes. Not for the anniversary or to own my past or any of it. Just because having The Simpsons with me every day feels honest.
Elif Kalkan made a video of visiting her friends in Berlin. Just filmed their apartments, their dogs, the quality of afternoon light in someone’s living room, the kind of nothing that happens when you’re with people you know. No narration explaining it, no point beyond the thing itself.
I watched it and couldn’t stop thinking about why anyone bothers making work about this city. Berlin does something to people — you arrive, you’re caught by something you can’t quite name, you spend months or years trying to make art out of it, and then you realize what you’ve actually captured is just your friends’ apartments and the specific way light moves through a room. That’s the whole thing.
Elif’s from Istanbul, moved here, so maybe she understands something the rest of us miss. Moving somewhere teaches you what actually matters. Not the mythology, not the grand narrative about a place. Just the weight of an afternoon, a friend’s kitchen, the cat that’s been on that exact couch since you met them. The video is full of that. It doesn’t apologize for being simple.
I think what gets me is how rare it is to watch something that isn’t hungry for something else. Everything made about Berlin — the photos, the essays, the videos — seems to be reaching for meaning. This is just documentation. Elif with a camera, her friends, afternoon. It doesn’t need to be more.
I have people I know in Berlin too. Watching it, I wasn’t thinking about the city as this place you read about. I was thinking about them right now, probably in apartments like this, with their own afternoons, doing the exact same quiet thing. That’s what the city actually is. Not the idea of it. Just that — people existing in rooms, knowing each other, time moving in that particular way it does when you’re not watching.
Sports Illustrated flew Kate Upton to Antarctica to photograph her in a bikini. The appeal is obvious — you’ve seen models on beaches everywhere, but Antarctica sounds like the edge of the world, so that’s where magazines go when they need a story. They needed the location more than they needed her, really.
This was the same period when The Fappening was happening — someone had leaked hundreds of private photos of celebrities, Kate Upton included. While the internet argued about privacy and hacking and who was responsible, SI was booking flights to the Antarctic Circle. The contrast is almost funny if you think about it too long. The industry doesn’t really pause for privacy violations. It just keeps moving, and the cameras keep rolling.
I’m not sure what to make of the whole thing. Upton became famous for being beautiful, made money from it, got exposed because of it, and then kept going — more shoots, more magazine covers, more visibility. Maybe that’s just the deal. Maybe it’s what you sign up for. But Antarctica? That’s a bit much. That’s not just visibility anymore; that’s something else entirely.
There’s a moment in ’Petal Dance’ where Miki walks into the water wanting to die, and I can’t stop thinking about how simple Hiroshi Ishikawa makes it look. Not simple like it doesn’t matter. Simple like he’s stripped away everything except what’s actually happening. The waves aren’t cinematic. The other two women aren’t reacting like they’re in a film. It’s just someone at the edge, and people who notice.
The film’s about three women connected by the smallest things—a moment in the water, a friendship, the wind. Miki’s the one pulled out. Jinko finds her. Motoko comes along. They end up traveling to a clinic somewhere far away to visit, but the plot’s almost beside the point. It’s really about three people searching for a reason to keep existing, which sounds heavy until you actually watch it, then it just feels true.
Ishikawa shoots everything with this restless patience. Long takes. The colors are oversaturated, almost sickly. Shots hold until you start to feel what they’re describing. Yoko Kanno’s score is mostly absent—just soft piano when it appears. What gets me is that refusal to manipulate you. No strings swelling. No music trying to tell you what to feel. Just watch it happen.
The thing that surprised me is how the film treats despair as a practical problem rather than something to overcome. The women aren’t learning lessons or becoming better versions of themselves. They’re moving through space, talking to each other, and sometimes finding small reasons not to disappear. That feels honest in a way most films about suicide aren’t. Most films want to resolve it somehow, wrap it in meaning. This one doesn’t. It just shows you three people sitting with it, with each other.
The actresses—Aoi Miyazaki, Sakura Ando, Kazue Fukiishi, Shiori Kutsuna—are understated in a way that takes real control. Nobody’s performing, which means you notice everything they’re not saying. A glance. A pause. The way someone holds themselves when they’re trying not to disappear.
I don’t know if I’d call it hopeful. It’s not. But there’s something in how it refuses to flinch, in how it lets three broken people exist quietly together, that feels less like optimism and more like acceptance. Like the film’s saying: this is what it is. You keep moving, or you don’t. And sometimes the difference is someone noticing you’re still there.
Everyone’s sure the next war is about water. Not oil, not minerals — water. The scarcity’s real, the math is simple, and corporations have already started treating it like every other commodity. The future looks like drought and then desperation and then conflict. Just a question of when.
Jason Wishnow made a short film about that. “The Sand Storm,” funded through Kickstarter, with Ai Weiwei — Chinese artist, longtime dissident, the kind of person who’s actually put things on the line for his beliefs — playing a water smuggler in a dying landscape. On paper it made sense. The subject mattered, the filmmaker seemed to have something to say, the casting felt right. The kind of project that seemed like it could actually say something.
Then Ai Weiwei announced the director had used him without permission. That his name and image were being weaponized for promotion. Suddenly nobody was talking about the film’s content. They were talking about how its star had been exploited in its making. A bunch of Kickstarter backers wanted refunds. The whole thing collapsed into its own contradiction.
There’s a dumb perfection to that irony. A film about exploitation gets made by exploiting its lead. The medium contradicts the message so perfectly they cancel out. I kept thinking about whether that’s just inevitable now — whether you can make anything genuine anymore before the machinery grinds through it and transforms it into something else entirely.
Ai Weiwei understands what exploitation is. He’s faced it, resisted it, built his whole practice around not accepting it. So when he said the director crossed a line, you believe him. Maybe the film is essential. Maybe it has something important to say. But none of that matters now. The narrative broke. The star who was supposed to anchor the film’s credibility just became evidence that even people who know better can’t control how they’re used.
I never saw it and doubt I will. Not out of loyalty to Ai Weiwei exactly, but because once a thing breaks apart that completely, there’s nothing left to engage with. You can either defend the artist or consider the film, but you can’t do both. One of them always eats the other. And I lost track of which one I actually cared about.
We came back from summer break with real plans. New writers, new sections, content we’d been thinking about for months. For about three days it seemed like it was actually working.
Then the servers caught fire.
The migration was supposed to help—you’d all shown up at once over the summer and nearly killed the old hardware. We needed bigger infrastructure. But the move came with its own chaos. Functions stopped working. Image uploads failed completely. I spent several nights at two or three in the morning staring at error logs, reading stack traces, going through the special kind of panic that comes when you’re the person responsible for keeping the whole thing alive and nothing is cooperating.
There’s a particular silence to that, sitting alone with a broken website, wondering if anyone will even come back when you fix it.
But here’s what happened: people noticed. Not in an angry way, mostly. They just noticed. Some came back. Some kept reading even when half the site was down. Some asked what was going on. Some offered help. That wasn’t something I expected.
So I’m saying thank you. To everyone reading this, for whatever reason. To the people who love the site and the people who hate it and the people who come here just to see what chaos we’ve created this week. To the writers and the commenters and the people who share stuff with their friends. You’re the only reason this works.
This week we’re running everything we planned. All the pieces, all the ideas, everything that got delayed by the collapse. That’s the point of this whole thing.
I want to live in Tokyo’s fish market. Not as some romantic idea—actually move there, eat my way through whatever came in that morning, fish still warm and bleeding, the stuff people lose their minds over.
Back here you get sushi from kebab stands. From discount stores where you can taste how long ago the fish died. It’s not sushi. It’s a simulation of sushi, and a bad one.
The gap between that and actual sushi isn’t subtle. The fish matters obviously, but so does the rice, the temperature, how it’s cut, the angle when you put it in your mouth. Most people don’t think about any of this. They just grab it, dunk it in soy sauce, swallow.
Naomichi Yasuda is a sushi master in Tokyo. I haven’t eaten at his place or studied with him, but I’ve come across how he thinks about sushi—the obsessive attention to detail, the precise movements that separate actual technique from just playing the part. The angle of the knife. Where your teeth meet the rice. What you taste first, second, third.
Sounds pretentious when you say it. Maybe it is. But once you’ve had sushi made by someone who gives a shit, made with that level of care, you can’t eat the other stuff anymore. You start wanting to understand it better, chasing the next meal that might actually know something.
I’ll never be a sushi master. But knowing what one looks like—the rigor, the precision of every small movement—changes how I taste it. It’s not sacred or secret. Just what happens once you’ve tasted what good costs.
Brad was bored, which in LA means you’re sitting by your pool wishing something would happen. So he called Sara Cummings. He wanted to celebrate summer, he said, but not just with nakedness—he needed a story to go with it.
He came up with the shark. Not a real one, just the inflatable kind. But Brad talked about it like he’d figured something out. The shark swims toward her. Sara ignores it at first, then rides it. Then she’s tired of it and lies on the plastic grass with her camera. That was the story.
What got me was how seriously he took it, how he’d made something real from a pool float. The photos went to Purple. I don’t know if that was always the plan or just what happens when you decide boredom is a problem worth solving with whatever’s at hand.
I went to Japan thinking the TV would be all anime and game shows. Instead it was talk shows about food and people stretching on mats. Not much better than what airs in Germany, just in a language I didn’t understand. The only thing that actually worked was the commercials.
There’s something different about them. They’re not selling you so much as telling you something. A beer ad becomes a story about salarymen, a convenience store becomes a world. The pacing is generous—they let things breathe. No constant cutting, no manipulative soundtrack dragging you along. Just images that trust you’ll pay attention for thirty seconds.
Part of it’s probably cultural. Less cynicism about advertising itself, less meta-irony. The brands seem to assume people actually watch, so they put in the work. Every commercial looks like it cost something, not because they’re throwing money around, but because there’s actual thinking behind it.
I miss that kind of craft. Even the trash channels back home could steal from it.
I was scrolling through what people were sharing online and came across everything mixed together. There’s Emma Sulkowicz walking around with her mattress, carrying it everywhere as a statement about what happened to her and a refusal to let anyone forget. Anita Sarkeesian put out a video on feminism in games — real work, real thinking — and got death threats for it, because that’s what happens when women have opinions on the internet.
Then it’s a GoPro video from inside a volcano, which is just visually wild. An artist named Evie Cair making these clean, perfect illustrations. I saw someone called Luise in one of the photos and thought: yeah, if I lived in Munich I’d marry her. That’s what 3am scrolling does.
Coolio wrote a song about Pornhub. Someone bought an R2-D2 keyboard. There’s Minecraft soap now. A guy dressed as Batman and ran through Japan in full costume. Japanese school backpacks are design perfection. Homemade popsicles that look like they belong in a shop. Portraits that look like aliens but are just people photographed the right way. Instagram added a timelapse feature and people are doing strange things with it.
The serious and the trivial are just sitting there together — someone getting harassed for asking smart questions, someone else making a keyboard shaped like a droid. Same feed. Same moment. That’s what it’s like right now.
Half of Berlin’s still walking around in them. The green-and-white Stan Smiths have become the standard-issue shoe for anyone who works in design, media, anything creative. If you care about how things look, these are what you wear. It’s not even a choice anymore; it’s just the uniform.
They made the jump from retro novelty to essential object in maybe five years. Still not entirely sure how it happened so fast. They’re minimal enough that they work with almost everything, and there’s no logo demanding your attention—the shoe does the work and doesn’t ask for credit. For people who think about design, that’s the perfect formula.
Once something becomes that universal, the brand starts playing exclusivity games. Limited editions with boutiques in Paris and New York and London, white leather versions that cost more because fewer exist. It’s the oldest trick in sneaker culture—scarcity makes people hunt. And it works every time. There’s something about knowing only a few hundred people can own your exact shoe that makes you want it more.
I get it. Part of me wants the white ones. The idea of owning the right version of an already-right shoe is weirdly appealing. But then you step back and realize you’re obsessing over variations of something you already own, purely because someone decided to make fewer of them. The whole thing is manufactured desire. Knowing that doesn’t actually stop you from wanting it, though.
The thing that will outlast all this is the shoe itself. After the limited editions disappear and the hype moves to whatever comes next, the basic Stan Smith will still be there. Still clean, still correct, still what people will reach for when they want something that just works. That’s the only thing that actually matters. The exclusivity is just noise.
There’s something vertiginous about it: you only exist because a handful of people with the will and knowledge to destroy everything haven’t actually done it. Yet. The ones who know exactly what they want and how to get there. The rest of us are just waiting.
Walking through Tokyo in summer, Arata and Toji look like any two kids should—tall and lean, or short and slight, with the kind of eyes you fall into without meaning to. They move through the noise, past the cars and people and cicadas screaming in the trees. You’d never know they stole plutonium from a nuclear facility a few weeks ago. You’d never know they’re bombing the city.
Terror in Tokyo doesn’t do what you’d expect from an anime. No giant robots, no oversexualized characters filling the screen, no magical girls or kitsch J-pop powering some impossible victory. Director Shinichiro Watanabe made something that looks like the world actually looks, sounds like it actually sounds, feels like it actually feels. Explosions in subways, buildings collapsing, civilians trapped in chaos, and the police have nothing. It’s genuinely unsettling without dipping into cheap horror movie garbage.
Nine and Twelve shouldn’t exist. Their memories start in some lab at the end of the world and end in a small apartment in Tokyo. From there they plan everything carefully, play cat-and-mouse with a detective named Kenjiro over YouTube, and deal with a girl named Lisa who wanted to be part of it and then realized she didn’t want to die. The whole thing is technically sophisticated and grounded—they hack, they tweet, they stream themselves through a laughing city. Their puzzles are clever. Their motives stay in the dark. All the threats waiting for them stay in the dark. But the story never feels overwrought. It knows when to just breathe.
Lisa is probably the closest thing to someone you recognize. Bullied at school, misunderstood at home, walking through Shibuya in the rain with nowhere to be. The neon fills her face with colors that don’t belong to her. Everyone around her is talking on their phone. She cries. You want to hold her. In a world where no one’s like her, maybe dying wouldn’t be the worst option.
The animation is genuinely beautiful—Kazuto Nakazawa’s work, Yoko Kanno’s score. If you’re tired of the standard anime waste of time, this is actually something.
Then Five shows up, and you realize you’ve been watching the wrong thing the whole time. Pale, beautiful, cold as a snowstorm, violet eyes, this girl with no mercy at all who would absolutely go all the way. And suddenly you’re not sure anymore who’s actually supposed to be the monster in all this. You’re pretty sure she would. No doubt about that.
Marteria appeared behind a deer shaman—some kind of sculpture or puppet, I’m still not sure—and rapped his way through the crowd toward the stage. Within minutes, sweat was literally dripping from the ceiling in streams.
This was the launch show for Jägermeister Blaskapelle’s debut album in Berlin. They’re a brass band that took popular songs and reimagined them for brass instrumentation, then somehow convinced artists like Marteria, Alligatoah, MC Fitti, Haddaway, and Alexander Marcus to show up and perform them live. The crowd was over a thousand people deep, and the energy was completely untethered.
Each act brought their own beautiful absurdity. Das Bo arrived with a cheerleader squad. Die Atzen deployed megaphones and alarm sounds. Alexander Marcus came via helicopter and covered the stage in enormous inflatable fruit. Alligatoah lit the crowd like bioluminescent organisms. MC Fitti detonated confetti. Haddaway did strobes and 90s revival. The brass band just kept playing, unfazed, turning everything into melody.
What struck me was Marteria’s walk. Not the music, just the image of him moving through the crowd on his way to the stage, rapping the whole way. It felt like the real idea of the night—total commitment to something ridiculous, no safety net, just momentum and sound and bodies.
I left soaked through, with phone numbers I’d never call and memories I couldn’t quite place. But I remembered the feeling of not being in control of anything, which is rarer than you’d think.
Ren Hang’s photographs hit the same way Mian Mian’s early novels do — that unguarded look at young Beijing, the version of being alive that the government would rather burn. He shoots people without the shame they’re supposed to carry, and you can feel the refusal in every frame.
“Why should we hide our bodies? Why should we hide anything?” Simple question. But ask it in China and it costs you. His work gets pulled down constantly. Galleries show him in Copenhagen, Rome, Frankfurt — the international world picks him up — while at home he’s being systematically erased. To young people in China he’s this figure of defiance, someone who won’t look away, won’t apologize for his own body.
What complicates it is what he’s been writing online. Years of depression, the constant weight of being watched, knowing everyone’s eyes are on him. The whole thing became paradoxical: he’s a symbol of rebellion precisely because he’s breaking under the weight of it. He’s a hero to a generation while admitting he can’t sustain it anymore.
His photographs still say what needs to be said. But I think about what it costs to be the one making them.
Adidas Originals released an app called #miZXFLUX that let you customize ZX FLUX sneakers with your own photos. You’d upload an image, position it on the shoe using a butterfly-shaped overlay, scale and rotate it however you wanted, preview the result in 360 degrees, and order it. A few weeks later, your custom sneaker showed up.
What appealed to me wasn’t the technology but the directness of it. You didn’t need to be a designer or justify yourself to anyone. Open the app, find a photo, spend fifteen minutes playing with placement, pay if you want it, done. The gap between wanting something personalized and actually having it was shorter than it’s ever been.
There’s something about owning an object that nobody else has, even if it’s mass-produced. The photo you chose doesn’t have to mean anything—it could be your friend, your cat, your lunch—but the fact that you decided which one and where it goes on the shoe makes it unmistakably yours. Someone else could theoretically use the exact same photo in the exact same spot, but they’d still be making their own choice.
The shoe itself is just fine. It’s the kind of thing you’d pass by in a mall. But the ability to take something industrial and make it singular, just by deciding what image goes on it, that’s where the appeal is. The app didn’t ask you to be a designer. It asked for nothing but presence.
Most customization requires something from you. This required nothing but a photo and time to waste. That felt rare.
There’s always the guy with the expensive grill. He brings it up constantly, this thing he spent money on, how well it seasons meat, how masculine the whole setup is. You smile and move on.
Bompas & Parr didn’t need a grill to make a statement. When the London duo decided to cook something, they just went for the obvious next step: actual lava. Over a thousand degrees Celsius, glowing beneath meat and corn in a backyard at Syracuse University. Professor Robert Wysocki helped them pull it off. He’d worked with lava before on other projects, but cooking with it was new.
What I kept coming back to was whether the food was any good. That’s the part that actually matters, and probably the part they didn’t think about. Did it taste incredible, or was the point just to do the impossible? The meal or the gesture?
There’s something about that kind of excess that makes perfect sense while making no sense at all. The logic: because you can, because it’s ridiculous, because no one else would actually try it. It’s the three-AM impulse, the weird thing you do just to know what happens.
Rita Ora was everywhere then — radio, clubs, that space where dance-pop and UK garage were still mixing together. When adidas Originals brought her in to design a collection, it felt inevitable. Her momentum was real, and brands know how to spot attention.
The collection was called “Black.” Soft leather, reptile patterns across the uppers — that specific visual moment when every designer suddenly needed scales or feathers or something textured and breathing. The yellow adidas logo underneath as an anchor. It looked like what a young pop vocalist would think was cool, which is sometimes exactly right and sometimes not.
The thing about celebrity fashion collaborations is how differently people think. Rita works in hooks, moments, the feel of a night. Design is proportions, materials, how something sits on a body. There’s a translation problem there, even with everyone trying. But that gap is maybe what makes it real. She didn’t become a designer, but she existed in that space for a moment, and this collection was proof.
I have no idea what happened to the shoes afterward. They’re probably discounted or forgotten by now. But in that time, they made perfect sense.
Tokyo Fashion is just a site where someone shoots street style in Tokyo. Not styled, not curated — just people in Harajuku who got dressed. Most of them look like they coordinated their colors with their eyes closed, and somehow it works.
The summer posts hit hardest. Everything’s cranked up: more neon, more clashing patterns, more unhinged confidence about color. 6%DOKIDOKI, Milklim, WEGO — weird little brands making clothes no one sensible would touch. Romantic Standard. Nile Perch. Spinns. The people just wear them. No explanation. No apology.
What kills me is how unselfconscious it all is. They’re not performing fashion. They’re just dressed. There’s something almost punk about that level of indifference — to matching, to rules, to what anyone thinks. Not aggressively punk. Just — I liked this thing and I’m wearing it.
I could never do it. I’d spend the day in my head about whether the green coordinates with the blue. But looking at these photos, watching people just exist in these outfits without visible anxiety, it makes you wonder if the whole system of taste and coordination is something we made up and agreed to play, and Tokyo just said no.
Kassia Meador shot Cailin Russo on a flower meadow for Monster Children, and the image just works. No angle, no performance—just someone in good light who looks like they belong in the frame.
Russo’s a dancer and gymnast, the kind of person whose body language could easily become about display. But Meador caught something else: ease, maybe even indifference to being photographed. That’s harder than it looks.
Monster Children had Mike D curate the issue, which is the kind of thing that used to matter to a magazine. Not just getting access or a name, but actual editorial taste.
I don’t know much about Russo beyond this photograph, but I don’t need to. I keep coming back to it—not because it’s complicated or trying to do something, but because it actually works. Summer in a frame. That’s the whole thing.
Darren Ankerman photographed Sylvia Elizabeth for Purple Magazine, and I couldn’t look away. I don’t know who she is—some artist in Brooklyn, someone building something. But the photos feel direct in a way most photography isn’t anymore. No affectation. No trying to be cool. Just a person, specific and present.
New York used to be a place where that was possible—where you could be weird and make things and the city would hold space for it. That’s mostly over now. The city’s expensive and safe and everything gets absorbed into image, product, content. Most people who had real taste either left or learned to perform having taste instead. It’s been like that for years.
Sylvia’s still there anyway. On her Tumblr and Instagram, you see her actual world—the books she keeps, the music she listens to, the colors and friends and shapes she’s chosen. It’s specific enough that it couldn’t come from anywhere but inside her own head. That’s harder now than it should be. Everyone’s taste is starting to look like everyone else’s.
In Ankerman’s photos, she’s not defended. No persona, no calculation. Just present. That’s the thing that stays with you—that kind of unguarded directness. It’s rarer every year.
I don’t know if what she’s making matters. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. But I recognize the look of someone still trying, in a city that’s mostly stopped rewarding that. That’s worth something to me. That’s worth paying attention to.
I used to shove LEGO bricks in my mouth as a kid without really thinking about it, the way you do at that age with objects that shouldn’t go in your mouth. They tasted like plastic, obviously, and were probably leeching some kind of poison into my bloodstream, but I didn’t care. I just kept imagining them as something else—soft cheese, cooked sausage, dark chocolate that melted on my tongue.
Japanese designer Akihiro Mizuuchi apparently spent enough time in that same fantasy that he actually made it happen: LEGO bricks out of chocolate. Full size, indistinguishable from the real thing until you put one in your mouth. Milk, white, strawberry flavors. You can build an entire structure and then eat it.
I’ve seen other people try this online and most attempts are awkward or unfinished, the work of people who got halfway interested and gave up. Mizuuchi’s are perfect—the weight is exact, the snap is right, the way they connect and separate matches the original completely. He didn’t just pour chocolate into molds; he understood what makes LEGO work as a physical object and translated that into something edible.
A collaboration between LEGO and Mizuuchi seems inevitable, but it won’t happen—companies don’t work that way. I’d still buy them on day one if somehow it did.
Every August the dread starts. Summer’s almost gone, the lazy afternoons are disappearing, and you’re about to get funneled back into school for nine months of bells and fluorescent lights and rooms full of people you’d rather avoid. Here’s what nobody wants to admit though: what you wear on the first day matters. Not because anyone with sense cares, but because school’s a machine where your clothes are basically your opening statement.
I remember this clearly. The kids who showed up that first day with an actual outfit—like they’d given it some thought—they immediately seemed like they had something figured out. Maybe they didn’t. Probably they didn’t. But it didn’t matter. The visual signal did all the work. That’s how it works. You get left alone, or you get noticed in the way you want to be noticed.
School fashion is honestly cruel. It’s got nothing to do with taste or identity or any of the stuff fashion magazines talk about. It’s pure social calculus. It’s about not being the person everyone laughs at, about being someone people gravitate toward instead of away from. It’s about surviving an ecosystem where you’re doing things you probably shouldn’t in bathrooms and parking lots and somehow holding it together while you do it.
The clothes that actually worked were the ones that seemed unconsidered—fit that suggested you’d actually thought about jeans and shoes instead of just grabbing whatever was clean. It became this unspoken language everyone could read and nobody wanted to admit mattered.
Which is what you realize when it’s all over: how much of those years got decided by arbitrary visual stuff that has nothing to do with who you actually are. Your clothes, your hair, where you sat. For nine months it’s basically your whole social identity. Maybe that’s dumber than I want to admit now, but at the time it was the entire game.
I miss VHS tapes. Actually miss them. We had stacks at home—nothing special, just whatever landed there. You’d pull one out, rewind it, feed it into the player. The movie would start. It was the most direct form of ownership you could get.
5Boro in New York made skateboards that look exactly like old VHS cases. Sony, Panasonic, Fuji—whatever brand was stacked on your shelf. The designs are spot-on, which means whoever made them actually remembers this era. Around forty euros per board.
Most people buying these probably never used a VHS player. They’re buying the look, the aesthetic of an era they didn’t experience. Which is fine. That’s how design works. The original thing gets reduced to its visual symbol, and that symbol gets passed along.
But there’s no irony in it. Someone who actually remembers this made these boards. They didn’t make them as a joke or a commentary. Just someone wanting to bring back something that mattered. The design will just be what it is—a look, an era frozen on a piece of wood. Maybe that’s better than the real thing.
The Korea University in Tokyo has over 700 students, all from North Korea, all here to study what amounts to advanced propaganda classes while living in one of the world’s most connected cities. I didn’t know it existed until someone mentioned it the way you mention a building you pass every day.
Oh Hyang-son and Fina Hwang are two of them. They seem fine with it. They study, they talk about trips home when they can get them, they describe the hospitality they experience there—the feasts, the outings, the sense of being welcomed. They’re not stupid. They know the world is different elsewhere. They’ve just accepted that their world works differently, or decided it’s easier that way.
What gets me is the setup. A Japanese university, in Tokyo, which might be the most open, most wired city on earth, existing as a closed system where students are taught that the world outside their country is failing, hostile, designed to destroy them. They walk through a city that proves them wrong every second of every day and somehow this doesn’t register as contradiction. Or it does, and they’ve learned to hold both things in their heads at once. Governments are good at teaching that particular skill.
Japanese people around them oscillate between indifference and hostility. Some want the university gone. There’s a baseline xenophobia here—Korean people, doesn’t matter which direction, just means you’re not one of them. The joke is dark: these students are being told that Japan is dangerous while living in one of the safest places on earth. No one’s going to harm them for it. They’re just uncomfortable, and they’re learning to interpret that discomfort as evidence that their education is correct.
I keep thinking about that gap between what’s happening and what they’re being taught is happening. It doesn’t close. The students will graduate, some will go back, some will stay, but that contradiction stays with them either way. They’re living proof that you can be surrounded by evidence and still believe the opposite, but I don’t know if that’s their failure or something all of us do differently.
Two million people watched Kelly run up a staircase talking about what it takes to be a woman—the basics, really. High heels hurt. Sleep matters more than showers. Shaving eats your time. Nothing you couldn’t figure out on your own, but something about the way she explained it made you watch anyway. By twenty-one, closing in on half a million subscribers, she’d turned observation into a platform and a platform into a life. I wanted to know what that actually felt like from inside.
Kelly started because she saw other people making videos and thought, why isn’t there a woman doing this? Three years later, the answer was simple: it worked. But working turned out to mean something much harder than anyone watching assumes. People see a video that lands and think you just turned on the camera and talked. They don’t see the blank-screen hours waiting for an idea that sticks, the technical problems that murder your editing timeline, the comment section that tells you your thing was shit a minute after you posted it. Two or three new videos a week, each needing to feel fresh and hit something that matters, all while being your own boss and staying motivated when motivation doesn’t come naturally. It’s actual work. Most people don’t realize it yet, but they will.
The LA trip was the kind of thing that sounds like fantasy. Six weeks with other German YouTubers—Gronkh, Sarazar, Pandory, a few others—in a house they called The Mansion. Vegas, roadtrips through desert, theme parks. No real conflict between anyone, which surprised me. Everyone understood what it felt like to build something from nothing on camera. But Kelly was twenty in Las Vegas where bouncers need bribing and everything looks beautiful until you see the structural damage. That’s when someone—a designer whose name they kept censored—ended up naked and coked up in the hot tub on her twenty-first birthday. She framed it as funny and shocking and maybe a learning moment, and I think it was all three at once.
What struck me was how she talked about the rest of the YouTube world. No enemies, really. Everyone gets along because everyone’s broken in the same way—they make weird videos on the internet for money and attention. You don’t need much more than that in common to become friends with someone quickly. But she also kept friends who thought the whole thing was insane, who’d watch strangers ask her for photos on the street and shake their heads. That balance seemed important to her—staying tethered to something actual beyond the platform.
Her most successful video was her list of things girls do but don’t tell anyone. It blew up immediately. But when I asked if it was her favorite, she said no. She preferred the travel vlogs—the ones that felt like memories she could share with people who might never get to those places. That preference told you something real about how she thinks. She said she’d never make a video that bored her, because you’d see it immediately. It would feel hollow. So she tries to find the intersection—topics that genuinely fascinate her and that have a decent shot at working. It’s the difference between a formula and an actual life being documented.
The trolling is just background noise at scale. Someone sent her Google Earth screenshots of her bedroom window. People mail packages and letters to her house. She handles it the way you’d expect—ignore most of it, get hurt sometimes, get over it. Her friend MrTrashpack told her something wise: people have bad days and need to dump their frustration somewhere. If they do it in her comments instead of actually destroying something, that’s not the worst trade.
The question of being a woman on YouTube doing anything other than beauty or gaming landed differently. Early comments about her body made her self-conscious so she dressed conservatively, wanted to be seen as a person first. By the time we talked, she’d moved past it. Dumb comments from eleven-year-olds about her chest were just noise. She’d used the topic once in that viral list because it was honest. Using your body as content because it gets clicks is different from content that happens to include your body. That distinction mattered to her.
When I asked what YouTube had changed about her life, she paused and said it changed her in ways that felt genuinely scary. Went from shy and insecure to someone who could walk into a room and just talk to people. Learned to handle criticism, even the vicious pointless kind. Built actual friendships with people she’d only known through screens. Traveled in ways she never would have otherwise. Built a career that didn’t exist a decade before. Grew up on video, in public, with millions of strangers watching.
Without YouTube, she thinks she’d probably still be living cautiously somewhere, following the safest path, too scared to actually try things. That’s the real change—not the money or the fame or the subscribers, but the willingness to just do something weird in front of everyone and see what happens. The rest followed from that.
Summer’s always gone before you notice it. All the things you were going to do—they stay theoretical.
Henrik Purienne didn’t let that happen. He put Shané van der Westhuizen in his Citroën one morning, drove to Cape Town, and shot a whole collection against the beach and rocks. Zulu & Zephyr, this Australian label, called it the ’Cape Town’ line. Didn’t shoot it in a studio. Didn’t polish it. Just let the sun and the water and the sand be what they are.
There’s a difference between a shoot that’s been designed and one that’s been witnessed. Most of what gets made is the first kind. The construction shows. But this one—you can see Shané in the landscape. Not positioned in it, but occupying it. Which is probably exactly what Henrik was after.
I don’t know the brand. I don’t know the prices or what they’re made of. What I know is the choice: to shoot when the light is true, in a place that doesn’t need embellishment. To let the work breathe.
By the time you read this, summer’s probably over. It goes fast.
You sink into Super Mario World or Pokémon or A Link to the Past and you’re gone for hours. Those pixels have this pull—something about them just takes you out of time. But somewhere along the way other artists figured out a different version: instead of grids, they started building with polygons. Same gravity, different geometry.
Matt Anderson’s one of them. He’s based in New York, works in low-poly—this minimal style where creatures are built entirely from shapes but somehow still read as alive. The trick is that it only works if you’re ruthlessly reductive about it, which sounds easy until you try and realize it isn’t. Most polygon art looks cold or empty. His doesn’t.
His Poly Animals series stuck with me: whales, foxes, elephants, turtles, cranes, pandas, wolves. All built from triangles and clean lines but somehow still breathing. There’s real craft in those proportions—you look at a fox and you understand its weight without being told anything. The way he decides what detail to keep and what to strip away to almost nothing. Makes you want to exist in that world.
It hits the same way pixels do. Show me a sprite from 1995 and something in my brain just opens up—that automatic nostalgic pull. Polygon art like this has the same quality. Timeless in a way that makes you think it’ll be someone’s pixel art eventually, the thing they point to years from now and feel that same untranslatable warmth.
We were sitting on a park bench reading the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung out loud when Leni found it, about a week after we’d bought the paper that morning. We were laughing so hard that people were actually annoyed at us, which only made it funnier. Hannah Lühmann had written about this blog. She called it the “Bild newspaper of the hipsters” and just went from there directly into this architecture-adjacent disgust—how we were derivative, epigones, how we’d borrowed this exhausted-but-horny energy from Vice and never had a real thought about anything. We fixated on celebrity breasts. We had these stupid headlines about crystal meth and other people’s dogs and whether Nazis should be allowed to keep the swastika because it’s actually about love and peace. When she laid it out like that, it was pretty indefensible.
The thing is, she wasn’t entirely wrong, and I could feel it even being defensive about it. She’d identified something true about the formula we were running: good photographs, fun facts about famous people, that intimate voice saying you and I know something the world doesn’t, a lot of naked skin, and then these occasional gestures toward political commentary that usually weren’t worth the attention. She was right that it was formulaic. She was right that there wasn’t much underneath. What bothered me more than the criticism was that I couldn’t argue with it, and I wanted to. I wanted to write her back—something careful and considered that would prove her wrong or at least make her understand what we were actually trying to do. But it would have been a lie. There was no careful answer. We were just running on momentum and formula, and we knew it.
I never wrote the letter because I didn’t have time. For weeks before that, all through August, Leni and I had been destroying ourselves on a relaunch. We’d moved into a place together in Berlin about six months earlier, converted the kitchen into a workspace, and decided we needed to actually work together, not just as casual collaborators but as a real team. The deadline was September 1st, marked in red on the calendar like a threat. We were barely sleeping, eating pizza, writing until our hands hurt. Everything we’d built needed to be restructured, redesigned, reimagined. There was no time for a thoughtful response to Hannah Lühmann or anyone else. There was only the work.
Maybe if I’d had time, I would have realized something that I know now: whether she was right didn’t matter as much as the fact that we were too busy to care. We were chasing something, and the chasing had become its own point. The thinking had stopped being part of it. We were just pushing forward because that’s what we did. The criticism didn’t change anything because we didn’t have the space to let it. We just kept moving.
Years later, I don’t think about Hannah Lühmann much, but sometimes—on some cold autumn evening when the squirrels are moving frantically between branches and the yellow leaves are falling—I remember a conversation we had in a café in Neukölln. Just ordinary conversation. Life, love, the usual things. And then I think about her name in the newspaper, printed in black on white, surrounded by all that bitterness and disappointment between the lines. I remember thinking about it and then folding the paper and putting it in the trash.
Hannah. I’ve always liked that name. There’s something about it. Even now, when I can barely remember what the whole thing was actually about—the bench, Leni laughing, me being defensive but also knowing she’d touched something real—I keep coming back to just that. Her name.
I keep thinking about this one image from the book. Tsukuru’s at Shinjuku station with a cup of hot coffee, just sitting on a bench watching people get on and off trains. He’s terrified to get on one himself. That’s the whole thing. A guy who builds train stations for a living, completely paralyzed by the idea of actually boarding one.
Murakami’s writing does this strange thing where he describes something in perfect detail—the coffee, the bench, people’s faces—and then he just leaps years ahead without announcing it. A room established perfectly and then suddenly it doesn’t matter because now it’s years later. He never makes it feel dramatic, just statements of fact and then you move on.
The basic plot: Tsukuru, empty and colorless at thirty-six, was abandoned by his four best friends at sixteen with no reason given. A woman named Sara pushes him to go back and ask them why. The book is him talking to each of them and slowly understanding that knowing why doesn’t actually fix the hurt.
Surreal stuff gets woven through it all. Dreams that might not be dreams. A six-fingered hand. Strange conversations. But Murakami never explains them or makes them feel weird. He just treats them as facts, the same way he treats coffee. It’s precision about reality, including the parts of reality that don’t follow the rules.
Reading Murakami always does something odd. Not because the books are about things that happened to you—they’re not. But he describes waiting and fear and the way you can just accept terrible things by not fighting them. And you see yourself in that. The loneliness is specific enough that it becomes universal.
The book ends without actually resolving anything. Tsukuru’s still uncertain, still colorless, still a little afraid of getting on the train. But something’s shifted in him anyway, something he doesn’t have words for. That unresolved feeling is the whole point.
I read it over a few weeks in pieces. Afternoons with tea, nights with whisky. It’s the kind of book that demands you don’t rush it. It makes you sit still, which is maybe what it’s asking you to do.
I’ve always been curious about that moment when someone decides something is possible. Not whether it’ll be good—just possible. Someone looked at techno, hip-hop, pop music, and thought, “Yeah, but brass band,” and then actually did it. That’s “Move Your Brass!”—the Jägermeister Blaskapelle’s debut album, and the concept is exactly what it sounds like: brass arrangements of popular songs from completely different genres.
The roster helps justify it. They managed to pull in Alligatoah, MC Fitti, Die Atzen, Jennifer Rostock, Alexander Marcus, Haddaway—artists who either have a sense of humor about pop culture or understand that earnestness and absurdity aren’t actually opposed. Most of them are on the record. The album isn’t trying to make these songs “better” or to ironize them; it’s just running them through a different instrument section and seeing what stays recognizable.
Which is ridiculous. And probably why it works.
The record release party was at Teppichfabrik Alt-Stralau in Berlin, which is the kind of venue that doesn’t need to try—it just exists as a space for weird ideas. Industrial bones, charm without reaching for it. The guest artists performed live with the brass section, doing the whole thing as it was meant to sound in the room.
I never actually heard the album. I’m not sure it matters much. The idea is bold in a way that doesn’t announce itself as bold, which is the kind of taste I pay attention to. Someone looked at genre convention and just went sideways. That’s worth noting.
The song just comes out. I can’t help it. In the subway, waiting in line, middle of the night with nothing to do — suddenly I’m singing it. “Ein bisschen Spaß muß sein,” the whole thing, Blanco’s voice somehow deep in my head like a splinter I can’t extract. It’s been happening for years, probably longer. The kind of thing that just attaches to you and you never find out why.
The guy himself is actually broke. Seventy-seven, apparently owes his ex a hundred fifty grand in alimony or something. He’s got real problems — the kind that don’t go away. And yet his song, this throwaway hit from who knows when, is the thing that stays with you. Not his career, not his life. Just the song. Just those four minutes of terrible sincerity that somehow worked on you once and never stopped.
So of course he remixed it with a car rental company. Sixt, I think. A hip-hop version of his biggest hit, which is either the most logical thing a broke seventies pop singer could do or the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Probably both. You’re stuck, so you lean into it. You make something absurd, maybe you make some money, maybe you don’t. Either way you’re out there remixing your own hit in a commercial.
The song itself is genuinely terrible and genuinely perfect. The melody is aggressively earnest in a way that shouldn’t work but does. You hear it once and it’s in you. Been in me for years now, and I’ve stopped pretending I’ll ever get it out. The Sixt remix just makes it clearer — the original was always a little cheap, a little desperate, trying too hard to make you feel something. The new version is exactly the same, just with a beat and a car rental company behind it.
I don’t know what happens to him now. Maybe the remix helped. Maybe he’s still underwater. All I know is the song will be stuck in my head in thirty years the same way it’s stuck now, and I’ll probably still be singing it at the worst possible moment, unable to stop myself, unable to explain why.
Wacken’s one of those places where the myths turn out to be true. The hospitality, the creativity, the fact that your neighbors three sites over adopt you within hours. Ines and I drove out there mostly just to see — maybe to confirm, maybe to disprove, honestly not sure which.
We didn’t disprove anything. Someone was offering us beer by the second hour. The campground itself was this landscape of effort — flags, hand-built decorations, whole shrines to favorite bands next to kids’ tents. Food stalls. Medieval villages. Stages everywhere. You could get lost for days just moving between different corners.
We ended up at this Jägermeister bar right next to the main stage. It had its own brass band, which sounds ridiculous and is ridiculous and somehow made everything work better. You could watch the main acts without being crushed in the pit — no elbows, no risk of a spike through your ribs. You could just stand there, drink your beer, think about what you’re hearing. Small thing, but it changed the whole weekend.
The real story of Wacken isn’t the music, though that’s fine. It’s that the whole thing actually works. The operation is competent. People there are just genuinely nice — not performing niceness, just doing what needs doing. The whole thing feels built to last, not like chaos with a soundtrack.
Sitting in that bar, drunk and content, watching strangers turn into a community, knowing it would dissolve when we drove out but that they’d be back next year — that’s the thing I’m taking home from it.
I can’t get my head around the Islamic State. I’m usually good at understanding people — following their logic, seeing what drives them, even when I completely disagree. But this reaches a limit I didn’t know I had.
These are people executing others in the street, crucifying them, building a state on terror and calling it holy. How do you get there? What kind of hatred, what faith, what brokenness has to exist for you to do that to another human being? I ask myself this and I just hit a wall.
Sometimes I wonder if they’re all broken — cast-outs, people the world rejected, looking for somewhere they belong so badly they’ll join anything. But I don’t think that’s the whole answer. Some of them probably genuinely believe they’re right. That killing their own brothers and degrading their sisters is justified, even righteous. The thought makes me sick.
Religion becomes something different when it’s used like this — not a guide or a question, but a tool for power, a language for cruelty. And it works. It recruits people, shapes them, makes them certain.
My empathy has always been pretty expansive. I can get into someone’s head, understand where they’re coming from, hold complexity. But not this. Not all the way. Some people choose darkness in a way I can’t reach or fathom. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s where understanding has to stop.
I ended up in a club in Tokyo one night and the music was completely unfamiliar in a way that made sense instantly. Dancehall. Had been the sound here since the early ’90s, working its way deeper without most of the world noticing. Batty Bombom, Mighty Crew—names that mean everything in certain rooms and nothing to anyone I know back home.
Japan does something interesting with culture from outside. It doesn’t stay as reference or tribute. It becomes how people actually live. The reggae and hip-hop that arrived in the ’90s isn’t a trend anymore. It’s just what living here sounds like. Nobody’s asking permission for it to exist.
I watched this project called “Scene Unseen”—D.A.R.Y.L., Edward Lovelace and James Hall—filmed what was actually happening in Tokyo’s clubs. Not the Japan that gets exported. Not clean or glossy. Just people dancing to music they cared about, in rooms that would never make the guides.
What gets me is how much real culture works like that. You’re looking one way and everything that matters is happening somewhere else—dark, loud, full of people who stopped waiting for outsiders to validate what they already knew was good. Tokyo’s dancehall doesn’t need anyone’s attention. It just keeps being.
adidas just put out a magazine dedicated to people who don’t conform. The whole thing’s structured around individuals who found their own aesthetic and stopped caring what everyone else thought — not performing it, just genuinely indifferent. Rita Ora’s got a collaboration in it, a full line with her name on it. She’s the kind of person who understands color and space, so it reads as a real thing, not a celebrity cash grab.
The magazine’s built on a simple premise: the best style is the kind that doesn’t try. Good photography. People worth knowing. Cata Pirata. The Dandy Diary crew. Everyone else who made their own thing because fitting in was never in the cards.
I’ve always gravitated to adidas because they get this at the design level. Their stuff doesn’t announce itself. You wear it because it works, because it looks right, because whoever made it cared about the fundamentals. No performance. Just the thing itself. That’s always been more interesting to me than whatever trend cycle everyone’s locked into.
BANKS makes songs designed to pull you close, songs that feel like they want your body against another body, want you to feel that friction. But she’s never there — she’s somewhere else, untouchable. “Beggin For Thread” is just the latest version of this move. The video’s black and white, beautiful people in that fever-dream state, skin and heat and proximity, and she’s keeping distance from all of it even as it’s built around her.
She’s been perfect at this for years. The trick is that wanting someone who won’t want you back sharpens the feeling somehow. I’m not sure if that’s clever or just how desire works, but she’s definitely leaned into understanding it.
“Beggin For Thread” doesn’t surprise me. It shouldn’t. She’s committed to this — the coldness, the refusal to soften, the consistency of keeping you at exactly the right distance to stay interesting. There’s something almost mean about it, in the best way. I respect it more than I enjoy it, most of the time. But that respect is the thing that keeps me coming back.
Nathan Whipple takes pictures of dogs at night. The premise of “Doggies At Night” is simple enough: point a camera in the dark and catch whatever expression lands. It’s always confused, always stupid.
In daylight, dogs have a kind of performance running. They’re alert, or at least they’re busy enough to seem intentional. But in the dark, in a flash, you just get the animal — blank and unrehearsed, the face they wear when they’ve forgotten why they’re in the room. Whipple documents that face over and over.
There’s something honest about it. Photography with no flattery. The dog doesn’t come across as cute or clever, just dumb and caught off-guard. For some reason, that simplicity works. The whole thing is pointless in the best way — no statement, no concept, just a record of dogs being themselves, which apparently means not thinking about anything.
I found Charisma.com—MC Itsuka and DJ Gonchi—through club videos out of Tokyo, and there’s something immediately sharp about what they’re making. Not trying to be difficult, just genuinely uninterested in the J-Pop formula: the automatic cuteness, the same words recycled, the whole safe machinery.
Their tracks are called “George” and “Hate.” Their album “DIStopping” got real attention in Japan. There’s a video with Tempura Kidz that’s half-80s TV nostalgia, half-apocalypse, and it’s clear they understand what they’re responding to—even if most people are just there to move.
What gets me is how little they care about being likeable. MC Itsuka and DJ Gonchi show up and make noise, entirely unbothered by whether anyone thinks they should be cute or commercial or fit some box. They yell at the crowd: you’re cool but you’re fools. That indifference—to being liked, to playing it safe—is its own kind of power. You feel it whether or not you speak Japanese.
If this is the direction Japanese electronic music is heading, I’m there. Better than another decade of engineered sweetness.
For months this site spiraled through every possible direction at once—serious, trashy, minimal, magazine-like, a blog, back to something else entirely. The design kept changing. The voice changed. I tried on different versions constantly and never landed on anything that felt real. Somewhere in that I lost track of what the whole point was supposed to be in the first place.
Originally it was supposed to be a place for people with taste who didn’t need to perform it. Real artists, real discoveries, real conversations. Not mainstream, but not precious about it either. Somewhere on the internet that actually mattered. A home for people who felt misunderstood by everything else.
But it became the opposite: a joyless machine designed to feed the algorithm, to chase engagement, to appeal to whoever clicks the most. I was pulling random stuff from the internet, reshaping it slightly, and pushing it out. Generic viral garbage. I’d look at what went up and not recognize myself in it anymore. I had become Nine Gag with a slightly better design.
The money thing is real. I need it. Servers cost money. Good people deserve to get paid. But somewhere I crossed from sustaining the thing into surrendering completely—just chasing whatever performed, regardless of whether I actually believed in it. I knew it while it was happening and did it anyway.
August becomes a hard stop. No posting, no constant scrambling, just sitting with the basic question: what is this supposed to be when nobody’s watching the numbers? Not performance, not growth, not potential. Just: would I be proud of this? Is this something a person I respected would want to read? If the answer is no, nothing else matters.
The only way forward is to believe in the work itself. Not the reach, not the metrics, not the future potential. Just the work. Just: is this honest? Is this real? Does this matter?
So I’m rebuilding. Not for some grand relaunch narrative or announcement. Just to make something worth making. That’s the whole thing.
You sit down and watch soldiers talk about killing people they’ve never met, and then mothers trying to explain to children why there’s no electricity and no obvious escape. Danny Gold made a documentary series for VICE News about what it looks like when the killing is happening now, between Israel and Palestine. He goes back and forth between the two sides and just lets people talk — soldiers, residents, doctors working in the dark.
There’s no narrator. Just footage and sound and people’s faces when they’re describing things no one should have to describe about their own lives. The images aren’t sanitized. Bodies. Blood. The kind of things traditional documentaries cut away from.
What gets to you isn’t the shock of it — it’s how flat people sound when they’re talking about catastrophe that’s become daily routine. A doctor explaining triage with no supplies. A soldier who looks barely old enough to be here. A woman whose home is rubble. They speak like they’re talking about anything else, because if they don’t keep some distance from what they’re saying, they’ll break. Or they’re already broken and this is what functioning looks like.
I watched the whole thing at once, which left me in a feeling I don’t have a word for. Not quite helplessness. Closer to something like complicity in the act of watching when they can’t look away. The images don’t fade.
Official fashion weeks are dead machinery—Berlin’s included. Every year they strain to match Paris or Milan and something real gets crushed in the process. It’s all performance. Designers convincing themselves they matter, models like ghosts, the whole scene performing significance while nothing actual happens.
There’s another current in Berlin though—designers making work outside the system. Young people thinking differently, work that doesn’t need permission from the industry. That’s the actual thing worth watching.
Someone made an alternative official recently, which is funny because it loses something the moment it becomes scheduled. But the impulse is right. Someone should keep pointing at what’s real and saying: this matters, not that machinery.
I don’t know if it stays vital or just becomes another ladder people climb, another circuit like everything else eventually does. Probably the latter. But someone tried.
Polanski Magazine’s third issue came out with Mariana Braga on the cover, shot by Alessandro Casagrande. What stopped me was how completely he saw her—not just in technical skill, though the light and framing are flawless, but in the way she looks when a photographer actually understands them. There’s a gap between someone who can point a camera and someone who can really look. Casagrande is in the second camp. The magazine sold out immediately, which made sense. The images are still online, and I kept returning to them, trying to understand his thinking. That’s what good work does—you come back not because it’s showy, but because you want to know how it got made.
Every July, Wacken Open Air fills a field in Schleswig-Holstein with thousands of people who know exactly why they’re there: Slayer, Motörhead, volume that probably breaks some kind of law. The festival doesn’t apologize for itself. It’s just mud, sound, and thousands of metalheads completely clear about what they came for.
Knorkator’s on the bill too—German metal that sounds like a cartoon villain learned to shred—and that specificity is the whole point. Wacken isn’t trying to be something for everyone. It’s just the place where metalheads go, which is its own kind of integrity. No discovery angle, no wellness narrative, no one performing. Everyone’s there for the same reason, completely honest about it.
Most festivals now are trying to be everything to everyone, which means nothing’s really for anyone. Wacken’s the opposite. It knows exactly what it is and doesn’t care if you get it. There’s something beautiful about that kind of focus, even just thinking about it from a distance. The German specificity of metal culture in the middle of pastoral countryside. The absolute refusal to soften anything. That matters.
Micaela Schäfer’s got something figured out that most people never do: she knows what people actually want, and she just delivers it without hesitation or apology.
Not what people claim to want in their better moments—what they actually want. She gives them scandal, nudity, fearlessness, the willingness to be famous for exactly what she is. And it works. The whole country knows her name.
My intellectual friends would never admit to this, but they’d understand it. They’re the type who write angry letters about television and cultural standards, who insist they only watch serious things. But VISIT-X Taxi—this format that runs on an adult channel and uses a quiz show structure as thin cover for its real appeal—exists because millions of people want to watch someone like Schäfer completely naked in scenarios designed for humiliation or arousal or both. The network knows what they’re selling. The audience knows what they’re buying. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
There’s something almost refreshing about that honesty, compared to entertainment that pretends to be something else. No hidden messages, no artistic intent, no claim that this is pushing boundaries or expanding consciousness. Just a straightforward exchange: she takes her clothes off, people watch, everyone gets what they wanted.
Maybe that’s what we need sometimes. Not every night filled with difficult things, serious things. Sometimes you just want the shameless version, the thing everyone’s thinking about but pretending not to. Sometimes you want to watch someone who’s decided not to pretend.
I don’t know if that makes her smart or if the whole thing’s just stupid. Maybe it’s both. But she’s winning the game, and that’s worth paying attention to.
Basement Jaxx brought ’Never Say Never’ back, and it’s exactly what they do best—that propulsive, restless sound that moves through you before you notice it’s there. Built to repeat, to nest in clubs and cars until it’s just the sound of summer.
The video is the strange part. It’s a future where people have forgotten how to move, and these twerking robots are the only ones who remember how. They’re the guardians of something we lost. There’s something bleak about that, which maybe is the point. But the song doesn’t linger on it. It’s too catchy, too perfectly made to waste energy thinking about the premise.
The Closed afterparty was at the Monkey Bar in the 25hours Hotel, which was as close as I ever got to the actual Fashion Week. Haute Couture and I don’t speak the same language, so I’d skipped the runways and gone straight for the free drinks. It seemed simpler that way.
Leni, Meltem, Anna, Lauri, and Sabrina were already there. We knew some people from the Adidas and Reebok teams, but after the first round, all of that stopped mattering. The conversations took over—the kind that only happen when a crowd has sorted itself and nobody’s performing anymore. The real Fashion Week, the runways and the models and the whole machine, was somewhere else in Berlin. We weren’t missing it.
You could do Fashion Week like this every year and be satisfied. Good people, cold drinks, halloumi wraps if you’re lucky. I live in Berlin anyway, so there’s no dramatic goodbye—everyone leaves, everyone comes back. That’s the cycle. The parties are better when the city fills up with people again, even if you’re only there because the drinks are free and it beats staying home.
Sion Sono’s adapting Tokyo Tribe2, a manga that ran for nine years in street-culture magazine Boon before it folded in 2008. The plot: a bomb in Shibuya, gangs carving up the city, Wu-RONZ working through the opposition, Kai Deguchi stuck between his captain’s pacifism and the mounting body count.
Sono made Suicide Club and Love Exposure. He’s the kind of director who follows an idea past taste, past sense. The Tokyo Tribe trailer shows him doing the same thing here—neon, camp, obvious pleasure in treating the premise as material to play with rather than a text to honor. He doesn’t care about being faithful.
Which might be the only reason to watch it. A straightforward gang-war film would be forgettable. Sono soaking everything in trash and excess might find something real in the premise. Or it might just be noise.
Rather watch him fail at something weird than win at something safe.
Three young women in Kabul want what anyone wants—to study, play music, have a future. Watching the documentary about them, the first thing that hits you is how much they smile. Sadaf, Sahar, and Nargis are driving through the city, practicing drums, attending protests, and they’re constantly grinning. The camera doesn’t flinch from what’s happening around them—bombs, harassment, women disappearing—it just holds both at the same time. The laughter and the darkness, coexisting.
They’re not symbols or abstractions. Sahar studies, Nargis plays drums, Sadaf does her own thing. They get harassed constantly for the basic crime of being visible young women with opinions. They show up to feminist protests and hand out flyers about violence against women. In Kabul, this is genuinely dangerous work, and the film treats it that way—not as inspiration, just as fact.
What strikes me watching is how little they seem to be performing for the camera. They’re not building some noble narrative of resistance. They’re just refusing to stop being young, to stop taking up space, to stop making noise. And the documentary gets this: what they’re doing isn’t triumphant or tragic. It’s just what it looks like to choose yourself when that choice costs everything.
The film doesn’t resolve anything. It ends with them still there, still driving, still refusing, the problems still waiting. You finish watching and the weight doesn’t leave you. The way it shouldn’t.
On hot days when you’re stuck at a desk and the sun’s doing that thing where it burns straight through the window, you start thinking about stupid comfort solutions. A fan that barely helps. A cold drink with ice that melts in six minutes. Anything to make sitting still feel less like punishment.
I found out about this Korean foot hammock thing called Fuut—costs about 25 bucks—and honestly it’s the kind of small, dumb product that actually works. You clip it under your desk and your feet just hang there. No pressure on your legs, no weird circulation thing happening. The absurdity of dangling your feet while you work shouldn’t be this relaxing but it is.
There’s something about not having your feet planted on the ground all day. You fidget less, or maybe you just fidget differently. Your legs don’t fall asleep. It’s not going to change your life or fix anything serious, but on a day when you’re already feeling sticky and irritable, getting your feet off the ground feels like a small victory.
The black rectangles in South Park where the swastikas used to be — that always bothered me. We censored the symbol so hard that we basically handed ownership of it to the Nazis permanently. That’s not how you fight them.
The swastika means peace in Hinduism, Buddhism, and other traditions going back thousands of years. Eternity. Endless peace. And then the Nazis grabbed it, and we’ve been so afraid of it ever since that we let them keep it completely. In Germany especially, you can’t show it. Hindu people can’t use their own religion’s symbol openly. We erased it to reject what it became, and instead we just accepted that the Nazis get to own it forever.
The argument for reclaiming it makes sense to me. If we actually let the symbol mean what it meant before and what it still means to Hindus and Buddhists now, then it stops belonging to fascists. They lose it. The poisoning doesn’t go away, but it becomes one chapter in a longer history instead of the whole story. The symbol gets bigger than what they did with it.
Maybe that’s naive. Maybe symbols don’t work like that. But the alternative — just letting them have it forever, erasing it from culture to prove we’re against them — feels like accepting defeat. We’re so afraid of the symbol that we’ve given it complete power. We’re reinforcing their claim on it by refusing to use it any other way.
I think I’d rather take it back. Make it mean what it’s supposed to mean again. Let it be bigger than the worst people who ever used it.
I don’t know how to explain Lykke Li to people who don’t get it. There’s no argument that works. You either find her hypnotic or you don’t, and if you do, there’s only one way forward.
Her first album, “Youth Novels,” she actually hates. But it’s perfect. She hates it and it’s perfect at the same time. There’s a kind of work that exists on a scale where normal judgment stops applying. She made something unreachable and then moved on, which somehow makes it hit harder.
“Gunshot” is the new one. It’s big—the kind of ballad that demands everything. You turn it up, you sing it into your chest, you can’t listen passively. You’re committed from the first second. The most overwhelming thing she’s done in years.
When you find an artist whose work just clicks like that, you wait for whatever comes next. Not out of hope or expectation—there’s no contract. Just because they’re the real thing, and that’s enough.
I’ve got an iPhone in my hand. I’m not thinking about who built it. I’m texting someone, scrolling through something, taking a picture of myself. The people who assembled this thing are somewhere in Zhengzhou in a place called Apple City, and they’re not in my head. Maybe I’ve heard about suicides and packed dormitories once or twice, but those are the kinds of things you hear and then move past. The newer model is faster anyway.
French photographer Gilles Sabriés actually went there. He embedded himself in the Foxconn complex—the one people call Apple City—where thousands of young workers manufacture the devices we carry like they’re part of our body. What he documented in “After Hours Life At Apple City” is the world that exists when the work stops.
What he captured: people. They fall in love despite the gender segregation enforced on site. They go to a nightclub built specifically for them, hidden from the world. They sit together eating on construction sites and filthy streets. These aren’t statistics or abstractions—they’re actual humans living in a place most of us will never see and actively try not to think about.
What’s strange is how visible Sabriés made them, and how invisible they still are. The evidence is right there. You look at it, you feel something, and then you don’t. You go back to texting. The phone is still the phone. I’m still holding it.
I’ve always had this thing where I wreck myself. Other people chase happiness—money, love, freedom—and sometimes they find it. Me, I seem built for destruction. Give me two paths and I’ll take the one that burns everything down.
My mind goes somewhere beyond right and wrong. I drown myself in false pride and priorities that don’t make sense, grievances I’ve completely invented. Everything narrows to me, to what I’m owed, who owes me obedience. Anyone who refuses gets hurt in ways they’ve never imagined. I wind myself tighter and tighter.
Within minutes I’ve become a live wire. The person who got close enough to notice—and they’re always good, always trying—becomes the target. I can’t handle that kind of goodness because I’m broken in a way that only sees the bad. When there’s nothing bad to find, I get restless and make it up. Then I become this thing: spitting, wild, no boundaries, no mercy, no sense.
I distort facts and cling to ideas that crumble the moment I speak them. Then I start swinging. Everything vicious and dishonest I can throw. The voice inside telling me I’m insane, the one I can almost hear—I drown it. I’m god and you don’t get a say.
One moment of clarity could stop it. Just shut up. Just nod. Just break. But every word reads as a challenge and I can’t quit. I’m burning, fever-pitch, now I’m ugly about it. Now I just want to wound.
I fire off lies dressed as truth, each one forged in whatever twisted logic is running my brain. Trying to put myself at the center of everything when I’m background noise at best. I don’t think about consequences, the future, the bridges I’m burning. The voice that tried to save me—I’ve killed it. Out of me comes lightning, pure chaos. The person in front of me, the one who actually wanted what’s best, is holding my arm with wet eyes and I pull away. I say something worse. Everything goes black and quiet.
I come out of it on a wasteland. Empty, destroyed. The victory of choosing wrong again—it’s a frozen place where I’m just alone. The demons are gone. Now there’s only regret, and regret doesn’t fix anything. Nobody comes back from what I’ve done. So I get up, dust myself off, and keep moving with one hope: that next time I’ll make the choice that doesn’t turn me into this version of myself. That I’ll actually know how to want what I have.
Three in the morning, beaten down by something unspecific and everything at once, and Natasha Khan is singing to you like she understands. She does. New track called “Skin Song” and it’s exactly where you’re already lying.
Khan talks quietly about the small ruins of getting older. Scars and wrinkles. Memories turning to dust. Feeling youth slip past while you were busy bleeding and healing. “The skin I live in is paper-thin,” she sings, and that’s the whole thing right there. It’s not about how you look. It’s about carrying every wound you’ve survived on the outside, visible and permanent.
Her voice never tries to turn it into something else — some hard-won wisdom, some proof of strength. She just sings it straight. The pain was real. You healed. You’re marked by it forever. And somehow that honesty is the only thing that helps.
Terry Richardson was getting demolished with sexual misconduct accusations from all over the place, but nothing stuck legally, so he just kept shooting. Scandal didn’t slow him down.
He photographed Jessie Andrews. She’d become the biggest porn star in America at that point, basically replacing Sasha Grey. If you knew the internet at all, you knew who she was.
There’s something strange about seeing someone from that world end up in mainstream photo portfolios. Like they’re crossing between two completely different scenes. Richardson and Andrews together—he’s carrying all the scandal and creepiness, she’s got all the notoriety from being the most visible person in an industry that’s basically built on garbage and celebrity. They shot together.
I’ve never understood Richardson’s photographs. Something uncomfortable in all of them.
There’s a moment in “We Go Forward” where you realize the game isn’t going to let you undo anything. You move forward through these little scenes—stages of life, choices, moments—and once you pass them, they’re gone. No going back to save someone, to say something different, to choose differently. The whole thing’s dressed up like a playful comic in video game form, but that’s the real weight of it.
The game walks you through the small and large hurdles everyone hits. Loss is baked in. You lose people, you lose versions of yourself, you lose time. Effort, memory, time—and then it’s just forward again. Always forward. No matter how much it costs.
I’ve been making things for twenty years and I still catch myself trying to revisit decisions, second-guess calls, go back and fix something I can’t actually touch anymore. That’s not how it works. The game knows that. It’s gentle about it, which almost makes it worse.
What stays with me is how matter-of-fact it all is. Not maudlin, not trying to make you cry. Just: here’s what happens. Here’s what it feels like when you can only move ahead. The small and big hurdles aren’t obstacles to overcome—they’re the path itself. They’re what it means to be alive.
I don’t know if that makes it beautiful or just true. Maybe those are the same thing.
Rokudenashiko built a kayak shaped like her own vagina. That kind of project makes a certain sense—you recognize the person, the headspace, the refusal to make apologies for it. Her real name is Megumi Igarashi, she’s in her early forties, and she ended up arrested for uploading a 3D model online.
The file was free to download. Anyone with a 3D printer could make one. In Japan, that’s illegal—you cannot distribute uncensored genitals online, not even as a file, not even when it’s your own body. The government treated it as a serious crime.
This is the contradiction that gets you. Japan has massive public festivals celebrating genitals. The porn industry operates in genuinely deranged territory—tentacle fetish material that would make most countries’ regulators lose their minds. And yet you get arrested for a 3D model of your own vagina.
What stuck with me was what they didn’t criminalize. Photobooks of semi-naked elementary school children—still legal. Still being made and sold. The government drew a very specific line, and it has nothing to do with protecting what matters.
Sometimes what a country chooses to criminalize tells you everything. Japan made its choice.
I went to a Fashion Week event in Berlin where adidas showed off an app for designing your own ZX Flux sneakers. The concept is simple: upload a photo, mess with the colors, order the shoe. Around 120 euros for the finished product.
Pharrell was there with his hat and what looked like genuine disinterest. He was somehow the most honest person at the event. Everyone else was performing.
The app actually works. I fed it a photo and it remapped the colors across the shoe. I deliberately gave it something ugly and it handled it fine. No design experience needed.
The actual sneaker doesn’t matter much to me. What’s intriguing is the access. You could make something completely your own without knowing anything about design, and that gap—between total creative control and total incompetence—is what makes customization tools worth thinking about. The shoe is just the vehicle.
I watched the later seasons of Doctor Who almost entirely because of Amy Pond, which really means because of Karen Gillan. Not because of the character—because of what she was doing in it. She had this red hair, sharp angles, this Scottish edge, and she made the whole production feel less like it was running on fumes. I was completely into it.
The thing is, I wasn’t really thinking about her as a full person with a career outside the show. She’d done other stuff, sure, but I was locked into the Pond thing. That’s how it works when you watch something enough times. The actor becomes the role. Everything outside that frame just stops existing for you.
Then Esquire had her in a shoot and some interview, around 26 or so. She’d kept working, gotten older, done the normal thing. There was a joke in the piece—something about a woman and a bar—that I completely didn’t understand. Read it twice and felt like I was missing something obvious, or maybe she was, or maybe it just doesn’t land the same way on the page.
But that was the whole thing. She was there, talking about other things, other work. Not Amy Pond. Just Karen Gillan, a Scottish actress who’d had a whole career that had nothing to do with me or my attachment to a character she’d played years before.
It’s weird how that works. You watch something enough and it becomes this locked-down version of someone, and then they just keep living and you’re still stuck in the frame.
I found Namakopuri scrolling through whatever algorithmic abyss I’d fallen into that week. Two artists—Mako Principal and Namacolove—making something that manages to feel weirder than the usual Japanese pop insanity, which is genuinely impressive given that Kyary Pamyu Pamyu and Babymetal already exist.
Mako’s got a degree from Tokyo University of the Arts and works as a cosplay model. Namacolove makes strange YouTube videos and covers old t.A.T.u. songs. On paper they sound like they could be into completely different things, but they somehow ended up collaborating with this hip-hop crew called Hel Climb on “Hell Ward 24 Hours”—a track that sounds like maximalist Japanese pop got thrown into a blender with fever dream logic.
The song doesn’t stick because it’s good. It sticks because it’s genuinely uncomfortable in a way that feels deliberate. I can sense the intentionality underneath the chaos. Japanese pop’s always been this collision of maximalism and experimental impulse, but Namakopuri pushed into a zone where I’m not even sure if I like it or if it’s just doing something permanent to my brain.
“HEL HEL HEL the party,” they keep saying. Sure. That works.
Winter in Germany is a held breath. Months of gray, wet nothing while you tell yourself it’s temporary, it’s building toward something. You survive on the idea of summer. Then April comes and the festivals announce their lineups and suddenly the waiting gets specific.
Splash, Wacken, Deichbrand, Hurricane — these aren’t interchangeable experiences. They’re regional institutions with their own character. Wacken is for the metal crowd, genuinely committed to the thing. Splash draws a younger, weirder mix. Deichbrand feels chaotic in the best way. Southside is massive and still maintains something real beneath it. Each one has its own festival culture, its own tradition.
I went to Deichbrand once during one of those rainstorms where the field becomes basically unusable mud. Everything is ruined. Your shoes are gone. The bands are still playing and everyone’s just trying to keep moving, seeing what they drove for. That’s the calculation you make at festivals — some amount of physical discomfort is always acceptable for the right moment. You know it won’t fix anything and you go anyway.
The festival circuit is where German music culture actually lives. Not in the clubs or proper concert halls but in temporary field cities where the usual rules don’t apply. You drive through the night with people you half-know. You camp badly. You see bands you’ve been waiting for and also stumble into stages you didn’t plan on. It’s inefficient and chaotic and that’s exactly why it works.
By May if you’re into it you’re already figuring out which festivals you can actually make, which weekends you can afford to disappear, how far you’re willing to drive. You’re looking at lineups not as a checklist but as a rough guide — the actual magic is what you find between the scheduled things. You’re already thinking about logistics, already committing to something that will be exhausting and worth it.
There’s something about the German festival season that feels like the real counterpoint to the rest of the year. Orderly society shuts down for a few months and gets replaced by these temporary anarchies with their own economies and social rules. You belong there in a way that’s hard to explain to people who don’t go.
By the time June hits, if you’re going to do this, you’re already there in your head. The season has already started.
For a few years now, Francesca Jane Allen has been photographing girls she knows. Friends in London, colleagues, people around her—the series “Girls! Girls! Girls!” mixes documentation with portraiture, her own youth reflected in theirs. The work keeps shifting because she keeps shifting.
What you notice about the photographs is how they refuse any imposed meaning. No grand statement, no message. Just the specificity of a face, a body, someone on a particular day—that focused looking that makes the ordinary visible.
The images have appeared in design magazines and culture publications, but they don’t feel made for that. They feel like something she needed to do, something she’s still thinking about because it matters to her, because it keeps changing. There’s a difference between finishing a project and living inside one that continues to demand something from you.
That summer Germany’s football team couldn’t lose. Every match felt predetermined, like watching something that was supposed to happen finally happen. The whole country had permission to care without irony. It was strange.
My friend organized a watch party. Nothing elaborate—just burgers, cheap cider, people drifting in and out of a space that got hot and loud by halftime. Someone had hung a bunch of Adiletten from the tree out back like some kind of fever dream decoration. Stupid detail, but it worked. It told you everything about the mood: nobody was pretending this was serious, but everyone wanted to be there anyway.
Leni showed up actually knowing how to play football, which made the rest of us look like we’d never held one. She spent half the match demonstrating why with a ball at her feet. The weather couldn’t decide—rain, then sun, then rain again. I remember the sky more than the score.
By the time the match ended with Germany cruising to another victory, I was thinking about that phrase people use for moments like this. Culture. Presence. Time and place. Not in some precious literary way—just the simple fact that a room full of us were experiencing the same small electric thing at the same moment. Eating badly, drinking worse, nobody caring because the football was doing what it was supposed to do. Those nights don’t come that often. When they do, you notice.
I found this thing a Japanese beauty magazine shared—a way to paint your breasts to look bigger. Three shades, some blending, practice. That’s it. The simplicity made me laugh out loud. While people are booking surgeries, going under the knife with silicone that expires, this magazine figured out you can just paint them instead.
There’s something darkly efficient about it. Not the hack—that’s actually clever. But what it reveals about why the hack needs to exist at all. Women wake up with body anxiety they feel pressured to solve, and surgery seems like the obvious next step. Then here’s this magazine saying: wait, before you cut yourself open, just try makeup. Contouring for your ribcage.
The technique works because of how light and shadow play on skin, same as makeup anywhere else. It’s smart design. Highlights on top, shadows on the sides, dimension where there wasn’t any. I get why someone would want to look that way, why you’d spend twenty minutes getting it right. Beauty standards are real. But the whole thing’s absurd—the pressure, the solutions, the escalation from paint to surgery.
What I liked was the practicality. Not a lecture about self-love or body acceptance. Just: here’s how. Here’s the technique. Go. That’s the vibe from a lot of Japanese design work—no ideology, just the thing that actually works.
The obvious joke is it only works if nobody touches you. Which defeats the point, doesn’t it. But that might be exactly the point. It’s a look. Performance art dressed up as beauty advice. You’re not trying to fool anybody; you’re trying to feel a certain way when you catch your reflection.
There’s a high school girl from Fulda named Marilena who does that folk-music-variety-show thing — Musikantenstadl — and her new single is called “Hey DJ leg a Polka auf.” Play a Polka, DJ. The contrast is the joke: here’s someone from the most traditional, wholesome corner of German music entertainment asking a club DJ to abandon techno for polka.
But here’s the thing. Hours of the same four-on-the-floor beat does get monotonous. It’s hypnotic until it isn’t, and then it’s just relentless. I get club culture, the appeal of surrender to a single repeated pattern, but there’s definitely a point where you hit a wall and think: okay, what if this changed. What if there was a melody. What if something had an ending.
Marilena probably made the song just to be funny, existing as she does in a completely different musical universe. But she’s also saying out loud the thing people in clubs sometimes feel but don’t say, because admitting you’re tired of the beat feels like admitting the whole thing isn’t for you. It’s a small permission to think: yeah, this is good, but it’s also kind of relentless.
I’ve never actually heard the track. Don’t know if it’s good or just novelty. But I like that she made it anyway — that she exists far enough outside club culture to not care what the correct opinion is supposed to be.
Someone gets caught with crystal meth—a politician, a celebrity, someone who’s supposed to know better—and suddenly it seems less apocalyptic. If a person like that is using it, maybe it’s manageable. Maybe there’s some version of it that doesn’t destroy you, some way to use it that keeps you functional. People want to believe there’s a formula, a way to do dangerous things safely.
Crystal meth doesn’t work that way.
It turns you into a zombie, and I don’t mean that metaphorically. Your teeth turn gray and break apart. Your skin gets pale and covered in open sores from picking at phantom bugs. You don’t sleep—not for days, sometimes weeks. Your brain just won’t stop firing. You become convinced there are insects crawling under your skin and you scratch and pick until you’re bleeding. Work disappears, relationships disappear, your apartment becomes just a place to use. Everything collapses into getting the next hit.
And you watch it happening the whole time. You understand that you’re destroying yourself and you can’t stop.
That’s what it does. Not to some people. To everyone. Smart people, dumb people, people with money and connections, people with nothing. The drug doesn’t make exceptions.
Little kids are hilarious. Unless you’re stuck next to one on a plane screaming for nine hours straight because they don’t understand what’s happening. Most of them are too stupid to walk, too stupid to eat without making a mess — and definitely too stupid to write.
But there’s something about that incompetence that’s perfect. The stuff kids actually write is gold. Not because the kids are talented, but because they’ve failed in the most specific way possible. They’re reaching for a word, they have the shape of it somewhere in their head, and what comes out is better than the thing they meant. Like “My dad is the best cock ever.” You know what they were trying to say. They just haven’t learned which word yet, and somehow the mistake is truer than the truth would be.
There’s a video from treats! Magazine where Emily Ratajkowski is wearing a white wig and decided that clothes weren’t necessary, which I guess is what happens when you’ve accepted that you’re the kind of attractive that exists outside normal rules. The wig is what gets you though. Not the obvious part.
Most videos like this are built on a joke or a concept. This one just seems to exist. She’s there, in the white wig, in basically nothing, moving through the frame like it’s the most normal thing. That kind of ease is what sells it more than the actual nudity. Anyone can take their clothes off. Looking like that while doing it, without performing about it, is rarer.
I don’t have strong thoughts beyond that. It works. Sometimes the simplest content — someone looking good in the right light, in the right wig, comfortable in their own skin — doesn’t need to be anything more than that. The white wig is funny and weird and that’s enough.
I saw a website that mapped the Syrian civil war onto Germany to make it feel real. If Syria’s destruction became Germany’s: Leverkusen would be empty. Berlin would be a ghost city. Munich, Frankfurt, all hollow. Eight and a half million people on the road.
The numbers have been available for years — Assad, the collapse, the whole machinery of it grinding away. But statistics stay abstract. Numbers don’t land. This visualization forces it: your own city in ruins, streets you actually know as rubble. It’s manipulative, sure, but it works. You feel something seeing Berlin burn in your head that you don’t feel reading casualty figures from Damascus.
The site runs the same comparison for the US, Britain, Japan — everywhere the point is the same. Make it proximate. Make it click. And that’s really all it is, just a tool that works the way humans actually work, not the way we wish we worked. We care about what’s close. What’s distant stays distant unless someone forces a mirror on you. The visualization doesn’t change anything about Syria. It just changes what you feel, and only then because it’s not Syria anymore — it’s home.
The new Sailor Moon transformation dropped last month. I watched it three times. The animation is immediately better than the original—smoother, more confident, with cleaner lines in the costume design itself. It’s the kind of thing that catches you off guard because you don’t expect a transformation sequence to matter that much, but here it does.
I grew up with this show in a dozen different forms, and the transformation was always the ritual moment, the thing that felt magical even on a small screen with janky animation. The new version doesn’t try to recreate that feeling. It respects the iconic elements but commits fully to what animation can do now. The colors are richer, the movement is genuine. When Usagi calls up the transformation, you believe in it.
I don’t know if the rest of the season holds this standard or if this was just the main draw for the promotional push. But it’s the kind of sequence that makes you feel like someone actually cared about getting it right.
Plants can hear when they’re being eaten. University of Missouri researchers played the sound of chewing to plants and watched them panic—defensive chemicals flooding their system, basically a silent scream. The plants heard the danger and completely lost it.
Which means plants are dying with awareness. If I’m vegan or vegetarian because I don’t want to kill anything, I’m still a murderer—just of something that can’t run away or beg or look like it’s suffering.
The logic is stupid but it’s kind of perfect. I draw my line based on what makes me uncomfortable. Lettuce is fine. Cows aren’t. Fish is a maybe. Plants are definitely okay because they don’t look like they’re dying. But it’s all violence, all compromise. I’m just picking which deaths I can live with. Give it a few years and there’ll be something else to feel guilty about, and everyone will just move on to whatever the next clean diet is.
Caught Yoko Ono at Glastonbury and tried to figure out what everyone else was hearing. Her voice sounds like a dying animal—squeaking halloumi getting flattened by a tire, a bagpipe on fire. She was singing “Don’t Worry, Kyoko” and thousands of people were just standing there. Some of them loved this, apparently. I kept wondering what John Lennon heard in that voice. I couldn’t find it. Just the wrongness.
My Tamagotchi lasted 21 days before it died or flew back to its home planet. I don’t remember which—it was 1997, I was too young to care about the difference. Those little pixel creatures were everywhere that year, piping and beeping during class until every teacher in the building lost their mind. Feed them, play with them, clean them up—it was constant, and I was into it.
Now, over 20 years later, they’re coming back. The new Tamagotchi 4u costs around 60 euros and comes in pink, white, blue, and purple. You can sync them with other devices, hook them to your phone, or visit special stations to buy them food, toys, and outfits. Fully networked now. Which is weird because the whole appeal before was that they were so simple, so deliberately useless.
I don’t know when they’ll show up here, or if I’ll get one. There’s always something strange about rediscovering something you loved as a kid. You know it won’t hit the same way. What felt urgent at nine just looks quaint now. But a toy that won’t let you forget about it, that keeps piping no matter what you’re doing—there’s something honest in that design. I’m curious what it would feel like to keep one alive this time. Maybe I’d make it past 21 days.
Had “Marijuana” by Kitty on repeat this morning. New York groove, entirely unbothered—just a track that sits there making everything feel easier. No hooks, no announcement, nothing trying to grab you. It’s a song that knows what it is and doesn’t care if you’re listening.
While the rest of the world was caught up in World Cup matches or whatever else was supposed to matter that week, this thing just existed. Unimpressed, simple, asking for nothing. No agenda, no angle. The kind of track that makes you forget you were supposed to be somewhere else.
You know these songs. They don’t make you feel bad. They don’t promise anything. They just let you sit for a few minutes without the noise. Play it twice and nothing goes wrong. That’s all it needs to be.
This is the kind of thing that makes you understand why people want summer to never end. Not because of what it offers, but because of what it refuses to do—it doesn’t try. It’s just there, easy and unearned.
I had no idea who Bianca Balti was. Still don’t, except that Playboy put her on the cover of the July/August issue, shot by Greg Lotus in Malibu. That’s all I need to know.
For years Playboy seemed committed to proving nobody looked at it for the photography anymore. Aging actresses, cosmetic surgery disasters, an entire magazine full of people who’d clearly given up on the idea of being attractive. Then suddenly they remember what they actually do well: putting someone beautiful in front of a camera and getting out of the way.
If you want to breathe normally, stay away from these pictures. She’s the kind of person where the lens stops trying and just tells the truth.
I love a real storm - not the idea of one, but an actual storm where you position yourself by a window with something warm and just watch the sky do its worst. Trees bowing, rain coming sideways, the full dramatic thing. You know it won’t fix anything, but you sit with it anyway.
They don’t happen often enough. Few times a year, if you live somewhere that gets decent weather.
A designer named Richard Clarkson - based in New York and New Zealand - made a lamp that simulates all of that. A glass cloud filled with actual lightning, flashing on and off, no rain, no sound. You’d sit under it in the dark with a blanket and something hot, and you’d get the feeling without any of the fallout. Just the light and weight of it. The storm, except safe.
The thing is, you want to feel wild, but you want complete control over it. The chaos only when you decide to. When it’s convenient. A storm that ends when you need it to.
I don’t know if I’d buy one. But I get it completely.
The premiere was in Tokyo on Usagi’s birthday, which felt like the kind of detail the Sailor Moon franchise would architect. Someone recorded it despite the warnings, and the new opening plus transformation sequence were already scattered across image boards and forums by the time the official embargo lifted. That’s when it actually mattered, not the scheduled July 5th launch.
I grew up on the Cartoon Network dub, so the idea of a new Sailor Moon felt disorienting. The show had already crystallized into pure nostalgia — one of those childhood things you assume will never be revisited. Crystal was supposed to follow the manga more closely, with tighter line work, fewer of the cheap shortcuts the original relied on. Whether that was an upgrade or just different, I couldn’t say.
No German translation had been announced, which meant the familiar wait. Localization was never guaranteed, especially not at launch. For months or longer, the show only existed in its original language, or you hunted pirate subtitles. There was an odd appeal to the leaked footage being available right now, grainy and bootleg, rather than locked behind some distant release date.
Sailor Moon had always been different — a show made for young girls that actually cared about what adolescence felt like. Most anime just borrowed the aesthetics. I wasn’t confident the reboot would preserve that under a prettier visual style.
The leak was, in a way, the perfect entry point. This was how you discovered things now — underground, friend to friend, scattered through message boards in degraded quality. The premiere happened thousands of miles away, but by morning it existed everywhere. That felt truer than any official date ever would.
“Yo” was an app that only let you send the word “Yo,” and somehow that became a thing people wanted. Then Hodor showed up doing the exact same thing with a Game of Thrones reference, and I watched the entire trend lifecycle collapse in about a week. The joke dies the moment someone imitates it. That’s how fast things move now — stupid idea becomes funny becomes joke becomes dead becomes replaced by something identical with a different name. Nobody remembers why any of it mattered.
Becky G made “Shower” happen and somehow it stuck around. It’s nothing complicated—just a catchy hook, shower metaphors that don’t mean anything, la-di-da vocals that get lodged in your brain for weeks. For a minute there it was in genuine competition with “Call Me Maybe” and “Friday” for most obnoxious earworm of the summer. G’s got this distinctive thing going on—the voice, the look—that makes her read differently than the usual plastic pop stars, and the song doesn’t try smoothing that out. It’s minimal, it’s dumb, and it works better than it has any right to.
Some gossip site was passing around a story about Selena Gomez supposedly planning surgery, the implication being that she wanted to be more attractive for a guy. I don’t even know if it’s true—none of us do—but that’s not really the point. The point is how instantly believable it is that a young woman would hate her own body badly enough to go under the knife, and how perfectly that fits the narrative we’ve all been sold about what women are supposed to look like and what they’ll do to keep a man’s attention.
I’ve never understood the energy people spend on celebrity bodies. But then I read something like this and I get why it matters, even though it’s stupid to care. Because the message isn’t really about Selena. It’s about every person who’s ever looked in the mirror and thought they were wrong somehow, not enough, not the right shape. The fact that it gets packaged as gossip, as entertainment, as something to speculate about over coffee—that’s the real problem.
What bugs me is how casual it all is. The assumption that you’d restructure your body for someone who doesn’t deserve the thought. That your worth is tied to someone else’s desire, and that desire is fixed, measurable, improvable. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway. You read the gossip. You form an opinion. You feel a little bad about yourself without quite admitting it.
I don’t know what Selena Gomez actually did or didn’t do with her body. I don’t think I should. But I know the culture that would make it seem reasonable, even sympathetic, that she’d want to. That’s the part that sits with me wrong.
Finding dead animals as a kid left marks. I’d discover one by the road or in the grass at my grandmother’s house—a bird, a rabbit, sometimes a cat—and I’d just stand there. They’d look almost fine, just still, and something in me would break. I’d think about whoever owned it, or whoever it knew, and I’d start crying.
Maria Ionova-Gribina, a Russian photographer, seems to understand that same feeling. When she finds these small dead animals, she builds them graves. Not austere ones. She surrounds them with flowers and berries and grass stems, all this color and care, the kind of attention you’d give something that mattered. Then she takes a picture.
What gets to you is the deliberateness. The time spent on something so small and unmourned. It’s not trying to be profound or beautiful. It’s just someone saying, here’s a small death, and I’m going to remember it anyway.
Maybe that’s why these images stay with me. They look at those small deaths the way I looked at them as a kid—with actual attention, actual sadness. They say it mattered.
Someone’s luggage at the airport catches my eye. A Japanese company called OMISE PARCO makes these sushi-shaped covers—tamago, salmon, shrimp—and they cut through the monotony of identical black bags. Strange choice. Sushi as luggage.
The appeal is straightforward. They’re funny, they solve the identical-luggage problem, and they’re very Japanese in the way they’ve taken something culturally iconic and made it functional. No irony, no hidden meaning. Pure sushi on your bags.
But what actually happens is you see them and suddenly want real sushi. Your brain registers food and craves the actual thing, not the approximation they’re selling at the terminal. So OMISE PARCO has created a product that succeeds by making you want something else entirely. Which is somehow perfect.
Summer could’ve been the thing—the Spree, late-night rooftops, sun on your face in some park, Murakami or Mian Mian in your hands. Quiet, drifting, unscheduled. That summer.
Instead: drunk office workers planted in front of shitty screens, mechanics honking in circles for hours, supermarket cashiers who couldn’t tell you what the DFB stood for suddenly giving play-by-play on every foul, every dive, every corner. Night after night. Week after week. The whole city had one brain.
I’m not saying football is bad. I’m saying summer shouldn’t have to apologize for existing, and quiet was no longer something I could just have. Trying to read in a park meant someone nearby was already yelling.
By August I was probably against football. Just a little.
That summer didn’t happen. There were weeks of other people’s excitement with gaps in between.
A woman I know was genuinely worried her vulva looked abnormal. When I asked what she meant, she said she’d been comparing herself to pornography. Not even thinking of it as pornography — just as the default reference point for what vulvas are supposed to look like.
The disconnect is obvious once you say it out loud, but somehow we keep internalizing porn as the baseline. Porn is a product. The bodies are selected for specific aesthetics, often surgically adjusted. You wouldn’t judge your own body against a Photoshopped magazine cover, but that’s what’s happening here — except it’s normalized and invisible.
Women’s Health Victoria in Australia made the Labia Library. It’s a collection of photographs showing the actual diversity of vulva anatomy: different shapes, colors, hair patterns, the full spectrum of what healthy looks like.
What I like about it is that it doesn’t need to make an argument. It doesn’t tell you to embrace diversity or love yourself. It just shows you the evidence. Here’s what’s real.
I think we navigate so much of life based on images we’ve unconsciously absorbed. Magazines, porn, social media. All of it curated, none of it representative. But because it’s everywhere, it becomes invisible. It becomes normal. It becomes the baseline you compare yourself to.
A project that just shows you what normal actually is? That’s surprisingly radical.
Leni and I flew to Malta on a whim—we had one free night and Isle of MTV was happening in Floriana, and that seemed like enough reason. The lineup was standard festival stuff: Hardwell, Kiesza, Dizzee Rascal, Nicole Scherzinger. Then, late in the night, with the church behind the stage lit up white and the crowd at maximum density, Enrique Iglesias walked out. Just appeared, like he’d been backstage the whole time, waiting for the exact moment when everyone had sweated enough.
It worked. The crowd went off instantly—kids at the front, guys who clearly lived in gyms, women in their forties who’d driven in for the night. All of us suddenly pressed together in thirty-degree heat, moving as one thing. Viviana and Lilly, two English beauty bloggers I’d somehow ended up standing next to, were dancing in that uncertain way you do at festivals, not quite sure if you’re having fun or just surviving. There were these two guys next to us who danced like every beat mattered, making grand gestures at nothing, but that’s always how it is. You go to enough of these and the types stop bothering you.
Malta itself is small—a compressed island in the Mediterranean we’d somehow missed in all our traveling. We didn’t have time to hunt for the hidden beaches or the narrow streets that are probably wonderful. But what we saw was exactly right: blue water, white stone, that specific smell of salt and old streets. The kind of place that doesn’t change, which starts to feel like the point of being somewhere so old.
Whether we’ll go back is another question. Enrique Iglesias probably won’t still be touring. But Malta will be there, indifferent, exactly the same.
Three minutes. That’s what CollegeHumor asked in a video years back — can you just sit still and watch? Don’t move, don’t check your phone, nothing. Three minutes. Simple. Turns out it’s basically impossible.
The internet broke us, but not dramatically. Just functionally. We’ve all got notification machines in our pockets, trained to check them constantly, always waiting for something important to happen. It’s never important. But the possibility keeps tugging. That’s the whole game. The algorithm learned that not-knowing is more rewarding than almost anything in front of you, so now we’re all jittery and half-present everywhere.
I recognize myself in this completely. I’ll sit down to read or watch something and I feel it within seconds — that itch. Check email, scroll, see if anyone texted. Not because I actually care about any of it. Just because the pull itself is the reward. It’s the slot machine thing. You pull and sometimes there’s something, sometimes there’s nothing, but not-knowing keeps you pulling more than anything in real life.
The genius part of the video is that you know you’re going to fail. You know this before you even start. And you try anyway, because the failure is somehow the point. We’re all aware we can’t focus anymore, and we’ve made peace with it. Three minutes feels insane now.
Kyary Pamyu Pamyu makes pop music that shouldn’t work but does, backed by videos that look like someone fed a synthesizer LSD and asked it to direct a commercial. “PONPONPON,” “Fashion Monster,” “Invader Invader” — each one a new way to make you forget what you’re doing and just stare at the screen. Her latest, “Kira Kira Killer,” is more of the same: all sparkle and color and good vibes, the kind of thing that could only come out of Harajuku.
What gets me is the complete commitment. There’s no irony, no winking at the absurdity — she just goes all the way in, every time, which somehow circles back around to being genuinely catchy. The weirdness is the whole point, and that’s why it works.
Someone posted a Game of Thrones intro from the 1980s. Fake, obviously — no such thing exists — but the commitment is solid. Old cassette aesthetic, the whole package. And it works because the first thing your brain does is think: yeah, of course it was better in the 80s.
That’s the entire joke. That’s all you need. Nostalgia is so reflexive now that you don’t even have to say anything. Just put an old date next to something moderately famous and people will do the rest of the work for you. Everyone’s already nostalgic for things they never watched, times they never lived through, versions of art that never existed.
Game of Thrones is perfect for this because everyone’s already saying it was better when it hadn’t aired yet. The show became a cautionary tale so fast that the fictional 80s version — which never did anything, never disappointed anyone, never ended badly — is now somehow the real draw. You can’t ruin a show that never happened.
There’s something almost honest about how quickly we all agree to this. Someone showed me this thing and I was immediately ready to believe it, ready to believe that everything used to be better. Ready to believe that the thing I wanted to watch was made in a time before it had a chance to get worse. That’s the real joke, I think. Not the fake intro. Just how fast we all nod along.
Visions is one of the best albums of the last ten years. I’ll just say it directly. “Genesis,” “Oblivion,” those tracks lived on endless repeat. The whole record had this kind of broken elegance that made it hard to listen to anything else for a while. And almost nobody cared. It hit 67 in the UK, barely scraped the US top 100. People sleep on obvious things.
Grimes has a new song now called “Go.” Rihanna didn’t want it — passed, for whatever reason. I have no idea why. It’s got that same quality, that sense of something beautiful and fractured at the same time. Sounds off until you get what it’s doing, then you can’t unhear it.
She’s always been out of sync with what the machine wants to sell. Visions proved she didn’t need the machine to work. This new track is her saying the same thing again, which feels right.
You watch girls get smaller. Not just their bodies—everything. The magazines, the TV, the weight of it. They learn that existing means being looked at, that strength looks wrong on them, that wanting anything is ungracious.
The Always campaign with #LikeAGirl was this strange corporate intervention. A commercial where girls throw and run and fight “like a girl” but commit, without the internal flinch, without the voice saying you’re being too loud. A pad company doing consciousness-raising, which is odd and yet somehow right.
What struck me was how obviously it needed to exist. We’d gotten to the point where girls actually needed a brand to tell them it was okay to exist without shrinking. But that’s where we are. You bombard people with systemic messaging one way, you need counter-messages coming back. Sometimes those come from corporations. The strange part is—it works. Not completely, not forever. A girl feels permission, even if it reaches her through someone else’s eyes first.
One ad doesn’t undo the whole ecosystem. Thirty seconds of commercial doesn’t flip a lifetime of conditioning. But the messaging cuts both ways. Counter-messages matter. Especially when they’re cynical. Especially when they’re coming from somewhere you wouldn’t expect.
What the campaign is actually reaching for isn’t pride in being a girl. It’s the basic right to take up space. To exist without the constant apology. That’s what sticks.
Bompas & Parr just turned the Museum of Sex in New York into the room I didn’t know I needed. They call it “Funland: Pleasures & Perils of the Erotic Fairground,” but what it is is a space packed with enormous, soft, gleaming breasts in every color and texture, and you get to spend hours bouncing around it like you’re eight years old again, except the playground equipment is entirely made of tits.
These guys make art about sensation and desire without irony or apology, which is rarer than it should be. They’re not interested in critiquing anything or embedding theory into the experience. They build environments that celebrate the fact that bodies exist, pleasure is real, and why should any of that require justification? The breasts are the work. Interact with them. That’s the entire point, stated clearly and without hesitation.
There’s something genuinely generous about that kind of clarity. Most art that engages with sexuality gets tangled up in anxiety—all that second-guessing about whether you’re being too direct, not direct enough, serious enough, clear enough. Bompas & Parr skip the whole neurotic spiral. They build something that makes you feel good and implicitly give you permission to just enjoy it without parsing the meaning into something else. The meaning is the feeling itself.
Standing in a room made of desire—actually made of it, not symbolically gesturing at it—is refreshing in a way that’s hard to articulate. It’s permission. It’s clarity. It’s artists saying: here is something about your body that’s true, and we built an environment to celebrate it. No apologies. No layers. Just enormous, joyful breasts and the space to be happy in their presence.
Men walk around topless all summer and nobody panics. Nobody deletes their photos or flags them as obscene. It’s just normal. Women wear a bikini and suddenly there are rules, social media algorithms going haywire, this entire machinery designed to regulate your body and make you ashamed of it.
Someone decided to attack the absurdity directly. They made the Tata Top—a nude-colored bikini designed to look like you’re wearing nothing at all. You are, technically—covered enough to be legal, but visually saying something obvious: that a woman’s chest is just a body. The panic around it is completely invented. The product’s connected to #FreeTheNipple, the movement pointing out what should already be clear.
It’s stupid that you need a novelty bikini to illustrate this. It’s also kind of brilliant in its stupidity—the perfect distilled version of how ridiculous the whole thing is.
Chris Broad brought a book to Japan about swearing—specifically about the word fuck and how to use it. Which makes sense if you understand that Japanese culture doesn’t really allow that kind of emotional venting. Everything stays bottled, polite, restrained. There’s a social weight against it that starts early.
So he hands this book around and these kids discover something we take for granted—a word that lets you just let it out. You can see it hit them. They say fuck and something shifts. It’s permission they’ve never had, this simple release they didn’t know they were missing.
Not everything needs to be profound. Sometimes it’s just funny and kind of beautiful in a dumb way—watching someone get access to something as basic as the right curse word.
We piled into a bus one afternoon in Charlottenburg heading up toward the Ku’damm with the music loud enough that every tourist on the sidewalk turned and glared. Just a group of us, some drinks, some food, and the kind of chaotic energy that Berlin lets you indulge as long as you’re not thinking too hard about it.
I’d never particularly cared about speakers before that. They seemed like a solved problem — you plug in your device, music comes out, good enough. But there’s a real difference between sound happening in the background and sound filling the entire space, and I felt it that afternoon. It made everything sharper somehow, more vivid. Made the moment feel worth paying attention to.
The Ku’damm was full of its usual mix of people — tourists and locals doing their separate things, pretending not to notice each other. We were the interruption, the thing that didn’t fit, the afternoon noise nobody asked for. Which was exactly the point.
Berlin summers are never reliable. Half the time you’re waiting for weather that doesn’t come, watching the sky stay gray, wondering if you made a mistake living here. But then there’s an afternoon like that one, where the weather becomes irrelevant because you’re in a bus with friends being deliberately obnoxious, and somehow that’s more than enough.
A guinea pig named Booboo is currently the internet’s favorite animal, which is strange because he’s just a guinea pig. He lives with his owner Megan and two other guinea pigs named Titi and Teddy, they’re all very small and fuzzy, and for reasons I don’t fully understand, this is what the internet has decided to love right now. Somewhere between Reddit and 9Gag and Facebook, a collective decision was made that this rodent is the cutest thing to have ever lived.
This has happened before. There was Grumpy Cat, who had a stupid permanent frown and somehow became a brand. Lil Bub looked like a genetic accident and that made her beloved. Prince Chunk was just a fat pug, but being fat was apparently enough. Each one gets their moment and then fades. But a guinea pig is different—you’re not famous for having an interesting expression or being absurdly obese. You’re famous for being small.
Booboo’s main distinguishing feature is that his owner puts glasses on him sometimes, which I admit is funny. Tiny glasses on a guinea pig work because there’s no way they don’t. But that’s the whole thing. He’s two years old, he looks like every other guinea pig, and millions of people have watched him eat a carrot and felt something close to joy. Not ironic joy. Actual joy.
There’s something depressing about that, or maybe something honest. The world is mostly bad, and then you see a guinea pig in glasses and for a minute you don’t have to think about anything else. It’s not meaningful, it’s not even clever, it’s just a small thing being small. Maybe that’s enough sometimes. Maybe that has to be enough.
Kate Upton owned the girl-next-door thing for a while. Then Emily Ratajkowski showed up and that was basically it. Started with that “Blurred Lines” video—a deliberate provocation that worked exactly as intended, everyone suddenly knew who she was, and she’s been careful enough since not to waste it.
GQ got her for the new issue and I get it. There’s something about how she photographs that feels inevitable: aware of being watched, present enough to hold it but distant enough to stay in control. That’s what summer looks like now.
The thing nobody says out loud is she’s good at this. Not in some calculated corporate way. Just good at existing as something people want without disappearing into it. That’s rarer than it looks. So summer gets its face, she gets the magazine, the image works. That’s the deal and it holds.
Gay and bisexual men are banned from donating blood in Germany. Not for medical reasons. Just because of a law written decades ago that nobody bothered to fix.
Meanwhile, Germany markets itself as progressive, enlightened, a beacon of tolerance in Europe. And maybe it’s true enough in other ways. But there’s this bureaucratic exclusion that completely contradicts the image. Discrimination that’s so quiet and official that most people don’t even know it exists.
I find that gap interesting—what a place claims to be versus what it actually permits. The quiet laws that don’t fit the narrative. Blood is needed constantly, people die without it, but there’s an arbitrary group excluded by a rule that makes no scientific sense. When discrimination gets written into law, it becomes boring. Official. Not obviously evil, just… administrative. So it persists while the country keeps telling itself a story about its values.
Germany’s not the only place with these contradictions, but when something costs lives, you’d think it would be higher on the priority list.
Your foot catches. Your body’s falling. For a moment — maybe a tenth of a second — you stop thinking about your face or your hands or how bad this is going to be. You’re thinking about the thing in your hand. The phone. The bag. The coffee. You grip it tighter. That instinct is stronger than bracing yourself. That’s what matters more.
Sandro Giordano photographed that moment. Over and over. His series _IN EXTREMIS (corpi senza pentimento) captures people mid-fall, always clutching something, never letting go. He started this after his own bike accident, where he’d done the same thing — held on instead of protecting himself. His hand lost 30 percent of its function. At least he didn’t drop whatever he was holding.
It lands weird on Instagram, where everything is supposed to be composed and graceful. These photos are the opposite. They’re the moment right before you hit the ground, when your priorities become absolutely clear.
I’ve done it. Haven’t you. You’re walking and something shifts and before you can think your hands are clenched around whatever you’re carrying. Your face can take a bruise. Your phone can’t. The logic is stupid and perfect, which is probably the whole point.
Everyone in Berlin was watching the same thing that night. We crowded into some corporate event—the kind that sounds meaningless until you remember that you actually wanted to be there, that nobody coerced you, that the World Cup mattered and Germany was playing America. The screens were enormous, the beer was cold, and nothing existed beyond the next ninety minutes.
The room held its breath. When the goal came early, the place erupted in that pure, uncomplicated joy that only sports can pull out of cynical adults. We won 1-0, which meant it stayed tight all the way through. Not one of those blowouts where you stop caring by halftime.
Then it was done. Everyone dispersed back to their actual lives, and I never saw most of them again. Watch parties are temporary cities that form and dissolve around a single event. They’re not built to last.
Claire Manganiellos, a designer in Brooklyn, made a bed shaped like a pizza. That’s it. That’s the thing. It looks like a slice of pizza — the shape, the fabric patterns mimicking cheese and sauce and pepperoni, everything reads as pizza. You lie down and you’re sleeping inside a pizza.
There’s something I respect about that. Not in a winking, “look how quirky I am” way, but in the commitment. It doesn’t apologize for itself. It’s not ironic or self-aware. It’s just a bed that looks like pizza, and it works. The design is solid — the proportions read right, the fabric choices feel intentional rather than garish, you could actually rest your head on it. It’s not a party trick pretending to be furniture. It’s just good design applied to an absurd premise.
I wanted stuff like this growing up. A bed shaped like a race car. A desk shaped like something from whatever movie I was obsessed with that month. Furniture that was basically a billboard for what I liked. Most people move past it. They start caring about neutral palettes and timeless pieces and the kind of furniture that doesn’t announce anything about you. I think that’s a loss. I think the pizza bed is braver than most of what ends up in design magazines, which are usually just sad people talking about white walls.
If I had the room and the money, I’d own one. I’d sleep in my pizza bed in a completely unselfconscious way. That’s the thing the design delivers on — it doesn’t make you feel stupid for wanting it. It just gives you the pizza bed and lets you decide if you want to lie down inside one. I would. Without hesitation. Some things are dumb and perfect, and that’s enough.
I kept thinking Sailor Moon would stay finished. That was the ending—Usagi made it to the moon, destroyed the thing trying to destroy the world, and that was supposed to be it. The final act, the actual conclusion. Fifteen years went by and I basically forgot about it. Now they’re remaking the entire thing from the beginning, starting over from the 1992 manga, which means I’m about to watch her become this cosmic savior again like it’s brand new.
The new art style is what everyone’s mad about. It’s sharper, more grown-up, less cute than the ’90s version. Designed for people who actually want to watch Sailor Moon now without feeling like they’re sneaking kids’ cartoons in the middle of the night. I get it—you want what you remember, the thing that made you feel something back then. But obviously you can’t remake it exactly as is. If they’d done that it would just be a museum piece. Takeuchi clearly wanted something that honored the original manga but looked like it was made now, for people who’ve actually lived fifteen more years since the original aired.
It’s on Crunchyroll, Hulu, Neon Alley—everywhere—starting July 5. I’ll probably watch the first episode the day it drops and then completely space on the rest until I binge it all at three in the morning in a week.
The weird part is the reset itself. Sailor Moon’s always been built on cyclical time—worlds breaking and restarting, timelines looping, everything ending so it can begin again. And the franchise is literally doing that to itself right now. Usagi gets maybe thirty seconds of being a normal person before the universe reaches down and pulls her into it all again. It’s the plot doing what the plot does. The show has become what it’s always been about.
“Walk This Way” hit different this time. MØ (Karen Marie Ørsted) keeps getting better at whatever this is - a melody that lands immediately and stays, a video where she dances through something expensive-looking with the confidence of someone who’s practiced.
I’m trying to think what makes Danish pop work the way it does. Aqua, Alphabeat, MØ - there’s something about how straightforward these artists are with what they’re doing. No pretense. Just craft. Just hooks. Just the understanding that making something feel effortless is actually complicated.
The song’s built to work in a specific moment - late night, dancing, something working on you in the dark. And it does that without apology. No meta-commentary, no reaching. Just a track that lands and sticks.
What strikes me about her new work is how confident it feels. Not trying to convince you of anything, not desperate to matter. Just here. Each release she sheds another layer of self-consciousness, and you can feel it.
There’s something I respect about that. In a lot of pop, you sense the anxiety underneath. This doesn’t have that. It knows what it is - a very good song designed to work in a moment and stick for a week. And that’s enough.
Gal Volinez made a video called ’Hi Brit’ where he inserted himself into ’Work Bitch’ in Britney’s place. Same choreography, same outfit, same everything. The joke’s obvious but it lands on execution. There’s something satisfying about a parody that doesn’t punch down but just slides in sideways, matching every move so exactly that you almost stop noticing the swap. It’s the kind of thing that only works if you know the original perfectly—if you can step into that space and have it still feel the same way.
Anita Sarkeesian made a series of videos called “Tropes vs Women in Video Games” that pointed out something pretty obvious if you’d been paying attention: women in video games are usually set dressing. The girlfriend who dies to motivate revenge. The love interest with no personality. The woman designed for a specific male gaze. You see it once, you can’t unsee it. Documenting these patterns apparently made her a target for death threats, doxxing, the full coordinated harassment that only the internet really produces.
The backlash was so disproportionate it was revealing. If the problem didn’t exist, why would people care that much about someone pointing it out? But they did care, which told you something about what she’d touched.
She kept making videos despite all that, and by the later ones you could see the cost. Not destroyed exactly, just worn thin. The harassment grinds on you differently than other things. She was still specific about the patterns though, still documenting what games do with women characters. I don’t know if it changed how things actually get made. Probably not directly. The industry shifts slow, and usually because enough people move on from the old way rather than because someone argued against it convincingly. But someone had to say it.
Seeing a city from altitude changes how you understand it. Tokyo becomes pure geometry at that height — the grid of buildings, streets cutting through in neat lines. All that order is startling when you move through it on the ground, where it dissolves into chaos.
Drone footage reveals what the place actually is. Everything structured, efficient, visually satisfying without needing to announce itself. The repetition of roofs, the density, the clean breaks where parks or water cuts through.
Apparently residents don’t mind drones flying overhead. They wave at them. There’s something nice about that — people acknowledging the camera passing by, this small gesture toward coexistence with technology.
You know that moment, drunk at 2 AM in a Burger King, where you’re staring at the menu board and the burger looks absolutely perfect. Every detail is there. The bun is golden. The cheese is draped. The lettuce is neon green. You order it anyway, knowing full well what you’re going to get.
There are whole compilations now of people photographing their actual order next to the advertising photo. The difference is genuinely unhinged. The version on the menu is a sculpture. Someone lit it like a still life. They probably assembled it with tweezers. What arrives at your table looks like it was made during a fire drill, ingredients scattered, sauce applied with indifference, everything already starting to collapse.
The worst part is knowing exactly what you’re walking into and ordering it anyway. You’ve seen the videos. You know how this works. You know the burger is going to be mediocre and forgettable and structurally unsound. But there’s still that hit of hope when you hand over your money. Maybe today is different. Maybe this location cares. Maybe somehow the universe has decided to make things right.
It won’t. It never does. And that’s weirdly okay. The burger tastes fine. You forget you ate it. The advertising is just this beautiful lie about what’s possible, and for thirty seconds while you’re waiting, you get to believe it. Which is basically what all advertising does, right. It promises that the thing you’re about to buy matters, that it’s special, that it’s made with intention. It’s all theater.
Someone built a men’s G-string bikini and put it up for sale at seven euros. JQK Mens Sexy Bikini G-string Thong Jock Brief Underwear 3303 Red — the name is pure catalog maximalism, every descriptor crammed in hoping something sticks. It’s a red pouch, small and shameless. The marketing swears it’ll make you the undisputed star at the pool. And it will — everyone will look. Just not for the reasons the copy wants. Seven euros for instant infamy.
You’re twenty-five in Berlin-Neukölln and you understand, finally, that your life is the kind of life people make art about. Not because you’re special, but because you’re young and you’re doing drugs and you’re having sex that feels like an emotion and you’re listening to electronic music at the right venues with the right people. It’s what happens when you’re that age in this city with money and free time.
Grafikdesigner Hayung von Oepen and literature student Johannes Hertwig decided to document it. They called the project “Ecke Weserstraße,” after that corner in Berlin-Neukölln where the whole scene seems to coalesce. I don’t know which one they were doing—celebrating these people or documenting them—but I’m not sure the distinction matters much anymore. The camera just watches.
What’s strange is how aware everyone in the scene is of being in the scene. They’re not living these lives by accident—they’re living them with the knowledge that someone else might be watching, might be filming, might turn this moment into something that matters. So the project works. Either it captures something true, or it captures how self-conscious everything has become. The same thing, really.
I never actually saw the finished work, just heard about it after the fact. By the time the dates passed, the moment was already becoming memory, already becoming material for something else. That’s the thing about documenting your own scene—by the time people see it, you’ve already moved on to being a different person. The footage is always chasing what was.
The sun hits your head, cold beer in one hand, water gun in the other, driving through the American middle with friends toward whatever lake comes next—past cemeteries and junkyards and desert, thinking about nothing but cold water and the next mile. That’s summer.
Weeks of this: driving in the heat through landscape that changes color and texture, green to brown to nothing, all under a sun that just doesn’t stop. The variety keeps it from getting boring—half-dead towns, empty stretches, sudden water or trees, sky that goes on forever. You don’t think about any of it, you just drive.
American space does something to you. It sprawls and empties. You pass through places that might be towns or might just be buildings. You stop when you want water, when someone needs to sleep, when the heat gets too much. Then you move again. The water guns are dumb and perfect—an excuse to stay loose and not think about anything.
The people matter. You need friends who don’t get bored or restless, who don’t need to document or perform, who can just exist in the rhythm of being on the road for weeks. Days blend together and that’s fine.
What stays with you isn’t pictures. It’s the cold water, the glare off chrome, dust on your tongue at some nothing exit, the highway sound at night when everyone’s asleep. Those things stick.
You get a few weeks like that and then they’re over, or they happen again and you’re not paying attention anymore. Time where you’re just present, following the heat and the movement and whoever you’re with. That’s the whole thing.
There’s this Sports Illustrated video of Kate Upton on a beach. She’s smiling, bouncing around in the sun, and she looks like she’s actually having fun — not faking it, just enjoying herself. That’s the whole thing right there. You’re supposed to look, and you do, because she’s beautiful and it’s clear she knows it and doesn’t mind. No shame in that.
Astra made a summer beer called Nackt — the whole campaign around nakedness and freedom. The bottle’s designed to stand out, curvy and bare. You see it in the shop and grab it because it’s cold and you’re hot, not because the marketing convinced you. Every beer brand tries the escape angle, but it only sticks because sometimes cold beer really is the escape. By the time you’re halfway through, you’ve forgotten the campaign ever existed.
Berlin’s got this reputation for being where everyone goes to lose themselves — the sex, the drugs, the clubs that don’t close until some impossible hour. That’s why people move here in their twenties thinking they’re invincible. But underneath the haze is a question nobody wants to ask out loud: can you actually build a real connection in a city like this? Or is the constant circus just going to tear you apart?
I’ve watched enough people arrive and dissolve to think the answer isn’t about location at all. The couples who make it work are boring about it — they stop chasing the scene, they choose quiet bars, they build a life unrelated to why they came. They’re not doing it to be righteous. They’re doing it because they want it to endure.
Maybe that’s the case everywhere. But in Berlin you see it more clearly. The city is constantly asking if you’re sure about this person, because there’s someone else at the bar who might be interesting. Choosing to stay takes more work than letting go.
I remember when having a big TV meant something. Twenty-five inches felt like cinema. Thirty-six inches felt obscene. A projection screen was the fantasy of someone rich enough to waste money on it. Now everyone’s got a screen the size of a small car, and somehow it’s still not enough.
Titan—some British company I’d never heard of—just unveiled the Zeus, a 4K television measuring 380 inches across. House-high. Costs 1.2 million euros. You can run twenty channels simultaneously, which I guess is useful if you want to watch absolutely everything at once and understand nothing.
Only four of them exist. Two have already been sold to anonymous buyers, which says everything you need to know about who has money and what they want to do with it. There’s a test unit at Cannes that showed up during the World Cup, which might be the most absurd placement I’ve ever heard—film festival meets sporting event meets ’come see this enormous thing we made.’
I can picture it: some oligarch’s living room, or a sports bar so enormous it needs its own zip code. The point isn’t really to watch anymore. The point is to have. To say you have something no one else has, something so gratuitous and oversized it becomes almost like sculpture. It’s the end of a very particular kind of wanting—the kind that gets duller every time you feed it.
There’s something funny about it, though. We’ve spent decades shrinking our screens—phones in our pockets, tablets on the couch—and here’s Titan saying the answer was always to go the opposite direction. Get one the size of a building. Watch the World Cup like it’s a public event happening in your living room. Maybe they’re right. Or maybe it’s just the last gasp of a guy who has everything else and needs one more impossible thing.
I watched a video of kids seeing DuckTales for the first time and it was like watching someone look at a photograph and ask why it’s not moving. They didn’t get it. Most of them had never heard of it, which made sense — it’s been decades. But the confusion was real. Who’s the old guy? Why is he so attached to money? Why would anyone follow him anywhere?
The adventure was always the thing that barely held it together. You didn’t watch DuckTales for the plot to make sense. You watched it to see what would catch fire, what would flood, what impossible situation the nephews would stumble into. The plot was the mechanism, not the point. These kids were waiting for a point.
What surprised me more was that not one of them said anything about how it looked. The line work, the color palette, the way Scrooge’s eyes sat in his face. The design is meticulous and utterly casual at the same time — you could spend an hour looking at one frame. But they just moved through it like it was a sequence of events happening to people, not a thing that was made. Maybe that’s not a generational gap. Maybe nobody ever looked at it that closely.
Six in the morning outside Berghain. Still moving, barely—reeking of the night, pupils blown out, the kind of drunk where you stop noticing how cold it is. Sven Marquardt’s at the door. He looks at me the way he looks at everyone, and I understand immediately that I’m failing a test I didn’t know I was taking.
Sven’s been at that door long enough to stop being a person and start being an institution. No rulebook, no list, no system. He watches you and decides if you understand what the Berghain is actually trying to be. The stare is the whole conversation. You hold it or you don’t.
There’s something I respect in that clarity. In a city slowly turning itself into a theme park of what it used to be, Berghain still means something because it’s genuinely hard to get into. You can’t buy access. Can’t finesse past it with the right outfit or the right friends. You show up as yourself and hope Sven thinks you belong.
Ray-Ban created a promotional staring contest with Sven, which is funny in that hollow way—a sunglasses company trying to bottle the last genuine gatekeeping left in Berlin club culture and package it as an experience you can win. They’re right that Sven’s interesting. They’ve just completely missed what makes him matter.
What makes him matter is that he’s real. The club’s real. The people inside are there because they actually wanted to badly enough to pass the test. The moment you guarantee entry through a branded event, you’ve killed what you were reaching for.
Retro game aesthetics on underwear is such a specific category of merchandise that you have to admire the audacity. Two designers in Lisbon decided the world needed Super Mario-style pixels printed on something no one would ever see. I get the appeal in theory—taking something you loved as a kid and finding a way to wear it—but there’s a massive gap between the idea and the actual wearing.
Most novelty merchandise fails this way. It looks clever as a concept, sounds good in a design meeting, but then you’re supposed to actually use it. Underwear with video game patterns has all the hallmarks of something that seemed brilliant at 2 AM and slightly absurd in daylight. The photos probably look great though.
There’s something oddly honest about it. No pretense, no ’vintage-inspired aesthetic’—just flat-out pixels on something deeply personal. Either you commit to it or you don’t. I probably wouldn’t, but I respect the people who would.
Carpaccio, brisket, cheese steak, parmesan patty, ground beef with jalapeños, tongue, jus, beef ham — seventeen different kinds of beef stacked in one sandwich at Red’s True BBQ in Manchester and Leeds. Around 2,500 calories, thirty quid, served on Father’s Day because the timing felt right.
This exists almost as a dare. Not sophisticated or clever, just sheer commitment to the idea that more is fundamentally better. You look at it and feel some mix of repulsion and genuine need to understand what seventeen different beef preparations actually taste like together. It’s a burger with no interest in proportion or elegance. It just wants to be huge.
There’s something perfectly aligned about serving it on Father’s Day — meat, indulgence, the stubborn appetite to eat something impractical just because you can. No counting calories. No apologies.
I’d buy a plane ticket just to eat this. Not for the museums or the countryside, just this burger and whatever happens to my stomach afterward.
Sheena Ringo did the theme song for Japan at the 2014 World Cup in Brazil. I remember thinking it was exactly right. I’d been obsessed with her work for years — ’Kofukuron,’ ’Honma,’ ’Tsumi to Batsu’ — songs that feel carved out of something private and strange. She doesn’t smooth anything out for the listener. She just makes what she wants to make.
’Nippon’ carries that same refusal. It’s not designed to pump you up or make you feel patriotic in some expected way. She delivers the title like it’s a statement that doesn’t need justifying, and the song moves in underneath. The confidence in it is the whole thing. She’s not performing for the moment or serving something larger than herself — she’s just being herself, and the stadium happened to be there.
It’s strange to watch someone you actually care about make something that suddenly reaches that many people. You spend years following an artist in the quiet way, and then one day she’s everywhere.
Bride Price was an app that launched in Nigeria—created by the agency Anakle—where you’d input measurements about women (leg length, facial symmetry, weight) and get back a number. A price. The creator defended it as honoring tradition, which is what you say when you want to scale something ugly and keep your conscience clean.
Bride price is real in Nigeria and elsewhere, a practice with history and weight. But something happens when you automate it. You’re not preserving a tradition at that point—you’re turning it into a product. The negotiation, whatever humanity might’ve survived in the old practice, gets flattened into input fields and an algorithm. It becomes mechanical. Impersonal in a way that’s worse than the personal injustice it came from.
The backlash was immediate. The response was predictable—cultural preservation, tradition, that’s just how things are. And it’s true that every culture finds ways to justify the reduction of people to their utility or their bodies. But there’s something specifically hollow about digitizing something that was already wrong, about making it scalable and algorithmic. You don’t have to reckon with anything when an app is doing the thinking for you.
I’m not going to pretend I’m the one to decide what’s authentic to Nigerian culture or not. But turning something ugly into code, into something frictionless and automated—that feels like its own corruption.
When I moved to Berlin, seven years ago now, I quickly found myself scattered across all these different friend groups. Packaging designers, military guys, electronics store workers, Catholic schoolgirls, internet café people, hairdressers, apprentices—this chaotic mix doing completely different things. Their opinions clashed constantly. We’d argue, laugh, sometimes agree, sometimes not. It was good. Educational. Important.
But most of these connections stayed shallow. Not enough time or energy for anything deeper. Work friends, apprenticeship friends, my girlfriend’s friends, random StudiVZ people—people I sometimes couldn’t even remember how I’d met—but they were there, and that was enough. And everyone brought more people. So many people.
Then I started withdrawing. I’ve always preferred fewer, closer relationships anyway. So gradually they fell away. The packaging designers, the military guys, the students, the electronics store people. It wasn’t a conscious choice, not really. It just happened. One day I wasn’t running into them on the U-Bahn anymore. Facebook stopped showing me their updates. I deleted their numbers. The memories faded. Their parties went on without me.
Writing pulled me into a different Berlin. A bubble of MacBooks and iPhones, afternoon café meetings, creative types at PR agencies and startups, coders and bloggers and social media managers. Now everyone around me talks about the same things: tech, startups, Steve Jobs, brands, followers, WiFi, press trips, programming languages, WordPress. The conversation loops back on itself.
I meet these friends at promotional parties thrown by clothing brands or tech companies or breweries—free everything, but only if you’re on the list. Gradually they started filtering people out, the ones not on those lists. A bubble you’re actively maintaining.
These days there’s no one in my circle who doesn’t exist in this same digital ecosystem. This small universe of media and reach and relevance. When I’ve had sex in recent years, it’s been with agency girls, bloggers, women carrying iPhones like scripture, for whom Twitter mattered more than anything actually happening in the world. The sex was fine, I guess, but first they had to check Instagram.
On quiet afternoons I sit there and wonder if this is actually good for me. For how I think. For who I’m becoming. Does it make sense to only ever hear opinions I already hold? To only see conflicts that already preoccupy me? To only go places I’d naturally go anyway?
I love my friends. I really do. But the longer I stay in this bubble, this comfortable zone of networked people, the more something in me starts screaming for other voices. Perspectives so far from my own they’d almost tear me apart, but inspiring in a way this uniform thing can never be.
But complaining is pointless. I’m doing fine. We’re all doing fine here in this peaceful bubble, even when the EdgeRank drops or WiFi cuts out or torrents stall. Other people have actual problems. I’m sitting here complaining about a reality I created for myself. A reality that’s better than most, whether you measure it subjectively or objectively. And yet sometimes I miss it. That time. When I first got to Berlin.
Kyary Pamyu Pamyu’s house looks like the bedroom of a six-year-old American girl, which somehow feels like the most honest thing I’ve ever heard about a pop star. Found an interview with Francesca Dunn where she just talks about it plainly—champagne, Miyazaki, the recurring nightmare where someone’s chasing her, how she’s moved on from Draco Malfoy to Katy Perry. No performance. No explanation. Just what’s true.
That’s what gets me about it. She doesn’t curate a deeper version of herself for the interview. She just names what she likes and how she lives. Her house looks that way because she wanted it to. That’s who she is.
You listen to “PONPONPON” for years and think you’ve got it figured out, but you’re just guessing from the outside. The real thing is stranger than you’d imagine. She’s not trying to be interesting—that’s exactly why she is.
John Oliver did a segment on “Last Week Tonight” about FIFA and got it completely right. He went after them hard—the corruption, the money, the way they sit above governments and national interests. He clearly loves football, which is part of what makes it work. He’s not dunking on the sport; he’s angry at the people running it.
I don’t care about football. Never have. The World Cup heading to Brazil meant nothing to me, but I watched anyway because it was good television. Oliver’s timing is sharp, his research is there, and he’s funny without reaching. He sets up the corruption like it’s a heist unfolding—piece by piece, the whole thing falls into view.
FIFA really is that corrupt. These are men who’ve built an empire on bribery and extraction, moving tournaments and fortunes around like board game pieces. They mostly get away with it because everyone watching the games is too distracted to ask questions.
That’s probably why it stuck with me. Not because I suddenly cared about football. But because it was a clean reminder that the big systems we ignore are usually exactly as rotten as someone’s already proved.
The day the thermometer hit thirty-six degrees, I spent the afternoon looking at Gavin O’Neill’s photographs of Barbara Fialho for Australian GQ. She was at the beach, which was the obvious choice when it gets that hot. The summer had already won; this was just acknowledgment. At least the light was good.
There’s something about Lana’s voice that pulls you backward through time, even when you’re standing still. “Brooklyn Baby” does this—it makes you want to live in a specific version of New York, a specific version of yourself, even though everything in the song suggests that life is already over.
The song is basically about a relationship told through cultural detail. Vinyl records, arthouse films, the kind of aesthetic you build an identity around. She sings with this strange tenderness about it all, like she’s protecting something fragile that might fall apart if you look too closely.
What works is how specific it gets. Not New York in general, but a particular pocket of it, a particular moment, a particular understanding of what cool even means. The production is deliberately vintage-sounding, like the song was already a memory when they finished recording it.
I think the real move of the song is that it makes you nostalgic for something you never had. You listen and suddenly you’re mourning a life in Brooklyn, a relationship in a movie, a version of yourself that requires never thinking too hard about whether you’re actually cool. The song knows this trap exists. That’s kind of the whole point.
What stays with me about this song is that quality she has of making the past feel more real than the present. Like all the best moments have already happened and we’re just living in their shadow. It’s melancholic without being sad, nostalgic without being maudlin. Just that particular ache of wanting to be inside something you know you can never quite reach.
First time I saw one, I thought it was a joke—this perfect sphere of clear liquid no bigger than a cherry, sitting on a leaf like it had fallen from the sky. Someone told me it was dessert and I laughed.
Shingen Mochi from Yamanashi, a transparent rice cake that looks exactly like a water droplet frozen in place. I don’t know the exact recipe, but the clarity is perfect. You’re genuinely fooled for a moment.
When it hits your mouth it dissolves completely, that slippery film of gelatin collapsing into sweetness before you register any texture. Cool on a hot day. Gone in half a second.
It’s the kind of thing Japanese sweets do that Western desserts don’t bother with—the visual trick, the textural surprise, the insistence that food should mess with you a little before you eat it. By the time it melts you’ve already had the moment.
I don’t know if I’d go hunting for one, but if someone handed me one on a hot afternoon I’d take it without hesitation. There’s something right about a dessert that refuses to announce itself.
Found this Snorlax bed on Etsy from Christine Kim, an artist in Seoul. It’s a large poly-cotton plushie built to sleep on, lean against, whatever. Around 220 euros. What caught my attention is the proportions: cute without being saccharine, substantial without being overwrought. The stitching’s clean and deliberate.
Most Pokémon stuff feels hollow, like the care went somewhere else and never made it to the actual object. This isn’t that. The design’s restrained, which is unusual. It’s clear Kim respects the character enough not to oversell it. I’d want this. Not as a joke, not to make a statement, just as something good to have around.
Sailor Moon gets remade enough that you stop expecting anything. These reboots tend to split two ways: either full nostalgia where everything’s soft and warm, or hard anime where you lose what made the manga interesting. The new Crystal trailer is different. The designs actually look aged up instead of just redrawn bigger. Usagi’s still Usagi, but she has edges now. There’s actual structure.
Character design in a show like this is basically the opening conversation. Everything else follows from what you’re looking at. This redesign says they’re not interested in cute. They want something tighter, sharper, more intentional.
Whether the actual show works is still an open question. But I’m curious. That counts for something.
Caught the trailer for Space Dandy season two and I’m already sold. It’s coming in July, same beautiful chaos as before—the character designs are outrageous, all huge breasts and impossible proportions, story twists that go nowhere interesting but somehow work, the general sense that nothing matters and everything’s a joke. Shinichiro Watanabe has this gift for making anime that feels like someone’s fever dream but actually coheres.
What got me through the first season was that it knew exactly what it was. No pretense, no trying to be meaningful. The weird character designs aren’t ironic—the show just commits to them completely, which is the only way they work. There’s a kind of honesty in that, a refusal to wink at the audience and pretend it’s in on the joke. It IS the joke.
The preview looks like it’s picking up where things left off, which is all I want. More strange characters, more narrative chaos, more of this energy that feels like it could go anywhere. I don’t need Space Dandy to teach me anything or make some grand statement. I just need it to be itself, and from what I’m seeing, it still is.
I picked up these zombie toothpicks somewhere — little picks shaped like the undead crawling out of your food. Eight euros or so, though I’ve long since stopped tracking what I paid for them. They live in a drawer with the other party supplies, next to things I bought five years ago and never used.
There’s something good about objects this pointless. A designer worked out the proportions, how the zombie figure would sit on a pick, how it catches light on a cheese board. That kind of attention to something completely frivolous feels honest.
The zombie apocalypse is background radiation for contemporary culture now. We’re all half-joking about collapse constantly. Every party is a small performance of ’yeah, I think about it too.’ These toothpicks are one tiny way of participating in that.
I don’t actually use them much. Most of the time they’re just sitting in that drawer, forgotten until I’m setting up for something and remember they exist. But pulling them out is always a small satisfaction, in the way that dumb, self-aware objects can be — they don’t apologize for being exactly what they are.
Rain somewhere, everywhere—the kind that just settles on you. Makes you want to be literally anywhere else. Not the thoughtful kind of rain, just the stuck kind.
Surfing Magazine swimsuit issue, because apparently every magazine with a heartbeat has one now. Jason Lee Parry shot it. Britt Maren and others—women the way they come out of water, golden and uncomplicated. That’s what this is and that’s all it’s pretending to be. Sex before summer. Escapism bound in paper.
The articles about boards and breaks aren’t the draw. The point is a few minutes where the rain outside stops existing and your brain gets permission to rest. The sun goes back on, at least in your head. You close the magazine and nothing’s actually changed except you got to leave for a while.
I was twelve when I finally beat Super Mario World on my Super Nintendo. Took most of a year—longer if you count the time stuck on the Vanilla Dome. When I finally got past it, that end screen felt earned. Like I’d actually done something.
Masterjun3 does it in forty-two seconds. A glitch that warps Mario straight past everything and dumps him in the ending. Castles, bosses, levels—all gone. Just a few button presses in exactly the right order and the whole thing collapses.
This is what speedrunning Super Mario World has become. Reverse-engineering the code to find where it’s fragile enough to break. Years of the community picking at systems, looking for moments where something goes wrong in your favor. It’s not about being good at the game. It’s about understanding it deeply enough to make it do something it wasn’t supposed to.
There’s something strange about watching someone erase a year of childhood in less than a minute. Not angry—just odd. The game I struggled with becomes a problem with a solution. And not even a complicated solution once you know the trick.
I wouldn’t play it that way. The difficulty is part of what makes it feel like an accomplishment when you actually beat it. Optimize that away and you get a neat technical feat. Maybe that’s enough. But there’s something elegant about finding the exact sequence that breaks a system. That’s its own kind of skill, even if it’s not the skill the game was designed to test.
Three bikes stolen in Berlin. Not in three years—faster than that. One chained to a pole outside a café, gone by the time I finished my coffee. Another locked to itself, which somehow made sense at the time. The third just… disappeared from a basement I’d locked the door to. After that, you stop pretending. You buy the cheapest possible bike—twenty euros if you can find it—and you ride it like you stole it, because the math is brutal. Replacement cost: same as a month of not caring.
So when I hear that someone built a solid gold mountain bike worth a million dollars, it lands as pure absurdist comedy. The House of Solid Gold, a blacksmith operation, apparently decided that what the world needed was a bicycle made entirely of this soft, precious metal. Actual gold. An actual mountain bike. You can only count the seconds before someone steals it.
I’m not saying the craftsmanship isn’t real. I’m sure it’s extraordinary. The weight alone would be horrifying—gold is dense—but that’s not the point. The point is that someone made an object of such nakedly impractical beauty that it can only exist in the fantasy of its own existence. It’s like building a swimming pool out of champagne, or a house made of cash. The moment it’s real, it’s already not.
What gets me is the confidence of it. The person or people at The House of Solid Gold didn’t make this bike thinking anyone would actually ride it. They made it as a concept, as a joke that costs a million dollars to tell. And they’re not wrong—that’s kind of funny. It’s the purest expression of “I made this because I could, and I don’t care if it’s useful.” There’s a freedom in that, I guess. A refusal to compromise between desire and reason.
But I keep coming back to Berlin, to my pile of stolen bikes, to the specific humiliation of lugging a lock heavier than the bike itself. There’s something honest about cheap bikes. They don’t tempt fate. They don’t ask to be protected. Whereas this golden thing is just asking for it—asking, almost insisting. And that’s where the real joke lives: not in the craftsmanship, but in the fact that the minute it existed, it became a countdown timer to its own theft.
Ido Yehimovitz from Israel made a series called Greatest Rides — basically every iconic vehicle from film and television, all redrawn in the same visual language. What makes it work is the constraint itself. Each vehicle has to read instantly, has to feel like the thing it is, but also has to belong in the same world as every other one. That’s harder than it sounds.
There’s no angle here, no irony or commentary. Just clear drawings of things you already recognize, rendered with enough style and clarity that they feel new. Respect for the source material without trying to add to it. Sometimes that’s enough.
There’s a specific moment when BANKS’ music takes over—usually the third or fourth play, sweat cooling, someone’s hand on your ribs, and “Waiting Game” or “Brain” winding through whatever’s happening. It’s music that only works when you’re already there, already committed to something physical and dark.
She’s been quiet. Now there’s “Drowning,” which arrives exactly on schedule. Video, sound, the same understanding of what bodies need to hear when the moment’s already happening.
Jillian’s making music for a very specific moment, and she’s very good at it. Most pop music tries to be everything to everyone. BANKS makes music for one thing: that particular kind of heat, that particular kind of attention. “Drowning” doesn’t deviate. It’s the obvious move for someone who understands her audience better than they understand themselves.
She’s playing Berlin’s Panoramabar at Berghain at the end of June, then Hamburg’s mojo club after. The kind of venues where everyone’s already crowded, already half-decided. You don’t go to see BANKS play in a space like that for detached listening. You go because you know what her music does when you’re pressed against people in the dark.
I’ve walked into Berlin offices where the trash can looked like a Club Mate graveyard — empty bottles stacked like evidence of hours spent at a desk. Three bottles before noon, four by evening, someone talking about their pivot while their hand moved mechanically toward another one. The drink had become oxygen for that world, less a beverage than a ritual. You didn’t drink Club Mate because you were thirsty. You drank it because you had convinced yourself you couldn’t think without it.
The thing about Club Mate is that it doesn’t apologize. It’s bitter, it’s chemical, it doesn’t try to be healthy or artisanal or anything other than what it is: fuel for people who are convinced they don’t have time to rest. In Berlin startup culture especially, it became almost a uniform — the visible proof that you were serious, that you were grinding, that you understood the terms of the game. You could measure how deep someone was in that world by counting the bottles on their desk.
There’s something almost honest about the cycle, if you look at it sideways. You need to stay awake to keep up. You drink stimulants to stay awake. The stimulants make you jittery and wired, so you need more caffeine, or maybe you need something else entirely to calm back down, or you just accept that this is what alertness feels like now. Work until you’re exhausted, drink something that makes exhaustion irrelevant for a few more hours, repeat. Eventually something happens — maybe a successful product, maybe you just burn out and move to a new startup that’s exactly the same as the last one.
I watched people live like that for years. Each day blurred into the last. The bottles piled up. The ideas came and went. Sometimes I wonder if they ever actually tested whether they needed the Club Mate or just needed the feeling that they were doing something serious. A person surrounded by empty bottles looks like they’re working harder, feels like they’re accomplishing more, even if all they’re doing is staying awake.
The real trick was learning how to want something without needing to be chemically stimulated to want it. Most of them never figured that out. They just got better at cycling through different stimulants, different offices, different promises about the next big thing. Berlin was full of them, wired and hopeful and trapped in that particular circuit.
Nathalie Emmanuel showed up as Missandei in Game of Thrones and I was sold immediately. I’d seen her before in Misfits, that British show where nobody stays dead, but appearing in HBO’s bloody medieval fantasy was different.
She played the handmaiden, the translator, basically there to fill space in someone else’s scene. But she had enough presence that you ended up watching her instead.
The show was built on uncomfortable orientalist fantasy, the kind of thing that made you feel complicit just watching it. But at least when they finally gave her a real role, when she wasn’t just there to serve, there was something worth your time.
I know I’m old because I remember Netscape Navigator. Remember “cybernet” as an actual word. Remember when downloading a single image took enough time to make coffee and come back. So when Teens React put some kids in front of a 90s internet video and watched them fail to parse what they were looking at — that hit different.
It’s funny, obviously. But there’s this moment where you realize you’re not in on the joke anymore. You’re the joke. You’re the guy explaining how the internet used to work, watching faces go completely blank. That’s me now.
The 90s web had real character. It was slow and ornate and kind of stupid and beautiful at once. You’d sit on one website for an hour because there was nowhere else to go. The internet felt like a place you visited, not something you owned. Kids now can’t even imagine that. It sounds completely insane to them.
Living through something that’s already becoming historical is its own weird feeling. Not a “kids these days” thing — more like I got to experience actual internet archaeology as it was happening. Got to be there before it turned into the artifact. And now I’m part of the artifact too.
Kreuzberg on a warm summer evening—a beer in one hand, someone worth having there in the other, the sky turning red. That’s the Berlin I loved, if that makes sense. Heat off the pavement, the city loosening, everything suspended, not promising anything, just open.
I’d always come back to three songs in that state: Broken Bells for the ache, Poolside for the movement without strain, The Bianca Story for what it understood about the light. I don’t know why those three, except they didn’t push. They just existed in the moment without trying to mean something beyond it. You can’t engineer that—the beer, the company, the timing, the music all arriving at once. But when it lands, that sticks.
John Oliver did a segment on Last Week Tonight about net neutrality and cable companies in America. Time Warner, Comcast, Verizon—they want to charge Netflix and YouTube for faster access. It’s just throttling with a business card. Everyone else gets slower speeds, those companies pay, and the internet becomes a utility for people who can afford it.
I’m not even sure why Oliver bothers explaining it. The mechanism is obvious, the motivation is obvious, and it will happen. It’s already happening in pieces. What’s less obvious is that the moment Comcast succeeds in America, Deutsche Telekom and every other ISP on the planet will do the same thing. They’re just waiting to see if they can get away with it.
The internet used to be different. Not that long ago—twenty, thirty years—you could build something, put it online, and reach anyone who wanted to find it. No permission, no money, no negotiation. The barrier to entry was basically nothing. That mattered. That changed what was possible.
I’m not some starry-eyed optimist about how technology is supposed to liberate us. I know how capital works. But there was something genuinely new about the open internet, something that had never existed before in the same way, and turning it into a toll road feels like killing something on purpose just to make a few extra dollars.
The companies will win. They’ll win because they always do, and because most people don’t understand what’s being taken away, and because fighting it requires caring about something intangible. Cable companies understand profit. They’ll turn that understanding into policy, into infrastructure, into law. And then they’ll own the internet the way they own the pipes.
I’ve been online for two decades. I’ve seen it get better and slower and less weird and more corporate. This is just the final step, the moment where the thing that was supposed to be different becomes exactly like everything else.
Porktrack is a website that tells you which song was playing when your parents conceived you. You enter your birthdate and it generates an answer with no hesitation. Mine says “Billie Jean” by Michael Jackson, which is both perfect and deeply unsettling to know about yourself.
The concept is ridiculous and I’m completely here for it. There’s something pure about an internet project that commits fully to a completely absurd premise without any irony. Just: you were made to this song, here’s the evidence.
The catch is you can’t actually listen to it. GEMA, Germany’s copyright agency, has blocked the audio on basically every track the site pulls. So you learn which song soundtracked your conception but never get to hear it—your parents’ taste in music at that specific moment stays sealed behind decades of licensing law. Your conception song becomes a fact you’ll never quite experience.
In 2014, good pop music still felt like something to notice. The radio was full of the usual machinery, but Charli XCX kept showing up with actual ideas in her head. She landed “Boom Clap” as the title track for The Fault in Our Stars, a film I had no interest in watching, but the song itself was sharp in a way that mattered — nervy production, the melody played with rather than just ridden.
Charli was into Tokio Hotel, into Iggy Azalea, into the stuff that lived in the margins. That’s where the interesting artists always look first. And you could hear it in “Boom Clap” — not a song made by committee, but by someone with taste. The hooks worked because they were actually thought about, not because focus groups had beaten them into submission.
There’s something about an artist who cares about the thing itself rather than what the machinery promises the thing will do for you. In 2014 that still felt rare enough to matter. I didn’t think it would change anything. I didn’t need it to. I just needed pop music that was actually good, made by someone who was paying attention.
The song stuck around longer than it probably should have, which was fine by me.
I love summer because it feels like the only time things actually happen. The heat, the light, days that stretch out. You remember summers. A smell, how someone looked in a moment, the burn on your shoulders. They stay.
Alex Freund’s “Shades of Summer” is just photographs of people in that light — Bekah Jenkins and Vanessa Milde mostly, lying around in direct sun, squinting as the heat pulls color from their skin and hair. Nothing fancy. Just the documentary weight of being outside when it’s hot, when you’re young or stupid or brave enough to lie still in the middle of the day.
There’s something honest about it. Summer photography is easy to ruin. You get oversaturated vacation clichés, everything golden and sepia and dripping with nostalgia before it even happens. But Freund stays still. He watches what’s actually there — the specific white of direct sun, the blue of skin in shadow, the exhaustion of just being in heat. The photographs don’t try to sell you summer. They show you what it looks like when you’re inside it.
I’m already thinking about August grass, about that particular kind of tired that only heat makes. About whether anyone will photograph us in a way that means something, or if we’ll just sweat and complain and pretend. Either way, it’s coming.
I know it’s cruel—someone feeding me a Matty Matheson cheeseburger video while I’m lying here with my pathetic cheese sandwich. Matty Matheson from Parts and Labour, the guy who basically owns Toronto’s burger culture, standing there with the kind of ingredients and focus that turns a simple thing into something perfect. Good meat, real care, the clarity of someone who’s made this a thousand times and still does it right.
Food videos are a specific kind of torture. You watch Matty’s hands work—the sear on the patty, the cheese melting with intention instead of desperation, the whole thing assembled like it matters. Because it does matter, that’s the thing. It actually matters. And then you look at your sandwich and you remember the three genuinely great cheeseburgers you’ve ever had in your life, the ones that cost too much money because that’s what excellence costs, and suddenly everything else just tastes like the compromise it is.
He’s not teaching you anything. He’s just showing you the distance between what you want and what you’re going to get. That’s all these videos do. Show you the gap, then leave you with your sadder food, your smaller life.
I’m completely weather dependent. Gray skies and I’m done for—I’ll spend the day in bed playing bad games, waiting for it to clear. But the moment the sun breaks through, something wakes up in me. I want cold drinks, music, people, movement, that electric feeling of summer arriving. You can feel it working on your body.
David Bellemere has this aesthetic obsession with summer and skin and light. He shot Anthea Page on a tennis court in that kind of heat—just her body in the brightness, nothing between her and the sun. No concept, no angle, just the straightforward fact of it all. That’s what summer is, really. The heat doesn’t apologize and doesn’t need permission. It just opens everything up and leaves you wanting something you can’t quite name.
Everyone thinks they know what blog money is before they’re actually dealing with it. There’s this fantasy that went around—that the internet is democratic, that if you have something interesting to say people will find you and pay for it. Some people did make that work. Most didn’t.
I started without any idea this would become a financial question. It was just somewhere to put things I didn’t know what to do with otherwise. But after enough years of consistent work, the money starts happening almost by accident. Brands show up. Ad networks send checks. Other bloggers start talking about covering rent from this. So you wonder whether maybe it could actually work.
The numbers tell most of the story. About one in five people who take blogging seriously make more than 500 euros a month. One in ten hit 1000. The rest are making almost nothing, or making nothing and doing it anyway. The distribution doesn’t change much. The internet keeps growing but the money doesn’t spread—it pools.
What catches people off guard is how fragile it is. You’re not building a business the way a business gets built. You’re stringing together whatever revenue sources are available—affiliate links, sponsorships, ads—and hoping they add up to something real. The problem is they’re all unstable. An algorithm shifts and your traffic goes. A network cuts their rates. A sponsor decides to hire writers directly instead of buying sponsored posts. The month you were counting on falls apart.
The people who actually made this work long-term had a kind of stubborn patience. They kept showing up even when the money wasn’t there. They learned whatever they needed to learn—design, photography, writing, how to talk to brands, how to code. They were good at negotiating. They happened to be publishing about something the internet wanted at the moment. Some of that was discipline. Some was luck.
I don’t regret building this, even with the instability and the months where you wonder what the point is. But I wouldn’t tell anyone this is the path to financial freedom. If you want to blog because you need to publish something and the money is just a bonus, maybe you can stick with it long enough for it to work. If you want to blog to get rich, you’re probably not going to make it.
Shiori Kawamoto made a book of photographs. Otaku rooms. Not tours or confessionals, just spaces — walls covered in anime posters, shelves packed with figurines, character pillows stacked everywhere, the works. He visited these people in their homes and photographed what he found, and he didn’t mock any of it.
You picture otaku and you get the type: older men in basements, lonely, perverted, pathetic. I’m old enough and weird enough to know that stereotype has teeth. But it’s not the whole story. Plenty of women into this stuff too, especially in Tokyo. Kids. People who just stopped pretending, who built their spaces around what they actually wanted instead of some imaginary better version of themselves.
What Kawamoto understood — and what makes the work matter — is that these rooms aren’t specimens or jokes. They’re homes. Spaces where everything you look at looks back at you, where you’re surrounded by what you love instead of what you’re supposed to love. Some people find that suffocating. I find it honest.
Most of us spend a lifetime in a version of ourselves designed for public consumption. Even at home, we decorate around the person we think we should be. These rooms are different. Just what someone loves, completely unfiltered. No performance. That’s not sad. That’s one of the only true things you can make of a space.
Garters have never really appealed to me. They read as costume—the housewife-in-heels fantasy, all that. There’s always this sense of performance, of asking to be looked at a certain way.
But Kate Upton did a photoshoot for The Men Magazine titled “Blonde Beauty” and she’s wearing garters. She’s blowing bubbles through the frame, eating candy chains, just existing without strain. And watching her wear them changes what they are. They stop signaling anything particular. They’re just what she’s wearing.
I had no idea who Ariana Grande was. Apparently she came from Nickelodeon—one of those former child stars who got a complete pop star makeover. The song itself is discount disco-pop, nothing I’d normally care about. But Iggy Azalea’s on the feature, and Iggy Azalea is genuinely good, which is enough for me.
I found out about this film from a tip: Fonotune, An Electric Fairytale, directed by Fabian Huebner. It’s still being made, caught between idea and finished work. Retro-futuristic, which usually signals someone’s going to synth their way through a bad screenplay, but this one feels different.
The premise is strange enough to matter. Three characters—BLITZ, ANALOG, STEREO—with nothing in common except music. They exist in a world where no trees grow, no animals live, and people have stopped talking to each other. Completely artificial, completely hostile. Electronic fairytale feels right for it—there’s magic, but it’s broken.
The cast is Guitar Wolf, Kazushi Watanabe, Yuho Yamashita, shot across Berlin and Tokyo. It’s the kind of film you make because it won’t leave you alone, not because there’s money in it or because anyone asked. Pure vision, no compromises, genuinely weird.
What matters about work like this is the refusal to apologize for what it is. No one’s trying to explain it or make it digestible. It’s strange, it’s sincere about its own wrongness, it trusts that strangeness without worrying if anyone gets it. Most cinema doesn’t have that kind of confidence.
I have no idea what it’ll be when it’s finished. But there’s something valuable about these things existing—work that takes its own vision seriously enough not to bend it.
Eight teams competing in a Ford marketing campaign, each challenge more specific than the last. Social media stunts, sheep herding, dancing. You can’t say Ford didn’t try—there’s a kind of honesty in the randomness, the sheer confidence that absurd tasks plus audience equals engagement. Did it work? Doesn’t really matter. The fact that this happened, that someone championed this idea and got budget approval and it actually went through—that’s the real story.
Japanese car commercials hit different — they’ve got this fearlessness about doing something genuinely weird that no Western brand would touch. Mercedes-Benz figured this out and made a Super Mario ad for the GLA, which is genuinely one of the most absurd marketing moves I’ve ever seen, in the best possible way.
The setup is perfect: Mario tearing through Mushroom Kingdom in a sedan. Not a kart, not some concept car — a real luxury vehicle cutting through those bright, hyperreal mushroom landscapes where he normally just jumps on Goombas. It shouldn’t work but it does. Mario’s all velocity and precision, and suddenly he’s got an engine instead of his legs. The commercial gets that perfect logic where the car ad serves the Mario universe, not the other way around.
And of course there’s a twist — an old enemy derails the whole ride. It has to end in chaos. That’s Mario in a nutshell: you know exactly what’s coming, and it happens anyway.
This is exactly the kind of thing that lives in Japan for six months and never escapes the rest of the world, which feels right. Some ideas don’t need to travel.
Jessica Alba has been showing up in things I watch for most of my adult life. “Dark Angel” was the obvious entry point—a show where she could do action without winking at the audience, without pretending to be anything other than what she was. Then “Into the Blue,” which didn’t bother with subtext, just put her in a bikini on a beach and called it a done deal. “Honey.” “Entourage.” Over the years she’d appear in something and I’d register her before the scene even settled.
What I realize after following someone that long is that the attraction doesn’t really fade. It just becomes automatic. Built in.
Entertainment Weekly has her for Sin City 2. Another magazine spread, another moment of her being exactly what this kind of thing requires. But what I’m noticing isn’t the specific photo or the moment—it’s that she’s still here. Still doing this after all this time. Still the same person, more or less, in the landscape where I first noticed her two decades ago. That consistency, that refusal to disappear or reinvent, is somehow the thing that keeps pulling my attention back.
Bacon doesn’t have to try. A piece hits a hot pan and that smell takes over — your kitchen, your morning, whatever you were thinking about two seconds ago. Nothing else exists until it’s done.
It’s the fat. Hot fat hits something in your brain that probably hasn’t changed much since we were literally hunting for food. Most foods need to actually be good to make you care. Bacon only needs to smell like it’s already won.
That’s the whole thing. It doesn’t need to be clever. Just salt, meat, and heat doing exactly what they do best.
The YAAM was reopening. Weboogie x A Million Friends, with Jimmy Edgar, MeLo-X, SEVDALIZA—names that carried weight if you’d been paying attention. Berlin club nights have a way of returning like that: the same venue, the same strangers, the same dark room where you go to stop thinking for a few hours.
There’s something about electronic music in a space like that, the way it fills a room and empties your mind at the same time. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway.
There’s something surreal about seeing Mario on a dress in a shop window. Not ironic surreal—just genuinely weird, the way pop culture moments become strange once they’ve aged enough. When I was actually playing Super Mario World, you kept it quiet. Games were for kids, or basement dwellers, or both. Now the aesthetic is everywhere: the pixelated mugs, the retro controllers as phone chargers, the graphics that intentionally look cheap because that’s what we’re supposed to find beautiful.
It makes sense in a way. There’s real beauty in those old graphics—the constraint bred elegance, the way it had to. And there’s something in all of us that wants to wear our history, to prove we were there, to say this thing mattered. I was there when games looked like that, and I loved it. I want it stitched into my clothes now.
But there’s also something lost in the translation. A dress is not about playing games. It’s about looking like you played games. The vintage aesthetic gets separated from the actual experience—the boredom of empty levels, the frustration at the mechanics, the specific joy of figuring out a trick, the sound design doing half the emotional work. It becomes decor instead of memory.
Still, I don’t fault anyone for wearing it. The nostalgia is genuine. It exists because the games existed and because people loved them, and there’s something honest in that chain, even if it’s been smoothed into commodity shape. It’s a way of saying you were there, you loved it, you belonged to it. Sometimes that’s reason enough.
Oliver Becker was this cannabis activist who thought the best way to promote his legalization book was to load a camper van with Moroccan hash and just park it in Görlitzer Park on June 21st. Not grass—only hash. He’d worked it out so he wouldn’t interfere with the West African dealers already working the park. Different products, no conflict.
He called it his mobile coffeeshop, which I guess is one way to rebrand street dealing. The police obviously knew what was up and said they’d stop it. Becker’s move: if they arrested him, he’d hunger strike Gandhi-style. Fifty days, calculated to end right at the Hanf Parade on August 9th. He’d really thought through the logistics of his own arrest.
That’s very Berlin. The absolute confidence that you can announce an illegal scheme beforehand, with cops basically saying “yeah, we know,” and it still somehow feels like a political statement rather than just stupid. I never found out if he actually went through with it. Maybe he did and got busted. Maybe he lost his nerve. Either way, the audacity of thinking it through that carefully—that sticks with me.
Pizza Hut Japan made a caramel-marshmallow pizza—no irony, no winking at the camera. Just straight caramel and marshmallow on a pizza base, about six euros, a tie-in with some Japanese candy brand. The kind of move that could only happen in Japan.
I’d want to try it if they shipped internationally, but obviously they don’t. There’s something clean about just dropping the pretense and merging pizza with candy, like we all know it’s just bread and toppings anyway, and if the toppings are sugar, then so be it.
Maybe that’s where we’re headed. Maybe pizza was always just a vehicle for whatever you wanted to pile on it, and companies are finally done defending that decision.
Colors bleeding into each other. That’s what Osaka is now—neon and beer and video games and voices calling from doorways, fried meat, the feeling of being exactly where I shouldn’t be and exactly where I needed to be. It started with a drinking contest, me and some guy who was way too confident about his stamina, both of us ordering Asahi Super Dry like we were settling something. When it was over the sky had turned that particular gray that only cities get at night, and I was standing in front of Osaka Castle somehow, with a train about to leave the platform.
The hours blur. There was a bar with expensive sake up front and old arcade machines in the back, the kind of place that existed for exactly this. We moved through the bright streets like we were inside a game level, hopping from one place to the next without thinking about direction. Super Mario on screens older than both of us. Cheap sushi that had no right being that good. Fried meat that stuck to your hands and stayed in your memory. Girls who were kind enough not to judge me for drinking faster than I was thinking.
All I have now are photos from that night—scattered and half-blurred, the only real proof it happened. Looking at them there’s not a single bad moment. Maybe it was actually flawless. Maybe I was just too far gone to notice anything that wasn’t. Either way, Osaka was great that night. It had to be. Nothing else is possible.
Grabbed three magazines at a kiosk because I had an hour between things. NEON, BEEF!, ZEIT Campus. They’re apparently how you understand who you’re becoming.
NEON is what freshmen read. Bright, clever, talking about sex and friendship like they’re profound. The writers are never bad, which is the problem—it’s recycled the same stuff for a decade with different names. There’s a piece by Antonia Friemel about young guys so deep in pornography they’ve tanked actual relationships. I know people exactly like that. The whole magazine’s a confidence trick: makes you feel special for an hour, then you forget it.
BEEF! is pure meat worship. Steaks, burgers, potatoes fried in every way possible. The writing gets sexual about the excess, which I respect—no apology, just appetite. Raik Holst and Mike Hofstätter photographed spring potatoes with human names (Leyla, Annabelle, Cilena) served with squid and sardines and blood sausage. That actually changed something about how I think about food. Then they ruin it by copying tabloid style for a piece about eating dogs in China—sensationalism instead of reporting.
ZEIT Campus is what you read after NEON. More trustworthy, more institutional. Oskar Piegsa and Leonie Seiferth wrote something about admitting you don’t know what you can do, which felt like permission in a world where everyone’s faking confidence. But then there’s a 23-year-old student named Laura who paid a hypnotist a hundred euros for exam stress help. It didn’t work. Her conclusion: walking with music is better. Which sure, but also vodka, sex, and Nutella in that order would’ve been cheaper.
Each magazine sells you a different version of yourself that week. NEON through flattery, BEEF! through honesty, ZEIT Campus through permission to be confused. I’m not sure which one I actually believe, which is probably why all three keep getting published.
Bill Murray says if you think you’ve found the one, don’t plan a wedding. Buy plane tickets. Go somewhere difficult to reach, somewhere that makes you stick together because leaving would be harder than staying. Then fly back to JFK. If you still love them when you land, you’ve got something real.
It’s funny because it’s true, which is why it sounds like movie dialogue. Most people plan vacations to keep a relationship smooth—careful destination, restaurants booked, the kind of trip where you’re always a little comfortable. Murray’s talking about the opposite: a vacation so demanding it becomes a test. No script, no safety net of routine, just you and them and a lot of unfamiliar friction.
I’ve watched couples break on that first real trip—the one where you’re stranded together, dependent, tired, frustrated. The ones who made it through came home different. Closer, sometimes. Quieter. You can’t bullshit for two weeks in a place where you don’t speak the language and your hotel room is the size of a closet. You’re just there, together, with nowhere to hide.
There’s something almost cruel about it as a measure. Not romantic at all. But that might be the point. Romantic is easy. Romantic is what gets people married. Surviving with someone, actually tolerating them when everything’s hard—that’s the thing you can’t fake. That’s what matters.
Pharrell sketched ten different versions of the Stan Smith, and Adidas put them out in limited quantities. Simple sketches—the kind anyone could do in a few minutes. No manifesto, no artist statement, no elaborate concept. Just someone with taste taking a shoe everyone already knows and making ten small different marks on it. That’s what a real design collaboration feels like.
Google built a car that drives itself and it looks like something you’d want to stay far away from. All rounded edges and bug eyes, genuinely unimpressed-looking. The kind of thing that would be cute if it weren’t about to make a decision that could kill you. That’s the part people get stuck on, I think — we’ve spent a century treating the car like an extension of ourselves, something you grip and steer and feel beneath you. And now we’re supposed to just sit there while it happens.
There’s always skepticism when a new thing arrives. The trains would destroy society. The automobiles would destroy the trains. The internet would destroy everything. And maybe it would have, if we hadn’t all agreed to let it. This is the same negotiation with a different object. We get to decide if we’re comfortable with it, or at least we get to complain loudly until someone decides for us.
What strikes me isn’t the technology — that part is fine, inevitable even. It’s the design language. That panda face. Someone at Google sat down and thought about what a self-driving car should look like, and they landed on something so deliberately unthreatening it becomes threatening in a different way. Like they’re telling us they know we’re afraid of them, so here, have this cute harmless thing. Trust us.
The dark part — the part that made me laugh despite myself — is the joke about responsibility. If the car hits someone, you’re not driving, so you can’t be blamed. Which is funny and also horrifying, because it’s true. We’ll invent legal frameworks and blame systems and insurance structures, and the car will just keep driving, unimpressed as a panda, and nobody will be the person who did it. That’s either the future or a different kind of problem we haven’t figured out how to talk about yet.
Took a BuzzFeed quiz about Adventure Time and got Princess Bubblegum. Super sweet, smartest character on the show. I’d have preferred Marceline, though. She’s cooler. Deadpan, cynical, dragging this whole history with the Ice King around. Marceline doesn’t need the validation. The quiz is designed to flatter you into sharing it, so of course it won’t put you in a character you don’t want to be. But Marceline wouldn’t take the quiz anyway. That’s the move.
There’s this Instagram account called “You Did Not Eat That” that exists purely to mock one of social media’s most transparent lies: photos of conventionally attractive people posing with enormous burgers, colorful cupcakes, whole pizzas, grinning at the camera like they’re about to devour the thing, when everyone knows they ate maybe two bites before setting it aside.
The account itself is simple — just reposts of these photos with the implication written out loud. And it’s funny because it’s so obvious. You can see it in the composition, the way the light hits the food, the exact distance from face to plate. There’s craft in it. These aren’t candid moments; they’re carefully lit, carefully framed performances of appetite.
What gets me is that it works. People still do it, people still engage with it, and somewhere in that loop is probably something true about wanting to be seen as someone who enjoys things without the actual consequences of enjoying them. Have the image of indulgence without indulgence. The Instagram version of a life is always cleaner than the actual thing.
The “You Did Not Eat That” account is mean in a way I actually respect — it points at something small and stupid and says it out loud without apology. No lecture about authenticity or wellness or eating disorders, just: you’re lying and it’s obvious. There’s something clarifying about that.
Every summer, around May or June, I need Lana Del Rey’s voice the way I need cold sheets and the smell of someone else’s skin. Shades of Cool comes back, and it doesn’t announce anything profound—nothing epic, nothing that needs explaining. It’s just that whisper of hers, that cool restraint, the way she lets certain words hang until you finish them yourself.
It carries you through the sticky nights on the balcony when you can’t sleep, through sheets that are already damp with heat, through those shadowless moments at the lake when the sun’s finally gone. There’s nothing showy about it. She’s not trying. That’s why it works.
A satire show called Die Anstalt did what satire’s supposed to do—went after major newspapers for sleeping with power. Sure, papers like Bild and Die Welt, you see their editors hanging around with CEOs and defense contractors, money flowing in one direction and editorial independence flowing out the other. Doesn’t surprise anyone. But Die Zeit was different. That was the paper that felt separate from all that.
I’d grab it on a Saturday morning, make tea, some Nutella bread, quiet music playing, and actually believe I was reading something independent. Real journalism. Real questions. Not just polished propaganda passing as analysis. Then I found out that Die Zeit’s editors had been attending secretive Bilderberg conferences with the same politicians and businessmen they’re supposed to be covering. Years of it. Hidden.
The logic’s simple and brutal: journalists embedded in elite networks can’t report on those networks objectively. How could they? These are people they know. People they have dinner with. The distance between press and power doesn’t shrink—it evaporates. What you’re reading isn’t observation, it’s insider protection masquerading as analysis.
So now when I pick up Die Zeit, something’s different. The writing’s still good. The reporting still sharp. But there’s this layer of doubt underneath, this question about which voice is actually speaking. The watchdog or the insider? I can’t shake it. Once you see the conflict of interest, you can’t unsee it.
That’s what bothers me most. Not that Die Zeit’s compromised, but that now I know it, and I can’t read the paper the same way anymore.
There’s a cube in Tokyo. Six meters on each side, transparent, with a cloud suspended inside it like it’s trapped in amber. Not a model or projection—the cloud itself, changing throughout the day, its color and density responding to the weather outside, to the time, to conditions beyond anyone’s control. Tetsuo Kondo built it. When you climb the stairs in the middle and stand surrounded by it, something shifts. For a moment, you stop looking at a cloud. You’re inside one.
I grew up wanting to touch clouds, like any kid does. Then you learn they dissolve, they’re too high, they don’t work that way. You move on. But standing in that cube, the desire comes back full force. Here’s the thing you couldn’t have, made permanent. You can examine it from every angle, walk around it, let your eyes adjust to the light falling through it. You’re eye level with something that usually exists entirely beyond reach.
The sky looks different after. Thinner, more alive, more possible. The cube has changed how I see weather now—made me believe that clouds are actually within reach if I tried hard enough. Which is obviously not true. But for a moment inside that space, it felt true.
Harley Weir shot Arvida Emma Byström for Double Magazine, with another model named Lily. Arvida’s been using her Tumblr to push back against beauty industry standards – her work is feminist, pointed, refusing the usual compromises. Weir shoots the same way, so the collaboration made sense. The result is explicit and candid, bodies visible without the cosmetic removals that editing usually performs.
It’s the opposite of the abstracted, seamless aesthetic in most fashion photography. I’ve always found that kind of visual honesty more interesting than the fiction.
When you see Arya Stark rendered in geometric planes, something clicks. It’s still unmistakably her, but you’re looking straight through to the structure underneath, all those sharp decisions that make a face readable.
Mordi Levi, a designer and illustrator based in Israel, builds these at his computer. He’s taken the main characters from Game of Thrones — Arya, Daenerys, Tyrion, Margaery, Khal Drogo — and reduced them to facets and blocks of color. The work looks like elaborate craft pieces made from colored cardboard, where you see every decision and understand the method immediately. Not photorealism trying to impress you. Just honest geometry.
There’s something I appreciate about this approach. Instead of rendering more detail, he’s rendering less, and somehow that’s harder. It requires understanding the character well enough to reduce them without losing them. Economy of line, specificity in color. The kind of design work that looks effortless but obviously wasn’t.
I’d hang these. Large, one after another in a room. The kind of thing you’d catch in the corner of your eye and it would never stop working.
I’ve never been to Tokyo, which feels like a genuine failure at this point. I wanted to go when I was young enough to think travel just happens to you if you want it bad enough. Life got in the way. So now I visit through music that was basically designed for travelers stuck at home.
Kyary Pamyu Pamyu has this digital giddiness that hits like a drug—cuteness as an assault, perfectly polished synth-pop that takes itself completely seriously when nothing about it is serious. Capsule is the opposite temperature, all surgical precision and ice. Perfume lives somewhere between them, that Tokyo impulse where weird and cute are somehow the same thing.
A mixtape called “Shibuya Connection” crossed my path and it was doing exactly what the title promised: neon, arcade glow, perfect synthetic sleekness, that version of Tokyo that only exists in music videos and late-night internet scrolling. You put it on and you’re there. Or you’re in the version of there that your brain built from watching Japanese television at three in the morning, which is close enough.
Still haven’t made it. But I’ve been plenty of times already.
I spent years with that gray rectangle. Link’s Awakening first — which was weird for a handheld, actually. Koholint Island had this melancholy that made you forget you were squinting at a four-inch screen in the back of a car. Then Pokémon Blue, and I built a team that made no sense strategically but felt right. Charizard obviously. Alakazam for the raw power flex. A Lapras because someone in my class said water types were overpowered. You’d arrange and rearrange your party at the Pokémon Center, betting on combinations like they meant something, like your choices actually mattered in a way they didn’t.
Then there was Tetris. God, Tetris. The way the game would speed up and your hands would lock and you’d panic-rotate pieces into the wrong orientation, knowing exactly what you were doing wrong but unable to stop. That’s the Game Boy in a nutshell — intimate enough that you felt your own incompetence in real time.
What’s strange about it now is how little the machine actually did. No backlight, monochrome gray, a battery life that meant you carried extra AAs everywhere. It shouldn’t have worked. But there was something about that constraint that made it feel like the thing was genuinely yours in a way nothing else was. You couldn’t show off what the machine could do because it couldn’t do much. You could only disappear into whatever game you had a cartridge for.
I’ve read the trivia since — the engineering decisions, why it dominated, why it beat more powerful competitors. Interesting in the abstract. But that’s not what I remember. I remember the weight of it, the tick of the buttons, the small green dot on the screen when you’d drained the battery just enough that you could barely see but not quite enough to stop playing.
There’s a point where wearing your favorite TV show stops feeling like a statement and just feels like showing up as yourself. ELEVENPARIS and colette made a collection of Simpsons T-shirts, which is just what happens when something’s been around long enough that it doesn’t need defending. The show’s been on for over thirty years. The characters haven’t aged a day. They’re not cool or uncool anymore—they just are.
The design works because The Simpsons are fundamentally a design object. That yellow, the black outlines, that typeface. It’s been the same for decades, which is unusual. Most shows get updated, softened, made contemporary. The Simpsons just kept going exactly as they were. So when you see them on a shirt, it reads instantly. It doesn’t feel like you’re wearing a licensed product. It feels like something you’ve known your whole life.
I had Simpsons everything in the 90s. Backpack, T-shirt, pins on my jacket. Now I’d probably just grab a shirt if it was good, without needing it to mean something. The show got worse years ago, and I stopped watching. But you don’t forget those characters. You see them on a shirt and you’re back in that apartment, that year, that particular version of yourself you don’t really access anymore. The weird thing is they look exactly the same.
Converse ran a recording studio for a few years. They called it Rubber Tracks, and it started in Williamsburg, Brooklyn — a legitimate recording space with engineers and equipment, and they let you use it for free. If you were a young musician and had the time to book a session, you could walk in and make something real.
Over time they packed it up and moved it around. Toronto, Austin, Los Angeles, Amsterdam. In the summer of 2014, it landed in Berlin, set up in the Trixx Studios in Kreuzberg. Trixx itself had history — people like Rammstein and Wu-Tang Clan had recorded there. The place carried weight.
Recording properly still mattered then. Home recording was getting better, but it wasn’t there yet. You could make something decent in your bedroom, but a real studio, real equipment, an engineer who knew how to treat a room and get a vocal right — that was different. It changed what you could hear in your own work.
The Converse initiative was strange in the way brand philanthropy in music was strange. A shoe company funding recording sessions. But it was genuinely free, no strings, no branding in the actual space as far as I know. Just: show up, book a day, make your record. Over five hundred musicians had used the Brooklyn location by the time they took it on the road.
Berlin being on that list mattered. The city had become a place where young people made music, played in tiny clubs, self-released records. Not everyone had money for proper sessions. Not everyone had connections to people who did. So the studio came to you.
I never booked a session myself, and I don’t know anyone who did, but I remember thinking about it. The idea that you could just have that access if you wanted it badly enough. It probably mattered more to someone younger, someone still figuring out their sound, than it did to the people who already had the resources. That was the whole point.
Converse stopped doing it eventually. Everything ends. But that summer in Berlin, there was a professional space with your name on the application form, if you wanted to show up and try.
There’s something genuinely unfair about gendered swimwear that nobody really talks about. Men get board shorts—basically interchangeable rectangles in different colors—or actual swim briefs that make you feel like you’re auditioning for the Olympics. Women get an entire spectrum of choices: cuts, coverage, colors, patterns. It’s not even close. Been Trill and PacSun’s “No Boys Allowed” capsule is basically just acknowledging that reality and doing something with it.
The collection itself is straightforward. One-pieces, high-waisted bottoms, some solid colors, some prints. Nothing trying to be clever or ironic about it. The designs have this confidence that comes from actually thinking about what’s functional and looks good, rather than what photographs well on an impossible body. It reads as genuinely thought through—which is harder to pull off than it sounds.
There’s something quietly radical about a collection that just exists as good design without the usual performance around it. No lookbook casting models like they’re in a spread for aspirational living. No breathless copy about “empowerment” or whatever. Just well-designed swimwear that understands the body wearing it is real and doing things.
I’ll probably see this stuff everywhere by midsummer, which feels right. It’s the kind of thing that doesn’t need to be precious about itself.
Natasha Khan basically saved my life with Two Suns and Daniel. I don’t say that lightly. Those records were guides through some genuinely dark years—the kind of companion pieces you put on at two in the morning when nothing else makes sense. Two Suns especially sits near the top of everything this industry’s ever made.
There’s a new video now, for Under the Indigo Moon. I haven’t entirely figured out what it’s trying to say—it’s got this hazy, oblique quality—but that’s beside the point. It’s Natasha Khan. So I’m watching it carefully, listening carefully, grateful she’s still making things.
Watched a documentary called Geisterstädte on Arte about the towns around Fukushima, and walking through them in the footage is genuinely unsettling. You see these empty streets, shops still stocked, cars still parked, and it feels like everyone just stepped out thirty seconds ago. Except it’s been years. The apocalypse already happened and you missed it—that’s the feeling you get.
What gets to me is how fast it was. One day these are just regular towns with people living their lives. The next day they’re not. Families had maybe hours to pack what they could carry and had to leave the rest. The documentary shows homes still set up like someone’s coming back any minute, except they won’t, they can’t. It all just sits there, slowly falling apart.
The thing about Fukushima specifically is that it wasn’t a natural disaster that snuck up on people. It was something we built, something we made decisions about, something the authorities assured everyone was safe. And then it wasn’t. That’s a different kind of wrong. The dead cities aren’t just loss—they’re a broken promise sitting in plain sight.
I saw these images the other day—video game characters completely hollowed out. Mario, Sonic, the princess. Christopher Hemsworth made a series called “Dear Inner Demons” that strips away the fantasy and shows what these characters would actually feel if they had to sit with their own lives.
When you’re a kid playing, you don’t see any of that. You see coins, power-ups, a sense of being capable of anything. You want to be that person. But the more you think about it, the more you realize the actual trap. These heroes are stuck in loops. Rescue the princess, clear the level, find the treasure. Then it starts again. No progression, no ending, no escape. Just the pattern forever, until someone turns off the console.
There’s something almost cruel about that kind of repetition. Especially when you realize Hemsworth’s images are right—the hero would feel exactly like that. Exhausted. Trapped. Wondering if this is really the life that looked so appealing from outside the screen. Maybe that’s why the work hits. It’s forcing you to see what you were happy to ignore when you were young. The trap was always there.
Festival season hits and Rock am Ring’s lineup appears. Iron Maiden, Metallica, Slayer, Linkin Park, The Offspring, Fall Out Boy, Kings of Leon, Haim — no coherence, just whatever acts the promoters could afford that year, all thrown at a racetrack in Germany’s Eifel region.
There’s something honest about festivals that don’t pretend to have taste. Most of the ones that try collapse under the weight of their own curation. Rock am Ring just books whoever and lets the crowds sort themselves out. You get thousands of people with nothing in common — metalheads next to Linkin Park nostalgists next to whoever — all camping, all broke, all there because they want to hear it loud and don’t care who else is listening.
I’ve never actually been, but I know the type of person who does this every year. The real experience happens in the planning. Weeks of checking schedules, mapping which sets you’ll catch, building the whole weekend in your head. By the time you actually show up it’s already been better — the fantasy’s cleaner and easier than the muddy, exhausting reality.
But that’s fine. The point was never the experience matching the plan. The point was wanting something badly enough to drive cross-country and sleep in a tent for it, knowing the whole time that reality will disappoint the idea. Even now. Even when you know better.
Alex Solis draws the characters we know as if they’d actually lived here. Darth Vader, Superman, Mickey Mouse — all of them fed on the cheap burgers and ice cream and endless cupcakes that are everywhere, living the life that real abundance offers. Not the heroic ideal. The real thing.
The joke is obvious, which is why it lands. We’re in a place where bad food is everywhere and cheap and designed to taste incredible, and the gap between these perfect bodies and what exists is pretty funny. Solis just drew what was already there.
It’s not cruel. He’s not mocking fat people. He’s showing these figures in a real world, with real food, no bullshit. This is what happens when you stop resisting. And that’s somehow gentler than all the aspiration.
I like that it sits between satire and something genuine. You’re laughing at the contrast — perfect design meeting round body — but there’s also something true in it. These icons in a world with real abundance. Not the fantasy version. Just what’s there.
Sports Illustrated kept uploading Kate Upton beach videos for months—slightly different crops, slightly different lighting, but the same photoshoot stretched across dozens of uploads. It works because Kate Upton is pleasant to look at, and they know exactly how to package that. But you can see the machinery completely bare: one day of shooting turned into a summer of content, each video a marginal variation designed to feel fresh enough to click on. It’s so transparent about what it’s doing that you almost respect the efficiency.
Carter Baldwin built a LEGO city called Cyberpocalypse at Brickworld—industrial, dark, neon bleeding through the concrete gray. Dense, nothing wasted. It shouldn’t work in toy bricks, but it works. Punk sensibility in plastic form.
I don’t care about licensed LEGO sets. What hooks me is when someone figures out that bricks are raw material, not a brand vehicle. Cyberpocalypse is pure mood and texture, no plot, no characters. That interests me far more than any official build.
Uniqlo announced this app called UTme! where you upload a photo, pick some colors, and they print it on a T-shirt. Design your own thing, basically.
It’s the kind of feature that should have always existed but somehow took this long. Customization’s everywhere now—everyone wants to let you make it yours. For a brand like Uniqlo, it tracks. They already do plain, minimal, straightforward. Adding a design tool doesn’t complicate that; it’s an extension of it.
I haven’t tried it, but there’s something satisfying about the idea. Take something generic and mass-produced and flip it into something personal with one photo and a button. Or maybe it’s just a gimmick. Either way, it’s interesting that this kind of thing is now normal. A decade ago, that was indie brand territory.
Whether it actually sticks or just becomes another dormant feature depends on what people do with it. But as a signal of where things are going, it’s pretty clear. Mass customization with zero friction.
Everyone’s going for Tokyo. It’s the obvious choice—millions of people stacked into vertical blocks, pachinko glow at midnight, trains that make you feel like a cell in a circulatory system. I understand the pull. But a few hours west on the Shinkansen there’s something else, a place that was the capital for a thousand years, and after two days walking around it started to become clear why you might skip Tokyo entirely.
Kyoto has 1.5 million people but doesn’t feel like a crisis. You move through the streets and you’re not being erased by the crowd or confused about whether you just walked into a restricted shrine or someone’s living room. There’s actual space between things—a street, then quiet, then a temple, then the Kamogawa river, which is just a river, no artifice, and it’s actually somewhere you want to sit.
Fushimi Inari is ten thousand scarlet torii gates stacked on a hillside like someone built a staircase to heaven and then forgot about it. You walk through them and lose the city, or think you do, but it’s still there. The place has been sacred for centuries and it feels it. I’m not religious but something about ten thousand gates doing their thing in the morning light works on you whether you mean it to or not.
In some industrial zone that tourists don’t think about is Nintendo’s headquarters, which is the kind of absurdist detail that shouldn’t fit in the same place as a thousand-year-old shrine but does, and that’s Kyoto in a nutshell—past and future sharing the same streets like old roommates who learned to get along.
The temples aren’t a museum exhibit. They’re not relics. The place is just built on top of them the way other places are built on top of shopping malls. This is where the culture decided what mattered, and then it kept that. Tokyo is electric and relentless and you should probably go, but this is the one that lingers.
Those Craig McDean photographs from Vanity Fair hit me when I came across them. Scarlett Johansson. I have no idea what she’s wearing or what the article says. Never read the interview.
The photographs just worked, and that was enough. That’s all.
Die Antwoord released a video for “Pitbull Terrier” where they dress as bloodthirsty dogs tearing through the streets, which is basically just them being themselves. The South African group—Ninja, Yo-Landi Vi$$er, and DJ Hi-Tek—have been building this world of deliberate ugliness for over a decade now, refusing every basic aesthetic rule. Be attractive. Be likable. Be accessible. They don’t do any of that. Their whole project is making something intentionally uncomfortable.
After a while the shock wears off. You see the violence and the provocation and the crude sexuality and realize it’s not a stunt or an ironic performance from a safe distance. There’s something more direct about it, more committed. A video of them as rabid dogs terrorizing the neighborhood feels like the natural extension of their logic. This is what they do. They scare people. They disturb you. And they’ve never seemed to care if you can handle it.
It’s hard to know if that’s admirable or just interesting or kind of exhausting. Maybe they’re assholes. Maybe the whole thing is cynical. But there’s something in refusing to soften it, to make it palatable, that feels real in a way most music doesn’t anymore. They’re not trying to be liked.
I’ve never understood the Berlin street style thing. Everyone dresses the same—the bun, the tote bag, the pants, all of it—like they’re working from a manual. It’s suffocating. Tokyo’s different. People actually take risks there, or at least they don’t seem to be asking permission first.
Fuwako’s proof. She wears Grimoire, Freckle, Pink House—pieces that could look stupid in the wrong hands—and carries a Winnie the Pooh bag, and none of it looks like a costume or a desperate bid for attention. It just looks like getting dressed. That’s the thing Berlin girls trying this look like they’re working twice as hard. She looks like she’s not working at all.
The English dub of Attack on Titan landed at some point and I watched it again just to check how it translated. I’d already seen the anime, knew where it was heading, understood the whole apparatus. But sitting with a few teenagers watching it cold was its own thing. They had no idea what was coming.
They probably thought it’d be like Naruto or whatever—action, training, the standard shounen moves. Then the titans show up and it’s immediately wrong in a way the show never apologizes for. Massive, nude, utterly purposeless creatures tearing through people like they’re insects. The violence isn’t graceful or animated dramatically. It’s almost casual how quick it ends someone.
The thing about Attack on Titan is how thoroughly it’s built around entrapment. The walls are safety, supposedly. A hundred years inside them and humanity’s convinced itself that this is the entire world. The show takes that comfortable lie and methodically destroys it. Each episode another thread coming loose. By the season’s end, you know that the real threat isn’t the titans—it’s that everything you believed about your world was false.
I wasn’t sure about the English version but it works. Doesn’t soften anything. The dialogue lands right, the scale stays overwhelming, and the premise—giant creatures that eat people without strategy or mercy—stays weird and grotesque.
Watching people encounter it for the first time is something else. You see them process it, understand something they don’t have words for yet. By episode five or six it clicks. They’ve stopped thinking of this as entertainment and started feeling actual dread. That’s when it stops being cool and becomes something that sticks.
It’s why the show has held up. The core idea is solid. Walls that imprison you. Monsters outside that don’t care about your hopes or your species or anything. And the slow horrible realization that the cage was intentional. Even in English, with all the distance dubbing creates, it still lands.
Fernando Barbella created a Tumblr of signs from the near future—photographs of billboards and warnings that don’t exist yet, but feel like they absolutely should. Driverless taxi lanes. Synthetic burger restaurants. Addiction support hotlines for social media. The future according to these signs isn’t nuclear wars or robot uprisings. It’s just… normal, but slightly wrong. Exhausted. A little sad.
There’s something weirdly funny about designing the banality of the future. Not dystopia, just the mundane bureaucratic reality of the next ten years. These are the signs we’ll ignore while we walk past them. The warnings we won’t take seriously until it’s too late. They’re printed in clean sans-serif typefaces, in that reassuring official style—the style that makes you trust something even when you shouldn’t.
What gets me is the precision of the predictions. Barbella isn’t fantasizing about flying cars or colonies on Mars. He’s imagining the exact form that technological resignation will take. The infrastructure of acceptance. The signs we’ll see every day and stop noticing, the way you stop noticing the warning labels on cigarettes.
I’ve been looking at these photos for a while now, and they’re stuck in my head in a way that isn’t comfortable. Not because they’re scary, but because they’re so plausible. Because I can almost see them already, half-glimpsed in the near distance.
That sound—the default iPhone ringtone. It’s everywhere. Buses, cafes, random moments where someone’s phone cuts through the quiet and everyone tenses for half a second. MetroGnome took those few notes and built them into an actual electronic track, which sounds like a joke premise until you hear it. The ringtone was designed to interrupt, to be impossible to ignore. Stretched across a full remix, that urgency becomes something else. Hypnotic, almost.
Most of the time you don’t even hear it anymore. Your brain learned years ago to screen it out unless it’s yours. The iPhone ringtone has been the sound of modern life for so long that it’s become background radiation. So there’s something genuinely weird about MetroGnome centering the whole thing, making that forgotten sound the main event. He just treats it like a real instrument—extends it, builds around it, lets it be what it is.
I doubt many people switched their default ringtone to his version. The original works because it’s annoying enough to cut through anything. MetroGnome’s is too interesting for that practical job. But that misses the point entirely. Someone looked at a sound so mundane it’s invisible, everywhere and nowhere at once, and asked what you could do with it if you didn’t need it to be practical. What if you just let it be interesting. That’s enough.
You grow up in a small town or the countryside and all you want is out. Get away, hit the city with its tall buildings and loud nights and chaos. Anything but here. That’s the only thought that matters at seventeen—escape into something bigger, something real. I felt it in my bones.
Then twenty years later you’re sitting with this anime about four girls in a rural village, and something cracks. Non Non Biyori pulls you back to a place you spent your adolescence trying to forget. Not in a sentimental way. More like a quiet hand reaching across a table.
Hotaru moves to the countryside to Asahigaoka because of her father’s job. She’s from the city, which should make her the outsider, except no one treats her like one. She just becomes part of the group: Komari, quiet and tiny; Natsumi, loud and loves causing trouble; Renge, impossibly small, speaks like she’s having a minor stroke every five seconds. Renge is the best. You know it from episode one.
There’s no plot. I mean genuinely no plot. No villain, no magic, no stakes. Every episode is just moments in that village—walking to school, sitting in a shop, the way light hits the rice fields. That’s all there is.
But there’s something about that emptiness that works. Every frame feels like a place where you can actually rest. The series builds this world where nothing demands your attention and you’re allowed to just exist. If you’ve ever watched those quiet pastoral stories—Anne of Green Gables, those European tales where nothing violent happens and that’s the whole point—you know what this feels like. It’s exactly that.
What gets me is how Hotaru’s arrival echoes my own escape. She’s the one who wants out of the city, at least at first. But the longer she stays in the village, the less it matters. The countryside starts to feel real and Tokyo becomes the place you left. I wasn’t expecting the anime to work that way. I thought it would be cozy background noise. Instead it’s making me sit with the fact that I spent two decades running from something that was just quiet. Just good. Just enough.
I don’t know if I’d actually move back somewhere like that. Probably not. But watching this anime finally made me understand what I was really escaping. Not the place itself. Just the feeling that there had to be something better waiting. There probably wasn’t. There’s just different, and either way you miss where you started.
A festival called Japan Syndrome opened at Hebbel am Ufer in Berlin three years after Fukushima—Japanese artists, theatre makers, visual artists, musicians, documentarians gathering to make sense of what the disaster had done to the country’s story. The postwar mythology about infinite growth on cheap energy and technology that could be controlled. All of it shattered when the reactors failed.
Theatre maker Toshiki Okada was there, alongside visual artists, documentarian Hikaru Fujii, and musician Tori Kudo. They weren’t processing a historical event so much as the collapse of the myths that had structured everything—faith in institutions, safety guarantees, the belief that anyone actually knew what they were doing.
What got me about the whole thing was that the festival had to happen at all. That artists felt compelled to gather and articulate what had become nearly unspeakable. And then the part nobody wanted to think about: those same reactors existed in Germany, in France, everywhere. The same promises held up the same weight. So when these artists gathered in Berlin, they were saying something everyone else was sleeping through.
I never made it to that festival, but the fact of it—people feeling like they had to convene to say what couldn’t be said alone—it seemed to capture something true about where we actually were, even if most of us were still pretending we didn’t know.
Pharrell making a track with Miku Hatsune. Takashi Murakami’s “Jellyfish Eyes” is in there somewhere. This shouldn’t work but it absolutely does.
Miku’s voice is the perfect example of something that works because it’s honest about being artificial. She doesn’t sound human and makes no attempt to. That’s not a flaw. She is what she sounds like—synthesized, engineered, perfect in an almost inhuman way. And people love her for exactly that clarity about the construction. She’s been popular in Japan and across the internet for years. People compose thousands of songs around her voice, sad songs, love songs, all of it, and they care about her more than singers who actually exist. There’s something beautiful about that—sincerity living entirely in the surfaces, in the artifice itself.
Pharrell gets it. He’s always had good instincts about collaboration. And Murakami’s whole thing—the smiling flowers, colors that shouldn’t work together, everything controlled even when it looks chaotic—clicks with Miku perfectly. She’s got aquamarine blue hair and a voice that glitches, sounds like singing through water. Three sensibilities like that colliding produces something colorful and flickering and beautifully wrong.
By now we’ve agreed that authenticity doesn’t matter anymore. We’re done waiting for something real. A song built entirely from surfaces and engineering, a voice made by machines, visuals that are careful chaos—all of it can genuinely move you. The sincerity lives in the honesty about the artifice, not despite it.
“Last Night, Good Night” is surfaces all the way. Color and glitch and perfect control. And somehow that’s the realest thing there is.
Somewhere along the way, pop culture stopped being something you just watched and became something you ate. Mathew Ramsey at PornBurger made a Game of Thrones burger called the Kaleesi, and it’s built with Welsh cheddar studded with mustard seeds and shiitake bacon.
The burger is weirdly committed. It’s not just slapping a dragon name onto something—the cheddar is actually red dragon cheddar from Wales, the bacon is shiitake. Which is what separates a theme burger from an actual burger, I guess.
I don’t watch Game of Thrones anymore—stopped after season four or five depending on my mood—but I’d eat this burger. Not because Daenerys is on it, but because the components sound good. The seeded cheddar, the shiitake. The Game of Thrones thing is just window dressing.
There’s something funny about seeing how franchise IP filters down into the everyday. A character gets reduced to a burger, and the burger is probably better than the source material by this point. Food is where pop culture makes sense. You can actually taste it.
Adidas relaunched miadidas with an app that lets you print custom photos on the new ZX FLUX sneakers. It’s not exactly complicated technology, but it does make you answer a surprisingly specific question: what photo do you want staring up at you from your feet for the next six months?
My instinct is something dumb. Fries. A weird face. The Nike logo, obviously. But that’s the answer when you’re not thinking about it. The real choice is smaller—something that doesn’t feel like a joke when you’re actually wearing it.
Sneakers are weird that way. You look at them constantly but not really, they’re just part of your stride. So whatever you put on them is mostly for you. It’s a private decision dressed up as public wear.
I can’t figure out what I’d print. There’s no wrong answer, which somehow makes it harder. The app is still there if I ever actually decide.
The second issue of the adidas Originals Series showed up, and it was actually well-designed, which isn’t something you’d normally say about a brand publication. Someone spent real time on it, made choices about materials and images because they mattered, not because they fit the brand guidelines.
The main feature is called “The Concrete Jungle.” It’s a summer fashion editorial, but the photography captures something specific about urban heat and fatigue — that exhaustion you get when the season and the crowd wear on you at the same time, where the rhythm shifts and everything feels a little slower.
A World Cup feature pulls animal prints from team kits and uses them as source material for an illustration series. Conny Maier drew with those patterns as a starting point, and the work has this quality of being genuinely strange — not the generic design stuff you’d expect from a brand campaign. The animal patterns become their own language, weird enough to make you double-take.
I’ve spent enough time with design and magazines to know when someone’s done the work. This felt like that. It could’ve been disposable, another piece of marketing to flip through and forget. Instead it has the quality of something worth keeping, worth opening again just to look at how it was made.
Ray-Ban’s marketing team has built a whole mythology around the idea of never hiding. A secret order of individualists stretching back through history—punks, pointillists, leather daddies, everyone who refused to conform. The campaign wants you to join by taking challenges, picking your aesthetic type (“cuts like steel,” “smooth as velvet”), and hashtagging yourself into visibility.
It’s clever branding, I’ll give them that. It’s also fundamentally what happens when a corporation decides to sell you your own resistance. The moment individualism becomes a product category, it stops being individual.
Real individuality doesn’t look for permission from a sunglasses company. The people Ray-Ban’s invoking—the actual rebels, the ones who invented the mohawk or wore clothes that made their parents’ friends uncomfortable—they weren’t performing bravery for an algorithm. They were just doing the thing that felt true, and the world had a fit about it. The visibility came after, not because they were trying to be seen.
What’s funny, or maybe sad, is that Ray-Ban sells the thing that hides you most: dark lenses that obscure your eyes. The whole order of never hiding should start by clocking that irony. But the corporate version will never notice. It’s too busy counting hashtags and retweets, turning rebellion into engagement metrics.
If you’re actually interested in not hiding, start with something smaller. Do something that genuinely interests you, not because it’ll test well with demographics. Care about it enough that you’d do it even if nobody was watching. That’s when you’re outside the order—that’s when you’re actually invisible to the algorithm, which is the same as being free.
I found out someone made a video game called Glorious Leader where you play as Kim Jong-Un riding a unicorn. It’s real. You can download it for PC or mobile right now.
The premise does all the work by itself. There’s no irony needed, no setup — it’s just Kim Jong-Un, a unicorn, a game ostensibly about bringing peace and human rights to North Korea. The absurdity arrives fully formed, complete. If I tried to write that as a joke, it wouldn’t land the same way, because jokes need structure and punchlines. This just is what it is.
That’s where the actual comedy lives — not in the game itself, but in the fact that it got made. Someone pitched this to other people and those people said yes. Artists sat down and drew Kim Jong-Un on a unicorn. Programmers wrote the code. It went through testing and approval and release cycles. The entire machinery of game development was invested in finishing this specific absurdity.
And now it just exists, downloadable, real, sitting in app stores like any other game. You can download it. Some percentage of people presumably have. It’s out in the world.
Sometimes reality is absurd enough that you don’t need to do anything but acknowledge it’s there.
You could feel it before the index confirmed it. Walking through Shibuya at 2 AM, neon still bleeding into your vision, vending machines humming their small electric song—there’s something about Tokyo that other cities just don’t have. A density of care, maybe. Every block looks considered, even the alleys between the alleys.
The IESE Business School ranked Tokyo first in their Cities in Motion Index after comparing 135 cities on creativity, economy, transport, all the metrics that supposedly measure what makes a city work. London second, New York third. Berlin made it to 28. The ranking confirmed what anyone who’s actually spent time there already knew.
What Tokyo does that London and New York don’t quite manage is make everything work without broadcasting it. The subway arrives on time. Streets are dense but you can move through them. Fashion exists without performing. The whole thing was designed by people who understand that humans need to get somewhere, not just consume experiences. The salarymen and teenage girls and pachinko parlors and vintage shops exist in the same invisible system that millions of people move through every day without it collapsing into chaos.
Standing on a platform waiting for a train that arrives exactly when promised, you get why the ranking had to happen. It’s just giving numbers to something anyone who’s been there can feel.
NBC canceled Community. Five seasons and they’re pulling the plug. I had to sit with that for a minute before I could even process it. A lot of people never got what was so great about it—the humor felt random, stupid, impossible to predict. They’re wrong. They missed it.
Greendale Community College was pure chaos. Each episode was like opening a door and having absolutely no idea if you were walking into a sitcom or a video game or someone’s twisted alternate timeline. Jeff, Britta, Abed, Annie—if you fell in love with them, you understand what the show was doing. If you didn’t, something went wrong somewhere.
The show had two real problems, though. First was a brutal slow start. It took about ten episodes before Community figured out who it was, and by then most people had already given up. It looked like a straightforward college sitcom with a bunch of sad characters, and who cares about that? The second problem was more fundamental: if you jumped in later and tried to catch up, you were drowning in it immediately. Insider references, callbacks to things from an episode ago, entire alternate realities that required you to have been paying attention from day one. The show built these walls around itself, and only the people who were there from the beginning could get inside.
The whole thing—pop culture riffs, parody, personality, all of it held together with whatever was breaking down that week—it was fundamentally unstable. The show fought with itself constantly. NBC wanted something different than what the writers wanted. The writers couldn’t agree with each other. The cast was dealing with their own stuff. For a television show, refusing to compromise is basically a suicide note.
But for anyone who made it through the rough early stretch, who actually stuck with it, there was a genuine reward. Community eventually became something that felt almost sacred—this weird, completely unmarketable thing that told you it was not just okay to be strange but maybe necessary. It created this world where being yourself, being genuinely yourself and not some approximation of normal, was the only thing that mattered. You didn’t get a lot of TV like that.
That’s exactly why it didn’t last. Community couldn’t ever be a normal show. It didn’t know how. It asked too much—demanded that you think, get the references, care about the characters, invest in something that had zero interest in being popular. Networks don’t want to distribute that. Most audiences don’t want to consume it. The show was brilliant and impossible to market and completely doomed from the start.
And now it’s gone. There’s that line they used sometimes—”we’ll definitely be back next year, if not because an asteroid destroyed all human civilization. And that’s canon.” I’ve wanted that to be true. But knowing what I know about how these things work, I’m not holding my breath. Some things burn too bright to keep burning. Greendale was one of them.
Back when car brands figured out YouTube was where their audience had moved, they’d do things like this—Ford in Düsseldorf, web personalities competing for cars, internet voting on winners. Judges were Alina Süggeler and a TV host, people the creators’ audiences actually knew. Everyone filmed it on their phones.
You could see the strategy operating right there—corporate trying to seem relevant to the YouTube generation. The weird part was how that transparency kind of worked. Not because the idea was clever, but because the people involved were genuine and nobody was pretending otherwise. That’s the flavor of that specific moment—completely calculated, completely real, somehow both at the same time.
That sparse, echoing production opens onto an aching romanticism, a tragic Hollywood glamour that became synonymous with Lana’s entire aesthetic. I’ve probably listened to it a hundred times and it never stops sounding like the saddest, most beautiful description of longing—her voice like some old starlet whispering from a past that was always more myth than reality. It’s the kind of song that makes a memory of somewhere you’ve never been feel more real than your actual life.
Sascha Lobo’s the kind of guy you either get or you don’t. The mohawk, the positioning, the whole thing where he’s decided he’s the internet’s conscience—yeah, it’s a lot. But people listen to him, actually listen. And when he got up at re:publica and started talking, I understood why.
The hall was packed. Journalists, bloggers, everyone holding their breath like something was about to break. And it did.
Beer in hand, watching this guy with the hair rant about NSA, about Merkel, about the government destroying the internet while we do absolutely nothing about it. The anger in that room was real. Justified. You could feel people actually waking up.
But here’s what gets me: the people in charge know we’re angry. They’re fine with it. They know by next month we’ve tweeted ourselves out, signed some petition, written something furious, and forgotten about the whole thing. Next scandal comes along. We’re performatively outraged and basically powerless.
Lobo’s point, the thing he kept hammering on, was that we’ve convinced ourselves talking about a problem is the same as solving it. We haven’t. We show up at conferences feeling smart and connected and think that’s action. It’s not. Real change needs work. Persistence. Money. The unsexy stuff. And we’d rather tweet than do that work.
Maybe he’s right about everything, maybe he’s not. The man’s definitely full of himself. But on this one thing—the gap between performing activism and actually doing something—he was completely right. And the rest of us, sitting in our comfortable little bubble, have no idea how to close that gap anymore.
There’s a moment in Gary Turk’s viral video where a girl smiles at him on the street and he doesn’t see her because he’s looking at his phone. He’s missing everything—the sunsets, the conversations, the chance at something real—because his eyes are down. The video’s message is blunt: your friends matter more than Snapchat. The person in front of you matters more than Instagram.
It’s earnest in a way that makes you uncomfortable. There’s a sermon in it, the kind that lands because it’s true, but also because you know it won’t change anything. We all know phones are eating our lives. We all know we’re lonelier for it. The video just puts it in rhyme.
I watched it and felt the point hit and then checked my phone before it ended. The message is real. The sermon doesn’t stick.
What stays with me is the image of the girl smiling while he looks down. Not the lesson, just that moment of connection he misses. Someone reaching toward you while you’re somewhere else. We’ve all been both people.
Every time I walk into an Asian market I think about just moving in. The frozen animals, the vegetables that mean nothing to anyone here, drinks at the checkout from some completely other world — I’m genuinely obsessed. I don’t know why I haven’t done it. Why don’t I just live in one? Spend my whole life working through whatever’s in the next aisle, buying things I don’t recognize and will probably regret? Some better version of me did. Some worse version of me will. Anyway, I cleared out the shop at Alexanderplatz the other day and me and Len are about to destroy the entire haul. Om nom nom.
Three idiots in a spaceship: a vain asshole, a horny cat, and a depressed vacuum cleaner hunting aliens for money. Space Dandy shouldn’t work. The premise sounds like every mediocre anime I’ve given up on — bouncing tits, dumb jokes, the whole exhausted formula. But it’s something else. Every episode is made with obsession, not obligation.
Most anime coming out is tired. Kids yanked into parallel worlds, fanservice, everything made by committee. Space Dandy cuts through all that with episodes that feel completely different from each other — different animation, different genres, different emotional registers. “Plants Are Living Things, Too, Baby” is a fever dream of color and distorted sound. “There’s Always Tomorrow, Baby” is Groundhog Day in space, earnest and melancholic. “A Merry Companion Is a Wagon in Space, Baby” is a roller coaster from hope to overwhelming sadness to just… emptiness. The kind that stays.
On the surface there’s constant chaos: weird planets, noodle soups, characters dying mid-episode. Underneath, the show keeps asking things quietly. What if plants developed consciousness? What if a world was nothing but hate? What if ordinary machines felt desire? These questions aren’t thrown at you for effect. They’re embedded in absurd stories about absurd characters, and somehow that matters more than if they were foregrounded.
Space Dandy is probably the best thing anime’s genre could produce. That’s significant because anime’s been decimated by franchises and the West flattened it into cute mascots. This show is thoughtful without sounding smart, beautiful without trying, crude and funny and full of strange ideas. Everything about it screams obsession, not commerce.
Zippora Seven at night, shot by Jason Lee Parry for Mirage Magazine. The thing that works is the light—that barely-there illumination that makes skin seem to glow from underneath. She’s Australian, surfer, model, blonde. Parry catches her in that space where the darkness withholds just enough, which is probably the whole idea.
There’s something about nighttime photography that makes nudity feel less like a performance. The light doesn’t show you everything, so you get impression instead of inventory. It reads as intentional rather than gratuitous.
I hadn’t seen Parry’s work before this. His compositions are clean without straining, and there’s real patience in the framing. Zippora carries that particular ease of someone who’s comfortable being photographed but is actually present in the image, not just striking a pose.
Mirage lives in this exact register—intimate photography that doesn’t feel exploitative because the people making it genuinely care about form and light and composition. There’s something about the whole set that feels like it was made because it should exist, not because someone was trying to convince you of something. Which is its own kind of seduction, and probably why you end up looking longer than you meant to.
Japan makes nipple makeup. Legitimately. Different colors, sits next to all the other cosmetics, costs about ten euros. No marketing campaign, no joke, no elaborate framing—just a product that exists because somebody wanted it.
That’s what gets me about it. Most companies would turn this into a whole thing, make it edgy or empowering or cute. Japan just acknowledged the need and filled it. No marketing angle, no performance, no winking. Just a straightforward product for people who care about that stuff.
Softhold put together a Japanese indie mixtape with indigo la End, KANA-BOON, Creephyp. The thing about these compilations is you can tell someone actually cared about what they were sharing, not just padding a playlist.
These bands make music because they need to, not because an algorithm told them to. A mixtape like this one gets that. It feels almost weird to say that matters, but it does.
Everywhere else is moving forward. The US is deregulating incrementally, Germany’s reconsidering prohibition, but Japan’s still treating cannabis as a hard drug with zero medical applications. Yuka Uchida went to find the people who’d decided that gap between policy and reality wasn’t their problem anymore.
They weren’t after a high. They were sick—chronic pain, terminal diagnoses, the kind of conditions where licensed medicine either didn’t work or came with side effects worse than the disease. So they broke the law because they had to. Because nothing legal was helping.
That’s its own particular cruelty, the way bureaucracy moves slower than illness. You can have a medical need and still face prison for the thing that helps. In Japan the gap is wider than most places, partly because the country’s relationship with drugs is tangled up in history and shame and policy in ways that don’t really connect to what actually works.
I don’t know what happened to those people after Uchida’s piece. Whether they kept using it. Whether anything changed in the law. Probably not. But the situation stuck with me—the absurdity of knowing something works and making it illegal anyway, and the people trapped in between.
Everyone has a picture in their head when they hear “Aryan.” Blonde hair. Blue eyes. White skin. Certainty. The propaganda worked so thoroughly that the myth calcified into something that feels like historical fact, like an actual truth about the world. And because people believed in this fantasy—because it was powerful enough to stake your identity on—millions of people were murdered.
Mo Asumang’s documentary “Die Arier” traces this word down into what it actually means. She sits with them: white-supremacist organizations, KKK members, even people who genuinely believe the Nazis escaped to Mars and pilot UFOs in zigzag patterns over Berlin. She asks what they mean when they use this term, where the certainty comes from, what they think they’re protecting.
The whole thing collapses under any real scrutiny. Aryans—the actual historical Aryans—were Indo-European peoples whose languages and cultures spread across continents. Nothing to do with Germany. Nothing to do with racial purity. Nothing exclusive, nothing pure. Pick up any history book and the entire mythology evaporates. It’s not even a close call.
What’s interesting about the documentary isn’t the hate groups or even the Mars delusion. It’s how the myth requires constant maintenance, constant insistence, because the reality it sits on top of won’t support it. Asumang doesn’t argue or lecture. She just lets them talk, and then the reality sits there beside their fantasy, and the gap between them is so vast it becomes almost unbearable to watch.
These people built their identities on something that ceases to exist the moment you look directly at it. That might be more pathetic than the violence itself. Not the cruelty, but the desperation to believe something so obviously false, so deeply fragile. It needs believers or it dies. Without constant reinforcement, without the community repeating the lie to each other, it collapses into nothing.
The documentary doesn’t feel angry. It feels patient. Which might be the worst thing you can do to a mythology—just let it speak for itself.
Natalie Westling is from Arizona, seventeen when Marc Jacobs and Elite started calling. The usual story would have her leave skateboarding behind — fashion money does that, pulls people away from whatever came before. She didn’t. She still rides. That’s what registers.
The intersection between skate culture and high fashion doesn’t usually resolve this cleanly. Someone always looks like they’re performing on the wrong side of the fence. With Westling, there’s no visible friction. Maybe she just doesn’t care about choosing.
The trailer for the new Godzilla hit different. There was something about how they shot it—not chasing destruction for its own sake, but treating the creature itself as genuinely horrifying. And the cast: Cranston right after Breaking Bad, Olsen, Taylor-Johnson, Watanabe. That’s not typical for monster movies. They’d hired serious actors, which meant they were trying to do something with the weight of it, the actual terror, not just the spectacle.
Walk into Club Sega in Tokyo and the brightness hits first. Everything’s designed to scream—screens flashing, games screaming, kids screaming louder. You walk in and immediately you’re inside something too colorful and too loud to be anything but pure fun.
The place was full. Teenage girls destroying rhythm games, absolutely committed to them. Couples stuck in photo booths making stupid faces and printing sticker sheets. Guys at fighting games and drumming games, hammering buttons like their lives depended on it. Everyone having a ridiculously good time.
The specific games didn’t matter as much as you’d expect. Miku, Puyo Puyo, games I didn’t recognize and wouldn’t recognize again. What mattered was the ecosystem around it—photo booths where you could spend an afternoon with friends, claw machines with cute plush toys that somehow felt actually winnable. I watched people win things. Little bears and cats and characters I should probably know. The kind of prize that feels absurdly satisfying when it costs basically nothing.
There’s something honest about a space so bright you can’t hide in it. You’re there to have fun, everyone knows it, so you just do.
The internet is mean about this. It shows you something beautiful and then makes sure you understand you can’t have it. You can buy the lingerie. You can own the object. But the person, the actual presence that makes the image worth looking at, that’s not in the package.
I’ve been staring at pictures of beautiful people online for years. It’s always been like this—the image is real, the possibility is fake. You know this while you’re looking. You’re not confused. And yet you keep opening the pictures, keep scrolling, keep feeling that small ache of knowing exactly what you can’t touch.
Maybe that’s the honest part of it. The internet didn’t invent celebrity or desire or the distance between looking and having. It just made it frictionless. Free. Endlessly available. So you can spend your whole day staring at something that doesn’t exist as anything other than light, knowing exactly what you’re doing, and not stop anyway.
I don’t think I’m supposed to feel good about that. But here we are.
Mario Sorrenti shot Rihanna topless for Lui Magazine. He’s spent decades photographing bodies with this particular kind of clarity—no softening, no conceptual dressing it up, just form and light. When you put Sorrenti and Rihanna in the same room, the work is going to be direct. The photos came out clean and bright, her against colored backgrounds. There’s a confidence to how she carries it, this sense of complete comfort with being completely exposed. Not defiant about it. Just matter-of-fact.
Berlin spent a few years pretending burgers were basically dead weight, something you ate secretly and never admitted to serious people. Everything was about the biorestaurants, the heirloom vegetables, the place that sourced its grains from some monastery in the countryside. Then the pendulum swung and nobody was pretending anymore. Now it’s just more—more sauce, more meat, more cheese. Burgermeister, The Bird, all these places have lines out the door. Calorie counting became somebody else’s problem.
There’s something good about watching a city flip like that, stop performing enlightenment and just want what it actually wants. One year it’s aspirational health-food, the next it’s aggressively casual indulgence. Then the design industry catches up and suddenly it’s official. Someone made a sneaker that literally looks like a burger. Meat-colored leather, a sesame seed sole, the whole absurd thing. People bought it. That’s when you know a trend has stopped being niche. When you can get a burger shoe at a concept store, it means the moment has passed through some membrane and become just the thing everyone’s actually doing.
I’m not sure what this cycle says about anything—about taste, about Berlin, about how our desires move through the city in waves. Maybe just that we’re tired and want permission to eat what we actually want without having to justify it philosophically. The burger sneaker is still kind of ridiculous, turning food into footwear, but it’s the right kind of ridiculous for right now. It’s the artifact of the exact moment when indulgence stopped being shameful and became the only style.
Kyary Pamyu Pamyu’s touring Europe, ’Family Party’ charted at number two in Japan—sitting between ClariS and Morning Musume. Sekai no Owari’s there dressed as clowns, Namie Amuro still holding down elder J-pop space, Ken Hirai in the mix. Following these charts doesn’t feel like tracking music so much as watching a whole aesthetic system work itself out—all these eras existing at once, and it works.
You see it immediately in certain parts of Paris: the American aesthetic has moved in. Vintage denim, those carefully casual hot dog carts, American Apparel stores, coffee shops with the right kind of neglected brick. It’s Brooklyn, more or less, except with better pastries and people who don’t apologize for smoking.
Eugena Ossi, a photographer in Paris, tracks this on her Tumblr. She documents it straight—not celebrating, just watching. There’s skepticism in how she frames it. Paris has become obsessed with American hipster culture, and the contradiction is thick: France fought for years to keep English out of the language, treated it as a threat. Now they’re importing the whole aesthetic wholesale.
What gets me is how complete the shift is. It’s not scattered cafes or one experimental boutique. It’s everywhere, systematic. Young Americans fled New York—too expensive, too grinding, too much—and moved to cheaper cities in Europe, and somewhere in that movement the cool kids decided they wanted what Brooklyn had. Paris absorbed it more than anywhere. French taste has always had this particular weakness for American cool when it’s available.
I genuinely don’t know if it bothers me. Cultures have always borrowed from each other. Maybe this era just happens to be America’s. In a couple of decades this is how people will remember Paris, and they’ll be chasing something else by then, another aesthetic from another place. For now though, if you want to seem interesting and outside the system in Paris, you’re essentially copying a look that was already exhausted in Brooklyn several years back.
Zippora Seven shoots Australian coastline at night. Dark water, light, that particular edge. Found her on Instagram a while back. There’s precision in the composition but nothing precious about it—the frame serves the moment. Jason Lee Parry appears in some of these sequences and the whole thing has this intimate documentary quality. Nobody’s trying to prove anything. Just what the coast actually looks like when someone’s paying attention.
Simon Ostrovsky was in Eastern Ukraine covering the conflict for VICE NEWS when pro-Russian separatists grabbed him in 2014. I followed the story online like everyone else does—with that strange mix of concern and distance that happens when something major is unfolding somewhere you’ll never go. When he got out a few days later mostly in one piece, he’d become the kind of journalist who didn’t just report on the story anymore. He was the story.
There’s something that separates people who go and people who talk about going. Ostrovsky went. The separatists took him because he was documenting something they didn’t want documented. He survived it. Most of us work from places where nothing terrible can happen to us. It’s easy to forget that some people don’t have that luxury if they want the work to actually matter.
Sailor Moon Crystal came back. The remake that wanted to tell the manga’s story straight, without the filler and production chaos of the original. I never felt like one version was better than the other. Different voice actors. Different aesthetic. The character designs hit that balance between manga line work and animation that could actually move.
The original show has this roughness that works. Repeated animation cycles, episodes stretched thin, the production always scrambling. Something real in that struggle. The moments that land hit harder because the low moments feel lived-in, and I think that’s why people defend it. Crystal didn’t need that. It had the resources to be clean, so it was. Fine. Its own thing.
The broadcast schedule was loose. Twice a month, never urgent. I watched them come and go without pressure. A story moving at its own pace, no algorithm pushing it, no churn. By then it had already found the people who needed it. Not everyone. Never everyone. Just the ones who wanted to see the story one more way.
What gets you about remakes is how they force comparison against a version already living in your head. My Sailor Moon is tangled with memory—when I watched it, who I was, what mattered then. Crystal is just the show, new every time. Neither stealing from the other. Same story, different life.
DragstripGirl is gone. Or closing, anyway. I don’t follow the details closely enough to know if there’s a difference. I just know that a space I used to visit—not often, but consistently, the way you check on something that matters—is disappearing into the internet’s graveyard.
I’ve been reading Sara’s work for years. Not religiously. Just enough that when something showed up, I’d recognize it. Rock The Casbah before this. Guten Morgen Spinner. SeptemberRave. She’s been blogging longer than most people have been alive online. Each project, each diary, each temporary home eventually becomes a closed door.
What strikes me about Sara is that she’s never seemed comfortable. Not in a fragile way—in an intellectual way. Restless. Extreme. She fills the internet with stories that don’t sit still. They’re unguarded. They’re the kind of writing where you realize the author doesn’t care if you’re listening because they’re too busy figuring something out in real time. That’s rare. I’ve watched blogging for twenty years, and the people who can do that without performing it—you can count them.
There’s something in how she moves through projects, how she builds spaces and then burns through them. Always looking for the next room, the next medium, the next thing that’ll let her think more clearly. It’s the opposite of someone trying to build an audience or a brand. She’s trying to disappear into the work, and when the work stops fitting, she leaves.
Now DragstripGirl is shutting down. Another digital diary closes. Another collection of thoughts and images and provocations goes dark. Part of me feels that ache you feel when something permanent suddenly isn’t. But another part of me thinks: good for her. She’s finally putting down the pseudonym. The person beneath it—the actual person, not the avatar—that’s where the realness was always going to live anyway.
Sara will be fine. People that serious about thinking and moving through the world always are. Maybe there’s another blog. Maybe not. Either way, she’s done performing the diary. That’s its own kind of freedom.
Walk into a magazine store in Japan and you hit this wall of overwhelming abundance. Every microculture, every hobby, every interest gets a magazine. Fashion, design, pop culture, niche things you didn’t know people were passionate enough about to print. It’s genuinely disorienting.
I gravitated toward a few that actually felt worth reading rather than just browsing as curiosities. NYLON JAPAN nailed the Shibuya fashion aesthetic—the way people dress when they actually care about it. Popeye was beautiful and unserious, style writing that didn’t take itself too seriously. BRUTUS photographed ordinary objects like they deserved the attention. EYESCREAM had this chaotic, colorful energy throughout—design without pretense. And +81 was relentless, page after page of genuinely interesting work.
But Japanese magazine culture has a darker side. There’s a lot of content featuring young girls in various states of undress—illustrated and photographed both. It’s legal there, culturally normalized, and deeply uncomfortable from the outside looking in. You learn which aisles to avoid.
If you want to order magazines from outside Japan, Overseas Courier Service can get them to you, though it’s expensive and slow. Only worth it if you know what you’re looking for and you’re going to actually read them.
Adidas did something right with the Hamburg edition. White leather, red stripes, gold lettering spelling out where you’re from — just the essentials. The color balance is what makes it work. White gives it room to breathe, the red stripe commands attention without screaming, and the gold’s just there as a detail. There’s a brown and orange version that exists, but the white one’s what you actually want. That restraint is everything.
British artist Richard Evans took the Ghibli catalog — Spirited Away, Princess Mononoke, My Neighbor Totoro, the whole lineage — and converted them into 8-bit pixel art. NES resolution, that flat palette, the way sprites move. It shouldn’t work, but it does, and immediately.
There’s something about seeing Chihiro or San rendered in 16 colors on a black background that bypasses the brain entirely and hits straight in the chest. Part of it is the nostalgia shorthand: Nintendo’s graphics vocabulary is so deeply embedded that your mind fills in the gaps automatically. Your eyes are reading blocks of color, but you’re seeing full animation, full character. The compression forces elegance.
But it’s also that these films and that hardware aesthetic are fundamentally about the same thing — memory, detail, the weight of small gestures. Miyazaki’s animation is precise because it has to convey feeling in fleeting moments. Pixel art works the same way. You’re not rendering reality; you’re capturing something true about how a moment feels, which is a different problem entirely.
I spent a lot of teenage hours staring at NES screens, not because the graphics were “good” but because they had this weird clarity. Everything that showed up on screen had to matter. Nothing was wasted. These Ghibli conversions feel like they understand that same discipline — not watering it down or using retro as a gimmick, but actually translating one visual language into another and finding what’s essential in both.
The GIF loops I saw were short, just scenes and characters held still or moving through space. I wanted more of it, longer sequences, full films if possible. That feeling of wanting to stay in someone else’s vision for a while longer.
Masaaki Yuasa makes animation that feels like it shouldn’t work—chaotic frame-by-frame drawings, characters stretching and fracturing, entire worlds that move like no other studio touches. “Mind Game,” “Ping Pong,” everything he does has this urgent, almost violent energy.
So I was curious when I heard he was directing an “Adventure Time” episode, some short about predators and prey. With Yuasa handling it, even a simple nature story about the food chain probably becomes something weirder, darker, more alive than it has any right to be.
Häagen-Dazs is selling vegetable ice cream in Japan now. The “Spoon Vege” series comes in tomato cherry and carrot orange, hitting shelves in May, and I’ve been trying to imagine what either one tastes like and I just can’t make it work.
Tomato in ice cream doesn’t make sense to me. I’m imagining tomato — bright, acidic, the kind of thing that works in pasta or soup — drowned in sweet, cold, rich dairy, and it just doesn’t compute. I keep imagining that first spoonful where tomato flavor hits first, before the sweetness, and it’s just wrong. Carrot orange might actually work. Carrots are naturally sweet, earthy in a way that could play with ice cream’s texture. But tomato? That’s a problem.
Japan’s usually good at weird flavor combinations when there’s actual thought behind them. Wasabi Kit Kat works because there’s real logic to it. This feels more random. Someone just stacked tomato and cherry together and thought, sure, why not.
I’d probably try them if I saw them anyway. Not because I think they’re good, but out of that compulsion to taste something weird just to know. The kind of curiosity that never pays off. I eat it, remember why I don’t do this, and move on.
The thing about vegetable ice cream is that it doesn’t feel like a deliberate mistake. It just exists. Someone’s buying it right now. They’re putting a spoonful in their mouth and either enjoying it or regretting it, and the ice cream doesn’t care which one.
Finding good Japanese music is harder than it should be. You search and you get walls of idol groups—so many they blur together into one gloss-eyed collective—or boy bands crooning “I Love You” with all the personality of a vending machine, or anime soundtrack stuff with ridiculous character designs. The surface of Japanese music looks completely manufactured.
But it’s out there if you dig. Kinoko Teikoku. Syrup 16g. Spangle call Lilli line. Bands that sound like they were actually made by people, with something to say. The kind of music you find by accident, or by stumbling onto the right playlist.
Sonja put together a mixtape called “You Don’t Have To Understand” and loaded it with these tracks. That kind of curation matters—someone who bothered to dig through the noise and assemble something real.
Marijuana’s creeping into legality across the US, which means someone had to figure out what to do about all those decades-old leaf logos and stoner clichés. Studio 360 and Original Champions of Design took the project seriously with “Cannabiotics” — a rebranded purple cannabis leaf, plus cookbooks, merch, something called Cannabamoji, and for completely unclear reasons, skulls scattered throughout the design.
Jennifer Kinon led the design team, which is funny because she’d never smoked weed in her life. She looked at the cannabis leaf and called it “a little round Christmas tree.” I loved that. The specificity of describing something you don’t understand, landing on something that’s both completely wrong and somehow exact. That’s the entire project in one detail.
You can interpret this as corporate co-option, domesticating something that existed outside the system. Or you can see it as design doing what design does — taking the world and deciding it could look better, function better, feel different. For cannabis, which has lived for years in either threat or kitsch territory, it’s actually a meaningful shift.
The skulls are still unexplained, and honestly I want to know what that conversation was. But I think Kinon being someone who’d never smoked is the key to the whole thing actually working. No baggage, no mythology built in. She just looks at the leaf and sees a Christmas tree. That’s the closest this project gets to being honest.
I got pulled into an interactive map of Westeros last night. There’s something about seeing a fictional world laid out geographically—the kind of thing that takes five minutes and turns into an hour. You understand distances and trade routes in a way reading about them doesn’t quite land.
The map has spoiler toggles if you’re still working through the story. I found myself zooming into regions I’d forgotten existed, trying to picture what was supposed to be there, why anyone would go to some of these places. It’s the designer in me—I need to see how the pieces fit together spatially.
When Christine and I went through Super Potato in Akihabara, we were in there for hours. The store sprawls across several floors—row after row of SNES games, Dreamcast consoles, strategy guides yellowed from age, Final Fantasy soundtracks. Prices are reasonable, five to twenty euros for most things, though the rare stuff costs more. The upper floors have an arcade and a shop for snacks.
I left with a Japanese blue Pokemon edition in the original packaging, manual and trading card intact. Eight euros. It felt like I’d gotten away with something.
Super Potato isn’t unusual—just a store that refuses to let old stuff disappear. But you feel it walking through. All that stuff everyone collected, all those hours spent on it—still there, still wanted, still findable. You know going in it won’t fix anything. You go anyway.
Thought I had it figured out for a second. Steamed salmon, green beans, a touch of soy sauce—the whole thing felt virtuous, like maybe I was becoming someone who actually kept at this. Then Boston Pizza released their six-layer pizza cake and I spent thirty seconds remembering exactly who I am.
It’s a real thing. Pizza and cake stacked together, six layers of cheese and sauce and crust and frosting in some combination that shouldn’t work but does. I saw the photo and couldn’t stop thinking about it. Can’t now. I’ve made a point of not looking up the calorie count, which would be a mistake—that knowledge would turn it from a funny curiosity into an actual moral question.
You know how it works. You’re on track. You’re doing the thing. Then the internet shows you something like this and the whole operation falls apart. The truth is it’ll happen again next week and I’ll be just as helpless about it.
Leather jacket, sunglasses, 1989, Brandenburg Gate. That image is how David Hasselhoff locked himself into Berlin’s cultural memory as the embodiment of freedom. Not through political action or artistic intention, just by being the right celebrity at the right moment when the Wall came down. The moment became the proof that freedom is real, that it can be sung into existence by a guy whose actual fame came from eight seasons of sitting in a car that talked back to him.
The joke writes itself: they brought Hasselhoff to a conference to discuss internet freedom. Either the most perfectly absurdist cultural moment or a complete waste of time, depending on how you look at it. He’s already symbolized one kind of freedom — the Cold War variety, the wall-falling kind. Adding internet freedom feels like someone somewhere decided commitment to the bit was worth more than expertise.
What I find funny is that Hasselhoff probably doesn’t care anymore. He’s spent decades being a punchline while also being genuinely famous, and somewhere along the way he learned not to apologize for either Knight Rider or being there when the Wall fell. That’s its own kind of freedom.
Babymetal showed up at Sonisphere one summer — the festival that booked Metallica, Slayer, and Iron Maiden alongside three Japanese teenage girls doing heavy metal in what amounted to school-uniform staging. It shouldn’t have worked. It did.
They’re not a gimmick that falls apart once you pay attention. The musicianship is legitimate, the songs are heavy, and there’s something disarming about watching kids nail a riff in front of thousands of people who came for the real thing. It cuts through the artifice.
The programming choice itself was what made me stop. Someone looked at a lineup of metal gods and thought: these girls belong here. And not as a novelty slot, but as an actual draw. Looking at it from the outside, the decision felt right — like they weren’t the weird one out; the other bands were just older.
I didn’t make it to that festival, but the image stayed. Three girls in the mud at a metal festival, playing hard in front of legends who invented the genre they were playing. The kind of thing that reminds you why music is worth paying attention to, even when you’re not sure you should be.
AKB48 works on rotation, which sounds cynical until you realize everyone’s in on it. You pick a girl when she joins, support her for however many years she’s in the group, and when she graduates, you move on to the next one. The mechanism is visible. No pretense of forever. You know what you’re signing up for from the start. Most idol acts bury that machinery under sentiment and branding. AKB48 just… doesn’t.
I’ve had this Game of Thrones medley by The Warp Zone stuck in rotation for days. Each character gets their own verse — the Starks and Lannisters getting a turn to sing about their house burning down. The concept is stupid, which is exactly the point. But it works because they execute it without apology, clean and tight and perfectly timed. There’s no winking, no desperate reach for laughs, just complete commitment to the bit.
That’s when you know someone’s figured it out — when they can make something dumb land so cleanly that you just accept it. The Warp Zone knows exactly what they’re doing.
Most of us spend our whole day on phones and computers without having any idea how they actually work. We’re on Instagram, downloading episodes we’re not supposed to watch, messaging strangers with photos that probably shouldn’t exist. We do it all automatically, without thinking. And if you actually stop and think about how little you understand the thing you’ve been staring at for the past six hours, it’s kind of unsettling.
Fiona’s been digging through internet technology and digital culture for a while now. She decided to make a web series about it with two other people — an attempt to explain how your phone actually works, what’s running underneath all the software, why the internet is shaped the way it is. Not in some technical jargon-heavy way, just plainly. The way a normal person would want to understand it.
That’s the thing I respect about it — not trying to be everything to everyone, not dumbed down or overly complex, just actual explanation. For the people who use this stuff constantly but have never really thought about how it happens.
There’s a documentary about adult men who dress as My Little Pony characters, and it follows Ashleigh Ball, who voices two of the characters, through their world. If you somehow missed the decade-long internet phenomenon where a show made for little girls got adopted by a specific demographic of grown men in elaborate costumes, here’s everything you need to know about bronies: it’s real, it’s organized, and it goes way deeper than anyone wants it to.
The documentary doesn’t mock them, which is maybe the most interesting choice. Ball genuinely seems to care about understanding these people, which is either generous or naive depending on how you feel about the whole thing. They talk about community, about having a place to belong, about creating art and music and costumes that cost more money than I spend on anything in a year. The sincerity is real. So is the absurdity. Both things are true.
What gets under my skin is that I can’t decide if I respect it or find it completely ridiculous, and I think that’s kind of the point. These are people who chose to commit totally to something weird, and they built an entire world around it. The effort is undeniable. Whether that means anything depends on whether you think effort and sincerity make something meaningful, or if the object of that effort matters more. I’m genuinely not sure.
I spend my whole life being hit with Japanese commercials from every angle. The sky, other people’s screens, my own phone at 2 AM. None of it matters because they’re loud and they’re off in ways that somehow work, and this new Nissin curry rice commercial called Kare Meshi is so completely, unapologetically Japanese that it makes every other ad I’ve ever seen feel like a lie.
The spot doesn’t explain anything. Trampled children. A schoolgirl who suddenly notices. Rice that’s achieved some kind of consciousness or humanity or whatever’s happening there. It moves like someone had an idea at 3 AM and nobody said “this is insane,” which is exactly why it works.
There’s this thing Japanese advertising does where it doesn’t care if you understand it. American ads want a feeling from you—they want you invested. Japanese ads just throw colors and texture and pure nonsense at you and whatever sticks is fine. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes disturbing, usually both at once.
The thing that gets me is how intentional it all is. The production is thoughtful. The cuts are sharp. It takes itself seriously while describing humanoid rice, which is the whole trick. And then that final line just goes for it—there’s something deeply horny about it, something that has nothing to do with food, and it just sits there like a confession.
I can’t look away. I don’t want to look away. Japanese advertising broke something in me that regular ads can’t fix. Once you’ve seen a curry rice commercial that’s conceptually broken and genuinely horny at the same time, everything else just feels like someone reading from a script.
Every morning the same routine: drag yourself out, shower, coffee, get dressed, look presentable, then spend eight hours in some fluorescent box—office, classroom, wherever—until the clock says you can leave. Then you do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.
What if you just didn’t? What if you stayed in bed?
There’s nothing lazy about it, actually. Staying in bed is a small act of peace. It’s a refusal to play along with the machine, even if it’s just for one morning. And the funny thing is, we all know it won’t fix anything—the world doesn’t stop, your responsibilities don’t disappear, one morning rolls into the next like any other. You know that. You do it anyway.
Maybe that’s the point. Not some grand statement, just a quiet one. A day when staying under the covers feels less like giving up and more like self-preservation. You lie there with your coffee or just the morning light, and for a few hours the machinery can wait.
Berlin’s Festival ran 48 hours straight, Friday night through Sunday. Full stop. No scheduled end time, no returning to your hotel to reset. You were either there for the duration or you were missing something.
The lineup was the kind you could justify staying for. Moderat, Editors, Woodkid as the anchors. K.I.Z. for the hip-hop angle. Darkside and Warpaint for the left-field stuff. Two days of that sounds different than the usual one-day circuit.
The venue was Tempelhof—an old airfield, still carrying the weight of Berlin history, now a festival ground. There’s something about that space that feels austere compared to the scrappy parks where most festivals happen. Room to actually move.
Forty-eight hours changes how you experience it. You’re sleeping wherever you can, eating what’s near the stage, watching the same crowd dissolve and reform across Sunday morning when everyone’s equally exhausted. Most festivals are designed. This one just continued.
This is an era where excess isn’t hidden anymore—it’s just what people do. Even the ones with taste will eat a greasy burger from a place named after a bird, grab ten-cheese pizza outside a club at midnight, swallow meat from animals they’ll never think about again. Nobody’s shocked. Nobody’s pretending to be shocked.
More and more people have stopped even trying the healthy path. They’ve openly given up. No performance, no internal conflict. Just acceptance.
The Vulgar Chef, some guy online, made a hot dog that doesn’t sit in a bun at all. It’s stuffed inside another sausage instead. The commitment is total and completely sincere—not ironic, not a joke. He made the thing and put it into the world. There’s something almost admirable about that kind of refusal to qualify it, to apologize, to perform being shocked by your own creation.
That’s the move now. You commit or you don’t. The Vulgar Chef committed.
I hate “Happy.” I hate it with an intensity that feels unbalanced for a pop song. If I have to hear it one more time, I might start reenacting Game of Thrones violence in earnest. But apparently everyone else on earth made peace with it in a way I never will, and they started uploading videos of themselves being happy because of Pharrell’s song. That’s the part I’m not equipped to understand.
What gets me is that Pharrell watched these videos on Oprah and cried. Not the manufactured happy tears of a performer. Actual crying. The guy who made the most relentlessly cheerful song in existence, confronted with proof that it mattered to people, and he just broke.
That’s the version of him worth paying attention to. Not the hit maker, not the producer, but someone realizing his work moved people when he wasn’t busy trying to move them. The vulnerability is the only real thing there.
I had a notebook in my twenties where I’d write down what happened. Specific girls, specific acts—at thirteen under Maria’s shirt, at sixteen in Steffi’s underwear, at nineteen both Berg sisters at once. I couldn’t stand forgetting.
Now there’s an app called Nipple. You log everything: name, age, skin tone, what you did together and where, whether drugs or fruit or handcuffs were involved, how many times you came. It’s all searchable. Years later you can pull up the file and remember exactly who she was.
I get it. It’s not more honest than a notebook, but it’s more reliable. Everything’s backed up forever. You’ll never have to fake remembering someone. The NSA is probably harvesting this for their dossier, but if you don’t care, the app works. Nipple remembers for you.
Maybe there’s something hollow about it—reducing people to database entries. But maybe that’s the point. If you’re not going to remember anyway, at least you’ve got the record. At least you don’t have to pretend.
Passepied took their name from a baroque dance form, which is pretty funny for a Tokyo band making club music. Their track ’MATATABISTEP’ captures that hour when thinking stops and you’re just moving—the alcohol, the rhythm, everything loose and committed.
What works is the directness. No distance, no pretense—just the sound of a body past thinking, doing what the music says to do.
Civilization: Beyond Earth is coming this fall, and yeah, this announcement made the rounds online last weekend already, but I’m writing about it anyway because Civilization matters to me in a way that’s probably embarrassing. I’ve spent thousands of hours destroying cities, crushing armies, watching entire civilizations burn just so I could win one more time.
I can’t seize the actual world, so digital conquest will do. I’m fine with it. The new game’s set in space—which is honestly the best thing Sid Meier could’ve said. No more manufacturing nuclear wars against some cartoon tyrant. Now I get to discover alien worlds, fight monsters, and somehow rescue what’s left of humanity from destroying itself.
Come this fall, I’m gone. Not taking calls, not interested in anything else. I’ll be out there, planet-hopping, building empires from nothing on worlds that exist only in code. You all figure it out without me.
You find yourself somewhere alone, far from home, suddenly dealing with that specific urgency—the kind of need that doesn’t negotiate and won’t wait. Japan looked at this situation and created the Pocket Tenga Wave Line, which is basically a disposable masturbation kit with lube already mixed in. Use it, throw it away with whatever embarrassment you’re carrying, go about your day.
For guys or anyone else nature didn’t give great options, the alternatives are pretty bleak—crumpled tissues, hand cream, spit, whatever you can improvise. The Tenga runs about 1.50 euros and eliminates the whole desperate scrambling part. They come in white, black, or red with different shapes and friction levels inside. Get off, trash it.
What I actually find weird is how unbothered Japan is about this. They saw a completely normal human problem and just made a product to solve it. No marketing mythology, no lifestyle branding, no pretending it’s anything other than what it is. Just a practical, discreet solution to something everyone experiences but nobody admits to. The fact that they can do that without turning it into an ordeal—that’s the interesting part.
Tokyo’s drowning in Frozen right now. Every version—Japanese, English, remixes with bass that absolutely shouldn’t be there. One Direction scattered underneath like they’re trying to hide.
I looked at what Japanese musicians are actually making and got past all that. Passcode with something genuinely strange. Passport doing their thing. These idol groups with their 48-member variations and engineered precision. None of it makes the charts. If you want to find what’s actually being made in Japan, the charts are useless.
It’s always the same pattern—music made in Japan that people actually love just doesn’t surface. Something foreign always gets amplified louder. Frozen is just the most obvious example at the moment.
There’s something about celebrity complaints that hits different when it’s about the very thing that made them a celebrity in the first place. Kate Upton hates her breasts. That’s the news. Every day she wishes they were smaller. She can’t wear the clothes she wants. Can’t go outside without people staring, talking about them, reducing her to this one physical fact.
Which, fine, that’s a real complaint. Body is a body. Being unable to wear a simple tank top because of how you’re built sounds legitimately frustrating. I’m not going to sit here and tell her she should be grateful for the attention or the money or the career that came with it.
But there’s this dark thing where the very quality that made her famous is the thing she hates most about herself. She got everything and the cost is she can’t be comfortable in her own skin. Can’t own what owns her. I don’t know if that’s irony or tragedy or just how it goes when the world decides what your value is and you have to live inside that for the rest of your life.
The interview happened. The quote exists. And now she’s the woman who famously hates the thing she’s famous for, which is its own special kind of prison.
I owned three Walkmans. White one, gray one, and some kind of clip-on model that never worked right. This was just what you carried—your music, limited to whatever cassette you could fit. No wireless, no batteries that lasted more than four hours if you were lucky, no way to carry more than one album at a time. Completely normal. Now there’s a YouTube series where they hand kids Walkmans and film the moment their brains short-circuit trying to understand what the thing even is.
The confusion is real. They hold it like it might detonate. Two spinning wheels inside a plastic case—what is this? Why would you need this when you have a phone? The kids poke at the headphone jack, try to find a screen, ask if it charges. One of them actually asks if it’s a vintage Spotify device. It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel genuinely old, not in a sad way, just in a factual way. You built your childhood around this object, and now it’s been dead for so long it’s become a novelty.
What kills me is thinking about how this feeling will loop forever. Twenty years from now, someone will show a kid an iPhone from 2026 and they won’t understand why you have to touch a screen to do anything, why it can’t read your mind, why you carry around a separate object for your music and your messages and your life. The technology you thought was permanent, that felt like the future, becomes yesterday without you even noticing. Walkmans were the future once. Then they were just normal. Then they were a joke in a viral video.
There’s something weirdly comforting about this. Everything gets old. The stuff that seems cutting-edge and indispensable right now will be a thing kids laugh at, a museum piece you have to explain. It removes the pressure somehow—when you hold a Walkman in your hands now, you’re not thinking about the future, you’re just thinking about how normal it felt then.
After months of the leaked version circulating, Lana put out the real one. “West Coast” doesn’t announce itself. It barely announces anything — just her voice and space around it, the kind of ballad that knows its own power and doesn’t need to prove it. I went in expecting something bigger, something that would give her critics an easier target, but this isn’t that song.
It’s small and confident. The thing that kept me coming back wasn’t the melody or some lyric that stuck — it was the thinking behind it. Lana’s always been good at making you feel like she’s telling you something true, even when she’s saying almost nothing.
The walls aren’t where they’re supposed to be. Three steps into the first installation at Berlin’s Opernwerkstätten and the geometry stops making sense. This is the OM-D Photography Playground in Mitte, seven thousand square meters of work designed specifically to do this—to make space fold, perspective shift, your sense of where you’re standing completely collapse.
The artists are people I half-know—Leandro Erlich, Clemens Behr, Maser, Philip Beesley—and collectives like Transforma and 3Destruct. All of them working with how light and color and materials arrange themselves so that space becomes something other than what it was. You walk through and suddenly you don’t know where you are or what you’re looking at or why your camera sees something completely different from what your eyes are telling you.
I spent hours just moving through the spaces, taking pictures, getting dizzy. Some pieces only work from inside them, at the center. Others only work from far enough back that your brain can’t quite process what you’re seeing. A few work because you’re genuinely lost and don’t know which way is the entrance.
It’s free to visit, which feels almost aggressive for the scope of what’s there. The address is Zinnowitzer Straße 9 in Mitte, open until 7 most nights. Go if you’re interested in how space actually works and how a photograph can lie about it. It’s the kind of thing that stays with you.
Game of Thrones gets harder to follow the longer it runs. You lose track of who’s related to whom, who’s dead, who’s supposed to be an enemy but might become an ally. The show doesn’t make it easy—too many characters, too many kingdoms, too much time between seasons for your memory to hold everything straight.
At some point during the show’s run, an illustrator named Nigel Evan Dennis built a website called “Where Have All The Wildlings Gone?” that visualized the entire cast in real time. Every character, every connection, every relationship mapped out so you could see how someone mattered to the story and what had happened to them. Who lost their parents, who lost their limbs, where they were in the plot. It was a solution to a problem the show itself created.
The more the thing sprawled, the more useful it became. And the more you looked at it, the more you understood what the show was actually doing. Less about individual heroes, more about the geometry of how power moves through connected people. A death isn’t just a plot point; it’s a node disappearing from the map.
I’ve always been interested in how fans solve problems the original work creates for them. The fan wikis, the timelines, the maps. It’s its own kind of design work. Dennis’s visualization isn’t trying to be flashy. It’s just trying to let you see what’s actually there. That’s harder than it looks.
Some stories don’t need scaffolding like this. Game of Thrones did.
When the dope’s gone and reality starts that slow suffocation—when you realize everything’s temporary and pointless and you’re just rotting through the days—you need what Kyary Pamyu Pamyu’s doing. “Family Party” is a descent into impossible colors and surreal costumes, visual chaos that makes your brain feel less dead for a while. She’s built this world out of pure wrongness, where being confused and being delighted feel like the same thing. It’s not escape. It’s just proof that someone sees the void the same way you do and decided to paint it neon instead.
Nick Chipman built a sandwich that hits every letter of the English alphabet, which is the kind of specific, pointless constraint that of course someone felt compelled to hit. Avocado, bacon, cheese, Doritos, egg, fish sticks, garlic bread, ham, Italian sausage, jalapeños, Krispy Kreme doughnut, lettuce, macaroni and cheese, noodles, onion rings, pepperoni, ramen noodles, spinach, turkey burger, and so on through yams and zucchini. By the time you’re stacking that thing together, it’s stopped being food and become something closer to a diagram.
The real appeal of a project like this isn’t flavor or even novelty. It’s the system itself. Someone looked at the alphabet and thought, “I could make a sandwich that contains all of that.” The constraint is the whole thing. You’re not thinking about taste; you’re thinking about coverage, about making sure nothing gets left out. It’s the same impulse that drives people to collect things, to complete sets, to fill in the gaps in some arbitrary checklist they’ve decided matters.
I don’t know what Chipman’s sandwich actually tastes like. Probably a mess. Probably parts are good and parts actively fight each other—krispy kreme next to pepperoni is a crime. But that’s not the point either. The point is that he looked at an alphabet and saw a recipe. The point is the audacity of insisting that all 26 letters can exist on a single bun.
There’s something appealing about that kind of stupidity. Not stupidity exactly—commitment. The refusal to stop at something reasonable, the willingness to keep adding until you’ve achieved some arbitrary kind of completeness. You know it won’t be edible. You know it probably tastes worse the bigger it gets. You do it anyway because the idea grabbed you.
That’s the sandwich, I guess. Not the food. The idea.
Four bands, none yet famous, competing for a phone company jingle in 2014. Kuult had just formed and was somehow already playing packed rooms. Ocean Stereo from Hamburg mixed piano-pop with something heavier. Getting Private in Public—four childhood friends from Munich doing indie folk. Pari San was the strange one, a dreampop duo from Freiburg where the singer’s voice went through samplers and loops until it became something else.
Twelve hours to take someone else’s template and make it yours. The contest is just machinery at this point—voting and sponsorship and whatever. But the bands showed up anyway.
I don’t know what happened to any of them. The post is from 2014 and that’s far enough that the trail goes cold. Maybe they broke up. Maybe one of them made it. Maybe they’re still playing small clubs in their cities. This is just the moment I happened to find them.
Adly Syairi Ramly dressed up a few LEGO figures and the photographs work. Placed them in pieces from Supreme, A Bathing Ape, Stussy, Raised by Wolves — brands that mean something if you pay attention to how clothes are cut and what a logo actually costs. The thing about LEGO minifigures is that they’re a perfect blank, yellow plastic with no opinions. You dress them and you see exactly what you put on them. Nothing else.
That’s the whole formula right there. No face to read, no real proportions to judge against, just the clothes floating on a piece of molded plastic. Somehow Supreme’s box logo works. The Ape head scans. The camo reads. You’d think that doesn’t matter at that scale, but it does — good design compresses. It survives being made small and simple.
The obvious move is to call it clever, which it is, but there’s something else going on. These are photographs of clothes. The minifigure is almost beside the point. It’s not commentary or irony, just a way of seeing the garment separate from everything else — no body, no context, no story. Just what it looks like.
I’ve always found miniature photography appealing, the way everything has to be exact because there’s nowhere to hide a mistake. Scale forces honesty. At three centimeters tall, a LEGO figure can’t help you. The clothes have to do the work, and in these photographs, they do.
Peter Griffin in a bikini. Posed, filtered, like any other thirst trap on Instagram. Someone made an account for him and styled him like an influencer — close-ups, posed shots, the whole way everyone performs themselves on there.
The crazy part is how seamlessly it works. Instagram’s visual language is so standardized that a cartoon character reads as just another fitness account. The platform flattens everything into the same aesthetic — real or fake, intentional or absurd, it all lands the same.
When you apply this to something explicitly fictional, the whole absurdity becomes visible in a way it usually isn’t. For real people, this styling and performing has become so normal we don’t see it as a choice anymore. It’s just how you exist online. But for a cartoon? It looks like exactly what it is: a template, a performance, a specific way we’ve decided to present ourselves.
The joke stops working fast. But in that first moment, there’s something true in it.
When HBO locked in seasons five and six of Game of Thrones, I felt something I don’t often feel about television: certainty that the thing I cared about would keep being made. The show had been genuinely great up to that point. It had taken George R.R. Martin’s books and somehow improved certain elements while preserving the whole architecture of violence and desire and political chaos that made them worth reading.
The announcement wasn’t surprising—the show’s success made more seasons inevitable—but it was reassuring. I could believe that the people running it understood what worked, that they wouldn’t let it become the standard television story, predictable and safe. More seasons meant more time to watch these people make terrible choices and pay for them.
I couldn’t have known then that the later seasons would hollow out. That the infrastructure that had felt so solid would collapse under the weight of its own complexity, that the writers would eventually run out of the material that had made them good. All I knew at the moment of the announcement was that the show had a future, and that future felt like it would be worth watching.
It’s strange how these certainties work. You feel them in the moment and they’re completely real, and then something shifts and you realize they were always fragile. Game of Thrones didn’t fail all at once; it just gradually became less of what made it work. But none of that had happened yet. At the moment HBO made the announcement, all I could feel was relief that the story would keep going.
The first time I looked at Tokyo restaurant menus, I was convinced I’d come with the wrong amount of money. Everything looked expensive until I realized I was reading it wrong — or maybe I just needed to know where to look.
Austin at Tofugu had figured most of it out by living there long enough to notice patterns. Some of his tricks were specifically for people staying months — knowing electricity is cheaper during off-peak hours, joining supermarket loyalty programs that actually matter, ordering water online and cutting it with bulk tea. That’s the kind of thing you only discover by being somewhere long enough to get bored with the obvious moves.
But Tokyo rewards tourists too, if they pay attention. Around nine at night, supermarkets clearance prepared food at prices that make no sense. McDonald’s coupons are just sitting there in an app, waiting. And the weird one: Japanese food costs more in Tokyo supermarkets than imported stuff does. American beef, Philippine bananas — that’s where the actual savings are. The strange arbitrage of a global city.
What got me was that it’s not about generosity. Tokyo doesn’t care if you’re broke. It just works the way it works, and if you’re paying attention, there’s money in the margins. Plenty of it. The wealth is obvious, but so is the infrastructure for getting by without much.
I’d just written about Silicon Valley’s first episode when I found Betas on Amazon Prime—same subject, same world. Startups, San Francisco, all of it. Watched the whole first season straight through.
Not doing a full review. If that world appeals to you, it’s worth watching. I’ve got a thing for one of the characters, Mikki. But really the main draw is that it exists right now, available. That’s something.
I keep running into pocket watches online, mostly in design circles and watch forums where people take mechanism visibility very seriously. DETOMASO’s Tasca XXL is the aggressive version — 53 millimeters across, transparent casing front and back, glass bottom so you see the movement the entire time it’s running. No pretense, no “we hide the ugly parts.” The mechanism is the whole design.
There’s something refreshing about that. Most of what we use is black box, deliberately obscured, meant to feel like magic because the alternative (showing the messy engineering) might kill the appeal. A pocket watch that says “here’s exactly how this works, watch it happen” is taking the opposite bet. The gears matter. The visible precision matters. They matter more than sleekness.
It hangs from a 40cm chain with a clip, comes in black, silver, or gold, costs around 250 euros. That’s not impulse-buy territory but it’s not heirloom either. More like the price of admitting you want something beautiful and pointless.
Their other watch, the Inchiostro, goes the opposite direction entirely — digital, flat display, barely there. Which tells you something about where we are with watches. You can either commit to visible mechanics as a design statement, or you can strip it down to almost nothing. The middle ground doesn’t interest anyone anymore.
I know the appeal is partly retro-futurism, partly the cult of mechanical craft, partly just wanting to hold something that isn’t a screen. But there’s also the honesty thing. In a world of seamless surfaces and hidden complexity, showing the work feels like a small rebellion. You know it won’t fix anything, but you wear it anyway.
Artists in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, one of the most bombed regions in the world, painted an installation on the ground big enough to see from above. Just faces. #NotABugSplat was the hashtag, because that’s apparently what people look like to drone operators watching screens thousands of miles away. A bug. A pixel. Nothing worth a second thought.
The thing about killing from that distance is that you never have to see it. You see coordinates. You see numbers. You see the satisfying little glitch when the systems confirm the hit. You don’t see what the operators here tried to show you — actual faces, smiling or blank, faces of people you’re about to vaporize without ever having to process that they’re people.
So they painted them big. Trying to force visibility, trying to make the distance shorter through nothing but art and scale. It’s almost quaint, the faith in that. The belief that if someone just had to look, had to register what they were looking at, something would change.
Almost certainly nothing changed. The drones kept flying. The targeting didn’t shift. But there’s something in the refusal anyway. The insistence that you acknowledge what you’re doing, even if you don’t care, even if you can go right on doing it. The art says: you have to look. And that’s not nothing, even when it changes nothing.
The couch gag hits and the whole world pixelates. The yellow house in stone blocks, Moe as a Creeper, that moment before detonation. It’s stupid and it works.
Zach Galifianakis shows up in the actual episode, though by then celebrity guests meant nothing. But the Minecraft thing was something. Every brand was shoving Minecraft into everything in those days, treating it like a novelty font. The Simpsons didn’t need it, but there’s something weirdly right about rendering the most famous cartoon family in the biggest building-game of the moment. You recognize yourself in the fun house mirror.
What stayed with me is how Moe as the Creeper snaps into focus immediately. Of course him—bartender, basically a walking bomb, perpetually one conversation away from exploding—becomes the one thing that actually detonates. That’s the design snap where you know someone’s actually enjoying the constraints instead of just filling space.
Unlicensed Game of Thrones minifigures exist and they’re actually good. Citizen Brick makes them, calls them the ’Dragon Sword Fighter Force’ to stay off HBO’s radar, but you know exactly who they’re supposed to be. Daenerys, Jon, Arya — the paint work is clean, they integrate with standard Lego, and they have that bootleg toy energy that somehow just works when the quality is there.
The real appeal isn’t collecting them as Game of Thrones figures. It’s putting them in your own builds. Daenerys in a Simpsons house. Jon Snow in a Hobbit village. That forced mashup is the whole point. Official merch locks these things into specific dioramas — thrones, castles, set pieces that cost sixty dollars and never get used. This way you just drop them in wherever.
I respect the move. Licensing gets more paranoid every year, so the actual fun migrates to these gray areas. Custom makers, fan stuff, unlicensed figures. That’s where it lives now.
Friday at an adidas presentation in some massive apartment. Fall/winter collection—standard seasonal stuff, mostly forgettable.
Three pieces actually stuck with me. The Black Edition was the sharpest thing there, properly proportioned and made. You notice when someone’s genuinely thought through a silhouette rather than just applied a formula to it. These were.
The NEIGHBORHOOD collaboration was the interesting one. I’ve seen plenty of partnerships that feel obligatory, but this one felt like an actual conversation. The skulls were integrated into the design, not applied on top like decoration. Japanese streetwear sensibility meeting American sportswear, and for once it worked because both sides knew what they wanted.
Then the neon ZX Flux. Acid yellow, electric lime, the kind of color that makes you wince. I respect anything that commits that hard to visual shock instead of hedging. Most shoes are apologetic; this one isn’t.
Jonpaul Douglass photographs pizza. Finally, some art I can actually understand. Not restaurant shots, not styled for a magazine—he finds pizza in the world, against puddles, next to fences, with a pug, and he shoots it like landscape photography.
The absurdity is exactly the point. Pizza is the thing you eat without thinking, the total throwaway meal, and there’s something perfect about someone treating it like it matters. The photographs aren’t trying to make pizza fancy or say something clever about consumption. They’re just saying pizza exists in the world and it’s worth looking at.
There’s a mythology around startups that I find genuinely appealing — the idea that you can write some code and change the world, that the right algorithm in the right garage matters. But there’s also the other side, which is mostly just money and ego dressing itself up in innovation language. Mike Judge made a show about that collision, and it’s funny because he’s not exaggerating much.
Silicon Valley follows Richard Hendrix and his small team through the startup machinery. They have a lossless compression algorithm that works. Now everyone wants a piece of them — VCs, mentors, other companies. The machinery activates. Everyone’s looking for the next big thing, which is to say everyone’s looking for a return on money they had lying around.
What makes the show work is that it’s being made inside the exact world it’s satirizing. Judge isn’t mocking some distant industry; he’s pointing a camera at the room he’s in. The specificity is brutal. How these people actually talk, move, think. How innovation becomes pure ritual.
I watched the first episode expecting to enjoy it as satire, and I did. But I’m also curious whether he can keep the show focused on something real — the actual texture of startup people and their logic — or whether it’ll just become a series of guest stars and in-jokes. So far he seems to know what he’s doing.
This is mostly a note to myself: don’t leave your MacBook unattended in a café. It’s rule number one. You buy an overpriced Apple product instead of giving that money to people who actually need it, the least you can do is keep track of it.
But I don’t. I’m at Sankt Oberholz or Mein Haus am See or whatever eco-café is happening in Neukölln, and I get up to use the bathroom and just… leave it. The laptop sits there, screen still glowing, like an open invitation. Do I think other people will watch it? Sometimes I tell myself that. Mostly I just don’t think at all.
There’s a video of a software developer named Ahryun in San Francisco—she’s the type who genuinely believes the city is safe, which tells you something about her judgment to begin with. She left her laptop on a table. Walked away for a few minutes. When she came back it was gone. Just like that.
It happens every day. Thousands of times. In every city. The thing is, I watch videos like that and think “yeah, that’s stupid,” and then I do the exact same thing the next afternoon. Maybe it’s the embarrassment of carrying it to the bathroom. Maybe it’s pure denial. Either way, it’s only a matter of time before I become my own cautionary tale.
You watch survivors of North Korean camps describe what happened to them and it stops being abstract. The woman remembering someone’s face. The man describing what it meant to be hungry like that. The specificity is what matters—not the concept of torture, but the weight of it on their bodies and voices.
Afterward you can’t do anything with what you’ve heard. The knowledge doesn’t rally you. Doesn’t change your day. Doesn’t change theirs. It just sits inside you, this awareness that it’s still happening, right now, to people you’ll never know.
That’s the hard part—the gap between witnessing and being able to help. You carry it and move on.
Mario Testino photographed Kate Moss for years and turned it into a book. First edition was expensive; they printed a cheaper one because people wanted it. That’s the announcement, more or less.
He built his whole career on this. Find a face worth looking at obsessively and photograph it until you’ve made proof of why you couldn’t stop. Moss was the obvious target — not just beautiful, but something about her face and body that held male attention the way it did. Testino saw that hunger and made it his subject.
There’s something shameless about it when you think about it. A man spending years documenting what draws his eye, photographing her until desire becomes visible. But that’s photography — it’s just looking made permanent, the argument that what you’re seeing is worth seeing. Maybe Moss and Testino found something in that exchange of attention, or maybe the exchange itself was the real thing.
There’s a product for sale on Japanese online shops—bottles of liquid claiming to be actual schoolgirl urine. Ten euros, give or take. I stumbled across it the way you stumble across anything truly fucked up online: unable to look away, unable to stop wondering if it’s real.
The mystery is what’s actually in there. Best guess is some chemical formula that smells and looks convincing enough. Worst guess is that some Japanese entrepreneur is literally pissing in jars and selling them to perverts. Which, given that I spent five minutes investigating this, apparently includes me.
The whole thing is so specifically weird it almost feels fake. But no—it exists. Someone made it. Someone’s buying it.
Aniforce, a Dutch artist, decided that Pokémon designs—already plenty ridiculous if you actually look at them—could be improved by one simple change: make them look profoundly stupid. Not mocking stupid, just vacant. Derpy. Brain completely missing.
He’s worked through the first 151, which means Pikachu is there with this genuinely bewildered expression, Charizard looks permanently confused, and Blastoise is just… gone. The joke’s obvious once you see it. There’s maybe half a millimeter between “cute creature design” and “complete idiot,” and he found exactly where that line is.
What I like about this is how it exposes something real about these designs. Pokémon work because they’re iconic, carefully crafted, clever. But they’re also fundamentally strange. A tortoise with mounted weapons. A rat that electrocutes itself. A sentient psychic puddle. Once you see them as genuinely dumb, not in some mean way, just dumb, you can’t really unsee it. It becomes funny in this almost tender way.
The drawings have this perfect poker-face quality. Nothing’s exaggerated or vicious. He just shifted the eyes or softened the jaw and suddenly Venusaur looks like it’s wondering if it’s real. That’s not cruelty. That’s affection mixed with permission to laugh at something you actually care about.
A 28-year-old named Ludovic Zuili ran backwards through Tokyo for nine hours and filmed the whole thing. Then it aired on French television, but they played the footage in reverse so it looked like the city was moving backwards around him and everyone else was just going about their day normally.
I got a kick out of it. There’s something great about a project that exists purely because someone thought of it and actually did it—no statement, no deeper point, no lesson to extract. Just nine straight hours of backwards running through one of the world’s busiest cities, documented for the sake of it. The fact that it made it onto French TV says something about the margins of media, or maybe just about how bored we’ve all gotten looking for something that hasn’t been done a thousand times already.
SHUT and Matthew Willet made a skateboard out of gold. Real gold. Eighty centimeters long, twenty wide, four kilos, and it works — you can actually ride it. It comes with cotton gloves to keep it pristine, at least until you inevitably drag it down some concrete.
The price is around eleven thousand euros.
I respect the commitment to the bit. Not because it’s luxurious or exclusive, but because they made it functional. They could have made a sculpture, photographed it beautifully, sold it as art. Instead they made a skateboard that works. There’s something perfectly stupid about that.
I don’t want to own it, and I doubt I’d want to ride it. But I think I understand why someone might drop that kind of money on it — not for the status, but for the absurdity. For the fact that it exists as a joke that happened to be real.
There’s a kind of courage in that. Making something so deliberately impractical, so aggressively pointless, and doing it well anyway. Most luxury goods hide their purposelessness behind function. This one just… commits.
I can’t remember what happened in the last season and the new one starts tonight. Bloodshed, dragons, endless betrayal—the shape of it is there but the details have gone misty. This is what happens when your attention moves on to the next thing and there’s always a next thing.
I could theoretically rewatch the whole thing, but that’s not happening. You know how this goes. You start the first episode determined to catch up and by episode two you remember why you haven’t touched it in three years. So I’m going in fuzzy, hoping the show is direct enough that memory kicks in. The major moments always come back anyway—someone dies, someone betrays someone, a dragon destroys something. That part sticks without trying.
It’s strange being this invested in something while also having enough distance from it that it disappears from your head completely. This is just how it works now. You’re holding ten different shows in your head at once, each one taking up maybe fifteen percent of your attention. Enough to care about the premiere, not enough to remember the plot.
The cat’s face never changed. That permanent scowl, eyes already tired before the internet even found it, the whole thing that somehow made you feel less alone. Grumpy Cat became the visual shorthand for an entire generation’s exhaustion—the face for people done with everything but unable to stop watching anyway.
There was something perfect about how accidental it all was. The cat wasn’t trying. Wasn’t performing anything. Just had a face that meant something to millions of people at the exact moment they needed to see it reflected back. The internet threw everything at that cat and the expression never wavered, never softened. Stayed completely unimpressed, which somehow made it even better.
It’s strange now to think about what that cat meant. The internet doesn’t make those things anymore. Everything’s too intentional, too designed, too aware of itself. But Grumpy Cat just did it without trying, captured something true that people needed to see. The cat probably didn’t care or understand any of it. But it got something right anyway, which might be the only way to really get anything right.
Happy birthday to the most genuine thing the internet ever made by accident.
Adventure Time kept Finn’s father as a mystery for years, and I spent a good stretch of episodes wondering about it alongside everyone else. When the reveal finally came, it wasn’t some huge shock—it was the kind of answer that made sense once you saw it, connected back to all these threads the show had been quietly building the whole time.
By then the series had already stopped being purely about goofing around. It started taking its own mythology seriously, made you care about the world beneath the adventures. Finn’s father turned out to be caught up in all of that, part of the deeper history that explained a lot about the post-apocalyptic mess the show lived in.
The mystery was more interesting than the answer probably—mysteries usually are. But I appreciated that the show didn’t leave it hanging forever. You ask a question like that across enough episodes, you build an obligation to eventually answer it.
Someone made a video that lists every death in Game of Thrones. All of them, end to end. The count came to five thousand one hundred and seventy-nine people, compressed into three minutes of footage.
The show was structurally committed to the idea that nobody mattered. It killed characters constantly, made a point of breaking your attachment to them, suggested that loyalty or honor or love was basically suicide. So the death count wasn’t really a surprise—it was the whole thing, underneath everything else.
But seeing it compiled like that, stripped of all the speeches and politicking and reason, just death stacked on death, does something different to you. Three minutes is long enough to feel the weight but short enough that you can watch it all at once. No narrative breathing room. Just the pile.
I remember actually caring about people in this show. The shocks hit different when you’re invested in the characters. But watching the video, knowing there were thousands of them, made it all feel more like a principle than a story. This isn’t a world where people die—it’s a world where death is the default.
A Sailor Moon pop-up opened in Tokyo for a week in April—”Girls Love Mode: Let’s Prism Power Make Up,” which is either perfectly Japanese or perfectly terrible. Just hoodies and t-shirts and one of those white dresses that somehow costs way too much money, all in Shinjuku. By the time I thought about actually going, most of it was already gone. That’s pop-ups: you’re not really supposed to own the thing, just know it existed and that you weren’t fast enough.
The store closed April 8th. Sailor Moon’s 20-year anniversary, so the character got its corporate moment, limited and over. There’s something clean about that—no leftover stock, no nagging regret, just a week in Tokyo where an entire store existed around a character who’s been done being new for two decades, and now it doesn’t.
Pharrell was running around closing deals everywhere. First adidas got announced, then UNIQLO wanted him for a collection just as they were opening their first store in Berlin. The collection was called “i am OTHER” and it was supposed to be the death of normcore.
You could feel the contradiction in it. UNIQLO is basically the uniform—same cut, same price, you put on what everyone else puts on. Pharrell’s entire thing is the opposite of that. So the pitch was: take our basics and make them yours. Stop dressing like you’ve given up. Stop using minimalism as evidence of taste.
By that point normcore had become almost religious—this belief that trying hard was embarrassing, that the height of cool was looking like you weren’t trying at all. The quietly expensive basics. The studied carelessness. It had inverted so thoroughly that not trying became its own kind of performance, and a pretty exhausting one.
I remember thinking the collaboration was just marketing, which obviously it was. Use UNIQLO’s reach to sell people on individuality through the infrastructure of conformity. But there’s something honest about not pretending you can burn down the system from the outside. You get inside and you remix it. You take what everyone has access to and you tell them to do something unexpected with it.
Game of Thrones season four was coming and I was completely bought in. For months I’d been fed trailer after trailer, each one engineered to make you think about nothing else. Another landed that week—supposedly the last one before the premiere. That felt like both relief and letdown at the same time.
I wanted the show exactly for what it promised: blood, breasts, spectacle, the kind of thing that didn’t flinch. You could feel the whole machine building toward it, showing you just enough in the trailers to drive you crazy without telling you anything real.
Now, looking back at that particular hunger—before I knew what the show would actually become, before all the disappointments—there’s something pure about it. You could still imagine it going anywhere. The marketing had you exhausted and completely hooked, which is usually how you know something has its hooks in you deep.
The voice that barely moves across the mix, cigarette smoke at three in the morning, a sadness that feels cinematic. That’s always been the Lana Del Rey thing, and somehow it still works.
There’s a new album called Ultraviolence coming in May, and a song leaked called ’Meet Me in the Pale Moonlight’—which is exactly what you’d expect. No reinvention, no proving anything new. Just more of what she does.
I’ve never understood why ’one-note’ is supposed to be an insult. There’s something deliberately confident about staying in one emotional lane, not scrambling to prove range. The production sits exactly where it needs to, the voice does its one thing, and it all adds up to something that doesn’t try to convince you of anything. You feel it or you don’t.
The new song is just more of the same mood—which is the whole point. Continuation instead of reinvention. A room you can walk back into whenever you need it.
Converse did this thing in Berlin a while back where artists painted a wall and then, as a follow-up, they invited people to bring photos and have them remixed in real time. An artist would take your picture—just a straight photograph—and cover it with paint and drawing, turning it into something neither you nor they would have made alone.
The concept hooked me more than the execution probably warranted. You end up with a weird hybrid object, half your image and half theirs, something that only exists because both of you showed up.
There’s something right about using a photograph as raw material instead of treating it like a finished thing. The artist isn’t illustrating it or critiquing it or making it more artistic. They’re taking it as a starting point, the way a musician samples a loop and builds a track around it. The conversation happens in the work.
I don’t know how many people showed up or what happened to all those remixed photos afterward. The promotional copy made it sound like a big community moment, which maybe it was. But what actually interested me was the simplicity of the premise: you’ve got something, I’ve got paints and brushes, what if we made something new together in the next twenty minutes. That’s the part that works.
There’s something almost obscene about the visual density of Harajuku in spring. Every storefront is screaming color at you, every person on the street is wearing something that would make sense nowhere else on earth, and the whole neighborhood feels like someone turned saturation up to eleven and left it there. It’s the kind of place where you want to photograph everything, which is also the place’s biggest lie—because once you start documenting it, you’ve already lost what made it worth seeing in the first place.
But here’s the thing about fashion photography in spaces like this: it works. There’s something about pointing a camera at someone in real clothes against real chaos that feels truer than any studio backdrop. You’re not creating the visual environment, you’re just isolating a person within it. The color finds them. The energy is already there.
I get why photographers keep going back to places like this. Harajuku doesn’t feel designed—it feels chaotic in a way that looks good on film. Street fashion, true street fashion, is about wearing what excites you without worrying if it makes sense, and that’s basically what Harajuku is at scale. Everyone’s doing it at once, which somehow makes it feel less like fashion and more like pure visual expression.
The irony is that the moment you’re any kind of public figure, Harajuku becomes a photoshoot. You’re not really experiencing the place; you’re being photographed experiencing the place. The mediation changes everything. Still, I’d rather see someone walk through that chaos with a camera than never see it at all. The image is a compromise, but it beats the alternative.
I spent years pretending I’d outgrown Donald Duck’s nephews — Huey, Dewey, and Louie, or Tick, Trick, and Track if you grew up with the European names. My subscription to the Lustigen Taschenbücher felt like something to hide, like guilty pleasure rather than actual taste. Turns out I was wrong.
Belgian artist Simeon Georgiev styled the three of them in Supreme, Nike, Givenchy, and MORT, and suddenly they look better than actual people. The ducks are crisp, put-together, aware in that particular way contemporary streetwear makes you aware — like they know exactly what they’re wearing and why it matters. It’s absurd and perfect.
I have no idea if these exist as real figures or if they’re just renders Georgiev made to mess with our sense of what counts as design. Part of me hopes they stay inaccessible, that rare feeling of wanting something that will probably never exist. But if they showed up somewhere, I’d buy them all immediately.
You see them everywhere once you start looking—a dot on a collarbone, a line on a rib, something small enough that most people miss. Small tattoos hold a kind of honesty that the bigger ones don’t. You got it because something meant enough to mark your skin permanently, but you didn’t need the world to notice. Just you.
Austin Tott understood this. His project Tiny Tattoos photographs people with small marks and puts them against backgrounds that somehow match—not literally, not like an instruction, but truthfully. A person with a small star stands in front of something starlit. Another has a geometric shape and is framed by geometry. Tott doesn’t explain the connections. You just see it and feel it.
What gets me is the restraint. A small tattoo is a bet on something mattering enough to live with forever, but not loudly enough to keep explaining it. It’s private and permanent at the same time. Everyone’s choices—the books they buy, the corners they’re drawn to, the angles that make sense to them—are a reflection. A small tattoo just makes that visible.
Tott’s photos do something straightforward: they show that people with tiny marks aren’t living separate from their worlds. The tattoo isn’t the odd thing out. It’s just the moment they stopped pretending they were someone else. The person and their surroundings speak the same language. The tattoo was always just evidence of what was already there.
Japan’s doing that thing again. Some pizza chain called Napoli — naturally — is selling Kit-Kat pizza now. Actual chocolate bars baked on top, with mango, nuts, gorgonzola, honey-maple sauce. Ten euros or so.
The weird part isn’t that I want it. It’s that I can’t tell if wanting it says something’s wrong with me or if they figured out something the rest of us were too scared to try. That’s the kind of pizza I need to eat — not because I think it’s good, but because I need to know which is true. Either you learn something, or you confirm every suspicion you ever had about the world. Both seem worth it.
There’s something pure about the defiance. You take a Playboy or Rolling Stone—these machines built to sell you an image—and hand it to Hattie Stewart, and she rewrites it. Out comes something colorful and intricate and completely, unmistakably hers. The magazines become something else: wilder, less slick, less interested in selling you a version of cool and more interested in just being genuinely weird.
What hits me is the signature. Her work is unmistakable. That specificity, that confidence in something so personal—most people would soften it, make it market-friendly. She doesn’t. There’s no compromise in the line, no apology in the color.
A corporate product becomes an artifact of someone’s actual taste, actual hand, actual eye. That shift—from manufactured to real—is where the work lives.
Evian made a Spider-Man commercial where Andrew Garfield chased a tiny Spider-Man through the city. This was the marketing moment—every brand wanted a piece, everything a tie-in designed to be shared and remembered. The Spider-Man films weren’t bad. Garfield had chemistry with Emma Stone. But everything around them was marketing, and at some point you just accepted it. Water selling Spider-Man. That was the era.
You put bread in the toaster and Darth Vader’s face comes out. That’s the product. That’s the whole thing.
And I want it. That’s what’s strange—not the toaster itself, but that I want it.
I used to judge Star Wars merchandise harshly. Too much merch, too much money spent on collectibles and kitchen gadgets with logos slapped on them. I understood the appeal but felt above it. Turns out I was just waiting to have money and fewer principles. Now I see a Vader toaster and think, yeah, that would be good.
What makes it work is how uncommitted it is. You’re not building a collection or making a statement. You make breakfast. Vader gets burnt onto it. You eat. That’s it. There’s no real follow-through to the bit—it’s just your daily toaster that happens to have Vader’s helmet as the heating pattern.
I know it’ll get boring. After a few weeks, I’ll stop noticing it at all. It’ll just be the weird toaster that burns uneven patterns into bread. And honestly, that might be the best outcome—reaching a point where Vader is so normal that he’s invisible again. But for now, I just like that it exists. That someone made this. That I can own it.
Scarlett Johansson gets implanted with this experimental drug in Lucy and instead of overdosing she just starts using her entire brain. One hundred percent instead of the ten we’re all walking around with. She becomes sharp and strange and stops being a person you’d recognize.
It’s male fantasy boiled down to its essence. Not just the woman, but the one who’s become impossible to reach. Who’s thought herself into being lethal. Who’s become something else entirely. The movie knows exactly what it’s selling and doesn’t apologize for it.
The premise is that you’re just unlocking potential that’s already there, which is stupid and wrong. But there’s something seductive about buying it anyway. The idea that your limits aren’t real, that you could just drop them and become more. That appeals to something. Lucy does it with chemistry. The rest of us live with our ten percent.
Kenjiro Sano made sushi-shaped sticky notes. They look like pieces of nigiri—little notepads that look like something you’d actually eat. The idea shouldn’t work as well as it does, but he bothered to actually execute it instead of just leaving it as a joke. He calls himself Mr. Design, which is either totally serious or completely ironic, probably both.
The thing that gets me is how little it actually changes anything. Sticky notes still stick. You write something on them and they end up on your monitor or forgotten in a notebook, and eventually they disappear. But because they look like sushi—which is also temporary, also consumed and gone—the whole exercise becomes funny in a way that matters. It doesn’t make the sticky notes better. It just makes them feel different when you reach for one, and that changes something. Fifteen euros for a pack is more than you’d normally pay for paper, but you don’t notice because there’s something right about using these instead of the standard yellow rectangle.
There’s a kind of designer that only works with restraint, and a kind that doesn’t. Sano is clearly the second type. He doesn’t see a sticky note and think about minimalism or utility or function. He sees something to play with, an opportunity to make the everyday feel like a small discovery, and he takes it.
Japanese rock band that makes the kind of songs that burrow into your skull and never leave. High-energy, propulsive, genuinely fun in a way that doesn’t feel calculated. They’ve done anime openings, which is how a lot of people discover them, but that’s not why they stick around — it’s the songs themselves. There’s no pretense here, no trying to be art-rock or experimental. Just straightforward, anthemic rock that sounds like a band that knows exactly what they’re good at and isn’t interested in doing anything else. The kind of music you find yourself humming without realizing it.
adidas made a fanzine with ArtSchoolVets about street fashion and urban culture, pulling interviews with people who actually write about how people dress—David Fischer, that level of person. The format is what caught me: print and digital, collaborative instead of a top-down brand exercise. Most fashion companies treat street culture like unpaid R&D. This reads like someone at adidas figured out that you’re better off stepping back and making space than trying to own it. Whether the actual magazine is any good, I have no idea, but the move itself isn’t bad.
There’s a VICE video where Yuka Uchida and sumo champion Konishiki Yasokichi eat through Ryogoku in Tokyo. Marinated squid, fried chicken wings, raw fatty tuna, cold beer. Good stuff, eaten casual and right. That’s the sumo wrestler thing — you grow up knowing where the food is because your body needs it.
I watched it with a cheese roll that barely counted as food. That’s the gap right there — not geography, but what you’ve learned to eat. Whether Ryogoku is something you hunt for or just your Tuesday.
The envy was clean. Not his life, just that ease. The confidence that comes from eating well long enough that bad food becomes genuinely strange.
I spent a week there in the early 2000s, crashing in a squat in Wedding, hitting galleries that were just someone’s apartment, basement bars, clubs that didn’t open until 3 AM. Everyone was young and making something. Everyone was broke. The city still felt half-rebuilt, figuring itself out — you could feel the weight of the 90s split, but also this weird freedom because nothing had solidified yet. Room to move. Room to fail. That’s what I remember most. Haven’t been back since. I don’t want to see what it’s like now.
Everyone has their person. Mine’s Kiko Mizuhara—you probably know her from Naoko’s Smile, or from the fact that she’s in basically every Japanese fashion magazine worth reading. There’s something about her that makes anything look effortless. Even a straightforward commercial like this Reebok campaign for spring and summer becomes a thing worth actually looking at.
The collection itself is solid. Clean lines, minimal, the kind of design that doesn’t feel like it’s trying to convince you of anything. Just well-made pieces that work because they’re thoughtful. Nothing pretentious, nothing that needs explanation.
And Kiko in it is exactly what you’d hope for. Like this was always supposed to exist, like all the pieces fit together naturally.
I’d probably buy half of this if I had any real reason to overhaul my summer wardrobe, but that’s beside the point. Sometimes watching something work out the way it’s supposed to is enough.
The internet has made me into someone who can’t do one thing without running a show in the background. Work, games, just sitting around—something always has to be playing or I feel like I’m wasting whatever time’s left. It’s ridiculous but that’s how it is now.
I got into Gilmore Girls hard. Seven seasons of people talking at each other, kissing, breaking up, talking some more. Perfect background noise—nothing happens and everything matters.
I decided to try Amazon Prime Video for this, actually pay for it instead of screwing around with pirate streams. Over 12,000 movies and episodes, they said. Gilmore Girls, The Walking Dead, Breaking Bad, whatever I wanted, whenever. Fifty euros a year. I signed up, installed Silverlight, and hit play.
The first nine episodes worked fine. By episode ten—’Forgiven and Forgotten’—it asked me to buy or rent it separately. I scrolled through the rest of season one. Episodes 11-15 were locked. Season two was missing random episodes. Half of season four was just gone. The whole thing was a patchwork.
And this wasn’t just Gilmore Girls. Other people in the forums had the same problem with Stargate, Gossip Girl, Supernatural, Fringe, The Vampire Diaries. Amazon had the licensing but half the content just wasn’t there, or it was, but only if you paid more. Some shows were missing entire season finales.
What got me was how they’d sold this. A subscription means access—that’s the deal. But Amazon could add, remove, or paywall whatever whenever they felt like it, even if the show was complete when I paid. It wasn’t a service. It was a system that had learned to think like a mobile game. Pay this amount, get this piece. Want the rest? Pay more.
I wasn’t going to keep throwing money at that. Not when it meant going back to the pirate sites anyway, which defeated the whole purpose. So I never found out if Rory ended up with Dean, and I’ll never know what happened with Lorelai. That’s probably worth what I saved.
I’ve been waiting for this since I was nine years old. Not in some theoretical, wouldn’t-it-be-cool way—in a bone-deep, absolutely serious way. I was going to be a Pokémon Master. The real kind. I would go outside, find them living in the grass and the water, and catch them with my own hands. That was the deal. That was what Pokémon promised.
So when I heard Google Maps had added the ability to actually catch Pokémon on the map, I had to read it twice. They’re real now, in a way. Not real, but real-adjacent. They’re on my street. They’re in the park. They’re at my apartment building waiting to be caught.
The thing nobody tells you about nostalgia is that it’s not about wanting to feel like you did when you were nine. It’s about realizing you wanted something so badly back then that it became part of your actual character, and now that the world has decided to make a joke out of that exact desire, you can’t ignore it. I’d probably give up—not everything, but something meaningful. A week of work. A relationship that wasn’t going anywhere. A chunk of savings for a decent GPS watch so I don’t look completely insane walking around my neighborhood at odd hours.
When I was a kid, I had dreams about what the world would let me do, and Pokémon was the proof. It meant you could have a real adventure, that the world was full of hidden things, that you could be someone important just by wanting it hard enough and looking in the right places. Most of that turned out to be bullshit, but I still remember how clean that belief was.
Google Maps didn’t make the world magical. But it did something smaller and weirder—it acknowledged that someone, somewhere, wanted this badly enough to build it. For people like me who’ve been carrying that specific want for twenty years, that’s not nothing. It’s kind of a win.
Kerr showed up constantly after the Bloom split—she was one of those celebrities who saturate the magazines after a breakup. British GQ’s cover had her discussing how her sex life affected her body, the basic observation that more sex meant tighter muscles, less meant softer. It’s something you’d say to friends over drinks, not something you’d volunteer to a magazine, but there it was.
I think celebrity operates in this weird space where you can say things that would be mortifying anywhere else, and they just become quotes. Kerr wasn’t being ironic or trying to provoke—she was direct, and because she’s famous, that directness becomes interesting. There’s an odd honesty to it, almost elegant in how it works. She said it, the magazine printed it, and nobody questioned whether it was strange. That’s the whole mechanism right there.
Years in Berlin taught me a specific feeling—that moment when a city stops being yours. It’s not one thing. The creativity that pulled me there starts consuming me instead. The changes pile up and the place I fell for keeps disappearing. The people, the streets, the late nights that mattered become someone else’s memory. I’m still there but I’m lingering at a funeral.
So I dreamed about other places. London, Stockholm, Tokyo. But mostly New York, because that’s the promise—make it there and you make it anywhere. The opportunities will be bigger, the people more real, the experiences actually matter. Leaving will fix the staleness. I thought another city had what I was missing.
The people who actually made it to New York had the same story. Vashtie wrote about hiding her deep sadness over the city for years—the boredom, the despair, closed doors, vanished inspiration. She finally admitted it: what else could she do?
It’s the same everywhere. The city isn’t the problem. Whatever you’re actually looking for, it’s not there. New York promises transformation and delivers real estate. You outgrow Berlin thinking another place will feel different. You arrive and realize you brought yourself.
The dream of making it somewhere is seductive because it has a shape—a place, a marker, a finish line. It’s easier to chase that than to sit with the actual work. No geography gifts you what you’re desperate for.
I left Berlin imagining New York would feel like a promotion. I got there and felt exactly the same. The company was different but the loneliness was identical.
I have no idea who she is, but I like the name. The setup is the whole thing: yellow bikini, golden afternoon, standing there wet with a drink in hand and a photographer who gets it. That’s the Saturday I want. That’s it.
Böhmermann, fresh from winning a Grimme Prize, fed Raab a story about Chinese file-sharing sites pirating TV Total and him missing licensing fees. Raab bought it completely and got genuinely angry. The prank was simple—just a plausible scenario designed to trigger outrage, no elaborate setup needed. It worked because that’s how it goes: you hear someone’s stealing from you and you react before you think. Böhmermann was riding high and testing his power, essentially. Raab fell for it.
I went to the adidas flagship reopening in Berlin-Mitte. They’d gutted the place, renovated it completely, and the blue store was back in circulation. There were drinks, catering, the opening-event machinery that tries to convince you the location itself has become a destination. The new ZX FLUXes were hanging around everywhere, still pristine and unblemished, that gloss you only get before anyone actually walks in them.
Some faces from the German hip-hop scene had shown up. Afrob, Liquit Walker, the Orsons—the kind of people embedded in the culture enough that they appear at these things, or get asked to, or it doesn’t really matter which. The bartenders were pouring generously, which kept me there past the first drink. By the end of the night, everything had softened into that stage where drinking makes everything feel briefly important in a way it probably isn’t.
The space looked solid. Clean, fresh, the kind of fresh that doesn’t survive the first month. You know how it goes—the shine wears off, the crowds thin, it becomes just another place to buy shoes. But you don’t go for the store. You show up because the drinks are free and there’s something worth observing in a room full of people who care enough to be there.
The pitch was always transparent: ISPs wanted money from big corporations in exchange for faster speeds. Everyone else got throttled. Deutsche Telekom, Facebook, Google—they’d pay, and the internet would become two-tiered. It was a naked money grab dressed up as technology.
What got me was that the internet had actually worked the other way. Some accident of early design meant your small website loaded as fast as anyone else’s. But once ISPs monetized the pipes, that was over. Indie sites would just be slow. Not from congestion. From policy.
The outcome was obvious enough to name: the internet would split into fast and slow. Pay or be second-class. That’s not competition. That’s rent extraction.
These cycles always play out the same way—petitions, politics, corporations waiting it out. But something in the defense of net neutrality stuck with me. What they were defending actually existed: an infrastructure that didn’t primarily extract value. Once you’ve seen that, you understand exactly what disappears when the rules change.
You write something good. Actually good, the kind that doesn’t happen often, and you post it on Twitter hoping it reaches people. Then the favorites start rolling in. Nicole stars it. Flo stars it. Sandra stars it. A handful of yellow stars, and then what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Twitter’s doing this big spring cleaning thing right now—messing with @ replies, changing hashtags, adding photo uploads, maybe renaming the retweet button. Fine, sure. But here’s what I actually want them to do: delete the favorite button.
When you post something on Twitter, you’re asking for real feedback. Either someone replies and starts an actual conversation, or they retweet and your thought keeps spreading. That’s real engagement. That matters.
A favorite, though? A favorite does absolutely nothing. It’s worse than nothing, actually. It gives people an easy escape hatch. A way to say “I saw this and I approve” without doing anything that would actually mean something. It’s a tired smile, a weak handshake, everything that’s wrong with the social internet pressed into one useless star.
The real problem is that it kills better engagement. Everyone who hits that button is someone who didn’t reply, someone who didn’t retweet, someone who took the path of least resistance. I want to ask every person who’s ever favorited something instead of sharing it: Why not go two clicks left and actually do something?
Sharing means something. Favoriting means you didn’t care enough to try.
So Twitter, if you’re serious about making this place better, about forcing people to actually think and engage instead of taking the easy way out, delete the favorite button. Make people choose: reply, retweet, or move on. No middle ground. No comfort zone. The lonely internet would thank you for it.
I need to be clear: if I hear “Happy” one more time, I might actually lose my mind. The song’s inescapable, the kind of thing that burrows in and doesn’t come out. So when I heard Pharrell was collaborating with adidas, my first instinct was annoyance. But then I read what he’s actually doing, and it made sense.
The collection’s dropping this summer. The centerpiece is biotech fabric made from recycled ocean plastic—actual plastic pulled from the water, not some greenwashing label slapped on a factory-standard shoe. It’s a detail that stands out when most celebrity partnerships are just a name stamped on the same thing everyone else is making.
I’m not pretending to suddenly care about the ocean. But I do want Superstars from this thing. And a hat. Something simple, nothing oversold. That’s what I’m waiting for.
Assume the zombie apocalypse is coming—most of us are already. When it happens, what will we actually miss? Not families, not electricity, not the internet. Bacon. We’re going to lose sleep over bacon.
CMMG, a weapons manufacturer in Missouri, apparently came to the same conclusion. They sell canned bacon—fifty strips, ready to eat straight from the tin, designed to last ten years. Around fifteen dollars a can. Black can, very tactical. Very ’I knew this was coming.’
The absurdity and logic of this product are perfectly balanced. Of course you’d want bacon when civilization collapses. Of course someone made it. Of course it’s a gun company from Missouri selling it. The reasoning is airtight and the whole thing is ridiculous.
I probably wouldn’t buy one, except maybe as a joke—the way you’d buy a zombie survival manual. But I respect the priorities. Looking at end-times preparedness and deciding that the real essential isn’t water or medicine or seeds, but bacon. Cooked bacon. In a can. For a decade of darkness.
If the apocalypse actually happens and someone pulls one of these out, they’re going to feel very clever. They’ll be right.
World Order’s “Have A Nice Day” video is just Akihabara—robotlike precision cutting through all that tangled chaos, Genki Sudo moving through the district like it’s written into his code. Watching it made me realize I’m nostalgic for a place I don’t actually live, which is the weirdest, best kind of homesickness.
Akihabara isn’t technically my favorite Tokyo neighborhood—that fluctuates between Shibuya, Harajuku, Shimokitazawa depending on my mood—but it’s the one that stays with me. Super Potato gets you in the door if you care about old game hardware. The real draw is the density: five floors of cheap electronics stacked on top of each other, pachinko parlors running constant mechanical screams, and the sex shops where you can flip through magazines with schoolgirls illustrated on every cover. No apology about any of it. That’s what I like about Akihabara.
I took Christine around once, showed her the weird corners where you feel like you’ve stepped inside someone else’s obsession. Another time I gave a homeless guy 2,000 yen and some onigiri and a beer. The sheer strangeness of the place makes you want to be decent to people.
I know every street in that small universe now, every corner. Watching them shoot the video through those streets, watching all that otaku culture get compressed into precisely choreographed movement—it felt like watching my own weird private memories get set to music. That’s the real magic of it.
Notch pulled the plug on Oculus VR support the second he heard Facebook bought it. Two billion dollars, done, and the creator of Minecraft just walked away. That tells you something about what everyone expected from Oculus before Zuckerberg showed up.
The Oculus Rift had come out of a Kickstarter campaign and suddenly made VR feel real in a way it hadn’t before. Not the expensive corporate VR of the ’90s, not the arcade experience, but something you could actually have at home, could build games for, could imagine a whole new era of gaming around. The developers believed in it. The players believed in it. There was momentum.
Then Facebook bought the hardware and the team, and Mark Zuckerberg laid out his actual vision: virtual classrooms, virtual stadiums filled with ads, all that surveillance-ready stuff that makes Facebook, Facebook. Not games. Not what the community that built Oculus cared about.
Notch’s response was blunt. He didn’t want to be part of Facebook’s machine. He didn’t want his work—his carefully engineered dream—to feed into whatever Zuckerberg was building. Neither did anyone else who’d been in that Kickstarter community.
What gets me about acquisitions like this isn’t the money part. It’s that every time a big company with different priorities buys something beautiful and independent, something dies. Not the product—the thing stays, the hardware runs—but the vision. The reason people cared in the first place. The belief that this could belong to us, that the future could be something other than an optimized revenue stream.
Maybe the competition will pick it up. Maybe someone else will build the VR future that Oculus promised and Facebook buried. But Notch was right to leave. Once it’s Facebook’s thing, it’s not your thing anymore, no matter what they build with it.
You notice it gradually. A creator you follow starts mentioning products—a phone here, some skincare there—and at first it feels natural. Then the pattern emerges: everything gets mentioned. The headphones, the coffee, the supplement brand. Never marked as paid. Maybe they got money, maybe they didn’t. You can’t tell anymore, and that’s where trust goes.
I get these sponsorship requests all the time. Agencies are explicit: don’t mark it as an ad, because then the deal dies. They need it to look organic, like a genuine recommendation. I understand why creators take the offer. Money matters when you’re trying to survive on your work.
But audiences aren’t stupid. They figure it out, or they start to wonder, and the moment they’re wondering whether you’re being honest with them, you’ve already lost the only thing that mattered—their trust. You don’t get it back.
The legal threat is real. Fines, investigations, the regulatory weight of it. But it’s not even the main consequence. The real one is simpler: you destroy something you spent years building, and for what? A few months of sponsorship money that wouldn’t have been worth it in the first place.
A small audience that trusts you is worth more than a bigger one that’s wondering if you’re lying. Creators keep taking the deal anyway.
Tinker Hatfield’s idea was to show the thing that makes it work. Put the air unit where you can see it. Seems obvious now, but that was the whole move—everything else was hiding what kept you comfortable. He said no, let’s make the cushioning the design.
That was 1987. Almost four decades and it still looks right. The plastic bubble, the whole apparatus on display. There’s something you want from that honesty—knowing what’s holding you up, seeing how it’s built.
I’m not hunting for a new pair just because the date is Air Max Day or because they made it in green and red and white. But I respect the move. Showing the structure, the scaffold, what actually holds you up. Most things hide that. Air Max said no. Still doesn’t.
Okay so FireChat is this app that lets you message people near you—like within ten meters—without needing internet. It works through Bluetooth, using iOS 7’s peer-to-peer stuff. You’re at a festival, a concert, the beach, and suddenly you can text strangers around you. Or your friends if you got separated in the crowd.
There’s something perfect about the idea. You’re surrounded by people but your phone has no signal. Then this app shows up and says: you don’t need that. Just proximity. Just the people standing near you.
I doubt it became a thing. The fantasy of meeting someone at a concert through an app is better than the reality—everyone’s already distracted, already texting someone else. But the concept stuck with me: phones finally doing something interesting without the entire weight of the internet behind them.
LEGO’s doing Simpsons minifigures now. Ralph and Flanders and whoever else, three euros each, which is cheap enough you don’t have to think hard about buying them. Minifigures work perfectly for this show anyway—reduce these characters to their basic shapes and they’re instantly there.
I already have the expensive LEGO Simpsons house, the collector flex that sits somewhere gathering dust. But these small figures are different. They’re exactly the kind of thing I didn’t know I wanted until they existed, which is dangerous. Now I’m thinking about which ones actually matter, whether I need Ralph or whether I’m just getting him because he’s funny.
There’s a LEGO Simpsons episode coming to American TV in May, which sounds made up the first time you hear it. Probably I’ll end up with a few of these figures. That’s how it goes.
I started paying real attention to Japanese charts after realizing I was missing almost everything that actually mattered there. What strikes me is how unsegregated it is—idol groups and punk bands sharing the same chart space with no weird hierarchy about credibility. This week: Atsuko Maeda with her sharper post-AKB48 career, Dempagumi.inc chaotically refusing seriousness, and Mongol 800, an Okinawan punk band that’s been somehow mattering for decades. There’s something freeing about following charts from a place where you have zero cultural investment in any of it. You’re just listening to what caught people’s ears.
I don’t know anything about basketball, which is maybe the wrong starting point for caring about a Kareem Abdul-Jabbar sneaker. But the adidas Jabbar Low showed up in white and blue for spring 2014, and it’s just a good shoe. Clean leather, minimal branding, the kind of design that works on its own merits. Most celebrity shoes feel like you’re buying the name—you wear them because someone legendary did. This one almost doesn’t care if you know who Kareem is. I couldn’t make a basketball shot if my life depended on it, but I could wear these without feeling like I’m borrowing someone else’s credibility.
In 2014, Scarlett Johansson was inescapable. She was the voice in Her, the spy in Captain America: The Winter Soldier, the phantom in Under the Skin—three completely different versions of her, flickering through the world at the same time.
Lost in Translation got me years ago. Sofia Coppola filmed her not as a spectacle but as someone thinking, waiting, aware of the invisible weight of being looked at. It was never about her face or body, though of course she has both. It was about the person inside, tired and searching.
Now she’s on the cover of Wall Street Journal Magazine, shot by Alasdair McLellan, and in the interview she’s saying something that matters: she wants to stop being an object of desire. Not bitterly. Just—she knows it won’t last anyway, so why not build something that does? A career. Family. A life beyond being looked at.
I get it. And I also know she’s fighting something that’s basically designed to be permanent. The machinery keeps running, the photographs are beautiful, and the question—whether she’s the beautiful thing or the person refusing to be only that—keeps circling. Most people just accept it. I respect that she won’t, even knowing the system doesn’t much care.
Robyn Exton made an app for women who want to date women. Dattch. British, swipe-based like Tinder, but designed specifically for lesbians and bisexual women instead of being an afterthought on someone else’s platform.
The weird part is how overdue this is. Tinder was built by straight people, Grindr proved you could build something designed specifically for one community and have it work, but women looking for women just got knockoffs and failures. Apps clearly made by people who didn’t understand what they were doing. Scraps from other people’s platforms, mostly.
I don’t know if Dattch will last or if anyone in Berlin is using it. But the fact that it exists, designed from the beginning for what women actually want, says something about how much was missing before.
I’ve gotten into this habit with my roommates—we watch Hey Arnold over dinner, usually a couple episodes at a time. Rewatching as an adult, though, the whole thing feels different. The show is quietly devastating in a way I completely missed as a kid. There’s this bittersweet melancholy woven through it, hanging over the boarding house, over Phil and Gertrude, over all these children moving through a world they don’t fully understand. You don’t feel it when you’re young, but now the innocence in it feels fragile, weighted with impermanence. There’s a song by Jim Lang from one of the episodes, ’The Best Parents,’ that barely registered the first time through. Now it’s the saddest melody in the world.
There’s a point where perfecting something means you have to start deconstructing it. In Tokyo, sushi has been done to death—every technique mastered, every variation tried. So Hironori Ikeda makes the world’s smallest sushi: a single grain of rice with a paper-thin slice of fish. Not a meal. Just the idea of sushi, reduced to almost nothing.
This is what happens when you reach the edge of a tradition. In Berlin and other cities, good sushi costs real money because it’s rare and special. In Tokyo it’s everywhere, which means it’s nothing. You eat it constantly and it stops mattering. The food artists get restless. They start pushing against the limits, removing elements, making things smaller and more minimal until sushi becomes purely conceptual.
There’s something right about that impulse, even if it’s completely absurd. Taking precision seriously enough that you strip away almost everything. That’s its own integrity.
I probably wouldn’t go. I’d be starving the whole time. But I get the argument.
You unbox new sneakers and something primal happens. You smell them. You run your hands over them. If no one’s watching you might even taste them, just a little, because they’re so perfectly made and still carry that factory newness and possibility. Then you wear them one time — literally one time — through rain or mud or just regular streets, and they’re finished. That fresh-out-of-the-box glow is gone. They’re just shoes now. Old shoes.
The obvious fix is transparent plastic bags. Keep them on as you walk around. Everyone gets to see your sneakers through the plastic but the actual shoe stays immaculate, untouched, preserved. The problem is you look utterly ridiculous. One person in plastic bags is a freak. But that’s how trends happen, right? Alone you’re insane, but do something weird with enough other people and suddenly it’s fashion.
I want to see sneaker brands and designers and anyone with actual taste just commit to this. Bag check before you step outside. Make it normal. Make it cool. Because the alternative is watching every pair you actually like get slowly, inevitably destroyed the moment you actually wear them.
This feature cost me an unreasonable amount of time — weeks and months and years of my young life, I’m hardly exaggerating. Just keyboard navigation for the homepage: J to jump to the next post, K to go back. A WordPress plugin handles the heavy lifting, but I still managed to make it take forever.
It’s done now and it actually works, and I have to admit it feels good. Press a key instead of scrolling around like an idiot.
Found this Tumblr that catalogs the worst Kickstarters ever posted. The pitch is the entire joke—no commentary needed. Chris is asking for fifteen grand to expose his ass on mountains. Holly needs eleven thousand to lay her metal penis on tables. Eric wants seventeen to make Monopoly badly, intentionally, with no other purpose. They’re all sincere. The Tumblr just presents them straight.
Some of them probably got funded. Which is the whole thing right there—the confidence, the zero self-awareness, the absolute certainty that strangers will fund your incomprehensible idea. It’s not satire or commentary. It’s just people asking, and sometimes the answer is yes.
Thousands of people were controlling a single Pokémon game through Twitch chat, voting on every button press, and watching a character named A slowly shuffle through Pokémon Emerald. By hour five they’d barely left the starting town, which is the whole point. Chat is split between “left,” “down,” and random noise, so the character wanders in circles, gets turned around in doorways, sometimes by accident gets closer to where they need to go.
They’d done this before with Pokémon Red and Crystal, and people showed up to do it again. There’s something weirdly compelling about it — the stupidest possible way to play a video game, designed so failure is guaranteed and beautiful. You’re voting for “up” while five hundred other people vote for “down,” and the net result is that A just stands there hitting a wall for thirty seconds. Then finally the character turns and walks straight into a tree.
What actually works about it is how honest it feels. No one pretends it’s anything other than what it is: thousands of people with competing interests, just watching chaos unfold together. The Pokédex grows one ridiculous catch at a time. Pokémon get released. Chat goes insane. Someone probably releases your favorite. That’s the game, that’s the community, that’s why you keep voting.
There’s a real human thing happening there that has nothing to do with Pokémon. It’s the appeal of being part of a collective that’s large enough to feel significant but too disorganized to actually accomplish anything. The game progresses anyway, stupidly and slowly, and you know thousands of other people saw that exact stupid moment you just watched.
Sword Art Online and Attack on Titan have been fucking with me hard. That feeling they create—the constant “what the fuck happens next,” the way they dig into your brain for days, the way they make everything else seem dull by comparison. I’ve been chasing that hit ever since, wading through trailer announcements and reviews looking for the next thing that lands the same way. Nothing’s come close yet.
Then the Terror in Tokyo trailer hit. Two guys. A terrorist attack on the capital. But that’s not the plan—that’s the practice run. The whole country is the target. Shinichiro Watanabe’s directing. Yoko Kanno’s composing.
That pairing is enough to make you lean in. Both of them have made work that matters. A premise that audacious and dark right out of the gate—maybe, finally, something that scratches this itch.
I used to check the Japanese pop charts every week like clockwork. Just the top 30 from Tokyo, songs I couldn’t always understand, artists I’d have to research, but something about the ritual felt important. Nobody else who read this paid attention, but I did. It was pure data—what people three thousand miles away actually wanted to listen to, no algorithm, no curation, just the honest count of what was playing.
That stopped. Life changed, the ritual fell away. But I’ve been thinking about bringing it back because there’s nothing like Japanese pop to remind you why you cared in the first place. It’s the specificity of it—a voice you don’t hear anywhere else, a production choice that makes no sense anywhere else, the sheer effort underneath the pop shine.
This week the charts had KANA-BOON’s soaring rock thing. Kyary Pamyu Pamyu still pushing her experimental pop boundaries like she didn’t get the memo about getting more commercial. AKB48 with their massive, calculated, somehow still genuine machine of perfect pop. The three of them together tell you something about what’s actually happening in Tokyo right now.
I’m doing this for myself, to stay connected to something that genuinely interests me. If you want to follow along, come. But mostly I just want to know.
Funko’s releasing Adventure Time Mystery Minis soon - little vinyl figures of the full cast. Finn, Jake, Marceline, the Ice King, LSP, all of them. And honestly, it’s Lumpy Space Princess that makes this worth wanting. She started as a one-off joke in early seasons and somehow became the only character in the show with genuine comedic range, maybe the only one with actual depth. There’s a Zombie Finn variant too, which tracks for a show that got progressively darker as it went on. I’m not usually into blind-box collecting - that whole chase mechanic feels a bit desperate - but these would be nice to have around.
Re:publica had become the thing I looked forward to every spring. Once a year, Berlin filled up with people you’d been reading for years, faces you knew only from avatars suddenly real in the same room, drinking beer in the sun. The old bloggers were there, the ones who’d been at it since the early days, and you’d spend hours talking the way you can only do in person.
What struck me every time was how analog it felt for a conference about the internet. No WiFi panic, no constant phone-checking, no one live-tweeting about the livestream. Just people in a room, which should have been obvious, but it wasn’t. Everyone there lived most of their lives in front of a computer, and for one week you were all in the same physical space, which made you real to each other in a way that newsletters or Instagram never could.
There was something grounding about it that I didn’t quite understand until later. Years of writing into the void, watching lives filtered through carefully composed posts, and then suddenly you’re standing next to these people in a hallway, and they’re exactly as awkward and thoughtful as they seemed online, or maybe more so because you could see their face.
The sessions mattered less than the hallway conversations, the beers afterwards, the accident of running into someone you’d been reading for a decade. Every year the same people would show up, a little older, some missing, new faces looking amazed that all these people they’d followed actually existed offline.
I’d go back for a while, but the thing that made it special had already started to fade. Fewer old names. The internet moving on to bigger platforms. The idea of gathering in one place didn’t have the same pull. But for a few years there, it was the one place where you could remember that the internet is still made of people.
Jeremy Scott makes sneakers that actually offend some people, which is probably the highest compliment you can pay a designer. The tail thing—these weird appendages hanging off the heel or the side of the shoe—is his move. It’s dumb and bold and completely uninterested in making sense to anyone but him.
At Paris Fashion Week he did an interview where he got into it about why shoes need tails, what Blade Runner has to do with his new collection, Kanye West, the whole thing. The questions are more interesting than the shoe talk you usually get, because they’re not about comfort or sales or what color’s trending. They’re about what the shoe actually means.
The tails aren’t just weird for weirdness’s sake. There’s a philosophy underneath it—a refusal to make something polite or obvious. Blade Runner shows up because that aesthetic is fundamentally uncomfortable, deliberately ugly in a future-focused way. Kanye’s in there because he’s another guy willing to burn it all down and start with a shape that doesn’t fit anything.
It’s the opposite of incremental design, which is most of what fashion is. You take last year’s sneaker, adjust the curve, change the color, call it progress. Scott’s asking different questions. What if the shoe looked alive? What if it made you feel wrong? What if it looked like nothing anyone’s ever seen?
I’ll never wear them myself—too much attention, too much faith in my own taste. But there’s something pure about it. He’s saying: this is what a shoe should be. Take it or don’t. That’s the only way to actually make something new.
I watched The Act of Killing in a couple sittings and couldn’t shake one thought Oppenheimer keeps returning to: imagine if the Nazis had won, and were still alive, still killing, and nobody cared. They’d be on television laughing about it. That’s what happened in Indonesia after the 1965 coup. The men who did the killing are still alive. They’re celebrated. Nobody made them stop.
Oppenheimer followed two contract killers who murdered hundreds of Communists with their own hands, with whatever they had close by, fast and brutal. He asked them to talk about it. To reenact it. They agreed immediately. No hesitation. They’re proud.
What the film does to you isn’t gore — there’s barely any blood on screen. It’s how ordinary they are. Old men in a country that decided to call them patriots, so they just stayed patriots. The propaganda worked. They never had to hide. They never had to regret anything, and so they didn’t. They talk about the murders the way people talk about any job they spent their life doing.
Oppenheimer is Jewish, lost family in the Holocaust. That fact hits different watching his film — he went into a place where the killers are heroes, where nothing was ever called to account, and he just filmed it. Let them speak.
You can watch it free on ARTE for a couple days. Shortened version. It stays with you, not because it’s beautiful or revealing, but because it’s real. These men exist. They’re fine with what they did.
I would’ve been a professional League of Legends player, probably, if I’d pushed past the twelfth match. That’s what I tell myself anyway—that there was a version of me who didn’t quit, who kept grinding, who made the leap. Valve’s documentary Free To Play follows the actual path that version of me didn’t take, shadowing professional Dota 2 players through their climb and the tournaments where the real money lives. It’s not a celebration of esports stardom so much as a document of what it costs to get there.
The film opens on some of the world’s best Dota players in their team houses, at practices, preparing for the International—the game’s championship. They’re good in a way that’s hard to explain to people who don’t play. It’s not just the speed of their hands or the precision of their clicks. It’s about understanding a game so deeply that each decision becomes automatic, where five people move like they share a brain. The documentary captures that concentration without making it look heroic. Just guys in chairs, staring at screens, thinking harder than most people ever do about anything.
What gets you is the stakes. This is still the early era of esports, when the scene is proving itself, when prize pools feel enormous but the path to earning them is genuinely precarious. These players are betting years of their lives on a game. They’re young enough that a failed career pivot could sting for decades. The film doesn’t dramatize that for effect. It just shows the weight in how seriously they take themselves, the discipline, the grinding practice that doesn’t look like anything to anyone else.
There’s a romantic idea of competition that sees the victor and thinks talent. But talent is the ante. What separates the pros from the rest of us—people like me who quit after the twelfth match—is the willingness to be that dedicated to something that society still can’t quite figure out how to value. Esports players in 2013, when this was made, weren’t celebrities. They were weirdos betting everything on a future that might never come. Some of them made it. The International became real. The scene exploded. But that leap of faith is what the documentary captures, and that’s the gulf between them and someone like me.
The documentary doesn’t care about what-ifs. It just shows what it looks like to commit completely to something that barely exists yet. That’s worth seeing, whether you’d make the leap or not.
There’s something both generous and strange about artists agreeing to paint what strangers tell them to paint. You’d think creative work means doing what you want, protecting your vision from interference. But Wurstbande, Gogoplata, and Rylsee — Berlin street artists who actually have something to say — took it the other way: they opened up a wall and asked the public what should go on it.
The appeal is obvious. You get people invested because they had a hand in it. The wall becomes less about the artist’s name and more about the collective moment. It’s messy in theory — too many voices, no real editorial eye — but it works as a thing to do with people in a city. Berlin’s wall gets painted. Someone felt heard. The artists got to move paint around with the sun on their face.
Maybe it matters less what ended up on that wall than the fact that it happened at all. Public space where the public gets a say. No algorithm, no curation, no panel of experts deciding what counts as taste. Just the democratic ugly beautiful mess of actual community deciding its own decoration.
Game of Thrones does something weird to you. You start with these characters who have reasons, and the show just keeps validating them. Tyrion’s funny, Cersei’s protective, Daenerys is liberating people — and somewhere in the middle of all that, you’re rooting for increasingly terrible things. Not because you’re fooled, but because the show keeps handing you reasons that actually make sense. By the time you’re hoping for mass violence or betrayal, you’ve rationalized it so thoroughly that it feels justified. That’s the real horror — watching yourself become complicit, seeing how easily you can justify darkness if someone just explains it well enough.
I had a Lolita Burger and it destroyed every meal that came before it. Crispy potato chips baked into the patty, sweet onion jam, peanut butter and bacon working in concert, seared foie gras, grass-fed beef charred to the edge of black. I’d eat that thing every day for the rest of my life if I could. That’s not even gluttony—that’s just knowing what you want.
I’m not here to judge anyone’s salad. But I also know that something in me changed after that burger. Once you’ve had food that doesn’t pretend to be anything but exactly what it is, you can’t go back to pretending anymore.
A blog post about reclaiming the web from Facebook and Twitter lived in my head for years. The guy who wrote it was arguing that we’d basically handed our conversations over to a handful of corporations, that everything we said disappeared into an endless feed, that we’d lost any real power over our own expression. It was obviously true and I could feel it happening to me in real time, which made it worse.
The like button became the perfect symbol of everything wrong with that. It started as something harmless—a quick way to acknowledge something without typing a comment. But somewhere it turned into a god, a little number that kept running score on your relevance, your worth, how much your thoughts mattered in a world where everyone’s screaming for attention. And once you start watching that number, it gets in your brain and doesn’t leave.
You don’t see it coming. You post something and you start refreshing the page, waiting for the counter to move. Then you notice which posts do well and which don’t, and your brain does the math automatically. The weird observation, the thing that only makes sense to you—that gets deleted before you publish it. You post the safe thing instead. The video everyone’s already seen. The joke that lands. Because you’ve trained yourself to predict what the algorithm wants and you write toward that.
Then the addiction takes hold. You get ten likes and you want twenty. You get a hundred and you want more. I’d find myself refreshing obsessively, chasing that next hit, and when it stopped climbing I’d spiral, wondering what was wrong with the post, what was wrong with me, why I wasn’t good enough. It doesn’t matter if the final count is thirty or three thousand. You’re still hungry for one more.
The real problem is that a like isn’t actually approval. It’s barely even engagement. Someone clicks a button without reading, or they skim and agree with a headline. That pixel becomes a data point I’m using to measure my own worth as a writer and as a person, which is absolutely insane when I think about it. I had normalized being a lab rat in some tech company’s experiment, pressing a lever for dopamine hits.
So I killed it. The like button is gone. The Twitter share count too. Yeah, it’s probably going to hurt my traffic because I understand exactly how this works—people click on things more when they see validation. But the second you start optimizing for that is the second you stop writing for yourself. You start performing. You become someone else.
Instead I put in a simple share button with no counter. If someone wants to pass something along, they can, but not because a big number told them it was good. Because it actually mattered to them. That’s a real choice, not a reflex.
It’s not perfect. It’s not going to fix the internet or overthrow anyone’s business model. But it’s where I can start, with this one small corner. Not watching the counter. Not letting the fear of a bad number keep me from writing something weird or unpopular or true. Writing like I did before this all got turned into a game.
You spot a shoe that works and by the time you look it up, it’s already gone. That was the adidas Originals ZX FLUX Multi. It’s exactly what it sounds like — a ZX FLUX covered in a multicolor pattern, the three black stripes still managing to hold the whole thing together. Shouldn’t work but it does.
Saw it at Sneaker Politics and within hours it was sold out. These things move fast.
Will probably see another pair somewhere. adidas does enough runs that if you want something badly enough you can track it down eventually. Just takes patience. For now it’s just a shoe that looked good and vanished.
There’s something about Lykke Li’s work that refuses to let you settle. Every song seems to be in motion, like she’s always pushing toward something—musically, lyrically, in the sheer restlessness of her voice. The textures are sleek but never comfortable. You can hear the weariness in there too, the exhaustion of constant motion, but also maybe that’s the point. Maybe there is no rest, not for her anyway, not for someone making work that needs to constantly evolve and shift.
You’re walking down the street and someone approaches. Someone you know but don’t really want to talk to. Your stomach drops. You pick up your pace, maybe turn down a different block. You’ve done this a thousand times.
All the social apps are designed to prevent this moment. Facebook, Instagram, Foursquare—they want to connect everyone, map proximity, make sure you’re always aware and always visible. But the honest truth is most of us spend most of our time trying to avoid exactly that. We don’t want to be found. We want solitude more than connection.
Cloak was an app that actually understood this. It showed you where your friends were so you could go the opposite direction. Seems funny until you realize it’s just being honest about something everyone feels. For once, a social app that didn’t pretend we’re desperate to be together. We’re desperate to be alone.
Everything’s tracked anyway—your location, your movements, all of it. You’re always being mapped. At least Cloak admitted it, and turned that surveillance into escape instead of capture.
There’s a face that stops you. Alejandra Guilmant turned up somewhere—a shoot, a magazine, I forget the context—and she’s just clearly there, visually present in a way that reads as honest. Not performing, not manufactured. Just effortless geometry.
Gray Berlin skies, whatever. When you see someone that clean, the weather doesn’t matter. There’s no calculation, no machinery you need to understand. You look at her and something clicks because it’s all line and proportion and the kind of ease that doesn’t happen by accident.
I sometimes wonder if I’m unstable when I catch myself thinking that tweaks to my website or shifts in how I present myself online actually affect my mood, my plans, my relationships. Like I’m giving too much power to pixels and domain names. But then I notice other people doing the exact same thing — making these deliberate adjustments, waiting to feel different — and it makes me oddly happy, especially when it’s people whose work and history I follow. You realize it’s not just you. It happens.
The feedback loop is real. A new color, a cleaner navigation, a name that fits better — these aren’t empty choices. They give you permission to move forward, or they show you you’re serious about something. And often, other people notice. Noticing matters. So you rearrange, and then you feel different.
I’m rewatching The Life Aquatic right now—Bill Murray doing his thing, Owen Wilson doing his thing, Robyn Cohen always half-naked in the scenes she’s in. I never get tired of Wes Anderson.
Kogonada made a video breaking it down, showing what makes Anderson actually work. He’s a fetishist for centered framing, Kogonada shows—every shot lined up down the middle, the camera staring straight at the center of the world. Over and over. It sounds weird when you’re describing it, but watch the video and it clicks. No fancy camera moves, no elaborate tricks. Just an obsessive commitment to symmetry, and somehow that’s the whole point.
Japanese commercials hit different. This one’s got a guy heading to work when a giant cat shows up to carry him across the city—rooftops, streets, all the way to his office door. It’s the kind of surreal, impeccably shot bit that only Japan’s ad industry seems capable of. I love the commitment—the production value, the straight-faced logic, the complete embrace of absurdity. Makes you wish your commute actually worked that way.
Some company bought the trademark to “BlogFashion Kitchen” and is now suing Ann-Christin, who’s been running the actual blog for three years. They want 600 euros every six months, retroactive, plus penalties up to a quarter-million if she doesn’t comply.
This is the shape of things now. Not theft, not innovation—just extraction dressed up in legal language. Register the variation, trademark something adjacent, find whoever had the original name but didn’t think about IP law, and wait for them to pay or fold. Most people will fold.
Twenty years of blogging and I’ve watched the internet get worse in ways that are almost boring. The platforms monopolized it. The ad networks squeezed it. But this is different. The cleverness isn’t in building anything. It’s in finding where regular people slip up and turning it into a threat.
Ann-Christin will probably pay. And the next person will get the same email next week.
I’ve made it a routine to watch compilations of strange Japanese commercials first thing in the morning. It’s become a better way to wake up than coffee—just pure unfiltered chaos that hits you before you’re even thinking straight.
These ads operate on a logic that doesn’t translate. Sumo wrestlers screaming. Monsters spraying liquid. Things bouncing that shouldn’t bounce. There’s no product placement that makes sense, no narrative, no moment where you suddenly understand what they’re selling. Just loud and wrong and committed to that wrongness.
What I like about them is that they don’t care if you get it. American commercials are always performing—selling you a lifestyle or a feeling along with whatever product. These just exist. They’re absurd for the sake of being absurd, and there’s something genuine about that.
By the time a compilation finishes, I feel a little stupider and ready to move forward with the day.
Johannes Stötter’s parrot isn’t a parrot. He spent four weeks setting it up — planning the pose, the paint, the angle — so that when you look at the photograph, your brain immediately sees feathers and color and the specific geometry of a bird’s head. The illusion is nearly perfect, which means it has to break. And when it does, you’re looking at a woman painted so thoroughly that she became something else first.
That’s the real skill here. Not the technical execution of the paint itself, though that’s flawless. It’s the conceptual discipline — the understanding that if you want someone to see a bird, you have to think about exactly how vision works, how the eye moves, what signals the brain accepts without question. Four weeks to create a photograph that takes a second to see through.
Once the illusion cracks, it doesn’t fully repair. You know what you’re looking at now, but the painting becomes something different — less like a costume and more like evidence of planning. Of patience. Body painting usually trades on novelty or spectacle. This trades on sustained deception, which is a harder thing to pull off.
What stays with me is the moment just before you understand what you’re seeing. That’s the space Stötter engineered for. Not the payoff of the reveal, but the fracturing second when the two images compete.
There’s a Tumblr blog dedicated to documenting the psychological states of waiting outside Berghain. Hours in line, the bouncer silent, the judgment made in a glance — in or out, dancefloor or street at 4 AM. Inside it’s dark and impossibly loud, everyone trying to dissolve into the strobes and the bassline, half the floor on ketamine.
The blog just catalogs the specific absurdities: “Trying to walk on Keta,” “Finally being able to pee,” “Complaining about tourists after being there twice.” It’s funny because it’s painfully exact. The gatekeeping is deliberate, the ritual is ridiculous, and somehow that’s the whole appeal. You wait because you’re supposed to want in. You get in because the bouncer decides. You dance because the music is loud enough to make thinking impossible.
By 5 AM you don’t know if you’ve transcended something or wasted the night. Probably both. The line reforms next weekend anyway.
Lady Gaga got vomited on in Texas. Artist Millie Brown ate a bunch of meat beforehand, then threw up directly into Gaga’s face during her set. And it worked. That got to her.
For decades she’s built her entire thing on shock—meat dresses, pushing every boundary, the constant implication that nothing fazes her. Then someone threw up in her face and the performance cracked. Not some philosophical challenge to taste, just basic vomit. The kind of thing that’s too involuntary, too physical, too real to turn into art.
There’s something almost respectable about discovering the actual limit. You can spend twenty years saying nothing bothers you, and then someone pukes on you and suddenly you’re just uncomfortable. The frontier was lower than you thought.
I looked at the leaked character sheets for Sailor Moon Crystal and something clicked in my head that I’d honestly forgotten about. The original ’90s anime—the one I grew up on—was sloppy in the best way. Inconsistent animation, weird pacing, filler that somehow worked. But underneath all that was Naoko Takeuchi’s manga, tighter and meaner and weirder than what made it to the screen.
Crystal was supposed to be that version finally adapted properly—no compromises, no filler, just the source material as written, with cleaner character designs and better animation budgets. I realized somewhere in my teenage years I’d been waiting for this without even knowing it. Every dumb decision since then, every pointless night—it was all just marking time until Usagi Tsukino came back.
The thing that actually matters is how sharp the manga is. Usagi isn’t a typical magical girl protagonist. She’s genuinely difficult sometimes—lazy, scared, selfish in ways the ’90s anime softened out. The manga version doesn’t apologize for that. The other girls feel like actual people too, not just a roster of personality types. You know people like them. That’s what made the original work as well as it did, even buried under inconsistent animation.
I don’t know if Crystal will actually land. There’s always the chance they’ll mess it up in some new way, or that adapting the manga faithfully won’t actually be better than the weird alchemy that made the original work. But I’m watching anyway. I have to know how this turns out.
I remember when memes were actually funny. Bad Luck Brian felt fresh. Overly Attached Girlfriend was weird enough to land. Doge had that untranslatable absurdist charm—the terrible Comic Sans, the fractured English (“such amaze”), something about it that just worked. But somewhere between then and now, memes became what everyone does, which is the exact moment they stopped being what anyone wanted to see.
The problem isn’t that memes got old. Trends always get old. The problem is they became democratic. Every person with access to a template and two working brain cells started cranking out variations. First World Problems, Socially Awkward Penguin, Confession Bear, Actual Advice Mallard, Skeptical Third World Kid, Scumbag Steve—the list goes on and so do a million lazy captions, each one somehow worse than the last, each one “funny” only to whoever made it and maybe their dead cat.
I read somewhere that memes have a shelf life now. Shorter each cycle. You get maybe two weeks before a format is completely exhausted, beaten to death by a million people trying to squeeze comedy from something that stopped working by day three. And that’s when I started noticing people at parties still making Borat references, still pulling Shit People Say bits like it was 2011, and I got it—we collectively decided memes were forever, which somehow made them completely disposable.
The frustrating part is how inevitable this was. Memes were always going to become this. The moment they stopped being weird internet humor from people who actually understood timing and became a format anyone could stamp text onto, the death was sealed. The democratization killed the thing. You can’t have a thousand people riffing on the same joke and expect the thousand and first to land.
So now when I see another variation of some format that should’ve died years ago, I just feel tired. Not angry—tired. It’s the exhaustion of watching something you liked get destroyed not by enemies but by millions of well-meaning nobodies all convinced they have something clever to add.
The “First Kiss” video was viral, supposedly authentic, turned out to be advertising. Which kind of killed it, even though that was probably obvious from the start.
Someone made a parody after that. Same setup — twenty strangers, immediate intimacy — but going where it was always going to go. Called it “First Handjob.” Crude as hell, but there’s something honest about it.
Because the real impulse is sexual, not romantic. If you want to kiss someone, you want more than that. The parody understands; the original doesn’t.
Your pencil breaks. Your teacher is mean. You realize people could see you in the window reflection all along. You drink orange juice right after brushing your teeth.
These are the small disasters—nothing serious, but they feel urgent anyway. Around 2014, Selena Gomez’s face became the universal response to all of them. Not quite crying, not quite pouting, something between devastation and petulance. The exact expression you make when something stupid happens. Just send the image and people understood.
The tweets kept multiplying because the face was perfectly calibrated. Your main person and your side person walk into the same room. Your friend says something to your parents they shouldn’t have. You’re about to sleep and remember you still have makeup on. You laugh so hard you almost pee yourself. Each was a slightly different flavor of social friction and bad timing, and Gomez’s face covered every single one.
What amazed me was how quickly it became language. You didn’t need to be funny or clever. You didn’t even need words. Just send the face and everyone filled in their own small catastrophes. It probably doesn’t work anymore—memes have expiration dates—but for a few months in 2014, a single expression from Selena Gomez was enough to say everything that needed saying about minor humiliation and bad timing.
You know that feeling—standing in your underwear staring at your closet, overwhelmed by options. Most people just work through it. Spend the time, find something, move on. Miley Cyrus was in Milwaukee and decided against that whole process. She performed in her underwear instead. No outfit, no decision, no problem.
I respect the hell out of that solution. Just removing the entire problem.
Bob Burnquist built a ramp in Lake Tahoe, right there in the water between Nevada and California. The video shows what it must feel like—launching off those transitions in the sun, the water right there if you need to cool off or just want it. It’s designed perfectly for something nobody needs. The kind of dream you indulge when you’re sure the money will never show up. If it ever did though, you’d know what to build.
I’ve been thinking about Yoshi’s Island lately - the SNES one, I mean. Not the actual game so much as what it looked like. It had this hand-drawn quality even with the Super Nintendo’s limitations, like someone was illustrating as you played. Never forgotten that.
The new version, Yoshi’s New Island, showed up on 3DS. Same basic concept: Baby Mario gets taken by Bowser, you’re Yoshi, you need to cross some islands and fix the situation. You eat enemies and turn them into projectiles. You solve platformer puzzles. Pretty straightforward.
Where it gets clever is in the transformations. Yoshi becomes a helicopter, a drill, a submarine, and a bunch of other things depending on what the level needs. Each one changes how you move and think about the space around you. It’s the kind of design that doesn’t need to announce itself - the level tells you what shape to be, and you figure it out.
The whole thing runs on this idea that simplicity is fine. You don’t need elaborate systems or a plot that tries to make you feel something. Just a place to explore, a character who can do certain things, and the space between them where the game actually happens.
Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll play through the whole thing. But the fact that it exists, that it understands what made the original work - that simplicity and visual clarity were features, not limitations - that’s enough. Some games know what they are and don’t apologize for it. This is one of them.
Uli Hoeneß owes Germany 27 million euros, a number so abstract that someone built a website to translate it into actual things: 9 million stadium sausages, 39,000 season tickets on the Dortmund south stand, 11,000 daycare slots. The further down the list you go the more surreal it becomes.
Hoeneß basically was Bayern Munich for thirty years and apparently didn’t pay his taxes, which is what happens when you have that much money. The debt keeps growing. I don’t know if he ever actually pays it back. Probably doesn’t.
The website works because 27 million is noise. Nine million sausages at least makes sense. You can almost hold that in your head. Turn an incomprehensible number into concrete things and suddenly it matters more, even though nothing actually changes. The money’s still wherever it is. Hoeneß is still rich.
We get to imagine all those sausages. It’s the whole point—make the incomprehensible into something you can picture, even if nothing actually changes. Funny and dark at the same time.
She’s pregnant right now—not by me, obviously—but that doesn’t change anything. Scarlett Johansson is still the coolest person alive. There she is on the cover of Dazed & Confused in Wolford, Saint Laurent, and Levi’s 501.
All I want is to walk up to her, stammer like a complete idiot in her face, and tell her she’s the coolest fucking human being in the world, then go back to playing Pokémon online. Hopefully she doesn’t beat me up for being such an uncool nerd.
Mayama_ya on Instagram dresses Chihuahuas in Sailor Moon costumes, documents them, and that’s the post. Tiny dogs, tailored miniskirts, exact character recreations. Each photo is the same joke — here is a trembling three-pound creature in a sailor suit, and yes, it’s detailed.
The appeal is straightforward. Cuteness pushed past any reasonable threshold. A Chihuahua already sits at some extreme end of vulnerability, so adding a magical girl outfit just drives it further into absurdity. What’s strange is the craft. These aren’t quick snapshots. There’s real tailoring, real attention — the same commitment level you see in someone obsessing over MMO transmog, except the character is a living dog.
The dogs probably don’t care what they’re wearing. But there’s something weirdly respectful about taking a joke this seriously, this far, and never breaking character. That commitment to a concept, to doing something well even when nobody’s asking you to, is what’s actually good here. The costumes are just the excuse.
They smile nervously at first. Eyes darting. Two people meeting on camera, suddenly aware of how close they are. Then something shifts. The awkwardness stops being uncomfortable to watch and becomes the only honest thing on screen.
Tatia Pilieva gathered twenty strangers in a studio and filmed them kissing for the first time. No shared history, no weeks of buildup, no chance to smooth the edges. Just introduction and then mouths meeting.
The first thirty seconds of each kiss is raw. People laugh, go slow, dive in headfirst. But you’re watching something real—no performance yet, no calculation. Just reaction. People being honest in spite of themselves.
I’ve watched it a few times and what stays with me is what happens after. That look on their face when they step back. Still aware they’re strangers, but something’s changed. Not star-crossed or cinematic. Just affected. Skin-to-skin with no history between them, and now there’s a small one.
Scroll far enough online and you’ll find burger photography that’s designed to hurt. Matthew Ramsey’s work is like that — stacked patties, cheese bleeding, sauce that looks like it has a life expectancy measured in seconds. The names are part of the seduction: The Dirty Birdy, The Mac Daddy, The Merman. Not trying to sound refined. Just trying to make you want something.
I’m not even that into burgers, but something in those photographs gets to you. The lack of pretense maybe. These aren’t heritage beef on artisanal grain presented by someone with a beard and opinions about sourdough fermentation. They’re just meat and cheese and fried components stacked as high as they’ll go, which is the only honest thing a burger can be.
The funny part is knowing you want the image more than you want to eat it. The burger will be too salty, too much, probably a mess. It’ll sit wrong in your stomach. But at midnight, scrolling, it doesn’t matter. The photograph has already done its job.
Obama went on Between Two Ferns to talk about Healthcare.gov. It’s Zach Galifianakis’s web series—the host’s whole job is to be rude and dismissive, asking stupid questions, barely letting guests finish. The theory was sound: reach younger voters in a space they actually inhabited, make policy accessible, get some traction.
The format didn’t cooperate. Galifianakis did his routine, Obama played along with charm and self-awareness, and nothing about healthcare actually stuck. The clip spread everywhere because it was surreal watching a president get roasted on a stupid show, not because anyone cared about policy. The comedy won.
De:Bug is done. The German music and culture title I read for years just closed. I knew it was coming — everyone knew. Print’s been circling the drain so long that each death barely registers anymore. But this one landed different.
It was never the obvious cool thing. Not Vice, not some glossy lifestyle rag. De:Bug was niche, wonky, genuinely invested in electronic music and underground culture in a way that felt almost accidental. It didn’t seem to care if you were paying attention. It just kept doing its thing, every issue smarter than it had any right to be given how few people were actually buying it on newsstands.
That’s what kills me about print dying the way it is. The internet was supposed to democratize everything, make information free and abundant. What actually happened is we killed the things that were actually good at being strange and specific. De:Bug survived this long on stubbornness and a tiny audience that got it. Publications like that don’t survive on clicks. They need someone to physically walk into a shop and pay money for paper. And nobody does that anymore.
I used to buy issues when I’d see it. There’s something different about how you read a physical publication versus scrolling. You’re stuck with what they gave you, you dig deeper into stuff you might not have clicked on, you find connections you wouldn’t algorithmically. That’s gone now. That’s what I’ll miss — not the title itself, but that way of encountering culture.
The internet won. Smartphones won. We all chose convenience over the weird thing in the corner. De:Bug’s closing isn’t a tragedy because one publication failed. It’s because there are fewer and fewer places left that can afford to be anything other than obvious.
The Flappy Bird clones infesting your app store are terrible—a thousand variations that prove how much worse everything else is compared to the original. Dong Nguyen, who made it, pulled the game offline in 2014 when he realized how compulsive it was. He said he didn’t want that responsibility. But Rolling Stone got him talking recently, and he’s had a change of heart. Wants to bring Flappy Bird back. He’s even planning a warning label about taking breaks, which is a touching gesture if you believe that’s the main reason behind his sudden nostalgia. Making fifty grand a day does things to your conscience.
Here’s what’s funny: the clones actually make the case for bringing back the original. Every bad copy shows you how much was working in the real thing—the perfect marriage of simplicity and cruelty. One button. Gravity pulling you down. The certainty you’re about to fail. That’s the whole secret. The addiction isn’t to the game, it’s to that specific feeling. Everything that came after just proved nobody else ever figured out what he’d made.
I remember that waiting. Popcorn, cold beer, the whole ritual of it. Season 4 was coming and you could feel the shift — this wasn’t the show anymore that people were still figuring out. By then everyone knew what it could do, and they were hungry to see what came next. The trailer promised secrets, violence, the kind of reckoning that kept us coming back. You don’t feel that kind of anticipation for television the same way anymore, at least I don’t.
The thing about radiation is how much it doesn’t announce itself. Three years after Fukushima—March 11, 2011, the earthquake and tsunami that broke the reactor on Japan’s east coast—people were still living in contaminated places. Food was a question. Water was a risk. Kids were breathing something that wouldn’t show up in their bodies for years.
An ARTE documentary called “The World After Fukushima” just spent time with people who stayed. No catastrophe narrative, just ordinary moments: an old woman tending her garden, a father driving his daughter to school through normal-looking countryside. The film keeps circling the question nobody wants to answer, which is why we thought this particular risk was worth it for electricity.
I’m not sure anyone has a good answer for that. The math made sense somewhere in a conference room, before it actually happened. Then it happened, and the math became someone else’s life.
The contamination doesn’t respect boundaries. It works its way into the food chain and the water table and the bodies of people who didn’t evacuate or couldn’t. Once it’s there, it stays there, operating on its own schedule. An invisible threat is worse than a visible one because you can’t build walls against it.
What stuck with me from the documentary was how normal everything looked. The gardens, the towns, the roads. You couldn’t look at the landscape and see the danger. It was just there, doing its work.
I tell myself I’m happy. I have enough to eat, I live somewhere safe, I have people who care about me. It’s more than a lot of people get. But then I wake up at three in the morning thinking about Ryan Gosling and suddenly none of it matters. Why doesn’t he want me? Why isn’t he here?
I know how insane this sounds. And yet there’s something real about wanting something you absolutely cannot have. The internet has figured this out — there are a thousand ways to pretend that proximity exists. You can buy a shirt with his face on it. You can wear it. You can hold that image close and feel like maybe, somehow, he’s closer to you too.
It’s stupid but it works for about five minutes. You put on the shirt and he’s there on your chest and for a moment you’re not thinking about everything that’s missing from your actual life. You’re just living in this other version where what you want is actually available.
I guess we’re all doing this in some form. Filling gaps with images of impossible people, with merchandise, with the idea of being known by someone who’ll never know we exist. It’s ridiculous and everyone does it anyway because it works just enough to keep you going.
American Apparel’s whole thing was knowing how to piss people off. Dov Charney had it down to a science: push until someone screams, apologize just enough to avoid consequences, then push again. Every few months another ad campaign banned somewhere, another lawsuit, another “misunderstanding.” The company ran on scandal the way other brands run on quarterly earnings.
Maks was twenty-two, worked for the brand, and posed topless for an ad with “Made in Bangladesh” printed across her chest. The copy explained she was the daughter of conservative Muslims, the implication being this was somehow transgressive—liberated, honest, a real person owning her body. She showed her skin, the ad showed where the clothes came from, everyone got to feel smart about the brand’s transparency and her individual choice.
Except Tanwi Nandini Islam, a journalist from Bangladesh, pointed out what nobody wanted to think too hard about: the actual women making these clothes for twenty cents an hour stayed invisible. They didn’t get to pose for ads. They didn’t get to narrate their own lives in an American Apparel campaign. Maks got to be a person; they got to be a supply chain.
That’s the whole move, really. Charney’s genius was making you feel like buying the t-shirt was a political act, like the ads were radical and self-aware when they were just regular exploitation dressed up in better language. You could jerk yourself off about supporting a Muslim woman’s choice while the actual labor disappeared into the background. Progress sold the exact same way as everything else.
I don’t know what Maks thought she was doing. Maybe she believed it. Maybe she needed the work. Maybe she understood that posing for American Apparel meant your body was always going to be the message anyway, so you might as well be the one telling the story about it. But the campaign wasn’t about her choice or her faith. It was about Charney using her as the argument against the argument, making her the subject so nobody had to look too carefully at where the real work was happening.
A sunny Saturday and I’m watching ninety-seven minutes of footage from a Berlin nightclub that closed long enough ago to become a myth. Bar 25. Tage Außerhalb der Zeit, Days Outside of Time—the title alone explains what people came for. Hours without edges. Music loud enough to think inside of. The river at dusk. The freedom to just move.
What catches you in this footage is how alive everyone looks. Not in a sentimental way, just alive. You see it in how the bodies move to the bass, and you understand why this place becomes holy in people’s memories. Maybe it was just a club. It definitely was more than that.
I’m not sure I ever went, or whether I’m assembling a memory from stories I’ve heard repeated in dark rooms and basement bars. Either way, you can’t look away. The light. The movement. The knowledge that it’s gone. You know how the story ends—the club closes, time moves forward, the world becomes something else. But while you’re watching, that hasn’t happened yet. For ninety-seven minutes, it’s still possible to imagine living outside of time.
The Simpsons had been coasting for years by then, but the couch gags had become the show’s only redeeming quality. Bill Plympton, John Kricfalusi, Robot Chicken—they all got their chance to reimagine the family in those few seconds before the title card. So when Sylvain Chomet, the director of Triplets of Belleville and The Illusionist, got his turn, I knew something unsettling was coming.
His version of the family was exactly that—alien and beautiful and disturbing in equal measure. Chomet rendered Bart, Lisa, Homer, Marge, and Maggie in that handmade, slightly wrong style of his, all texture and warped proportions. They looked like themselves but filtered through an artist’s peculiar eye, recognizable but fundamentally wrong. It stayed with me in a way the actual episodes never did.
I’m not sure when we stopped researching LSD. Forty years ago, apparently. A Swiss psychiatrist named Peter Gasser decided to change that. He gave high doses to twelve terminal cancer patients—most of them had never taken acid—and watched what happened.
The anxiety dropped. The depression dropped. The specific kind of dread that comes with being told you’re dying: that lifted too. And it stayed lifted. A year later, these people were still reporting the same peace they’d felt in the clinic. No one freaked out. No one had a bad trip. The experiment worked.
Half the group got placebo first. Their conditions got worse. Then they got the real thing, and they improved. That’s not magic or placebo effect. That’s just pharmacology.
What stuck with me is that eleven of the twelve said they’d take it again. Not because they were chasing fun. Because they’d spent a few hours without the weight they’d been carrying for months. That mattered enough to them that they wanted to remember how to get back there.
I’ve taken acid. I’ve been in clubs at three in the morning surrounded by people convinced they were experiencing something profound. Some of it was bullshit. But the mechanism is the same whether you’re in a basement or in a hospital bed. The drug works on your brain. It makes things feel less final. It opens up space where there was only closure.
The difference is context. In a club, it’s just chemicals and music and the possibility of something. In a cancer ward, it’s the possibility of relief from something unbearable.
We should probably run more studies. One study of twelve people isn’t enough to change medicine. But it’s enough to suggest that maybe we got it wrong. Maybe the drug itself isn’t the enemy. Maybe it’s the use that matters. Maybe fear of drugs has prevented us from looking at something that could genuinely help the people we fail most: the ones we’re about to lose.
Four bands are competing to write a jingle for a German phone company. Not as a punchline or a viral moment—there’s an actual process. A tour bus with custom art by Berlin street artists. A web series. A final live event in Hamburg where the winner gets their song turned into a commercial.
KUULT formed in Essen in October 2013 and somehow skipped the grinding-it-out phase. Chris Werner sings, Philipp Evers plays guitar and keys, Chris de Crau is on bass. They fill venues with Deutschpop, covers at first but increasingly their own material. The kind of band that makes you wonder what they’re doing right that everyone else is missing.
DEAD SIRIUS 3000 has a better origin story. Three Finnish guys—Petteri Sariola, Tapio Backlund, Jukka Backlund—rented a cabin in 2011 to drink whiskey and use the sauna and fool around with instruments as a side thing. They came out with songs for a full album. Each had already played in successful projects. All three had history with Sunrise Avenue and other bands. This felt like something else. They’ve toured Japan. They live between Cologne and Helsinki.
GETTING PRIVATE IN PUBLIC comes from Munich and is the opposite: four guys who’ve been friends since first grade, making music the whole time, their current band two years in. Indie-folk hybrids, what they call music that hits the heart and the legs. They put out “No lessons learned” in 2013.
PARI SAN is the wild card. Parissa Eskandari sings. Paul Brenning produces, samples, beatboxes, takes her voice and fragments it and multiplies it until it becomes something else entirely. Dreampop run through effects and deliberate chaos. Nothing straightforward about it.
A phone company decided to run an actual competition with actual stakes and resources. Not the standard commercial-music grind. Four different sounds meeting in one contest, four different visions of what a song can be. The absurdity is built in, and yet something about it works. One of them will win. Their song will become a yourfone jingle. And somehow that’s not embarrassing, it’s just the thing that happened.
I’ve watched Lost in Translation way too many times to keep count. There’s something about that film that never gets old—Bill Murray, Scarlett Johansson, Tokyo at night, the feeling of being alone in a crowd. I watched it three times back-to-back on a train once and would happily do it again.
Bill was on Graham Norton recently talking about his Japanese dictionary. Not for any practical reason, but because he likes learning random phrases he can drop into conversations just to confuse people. It’s so perfectly him—the idea of learning language as pure mischief, treating Japanese like it’s a party trick. He’s learning it the way you’d learn sleight of hand, just to watch someone’s face when you do the unexpected thing.
Most people learn language with purpose: travel, work, seeming cultured. Bill just wants the weird stuff, the phrases nobody expects an American actor to know. He mentioned there was one particular phrase that had really gotten stuck with him, something that kept coming back to him. I wish he’d finished that part because I’m genuinely curious what it was—some random sentence that probably didn’t make sense to anyone but appealed to him anyway.
Ten years since the first one, and I still remember that theater feeling—all that black and white with blood red and electric yellow punching through, everything designed to look like a comic panel. Jessica Alba in the red dress. Bruce Willis doing his worn-down thing. Mickey Rourke as this broken giant. The whole movie felt like it had permission to be exactly what it wanted to be.
Frank Miller and Robert Rodriguez are doing A Dame to Kill For now, and the trailer’s got that same look. Same high-contrast style, same graphic-novel geometry, same violence that doesn’t flinch. Whether that works a second time is probably the only question that matters. Ten years changes what lands and what doesn’t.
Miller’s got noir in him. Rodriguez knows how to make artifice feel like it belongs. I’m interested to see if they can do it again.
Kate Upton in Sports Illustrated. Sun, sand, skin. No narrative, no pretense—just what it looks like. She commits completely to the image without apology, and that directness works better than all the overproduced stuff that tries to turn desire into concept. Sometimes you just want to look at something that doesn’t explain itself.
The hoverboard is happening. The Back to the Future hoverboard, December, this year. Tony Hawk and Moby and Terrell Owens are out there saying it exists, showing videos, acting like this is just a normal product release instead of something we’ve been waiting for since 1985.
TechCrunch keeps saying the technology doesn’t exist. But you see the footage and the celebrities looking serious and you think: maybe they figured it out. Maybe this is real.
I’ve been promised a hoverboard before. But this is different because December is almost here and there’s nowhere left to hide. Either it works or it’s the biggest prank ever. I’m choosing to believe until I have proof otherwise.
Some guy in California built his entire house around cats. Four bedrooms, converted into an endless playground of platforms and poles and perches—the whole place engineered for eighteen animals. I found pictures of it once and couldn’t stop looking. That’s not pet ownership. That’s devotion that’s crossed into architecture.
The interesting part is the design problem he solved. Not for humans. Not for the market. Just: what if you removed every constraint except the cat’s comfort? What if the whole system existed only for them? Most people wouldn’t bother. It’s easier to get a cat condo from Amazon and call it done. But this guy looked at his living space and said yes, I’m doing this.
You don’t build something like that because you think it’s practical. You build it because you care enough to look ridiculous doing it. Because halfway doesn’t work once you’ve decided to commit. There’s something clean about that kind of obsession—no compromise, no “well maybe this is too much.” Just eighteen cats and four bedrooms and an entire life redesigned around someone else’s needs.
I’m not a cat person. But I understand the impulse. It’s the same thing that makes people restore cars, or spend years perfecting a garden, or vanish into hobbies nobody will ever see. You commit because the thing itself demands it. No compromise. That’s design.
Lykke Li’s new video is a dark, beautiful thing—low light, her voice, and this feeling like you’re inside someone else’s consciousness and you don’t want to leave. I’ve watched it a lot in the last few days, more than I’d admit to most people.
Life gets to you. It’s gray in a way that’s not poetic—it’s just gray, the kind that deadens everything. You stop wanting. You stop hoping. You stop bothering to care. It’s not a metaphor. It’s what happens when you live.
And then something like this arrives. Someone caught something real and beautiful and true, and they put it where you could find it. The song is called ’Love Me Like I’m Not Made Of Stone,’ and I know exactly what she means—stone is what you become when you stop letting yourself feel.
What Lykke Li does here is remind me how to feel again. That’s the whole thing, really.
Ellen shot that Oscar selfie and it broke Twitter for a day—everyone needed in on it, servers choking on retweets. The Simpsons saw it coming and did what The Simpsons did: Matt Groening had the writers build an episode around it, stuck the same Hollywood names in frame (Lawrence, Cooper, Pitt), made it a thing.
That was the show’s trick. See something happening in the culture, fold it into yourself before anyone stops talking about it. Used to feel like proof the show had its finger on everything, still mattered.
Now I think it was just reflexes—one cultural mirror bouncing off another.
You sit in a theater and a giant robot crushes a building. That’s the whole thing. Dinobots wrecking everything. The plot is garbage and you know it, but who cares. Michael Bay made another Transformers movie because he figured out exactly what we actually want, and it sure as hell isn’t a good story.
The crazy thing is it works. Two hours of robots destroying a city, surround sound, screen the size of a wall—that hits different than anything smaller. You know it’s stupid. The dialogue is stilted, the characters are thin, the logic is nonexistent. Doesn’t matter. You’re not there for logic. You’re there to watch scale and chaos rendered in sound and pixels, and Bay is genuinely good at that one specific thing.
I know people who bitch the entire time they’re watching these movies. Terrible plot, pointless dialogue, what a waste. Then they’re back for the next one. That’s not hypocrisy. That’s understanding what the thing is. These movies aren’t trying to be art. They’re trying to be an event, and events work by different rules. The plot can be garbage and the spectacle can still be worth your time.
So the robots keep coming. The cities keep burning. Somewhere someone’s tweeting about how awful it is while they’re literally sitting there in the dark, watching it all blow up. And they’ll be back next summer for the next one.
Jesse Hill made a music video for Drunk In Love using nothing but emojis. On paper that sounds terrible—the kind of thing you’d close out of immediately.
But it actually works. The constraint forces everything to be deliberate. Every emoji has to mean something. No filler, no production tricks to hide behind, just the image and the song cutting through.
What strikes me is that Beyoncé’s the kind of artist who gets this kind of weird creative response. People don’t just listen, they want to remix her, translate her into new forms, find her in different mediums. Not every artist gets that. Not many are distinctive enough to inspire it.
Spent maybe ten minutes on it. Stuck around longer than I expected.
There’s a war happening, but not here. Not yet, not where I am. I can walk outside whenever I want. I have enough food, water, electricity. I’m safe—as safe as anyone gets in whatever this time is. But somewhere else, people are living in something I can barely imagine. Especially the kids. I’ve seen the images enough times to know I don’t actually want to know what they see every day.
The thing about living in relative peace is you stop thinking about it as a choice or a fortune. It’s just the default. You forget that the default could evaporate. You forget because forgetting is easier, and because you can’t sustain genuine terror about something that isn’t actively happening to you, no matter how much guilt tells you otherwise.
But sometimes something catches you—a photograph, a statistic about children—and you’re forced to sit with the thought: what if it were here? What if I couldn’t leave my apartment safely? What if my kid couldn’t go to school? What if none of the ordinary certainties held? It’s not really the thought that breaks you, because you know it could end as easily as it arrived. It’s the knowledge that for someone, somewhere, that’s not hypothetical.
I don’t know what to do with that knowledge except hold it. I want to believe it won’t happen here again, but the more I look at it, the less sure I am. I just know I don’t want to find out.
Shigeki Fujishiro’s Stan Smiths for adidas Consortium are almost too clean to touch. The collaboration is called “Play,” and everything about the execution suggests someone who understands that the best design work happens in the negative space, in what you don’t add.
Stan Smiths have always been this perfect low bar for minimalism — white leather, three stripes, that dumb little tennis tag. They’re almost impossible to mess up because there’s nothing there to begin with. What Fujishiro did was find the small gaps where detail could live. The stitching has a quality to it. The proportions breathe differently. It’s not a redesign, it’s a recalibration.
I saw them and wanted to keep them in a glass case. That’s the crude truth of it — not “they’re stunning” or whatever, but the actual animal response to something that’s clearly been thought about. Good design doesn’t announce itself. It just sits there quietly while you orbit around it, noticing things.
Minimal shoes are everywhere now, and most of them are empty. These aren’t empty. That’s worth caring about.
I remember that March when Putin moved troops into Crimea and everyone online felt the weight suddenly shift. The debates started immediately — sovereignty, international law, what the US would actually do about it. VICE had cameras on the ground at the Black Sea, showing actual soldiers and checkpoints instead of just anchors narrating their panic. For a few days it seemed like we were standing at the edge of something genuinely catastrophic.
Then at some point it just faded. Not the crisis itself — that stayed, obviously, it’s still there — but the urgency dissolved. The dread became background noise. I stopped refreshing the news every hour. The moment passed into history. Which is maybe its own kind of apocalypse, watching something that felt world-ending become normal, become something people stop paying attention to.
That’s how it works though, isn’t it. We hold our breath for a few days and then we go back to our lives.
There was this moment in Ghost in the Shell—Scarlett Johansson at a high window in Tokyo, nothing underneath but underwear and the glittering city far below. Squarepusher’s “Tommib” playing, which made the whole scene feel less like cinema and more like stepping into someone else’s fever dream, the kind that sticks to you long after you wake up. All I wanted was to sit there beside her. Not say anything. Just watch. Hold her hand. That was the entire thought.
Then I found out she’s pregnant. Romain Dauriac, a French journalist, got there first—got there at exactly the right moment. Now there’s a baby coming, and I’m still thinking about that window and that song and how the light probably felt against her skin in that one scene that didn’t even happen the way I remember it anymore.
Obviously I’m happy for her. I mean it. But there’s this small, dumb sadness that settles in—the sadness of knowing I never stood a chance, which I already knew, but now it’s official. Confirmed. Done.
This is where you move on to the next one. Jennifer Lawrence, someone else. The carousel keeps turning. By now I know that watching doesn’t change anything, but I watch anyway. What else is there to do.
Abby Martin, a host at RT, went on air yesterday and criticized everything the network is built to promote. The military moves. Ukraine. The annexation talk. Just said it outright.
Everyone at RT understands the arrangement. You show up and you sell the government’s line. But she walked in front of the cameras and refused—no strategy, no exit plan, just plain speech about what was actually happening in the one moment you’re not supposed to speak.
That’s the thing that matters. Not heroic, not clever. Just someone deciding that silence costs more than speaking. And doing it knowing exactly what comes after.
I’d stopped checking in somewhere around the hundredth time I was about to mark my location at the same coffee shop. Foursquare had felt interesting for about two weeks — the idea that your location mattered, that you could own a space digitally — but it quickly became obvious that all it did was document everywhere you actually go, which is depressing. The same three blocks, the same stores, the same predictable routine mapped out in check-ins. Placescore inverted the whole thing. Instead of collecting locations, you compete for them. Show up somewhere, win a quick puzzle game against whoever claimed it last, and it’s yours.
It’s a small shift, but it changes everything. The game itself is simple — sort dots, recognize patterns, nothing that requires thought. But suddenly the mundane geography of your city matters. You’re not checking in to broadcast your life anymore. You’re trying to own your corner of the map, and competing is the only way to do it. It’s the same impulse that made Foursquare work — that desire to control territory, to mark your presence — but directed at something that actually feels like a game.
There’s something almost honest about it. No social layer, no discovery angle, no pretense about what you’re doing. Just: can you play better? If yes, the location is yours. That’s the whole thing. That’s the appeal.
I’m already halfway there by the time you read this. Assateague Island sits between Maryland and Virginia with these wild horses that have just been living there, untamed, for centuries. Nobody owns them. They just run. That’s it. That’s the whole appeal.
These aren’t resorts or Instagram spots. The horses don’t perform, don’t care if you’re watching. They eat salt grass and wade into the water and exist in this way that doesn’t require your approval. They won’t help you relax in the way the travel industry promises. They won’t look good on your phone.
But there’s something honest about an animal that isn’t built to please you. Something that reminds you what just existing means—no audience, no filter, no performance. I’ve wasted enough time in places designed to be consumed. I might not come back. This is it.
Ellen pointed her phone at the people sitting near her during an Oscars commercial break. Jennifer Lawrence, Brad Pitt, Meryl Streep, Bradley Cooper—just a quick selfie, everyone grinning. The kind of thing that takes three seconds.
That photo became the night. Two million retweets by morning, over a million likes. The actual Oscars—the wins, the speeches, the spectacle—got completely overshadowed by a woman asking her neighbors if they wanted in the picture. The casual beat the ceremonial.
There’s something genuinely funny about that. Here’s this institution, decades of tradition, all that careful choreography, and it gets upended by someone doing the most ordinary thing. Not a moment designed for impact. Just people, actually happy, crammed in together, knowing the whole thing was a bit ridiculous.
What made it work was how real it felt. Not the practiced joy of an award acceptance, but actual amusement. The pleasure of being in on a joke with a room full of strangers while millions watched at home. That kind of unguarded moment.
It stuck around. The selfie outlasted the ceremony. Years later you remember the photo. Not who won best picture.
Frozen won Best Animated Feature at the Oscars, which pretty much confirmed what I already knew — the Academy doesn’t actually know anything about animation. The Hollywood Reporter got interviews with seven jury members, and reading them was like watching someone confidently describe a painting they’d never actually looked at.
These people had never heard of Hayao Miyazaki. The Wind Rises, which was essentially Miyazaki’s goodbye to filmmaking, registered as nothing to them. Ernest & Celestine didn’t exist. They’d seen Despicable Me 2, sure — everyone knows the big Disney hit. But the films that actually mattered to anyone who cares about animation as a form? Never registered.
Here’s the thing: Frozen is fine. It’s competent, it does what it sets out to do, it’s a perfectly solid Disney movie. But the jury didn’t vote for it as the year’s best animated film. They voted for it because it was the most animated in the only way they understand animation — something bright and cheerful and made for kids. The idea that animation could be something else, that it could have its own visual language and philosophical depth, that someone like Miyazaki could make something profound out of it — that wasn’t even in their field of vision.
This is what gets to me about award shows. They wrap themselves in authority, but they can’t manage basic literacy in the forms they’re judging. When animation shows up, they see cartoons. When they see a Japanese master, they see nothing. They don’t know the name, don’t know the work, can’t imagine why anyone would care.
The whole thing felt quaint even then, like watching someone insist they’re a serious music critic while only knowing what the radio plays. I didn’t expect better. I just wish I’d cared less about the verdict.
There was this stretch where Leonardo DiCaprio seemed to get nominated for an Oscar every other year, and never once went home with one. Five nominations, nothing to show for it, which sounds like hyperbole until you actually sit with it. And the weird part wasn’t that he was undeserving — he was doing real work, film after film. Titanic, Inception, Wolf of Wall Street. Whether it was the romantic earnestness or the paranoid obsession or the pure sleaze, there was always something underneath. But the Academy kept passing on him.
You could feel it become a thing, a joke that wasn’t really a joke anymore. Everyone had a take on whether Leo should have won by now. The longer it went on, the more absurd it felt — not because he was dramatically better than everyone else, but just because of the consistency. Like watching someone excellent at their job be denied this one arbitrary approval, over and over, while the world watched and kept score.
I don’t know if I actually felt bad for him. He was fine. But there was something almost cruel about it, in a way that only matters if you care about that kind of recognition. When he finally won for The Revenant, it wasn’t even his best performance — it was fine, competent, a guy surviving nature. But it happened, and people moved on, and I never really thought about it again after that.
What stuck with me was the absurdity of the whole thing. How long it took, and how quickly it became irrelevant once it was over.
Kate Moss did another naked shoot with Terry Richardson for Lui Magazine. How many times is that now? You stop counting after a while, honestly.
At forty, Kate Moss is still beautiful enough that photographers want to shoot her naked and magazines want to publish it. I’m not criticizing it. There’s something almost professional about the whole thing—it’s her job, she’s good at it, and it pays.
Richardson’s the obvious choice for this kind of work. He’s spent a career shooting naked women, and he’s built a very specific aesthetic around it: something that feels intimate and artistic even though it’s being published for strangers to see. It’s slick. You can respect the competence.
There was a skeleton couple in the frame, which is the kind of detail you throw in when you want to make a naked photoshoot feel like something more. Art. Context. Mortality. But a skeleton doesn’t really change what you’re looking at. It’s still Kate Moss.
What strikes me is how long this has been happening. Since the nineties. Different photographers, different magazines, same basic situation. It’s just her thing now.
I don’t speak Korean and I have no idea what 2NE1 are singing about, but their new tracks—Happy and Come Back Home—land anyway. The production, the approach, the whole aesthetic is foreign to me, and I’m not fluent enough in the language or the culture to pretend otherwise. But something about them cuts through that distance. Pure otherness, and it works.
I’d declared myself done with the internet for the day. Closed the laptop, walked away. Then someone sent me a video and I had to take the whole thing back.
It’s a Japanese girl group—three members, all young—performing with the full orchestration of a metal ensemble. Crushing guitars, double bass drums, the works. The girls are bouncing around with genuine joy, screaming into microphones, while the musicians behind them are committing absolute violence to their instruments. The gap between their aesthetic (cute, idol-trained, choreographed) and the sound pouring out is so massive it stops being coherent. You just watch it happen.
BABYMETAL, apparently. That’s the name. The song title came through corrupted in the email, some garbled Unicode I can’t even parse. But it doesn’t matter what it’s called. The point is they exist—this thing where cute and brutal don’t cancel each other out but somehow reinforce it. No irony, no winking, just the straightforward claim of being both a girl group and metal.
I turned the volume up. Way up. My neighbors probably heard it from the street. Definitely worth whatever comes of that.
2008 and 2009 were the years I paid attention to music that supposedly mattered. Lykke Li released Youth Novels—perfect and aching, the kind of sound that made you feel less alone without being pathetic about it. Around the same time, M83 made Saturdays = Youth (nobody noticed but they should have) and Natasha Khan gave us Two Suns. That was the soundtrack to those years. That was what heartbreak sounded like when you were certain it was changing you permanently.
Then she vanished. Not dramatically—just the way artists do. You move on, or they change, or life fills the gap. You forget. You stop being the person who needed those songs.
Years later, Lykke Li came back with I Never Learn. The moment I heard her voice again—just the start of it—everything came back. Not the teenage heartbreak, but the memory of why she mattered in the first place. That specific melancholy that sounded intelligent.
Maybe she’d grown, or maybe I had. Either way, it was her, unmistakably her, but changed. Deeper. Less desperate. Less like someone dying and more like someone who’d lived.
That’s the kind of artist you don’t forget. You just wait for them to remember themselves.
If you ever got naked on Yahoo video chat and showed yourself to someone across the internet, the British government was watching. The GCHQ had direct access to the feeds. They took screenshots, ran facial recognition, archived your face under counterterrorism. This is how you find out: documents leak years later and you read about it.
Between 2008 and 2012, they collected over 1.8 million images. No warrants, no specific reason to believe anyone was a threat — just access to the system and the will to use it. The images fed into facial recognition databases to flag “terror suspects,” which requires an optimism about government work that I don’t have. But that’s the job: look at everything, see what sticks, move on. Most of the people in those images weren’t planning anything. They were just doing what people do when they think they’re alone.
The GCHQ’s internal notes were what got me. The staff seemed genuinely shocked that so many users were sending intimate images to each other, like they figured Yahoo video chat was only for family calls and work emails. But you build a system to watch people, people just do what they were going to do anyway.
Yahoo complained afterward. Said it violated user privacy and betrayed their trust. But legally it was fine — British law allowed it — so there wasn’t anything they could actually do about it. The webcams either stopped streaming or kept going, or are still streaming right now somewhere. You’ll find out when the next leak drops, or never. Meanwhile, you’re back on camera thinking about government surveillance the way normal people do when they feel exposed. It won’t change anything, but you think about it anyway.
You travel somewhere and you want to remember it. So you take photos, collect junk, write things down—all these ways of trying to hold onto places you’ve already left. It never works. You end up with a box of stuff you never look at.
A cork globe is different. You just mark where you’ve been. No context, no memory attached. Just a pin going in. I’ve been here, and here, and here. That’s the whole story.
Chiaki Kawakami designed one that actually works. The material is exactly right—warm, tactile, something you’d want to hold instead of letting fade into the background. The design doesn’t overcomplicate the idea—it’s a map, you mark it, you’re done.
What I like is the honesty. The globe doesn’t hold your experience. The places blur together over time. The pins are all that’s left.
I watched a husky named Silver learn what happens when someone just touches your head the right way. He pulls back at first, skeptical, ears folded. Then his whole body goes soft. Eyes close. He’s not thinking about anything—not his day, not yesterday, just the weight of a hand and the release of whatever was holding him tight.
There’s something unsettling about the simplicity of it. The distance between here and gone is just the right pressure in the right place. Silver figured it out in thirty seconds. I’m still working on it.
That’s the thing about dogs—they don’t complicate contentment. They just let it happen.
Found out a third of British strippers are still in school. The research showed 29 percent of dancers working in UK clubs are students or high school kids, funding their education the way previous generations might’ve worked retail or flipped burgers.
The math’s straightforward when you actually look at it. Tuition gets worse every year, legitimate student jobs pay nothing, and anything hourly that fits around classes is going to be minimum wage. But nights in a club? Real money. Flexible scheduling, cash in hand, nobody tracking your time or effort like some manager with a clipboard. It’s a completely different equation.
What’s stranger is that not all of them started from desperation. The study found women from comfortable families who had other options and chose to dance anyway. They wanted the performance, the independence, the immediate cash, the control of their own nights. A researcher named Teela Sanders said they think of themselves as dancers, not as sex workers, and the culture’s shifted enough that she’s probably right. It’s work now, not a last resort.
I don’t know if this is a global thing, but the thinking’s obvious. You’re broke, you’re young, legitimate jobs barely cover rent. Stripping pays better. You pick based on what you’re willing to do and how much cash you actually need.
If you didn’t love Secret of Mana on the Super Nintendo, I don’t know what to tell you. The Boy, the Girl, the sprite, the dragon, the tree, that weird fluffy thing—all those secrets waiting to be found, wonders tucked into every corner, the golden city somewhere beyond the horizon. It was the kind of game you don’t forget. The sequel never officially came out in Germany, which never particularly bothered me until now, because there’s a new Secret of Mana game sitting there for free, and I’m suddenly paying attention.
Square-Enix put out Rise of Mana on iOS in Japan this week. It’s free-to-play, which means the expected microtransactions, but it exists in the same world as the original—those blob creatures, the weird angry chests, the whole strange cast of characters. Android version comes in the summer. Europe might get it eventually.
I watched the announcement video and walked out more confused than I went in. It’s this aggressively colorful mobile game, which is fine in itself, but what I actually wanted was the original game with modern production: same 2D art, real RPG depth, dialogue that actually reads like it was written by humans, a world big enough to get genuinely lost in. Instead it looks like a gacha game wearing Mana costumes. Could be incredible, I guess. Most things could be incredible in theory. I’m skeptical though. When it actually comes out I might end up playing it obsessively for months, or I might open it once and never think about it again. Either way is possible.
Thousands of euros a month for a girlfriend that will never leave. Japanese otaku building their entire emotional lives around Miku, Yuno, Shiina Mashiro—not as a phase but as the relationship, the one thing that actually works. Girlfriend, daughter, wife, all in plastic and pixels and perfectly arranged desire.
The appeal is straightforward. Real people are unpredictable. They disappoint. They want things from you. They might not want you back. But a character designed to be loved offers something different: guaranteed safety. Every purchase is proof you’re doing something right. New figures, voice packs, limited editions—the relationship deepens through transactions, which means you always know what to do next.
What’s interesting is the precision of it. Someone figured out how to package male loneliness so effectively that thousands of men will spend serious money and serious years on it. That’s not sadness—sadness is everywhere. That’s engineering. The system works because it solves the one thing that makes real relationships terrifying: the other person actually mattering in ways you can’t control.
Maybe that’s a reasonable trade. Maybe the safety is worth it. I don’t know. I just keep thinking about what you give up in exchange for something that will always be exactly what you need it to be.
I spend too much time thinking about what I’d do if the apocalypse started. Would I actually be smart about it? Just panic like everyone else? Probably some embarrassing mix of both. The calculus gets familiar in the quiet hours—raid the pharmacy, find people to trust, keep moving. It’s usually three in the morning with zero intention of actual preparation, just white noise in my head until sleep comes.
Japan’s built something for people like this: Universal Studios Japan created a Resident Evil experience where you actually walk through Raccoon City. Underground bases, abandoned subways, weapons in your hands, undead stumbling out of walls. It’s the closest most of us get to seeing how we’d actually react when something real is trying to kill you in the dark.
Obviously it’s just a theme park ride. Everything’s clean, staffed, designed for your safety. The monsters clock out at night. But there’s something appealing about the idea anyway—a dress rehearsal for a disaster that will probably never come. Some kind of proof of concept for the version of yourself you might be if everything actually fell apart.
Haven’t been there yet. Probably won’t go. But I think about it sometimes, the same way I think about all the other pointless things I’d theoretically do if the world stopped working right. At least this one’s real enough to make a trip out of.
Daan Roosegaarde is a Dutch designer who made a dress that turns transparent when you’re aroused. It reads your heart rate and calls you out the second your pulse jumps. There’s no hiding it.
The appeal is immediate if you think about it from the right angle. Someone wears this dress to a bar and sees someone they want—and suddenly they’re exposed. No pretending you’re not interested, no mystery. Your arousal becomes visual fact. There’s something satisfying about that honesty, and something deeply awkward about it too.
The flip side is knowing when someone’s interested in you. That’s information usually buried in subtle signals—a look held a second too long, a shift in posture. This dress makes it explicit. You’d never misread a room again.
Roosegaarde makes these pieces that take something uncomfortable about modern life and push it until it breaks. This one’s about the constant gap between desire and appearance, between what we feel and what we show. Everyone’s attracted to someone every day. Everyone’s thinking about sex, thinking about other people’s bodies, running scenarios. And everyone pretends they’re not. The dress just refuses to play along.
I doubt these will ever be actual fashion. They’re conceptual, probably meant to provoke rather than wear. But once you see the idea it doesn’t leave you—what if everyone knew? What if you could see when someone wanted you? It sounds like freedom and sounds like exposure in the same breath.
There’s a video of ravers at some festival dancing to Yakety Sax, and watching it is like looking at a mirror from when I was 22. The way they’re moving, the genuine joy on their faces even though the song is objectively ridiculous, the commitment to the bit even when there is no bit — that was me. That was everyone I knew.
You spend your early twenties believing that the absolute peak of human experience happens at five in the morning in a mud field with a hundred thousand other people, all of you on the same drugs, all of you dancing to the same four-on-the-floor beat for hours. The beat changes maybe three times across an entire night. You don’t care. You’re sweating through three layers of clothes, your jaw is clenched so hard you can’t open your mouth, and someone keeps spilling warm beer on your back, but this feels important. This feels like what being alive is supposed to feel like.
I spent whole summers doing this. Coming home reeking of other people’s sweat and condom wrappers and god knows what else. Losing days to the crash afterward. Spending money I didn’t have. Standing in the same spot for six hours waiting for a specific DJ to play a specific set, getting my hopes up and having them crushed by the opening act or by some other random set that came first. The music wasn’t even good, most of the time. It was functional. Designed to keep your body moving on a rhythm that didn’t require you to think.
But there’s something in that video of people dancing to Yakety Sax that captures the actual truth of it. The song is a joke, a cartoon, completely detached from the seriousness of the rave aesthetic, and they dance to it anyway. They’re happy. The music doesn’t matter. What matters is being there, being high, being part of a crowd that’s all feeling the same thing at the same time.
Looking back, I can see the absurdity clearly. The wasted time, the money, the health stuff I’d rather not think about, the repetitiveness of it all. I’d probably do a thousand things differently if I could go back. But if someone asked me whether I regret it, I don’t know what I’d say. There’s a version of me that lived something that felt absolutely real at the time, even if it was completely pointless. Maybe especially because it was completely pointless.
There was a Nazi rally in Neukölln—this is Berlin, which means there’s always some kind of Nazi thing happening. They were targeting a Pirate Party member of the city council, someone they’d been harassing for months, and the harassment had escalated into the kind of ugliness that becomes normal if you’re not careful.
What made me angry wasn’t the Nazis so much as the city council. They were planning to pass a statement supporting the counter-protesters while distancing themselves from their own member who was actually doing the organizing. That’s the move that kills you—wanting the moral credit without ever being on your side when it actually matters. They want to look good in the abstract while staying clean in practice.
Someone posted the call: if you’re not working that afternoon, come to the town hall and annoy the fascists. Show up, make noise, don’t let them do their thing. It’s a low bar for resistance but maybe the right one. Treat them like what they are—a minor inconvenience, not the organizing moment they want to be.
I don’t know if enough people showed up. But there was something in that message that stayed with me. Not the moral seriousness of it, but the casual irreverence. Go fuck with Nazis because you have a free afternoon. Don’t make it solemn. Don’t perform the resistance. Just show up and be a problem for them.
Five thousand dollars for a beard you could grow yourself in a few months. That’s what a dermatologist in New York is selling, and the demand is insane. Hipsters between twenty and forty—guys with money and no patience—are paying to have hair grafted directly onto their faces. The shortcut costs more than the actual timeline.
There’s something weirdly honest about the desperation. You’d rather pay five grand than wait. The transaction isn’t about hair at all; it’s about skipping the unfashionable phase, buying directly into the version of yourself that already has the beard. The actual hair is almost irrelevant. It’s just a prop.
I respect that in a stupid way. Most people chase shortcuts and lie about it, construct narratives about time and effort. These guys skip the lie. Just open your wallet and become the thing you want to look like. At least there’s no bullshit. Though I’m also never paying five grand for something that grows back, so I’m not exactly qualified to judge. Maybe I just don’t want anything that badly, or I want other things more.
I watch people still swipe-swipe-swiping on Tinder like the app’s going to suddenly deliver. They get a match and immediately blow it—some copied line, a picture of their cock, immediate self-sabotage. Then they’re refreshing, waiting for someone else to be drunk or lonely enough to not notice what they just did. The whole machine is rotten, or they are, or both.
But the real conversation moved on. Threesomes. Everyone under thirty in the cities is already orbiting that now. Not because they woke up adventurous—it’s just more efficient. One person means one night, one conversation, one person you might have to dodge later. Three people, you split the cognitive load. Less eye contact. Less of yourself exposed. Same result, fewer bruises. And you’ve got a story instead of shame.
So of course there’s an app. 3nder. Sign up alone or as a couple and swipe through the group-sex enthusiasts. Done.
I see why it makes sense in theory. But it’s built on a delusion: if you’re already failing the basic version of this—can’t even pull off one unmemorable night with another person—why would adding two more people and a couple more variables somehow fix it? The equation doesn’t change. A threesome is just dating on hard mode. Attract two people instead of one. Both want the same thing. Everyone shows up. Nobody’s a mess. It’s not a solution for people failing at Tinder. It’s just evidence that you’ll fail at this too, just with an audience.
AKB48’s ’Koisuru Fortune Cookie’ has been stuck in my head for days. The concept’s simple enough - Japanese schoolgirls in uniforms hopping down a Tokyo street, singing about fortune cookies and love and the future. You can see the machinery in every shot, the marketing strategy, the calculation. The group’s had its share of scandals, the idol system itself is this contradiction between scandal and wholesomeness, everything is product. Yet it works. Actually works.
What gets me is how genuinely happy it is. Not the synthetic brightness of manufactured pop, but actual optimism. There’s something about the song that hits different in the morning - some quality of simple, unearned joy that just cuts through the weight. Maybe that’s the real message underneath the love songs and the fortune cookie metaphors: you’re allowed to feel good for no reason at all. Sometimes that’s enough.
I don’t understand Bitcoin. Never have, never tried too hard to either. The whole thing lives in some abstraction layer between code and faith that I couldn’t quite grab.
So watching Mt. Gox collapse was almost a relief. Mt. Gox started as a trading exchange for Magic: The Gathering cards — which really tells you everything about the early internet — and by 2014 it was the biggest Bitcoin exchange in the world. In February, it just locked everyone out. All the customer wallets froze. The price crashed from $900 to $130.
Mark Karpeles ran the thing and quit the Bitcoin Foundation right after. The other board members didn’t believe his explanation. It had that smell of a guy watching his operation implode and having no idea what to do about it.
Here’s what I kept thinking: if I had to choose between putting money into Bitcoin through some exchange on the other side of the world run by people I’d never met, or just buying a bottle of wine and forgetting about it, what would I actually pick? The wine. Obviously.
Maybe that’s not a fair comparison. Maybe Bitcoin works fine and Mt. Gox was just one bad operator, one guy in over his head. But the whole thing felt fundamentally rotten — the idea that you could create money out of code and trade it on an exchange that started as a Magic card shop, and somehow nobody would get hurt. Turns out somebody always gets hurt.
Haim opens “If I Could Change Your Mind” quietly, just voices and the ghost of a beat. By the second verse it’s clear the song knows exactly what it wants to be—measured, careful, built from the kind of arrangements that sound simple until you pay attention.
The band’s gotten tighter. Earlier stuff felt like them learning how to be a pop group, trying on different textures and sounds. Now it just feels inevitable. They’ve stopped auditioning and started executing.
There’s something grounding about a band that still cares about actual playing—about whether the parts fit together, about whether you believe what you’re hearing. No amount of studio shine covers up emptiness underneath, but Haim has the musicianship to keep things from hollowing out. Each voice lands where it needs to.
Watching them work, Danielle and Alana and Este, each voice in its place like they’re not even thinking about it anymore—that’s the thing that gets me. A pop band that still plays like they mean it.
Lea Michele doing a Terry Richardson shoot for V Magazine was surprising. She was always the careful one on Glee — actually careful, not just playing cautious. The kind of actress who seemed genuinely aware of how she was perceived and invested in maintaining a certain image.
Cory Monteith’s death in 2013 changed things for her. He was the one everyone liked, genuinely likable in that effortless way, and then he died, and she had to keep going through that show with that loss sitting on her chest. That does something to a person.
Years later she’s in V Magazine, photographed by Richardson — the photographer everyone knows has some weird dark energy, all those stories about what happens in his studio. She’s there vulnerable in a deliberate way, letting herself be seen differently. In an interview with Mary H.K. Choi she talks about Cory, about what his death cracked open in her, about how it made her rethink who she wanted to be.
There’s a running joke about friends calling her “Grandma,” some reference that probably meant something specific to her world but reads as just this hint that whatever identity people had pinned on her, it wasn’t really hers.
I watched her come back looking different after all that. Not polished or reinvented or any of those words people use. Just different. Still Lea Michele, but less concerned with the version of herself other people needed her to be.
Mario Kart does something to you. You play it once as a kid and the feeling gets baked in — the engine sound, the specific satisfaction of a drift, the way a banana peel sounds when it connects. It was never realistic. Just right.
So when you see that you can actually buy a Mario Kart ride-on — a small electric vehicle that looks and sounds like the game — something happens. Not because you’re seriously planning to drive it around Berlin (though the image is perfect: a thirty-something man in a children’s kart, absolutely committed, rolling up to a club like this is normal). But because you recognize what that desire actually is. The impulse to make something you imagined concrete. To close the gap between what you wanted at eight and what’s possible now.
The good toys are never really about the product. They’re permission. They’re the object confirming what you already know: yes, Mario Kart still matters. Yes, you can feel something real about it. Yes, there’s a summer where you can be simply, genuinely happy.
I didn’t buy one. The wanting was better than the having would’ve been. But I understood the impulse — that thing where you reach back and try to pull forward something from childhood that somehow still works, that still makes you feel something without needing to be ironic about it. That’s what it was actually about.
That new Godzilla trailer is a monster tearing through everything, no apology, no irony—just the massive spectacle you came for. Cranston and Elizabeth Olsen are there to ground the story, but the real draw is obvious. A blockbuster that knows exactly what it is and commits completely.
Every startup party in Berlin, someone’s pitching the same stupid app with other people’s money. Mike Judge made a show about this world—Silicon Valley, premiering in April.
He did Beavis and Butthead, King of the Hill, so he knows how to make stupid things both hilarious and brutal. What I actually care about is whether he captures what’s absurd—the money, the pitch, the true believers. People convinced they’re revolutionaries.
If he nails that, this is going to be good. This is what Entourage should’ve been.
I’ve always found flavored condoms kind of suspect, but you do you—at least people are wrapping it up. And because strawberry and cinnamon apparently weren’t cutting it, some Dutch company started selling cannabis-flavored condoms. A fifty-pack is about forty euros, which is genuinely ridiculous until you realize the whole thing is basically one pickup line: “Want to try my weed condom?” It’s so dumb it might actually work. Honestly, people are probably just buying them to own the fact that they exist.
I remember Berlin being inevitable. Everyone was going. If you weren’t there yet, you were supposed to be. Then Rolling Stone showed up to write the autopsy, the Times called it Brooklyn’s cheaper clone, and Gawker just asked “what’s next?” Within a few days the entire narrative flipped from “you must go” to “it’s already dead,” which shouldn’t matter except that the whole city had built its identity on being culturally untouchable.
The kill shot was simple and depressing—just the usual story. Tourists showed up en masse, prices climbed, the people who’d actually built the thing suddenly had to work and sleep and couldn’t afford to stay. Tobias Rapp, who’d written the book on the club scene, said the locals didn’t care anymore. They’d created something genuine and it became a product you could buy at the airport. That was always going to kill it.
The Times angle stung because it was accurate. Berlin had stopped being itself and started being a satellite of New York and London—same music, same conversation, same people, just with cheaper beer and less aggressive dancing. The appeal was always that you could go somewhere that wasn’t those cities. Once those cities sent their expats to remake it in their image, the appeal was already gone.
Michael Ladner, who threw parties that actually mattered, understood this better than anyone. New York paralyzes you with choice—too many options, too much noise, total decision fatigue. Berlin didn’t have that. You’d show up somewhere and something would happen. No anxiety, no overthinking, just time in a room with good music and people who didn’t care if you were having the right experience. That ease was the entire city. Once that became another selling point, something to list in a guidebook, the ease evaporated.
Gawker’s final question—”What’s next? Prague? Lisbon? Anywhere in Southeast Asia?”—basically declared Berlin officially over. Not because it was bad, but because it had become knowable, predictable, legible. The magic had already left before the tourists showed up to inherit a husk.
You can see North Korea from space at night because there are no lights. That’s not metaphorical—it’s literal. Satellite photos show a void where the country is, a black hole between South Korea and China where 25 million people live without electricity once the sun sets. Only Pyongyang gets bulbs, scattered enough to look like a faint smudge against the surrounding nothing.
There’s a dark joke in that image—the kind where the punchline is actual human suffering. The regime doesn’t just control what people see, it controls whether they see at all. Darkness is infrastructure. Darkness is policy. You can’t organize if you can’t see. You can’t read anything forbidden if there’s no light to read by. You can’t imagine elsewhere if there’s no proof of it.
I’ve read about the camps and the purges, and all of it is worse than the darkness. But there’s something about that photograph that gets to you differently. You can’t argue with satellite imagery. It’s just there—proof that a system can be so total, so relentless, that it’s visible from space. A regime that decided keeping people in darkness was easier than letting them see.
When it’s dark enough, you can only imagine what’s right in front of you.
Jeremy Scott was always going to do this. He’s the kind of designer who looks at a cartoon character and thinks: that should be haute couture. So he showed up at Moschino with SpongeBob SquarePants on the runway — yellow, porous, the whole ridiculous creature rendered in fabric.
There’s something honest about it, actually. Fashion is always eating pop culture and regurgitating it at a five-figure markup. Scott just doesn’t bother pretending it’s anything lofty. He raids Saturday morning cartoons and action figures and whatever else catches his eye, and he makes it work because he genuinely seems to like the absurdity instead of turning it into a performance.
The clothes look fun. Bright, silly in a way that most luxury brands won’t allow themselves to be. You could wear one and it would feel right — not because it’s clever or ironic, just because the colors are strong and the design doesn’t take itself seriously. SpongeBob in Milan. Somehow that lands.
Kate Upton joined Instagram before there was much to look at. The app was just filtered pictures of breakfast and people’s feet and everyone pretending their lives were beautiful and composed. Then she posted a photo and something clicked. What Instagram needed was simpler than everyone thought—just a straightforward exchange: she posts, you look. No personal brand, no emotional captions about your morning. Just something beautiful to look at. Kate Upton got that immediately. Everyone else was still performing, still curating their lifestyle aesthetic for strangers, but she saw what the platform actually was from the beginning.
The rabbits don’t care what happened here. They swarm toward you on the paths, soft and reaching, dozens of them at once surging against your legs. You stand with a handful of feed and they’re warm and urgent, their mouths open. For a moment there’s nothing but the sound of them breathing and the weight of it against your skin.
Okunoshima is three kilometers off Hiroshima. It’s small, nothing special to look at. Now people take ferries out to see rabbits. In the 1940s the Japanese military used it as a testing ground for chemical and biological weapons. The rabbits they brought—they weren’t brought to live. After the war, when it was over, some soldiers left rabbits behind. Whether on purpose or by accident, nobody really knows. The rabbits bred. Now there are hundreds of them, maybe more, all descended from whatever it was that survived what they weren’t supposed to.
I don’t know if you’re supposed to think about that when you’re feeding them. The whole place is marketed as cute, as this soft escape. There’s a gift shop. There are schedules. Everyone comes with the same idea: see the rabbits, get covered in rabbits, film it. The rabbits are real and soft and completely unbothered by you. But it all sits on top of something else, something everyone ignores while they’re there.
Maybe that’s just how it works. Maybe every place you go has something underneath it you don’t think about. The island doesn’t owe you an acknowledgment of its past. The rabbits are living their lives. They’re not cute as a monument or a memorial—they’re just rabbits, eating what you give them, not thinking about poisons or what their ancestors survived.
But I couldn’t stop. Even with the weight of them around my ankles, the sun through the trees, I kept seeing it as this weird transformation, this place where something dark got quietly covered over with something soft. Maybe that’s the kindest thing. Maybe that’s just what history becomes when enough time passes and enough tourists show up. The rabbits don’t remember. They just eat and breed and swarm the next person who walks off the ferry.
I first encountered Kyary Pamyu Pamyu the way most people do—some algorithm threw a music video at me and I spent the next three minutes trying to decide if I was having a stroke or just watching Japan happen in real time. Everything about her is aggressively, deliberately, almost offensively weird. Not in an ironic way. There’s nothing ironic about it. The sweetness of the production, the bubblegum synths, the perfectly clear vocals—all of it wraps around this core of pure, unfiltered strangeness that somehow just works.
She’s back now with a new track, and it’s her telling her own origin story. You’d think that would be grounded, maybe reflective. Instead she’s done it as the surreal fever dream you’d expect—fluffy polar bears, faceless figures, sad children, all of it candy-colored and unsettling in ways I can’t quite articulate. There’s something about watching her trace her path from childhood to wherever-the-hell-she-is-now through a landscape that looks like it was designed by someone on really good drugs.
That’s what gets me about Kyary. She’s not trying to be profound or deliver some message about the human condition. She’s just making music that feels like the inside of a really beautiful, really disturbing dream. And it works because she commits to it completely—there’s no winking at the camera, no irony, just pure commitment to being completely unhinged. It shouldn’t work, especially not on people who have no stake in J-pop or anime or any of that. But it does. She’s managed to bottle something genuinely strange and made it weirdly compelling.
By 2013, BuzzFeed was impossible to ignore. The numbers were obscene—130 million monthly visitors, venture capitalists pouring money in like it was the future. You could hate it, you could dismiss it, but the thing was real and it was everywhere.
And Germany was waiting. Not eagerly, just waiting for the inevitable. Everyone knew it was coming. The only question was timing.
Jonah Peretti was in Berlin, saying the obvious: start small, figure out what works locally, then scale up. The logic made sense. And I could already picture how it would go—the formula applied to a new market, finding what stuck, churning out the German version.
I could picture it perfectly. “22 Dschungelcamp Moments That Prove You’re Basically German,” “Which Mainzelmännchen Are You,” “37 GIFs That Describe Life in Buxtehude.” Not terrible. Just the inevitable outcome of dropping this thing into a new market and letting it run. Same structure, same bet that people want to see themselves as lists.
Maybe they’d do something smart with it, something that actually connected to how Germans shared stuff online. Or maybe not. Either way, it was coming.
There’s a Japanese subculture I keep thinking about. Survival games—Battle Royale tournaments, Hunger Games in the woods—where people compete seriously and equally care about how they look doing it. Not ironic. Just fully committed.
Survival Game Fashion Snap documents it: photos of competitors and their fits. Street style except the street is a simulated combat zone. The aesthetic makes sense once you see it—practical, intentional, cool. These kids have figured out something most people mess up: that how you look and how you compete say the same thing.
There’s honesty in that. No gap between the effort and the image. You show up ready, which means being sharp and tactical at the same time. I’ve been thinking about this more than seems reasonable for a Japanese fashion subculture, but there’s something clean about people whose appearance matches their actual commitment. That alignment is rare.
I keep coming back to Golineh Atai’s tweets from Kyiv in 2014 the way you circle back to anything unfolding in real-time—that horrible knowledge that something bad is happening and someone you can follow is in the building where it’s happening. “Bullet holes in the hotel. Gunfire in the stairwell. Many demonstrators on the ground.” She was updating from her room between ducking away from windows, thinking about walls and angles and whether the next sound would be outside or inside. The weird intimacy of watching someone figure out how not to get shot in real-time, 140 characters at a time.
The pattern became visible after. Other journalists were closer to the violence than Atai was. A cameraman took a round. A reporter stood behind a barricade and the man next to him just dropped—one shot from somewhere he couldn’t see, and he never knew if the guy lived. Another journalist watched from a window as protesters cautiously approached a delivery truck, and on the roof of that truck three men with rifles opened fire into the crowd like they’d done it before. No buildup, no warning, no confusion about what they were doing.
The doctors working that night noticed the same thing in the wounded. Every person came through with the same wound—one shot, placed with an exactness that ruled out panic or indiscriminate fire. Dmitri Kaschin, one of the physicians, told the Russian wire service it looked like hunting. He said every round was deliberate, placed in vital areas, the work of someone trained and someone choosing. Dozens of people, maybe more. The opposition called it what it was: the state firing on its own people.
There’s something about the professionalism that makes it worse. Rage is understandable, even if it’s horrible. Rage is chaotic and human in a terrible way. This was something else—the absence of passion, the presence of discipline. Three men on a roof doing a job they’d presumably done before, working with the care of people who knew exactly where the rounds needed to go. A sniper in a building you couldn’t identify, working at distances and angles, taking time with each shot. Not the panic fire of a scared soldier. The methodical work of someone competent at killing.
What stays with you isn’t the big narrative—the geopolitics, the causes, the aftermath. It’s the specific details that sit wrong. The delivery truck. The three men on the roof. The doctor noting that every wound was placed exactly right. Golineh tweeting from her room. The casual horror of violence arriving at a hotel window in a European city in the 21st century. You read about it and something in you refuses to integrate it, refuses to make it into a story that makes sense. It just sits there, heavy and specific, a moment when the mechanics of control became visible.
Sometimes I’m just staring at two photos and I can’t make up my mind. Emily Ratajkowski or Kate Upton. Emily Ratajkowski or Kate Upton. Emily Ratajkowski or Kate Upton. I compare everything — the face, the eyes, the hair, the skin, the body. And I can’t come to a decision.
Not when Sports Illustrated keeps hitting me with these images every day, these unreal bodies on impossible beaches, palms and sun and glittering water. Today Emily wins. Tomorrow could be completely different.
You get good at not seeing people. Earbuds in, eyes down, moving through the city with a practiced invisibility that works both ways — you don’t see them, they don’t see you. It’s the default mode. Cleaner that way. No demands, no complications.
But every so often something breaks through. I watched something about a kid in winter without a coat, testing who would notice and who would help. The results were depressing in that way that confirms what you already knew — some people do, most don’t, and it’s not usually about being a bad person. It’s about the habit of not getting involved.
I do it constantly. Someone struggling with a door, someone clearly lost, and my first instinct is to make sure I don’t register it. Not cruel, just… easier. The city teaches you to keep a force field up. Engage with a stranger and you’re inviting something unpredictable into your day, and most days you’re just trying to get through.
The weird thing is when you don’t look away. When you help someone with something small, and they actually seem grateful, and there’s this strange moment of actual connection. It’s uncomfortable in a way that makes you realize how much of the time you’re just moving through a crowd of people you’ve successfully made invisible to yourself.
I don’t know what that test with Johannes really proved. That some of us are kind? That’s not a surprise. That most of us aren’t willing to inconvenience ourselves for a stranger? Also not shocking. Maybe the only thing it proves is how well we’ve learned to look away, and how hard it would be to stop.
A paramedic named Olesia Zhukovskaia was working the Maidan in Kyiv when the snipers started. This was 2014, during the Euromaidan protests — the square was full of people, and the government had positioned sharpshooters on rooftops around the city. They were shooting whoever they could: demonstrators, journalists, first responders. Just shooting.
Olesia got hit in the neck. While bleeding out, she tweeted: “I’m dying.” Then someone got her to surgery fast enough and she made it. She’s alive. But there’s this moment in between — the moment between being shot and being saved — where she just narrated it into the void.
I think about that a lot now. The reflex to document your own death. It’s not brave or noble, not a moral statement or anything performative. It’s just the habit now — something happens, you post it. Pain, fear, mortality, same as everything else. You reach for your phone like breathing.
The Euromaidan exists in my head mostly as fragments. Video clips, photographs, things people managed to record while everything was happening. Olesia’s tweet is part of that record. It’s evidence that this was real, that it happened to someone who had a phone in her pocket and a habit of talking about her life in public. Not a symbol or a cause. Just a girl saying what was happening.
You move somewhere and your food options collapse into one supermarket. Edeka becomes part of your life before you even notice. Then they release a commercial good enough to make you hungry just thinking about it. That’s the whole point.
Grumpy Cat was perfect for its moment—a meme that reflected something real about how exhausting it all was. Everything on the internet demanded your enthusiasm, your performance, your engagement, and here was this cat that absolutely refused. That refusal meant something.
Of course it became merchandise. Everything does. But there’s something almost honest about a plush toy of something fundamentally opposed to being touched or loved. You’re cuddling an object that embodies not wanting to be cuddled, which is maybe the only way a Grumpy Cat plush could ever actually work.
I never owned one. I don’t really need a physical reminder of indifference lying around my apartment. But I understood the appeal—the idea of something you could hold that didn’t pretend to be happy, that looked at you the same way you probably looked at whatever was making you need to hug a grumpy cat in the first place.
The cat herself—Tardar Sauce—probably couldn’t have cared less. That was always her whole thing. And maybe that’s what made her last, while most memes burn out in weeks. She was authentically unimpressed, and you can’t manufacture that.
The Guardians of the Galaxy trailer came out and I expected nothing. Marvel running its algorithm: big cast, simple premise, summer release date, another franchise. The pitch though is almost strange enough to work: criminals and misfits trying to save the universe, which is at least a break from the billionaire-with-issues template.
The cast is what made me look twice. Chris Pratt, who does comedies. Zoe Saldana, Dave Bautista, Vin Diesel as a voice, Bradley Cooper also voice, Michael Rooker, Karen Gillan, Lee Pace, Djimon Hounsou, John C. Reilly, Glenn Close. You spend that kind of money on a superhero movie, you could fill it with pretty people. Instead they got actors. That says something.
The trailer itself is strange. It’s not grim and self-important like Marvel learned to be. It’s almost funny. The music choice, the pacing, the sense that nobody’s treating this as the next evolution of the form. I spent years watching action movies that pretended comedy wasn’t real, and I spent the last decade watching blockbusters that pretended everything was a joke to cover for no actual tone. This feels like it might be doing something in between, which is probably impossible and could be amazing or terrible.
I don’t know yet. August will show whether they pulled it off or if they just made an expensive mess that thinks chaos counts as charm. Either way, I’m more curious about this than I’ve been about Marvel in a while, which is maybe the only thing that matters.
The photos from Kyiv are unreal - fire, smoke, the city center looking like it got bombed. The Maidan, which had been crowded with tents and people and speeches, is now just charred pavement and rubble. Burning tires, police in full riot gear, people throwing whatever they can find. You’re watching it in real time on your screen and suddenly the whole diplomatic machinery of sanctions and threats makes immediate sense. Governments don’t respond like that unless something fundamental has already broken.
Janukovych’s speech was almost absurd. Lecturing the opposition about democracy while the streets are still burning, still smoking. The opposition crossed the line by “listening to the street,” he said - which might be the first honest thing he’s said about why he’s losing. You can’t stay in power when you talk about the people like they’re the problem.
The German Foreign Minister’s response was colder. No talk of negotiation or working things out. Just immediate, flat discussion of personal sanctions. That’s the tone you use when you know there’s no going back from this. Once violence reaches that scale, something breaks that won’t get repaired with diplomacy.
What stays with you is the image itself. A square that was full of life just days ago, now it’s just fire and wreckage. Pavement scorched black. That’s what it looks like from far away, watching it happen in real time.
Sports Illustrated put Kate Upton in a zero-gravity plane and shot her floating around. Gravity does constant work holding bodies down, and the moment it stops, everything you never see becomes visible. That’s the entire point.
The photos are obviously horny — they were made to be. Breasts without gravity’s pull is the straightforward premise, and something about that actually works: the looseness, the floating, the strangeness of a body moving that way. The marketing machinery is transparent, but you barely notice it. You’re looking at something genuinely weird, and the rest just disappears.
I’m not above it. The images work because they’re ridiculous and real at the same time, and that gap is exactly what pulls you into a photograph.
I don’t usually care about celebrity gossip—it’s background noise. But Michelle Rodriguez and Cara Delevingne being together actually got to me. I found myself genuinely pleased about it, which isn’t my typical register.
What landed was how simple and ordinary it all is. No scandal, no narrative, no drama. Their families just know and accept it. Michelle’s fourteen years older but that’s not the story. The detail that stuck with me: Michelle got invited to Cara’s sister’s bachelorette party. Not the relationship announcement—the wedding invitation. The ordinariness of it.
I don’t know why this one felt different. Maybe because there’s nothing performative about it. No coming-out story, no revelation, just people being themselves and the world moving on. There’s a lightness to that, for anyone watching who needed to see it possible.
Twenty-five dead in Kyiv that night. Hundreds wounded in the streets. The opposition was calling for blood donors. Yanukovych was still in power, and the city wasn’t emptying.
I remember watching the reports come in — photo after photo, video after video, the accounts of what was happening piling up faster than you could process them. What struck me wasn’t the chaos exactly, or even the numbers. It was how little of it mattered to what was already happening. The protesters had already decided. Whether it got worse, whether they won, whether anyone told them to go home — none of it changed what was already in motion.
There’s a kind of clarity that comes with that. Not courage, exactly, but a point where you stop calculating the cost. I think the government thought exhaustion would wear them down, that another night of violence would finally empty the streets. But that’s not how it works once you’ve stopped leaving. You just don’t go, and somewhere along the way, not going becomes what you are.
Facebook bought WhatsApp for nineteen billion dollars. The actual transaction involved some cash and some stock, but the number was less important than the fact of it: billions for a messaging app with no ads, no real business model, just a product that worked quietly without selling your data to advertisers.
I remember the immediate sense of inevitability. This was Facebook buying the one escape hatch that had actually mattered. WhatsApp existed because two guys didn’t want to build ads into their thing. You paid a dollar a year. That was it. No algorithmic feed, no optimization for engagement, no extraction of your attention as product. Just messages sent privately from one person to another. It was proof that a different kind of thing could work. And then Zuckerberg’s company just swallowed it whole.
Everyone assumed the same thing was coming: the integration, the merger with Messenger, the privacy evaporating, the moderation tightening. No nudity, no links to competitors, no life outside the Facebook ecosystem. The jokes about it were barely jokes. We all just accepted that there was nowhere left that wasn’t Facebook’s territory, that anything good enough would get bought, that privacy wasn’t a feature anymore—it was just marketing. The sarcasm of calling it out felt less like comedy and more like describing the inevitable.
But something unexpected happened: it didn’t really go that way. WhatsApp stayed separate. Maybe they tried to integrate it and realized it would destroy the thing that made it valuable. Maybe they just learned to leave it alone. I don’t know. But looking back at that week, I’m struck by how perfectly it captured what it felt like to be online then—this sense that there was no opting out anymore, that everything good gets absorbed into the machine, that the only choice left was to accept you were living inside someone else’s property. The escape route we thought we’d found was just another room in the same house.
There’s this Irish designer, Lara Hanlon, who started a food blog about insects. Cricket protein bars, ant-flour cupcakes, grasshopper stews. It sounds like a stunt until you think about the actual numbers: a couple billion people already eat insects without much fuss. The UN has been making noises about this for years — eat bugs, they say, it’s efficient. They’re right. Crickets use a fraction of the feed and space that cattle need for the same protein. One breed of cricket produces as much protein as a cow but needs maybe a tenth of the resources. We in Europe just decided that insects were disgusting, so we built our entire food system around that single cultural revulsion.
I looked through some of her work and got it immediately. Not the novelty angle — nobody cares that you ate a bug once, watched a video, tried a recipe. But the logic underneath. We’ve spent the last decade admitting that industrial meat is unsustainable. Everybody knows it. Beef is expensive to produce, hard on the planet, and we eat too much of it. But we’re still not really changing our habits. There’s a solution sitting right there — cricket flour, mealworms, farmed insects — and it doesn’t require us to be moral or righteous or to signal anything. Just practical. Just different.
The weird part isn’t eating insects. It’s that this took us so long to get here. What’s actually disgusting is what we’ve been eating all along, and we’re all just… okay with it.
I’m probably not buying crickets tomorrow. But I’m aware now that my objection isn’t rational. It’s just conditioning, and conditioning doesn’t hold much weight when you’re looking at a future where your current food choices get harder and harder to defend.
I crash in Flappy Bird in thirty seconds. The game is built to destroy you. But somewhere out there are people who’ve reached 999 points. Nine hundred and ninety-nine. That’s not talent. That’s obsession. That’s sitting alone with your phone for hours, grinding the same impossible loop until your reflexes work on autopilot.
The game died in 2014, but the high-score chase never stopped. There’s a rare video of someone actually hitting 999, and it shows what happens when you finally reach that threshold. I won’t spoil the payoff, but it’s exactly what you’d expect for that much focus—either perfect or pointless, maybe both. You reach the end and the game is just… done. That’s all it has.
I didn’t expect to find myself rewatching Sailor Moon. It’s one of those things you assume stays in childhood - something you wore out on old tapes, loved completely, and then moved past. But then it shows up again and you realize you actually still want to watch it.
If you don’t know what Sailor Moon is, I’m probably not going to convince you with a plot summary. Bunny’s a clumsy schoolgirl who finds out she’s a magical warrior. She fights evil. The whole thing is earnest and ridiculous at once. Either that sounds good to you or it doesn’t.
What surprised me was how much I still cared about it. The show actually holds up - not just because of nostalgia, but because it’s well-made. The characters have real details, the humor lands, the earnestness about love and justice doesn’t feel cloying. You can see exactly why you loved it.
I basically disappeared for a few weeks. Not for anything important. Just for this show, these characters, that feeling of being twelve again without the actual weight of being twelve. My friends gave up texting. The guy who’d been bothering me with gross messages finally understood I wasn’t responding when a month went by.
Some things stick with you longer than you think. Sailor Moon was one of them.
I watched Fallon and Smith run through hip-hop dances the other night—Running Man, Dougie, Twerk, the ones you half-remember from 2 AM YouTube holes. Two middle-aged guys in suits doing nostalgia that’s not even old yet. Late night has gotten good at this: find something recognizable, stick celebrities in it, film it, done.
Smith looked like he was having fun. Fallon looked like he was working, which is funnier. There’s something about his total commitment to bits that don’t need it.
It made me think about how fast we burn through culture now. Twenty years and these dances are museum pieces. They need the irony frame already. Nobody does the Dougie straight anymore—it’s only funny because we all know it’s dead. That’s how you know the culture moves fast: it can turn its own recent past into a joke before anyone’s even sad about it.
Late evening and the news from Kyiv shifts tone completely. The police have moved against the camps at Independence Square. The reports stop discussing politics and suddenly become immediate—tents burning, people dead, gunshots confirmed. Nine so far. Bullet wounds on both sides.
It’s disorienting following this in fragments. Phone videos, eyewitness accounts, translations of radio chatter. Everyone with any connection to Kyiv is checking messages, refreshing feeds, looking for word from people actually in the square. The strange sense of thousands of screens all pointed at one place, watching together but alone.
I’ve been following long enough to recognize the moment when something shifts. For weeks it was political conflict, abstract arguments about what might happen. Then in one evening the square is actually burning, people are actually dead, and it becomes real in a way that the previous coverage couldn’t capture. That shift always feels sudden.
The latest reports are just descriptions of the square burning. Tents on fire. Smoke. Fire moving through footage people are sending out, real-time documentation of something that shouldn’t be documentable. No visible end. I keep reading because that’s what you do from far away—you follow, you read, you pay attention, knowing it doesn’t change anything. But you read anyway.
Nike actually built Marty McFly’s shoes. Not approximations, not knockoffs — the real Air Mag with the motorized laces from Back to the Future Part II, the ones that seemed like they belonged in the realm of movie magic and nothing else. Tinker Hatfield, who’d already transformed sneaker design with the Air Jordan XI, engineered them into something you could actually wear.
The announcement came in 2014, at some Jordan Brand event in New Orleans, but what mattered was the release date: 2015, the year the movie imagined. It was too perfect to be accidental, like someone at Nike had been holding this idea for decades, waiting for the calendar to finally justify it.
What struck me when I first saw them real was how exactly they matched my memory from the film. Not improved upon. Not reimagined. Just accurate — the black and silver, the overbuilt futuristic aesthetic, the implication that eventually shoes would make decisions for you. The past had predicted itself perfectly.
I never actually wanted to own a pair, though some version of me did. The price alone eliminated most of that desire, but more than that, they’d already become a collectible before they became a shoe. Everyone wanted them as irony or nostalgia or investment, and that weight of competing desires made my own desire disappear. What I cared about was simpler: that someone at Nike had decided a detail from a movie, a memory from my childhood, was real enough to manufacture. That Nike had taken it seriously.
The shoes ended up somewhere between product and monument. A company had asked whether movie magic could actually function, then spent the resources to engineer it. Whether anyone needed motorized laces in 2015 was never really the question.
I don’t care about brands. Store-brand groceries, Ikea everything, clothes that fit. But Superstars—I’m particular about Superstars. Adidas, only Adidas, white leather with the black stripe. If I could I’d fill an entire closet with them, nothing else.
For years I went around Berlin like a broken record: the Superstar is the best sneaker ever made. The best. People jogged past me in their Nikes, their Onitsuka Tigers, their Converse. Nobody listened. I sounded like a lunatic.
Then I read what Sarah Gottschalk had written, and she got it exactly. The Superstar moves in cycles, she explained. Loved to death, then sidelined, then forgotten, then loved again. After the Stan Smith moment everyone who actually knows was coming back to the chunky shoe with wide jeans. Could even spark an Adidas revival. She’d gotten strange looks when she bought a new pair two years earlier, trying to feel like a kid again. But she was certain: the Superstar revival was coming.
I’m sitting here in my beat-up Superstars reading those words, and I feel it: 2014 is the year. The year of clean lines, of simplicity, of something real making its way back. Run DMC knew. Sarah called it. I’ve been saying it the whole time.
HBO wouldn’t stop dropping season four trailers, and I genuinely couldn’t tell if they were building hype or just enjoying the torture. Months until April, and they kept releasing new footage like I didn’t already have enough to obsess over. But in this one, the whole thing distilled down to a single thing: revenge. Bloody, pointless, obsessive revenge.
By that point in the show, half the cast was dead. Everyone owed someone blood. Game of Thrones had spent three seasons getting you attached to people and then casually erasing them, so a trailer built entirely around vengeance felt honest somehow. You’d watch it and find yourself wondering which of your remaining favorites would actually make it out alive.
Ellen Page stood at the podium and said it: “I am here because I am a lesbian!” This was at the Human Rights Campaign conference, she was 26, and she’d basically just become famous doing Juno. The whole thing was extraordinarily straightforward. She wanted to help other people have an easier time. She was tired of lying. She didn’t want to hide anymore.
The weird part—the part that’s actually hard to explain now—is that this was a big deal. Coming out isn’t inherently dramatic, but there was this unspoken agreement in the industry that famous people didn’t do it. There was a cost. Roles dried up, doors closed, there was always something you lost. Everyone knew it. Everyone pretended they didn’t know it. Just how things worked.
When she got on that stage and said it plainly, with no performance and no strategy, just the bare fact, something shifted. Not in some grand revolutionary way. But for people watching who’d never seen someone like that in a mainstream space just be honest about who they were, it mattered. It was one of those moments where you’re watching someone say the thing that wasn’t supposed to be sayable, and suddenly you understand that you can say your own things too. Not in theory—in practice.
The thing about trailers is they’re supposed to make you want something you can’t have yet. HBO would cut these ten-second clips—a sword glint, Lena Headey’s face, a raven screaming—and I’d watch them obsessively like they contained actual information. They never did, of course. They were just advertisements wrapped in mystery, and I fell for it every time.
Then they released this one that ran for fifteen minutes. I remember watching it and feeling something shift, some lock click into place. It didn’t spoil anything, but it felt substantial in a way the shorts didn’t. You got a sense of the world again, the scope of it, the sheer weight of what was coming. And knowing a new season was still weeks away just made it worse. That’s how they get you: not with plot reveals but with the promise that something real is happening somewhere you can’t reach yet.
Of course, I can’t remember if that season was any good. I remember the waiting more than the actual show. That’s the trick nobody talks about—you build the anticipation so high that by the time it starts, you’ve already imagined something better than what you’re going to get. The trailer was better than most of the episodes. Better to want something than to have it and watch it disappoint you, I guess.
That stupid bird. Everyone was playing it, everyone was frustrated by it, everyone swore they were done with it and then picked their phone back up an hour later. Streets weren’t quite empty, but it felt close. Coffee shops looked the same but everyone’s thumbs were twitching in that same spot, over and over, same failed attempt.
What made Flappy Bird so vicious was that it was simple enough to get in half a second but hard enough to keep you coming back. Tap once, don’t tap, tap again. The margins were tiny. One pixel off and you hit a pipe. Your highest score was 17. You knew you could do better. You knew 20 was possible. Everyone knew 100 was theoretically possible, which meant everyone was going to waste the next six months finding out.
The genius was the simplicity, actually. Not just the game mechanics but the whole thing. No story, no progression bars, no achievement systems trying to manipulate you into playing. Just you and a bird and some green pipes, failing over and over. When you finally nailed a few runs in a row, it felt like proof of something—skill, patience, whatever. That feeling was worth the hours.
I don’t remember when I stopped playing. Probably when the next thing came along. But for a minute there, it was just about that bird and the promise that if you were patient enough, disciplined enough, you could beat it. Which was true and also completely missing the point.
While reporters were making jokes about unfinished hotels in Sochi, gay people in the rest of Russia were getting beaten in the street. It was filmed. It was posted. The world kept scrolling.
There was a petition called Love Always Wins circulating—five hundred thousand signatures and world leaders would lean on Putin. I signed it. I was the kind of person who signs things in his room knowing they won’t do much, because not signing feels worse even if there’s no logical reason it should.
The math of activism never made sense to me. You could accumulate hundreds of thousands of names and you’d still be operating in a completely different reality from the people actually in danger. The petition and the beating were happening in separate universes. That gap was what I couldn’t shake—not the violence itself, but the wide open space between what was possible and what was needed.
I’d rejected the Sochi Olympics invitation, figured it was the right protest. But then I found out t.A.T.u. was performing there exclusively, and suddenly I was reconsidering. Jelena Katina and Julija Wolkowa—the Russian duo that made “All the Things She Said” feel essential in 2002. They were marketed as pseudo-lesbians, technically, though that was the entire appeal. I was massively into them. Still am, honestly. Once you’re committed to t.A.T.u., that’s just your lane.
What actually gets me is the perfect, unbearable contradiction of it. Russia’s constructed this entire political edifice around crushing homosexuality—laws, violence, systematic erasure—and meanwhile they’re hosting an Olympic performance by two girls whose entire career is built on kissing each other. It’s so perfectly stupid, so perfectly tone-deaf. Putin gets to be simultaneously brutal and completely blind to the joke he’s creating. There’s a kind of commitment to that contradiction that you have to respect, if only in the sense that you’re watching someone walk directly into their own irony without stopping.
There’s something tragicomic about what just happened. Pussy Riot, the Russian collective built on saying no to everything—Putin, the state, commercialism, selling out—just fired two of its most visible members for doing the exact thing the collective claims to stand for. Nadia Tolokonnikova and Masha Alyokhina were canned while they’re out touring the US, speaking against Russian homophobia and documenting what happens in the country’s prisons.
Their crime, according to Pussy Riot’s official letter, is being too visible. Too legible. They’ve become personalities with faces and names. They’re letting their images appear on posters (with a man in a balaclava, which is somehow worse). Money is changing hands. They’ve crossed from being an anonymous collective action into being individual activists. And according to Pussy Riot’s founding principles—no hierarchy, no commodification, no individual personalities, art given freely—this is unforgivable.
The letter is almost religious in its purity. It’s not angry, just clear. The band explains, point by point, why Nadia and Masha have to go. And there’s a kind of integrity in it I can’t completely dismiss. Pussy Riot has always said that the collective matters more than any individual in it, that anonymity is how you avoid becoming a cult of personality, that you can’t actually resist a system of hierarchy while building one of your own.
The thing is, they’re not wrong. But they’re also firing two people for being effective at the very work the collective was formed to do. And there’s something broken about that calculus. Nadia and Masha have put their names and faces out there, made themselves targets, because they think it matters. And Pussy Riot is saying, yeah, that matters, but not as much as maintaining our purity. Not as much as the ideology. So they had to go.
I don’t know if that’s the most punk thing possible or the most punk thing’s opposite. Maybe it’s both. Either way, the world probably just got two more serious activists, and Russia’s government probably doesn’t care whether they wear masks or not.
Avex just launched a girl group called Chubbiness built around the “Marshmallow Girls” market - guys in Japan who want women with actual body mass. That a major record label invested in a full group around this demographic tells you something about how granular markets get when there’s money in them.
The gap in what counts as plus-size across cultures is wild. Japan’s version of curvy doesn’t register in most Western contexts. These categories don’t exist until someone figures out how to profit from them.
What’s clear about it is the mechanism. Your body becomes visible as a category, someone calculates its market value, they package that appeal as a girl group, and you’re a demographic. It’s cynical but not secret. It’s just how it works.
You’d think you couldn’t possibly hate GEMA any more than you already do. GEMA’s Germany’s copyright collection society—basically an organization whose entire job is finding new ways to make everyone miserable—and they just proved you could hate them more. Now they want bloggers to pay them money every time they embed a YouTube video. Not YouTube itself, mind you. The blogger. You, for putting the video on your site.
I remember reading about this somewhere, some blogger named Fefe broke it down. GEMA got nowhere with YouTube, so now they want to go after individual bloggers instead. It’s the ultimate fallback strategy when you can’t win the main fight.
There’s definitely an expert hearing happening about this, or about to happen. There always is. Someone’s probably testifying about why this is a genuinely terrible idea, and nothing will come of it—like always. I remember reading about someone at the Bundestag getting welcomed with a joke about how they’d been completely ignored last time, and well, here we are again. That’s the whole system right there.
And that’s the story of German internet culture. Every single day, another layer of bureaucratic absurdity that makes you wonder how anyone gets anything done here.
Six on a Monday morning and the strobes look harsh in the gray light. Everyone’s thoroughly destroyed at this point, the kind of wrecked that made sense at midnight but now just reads as routine. The air’s thick with things I gave up identifying around four. This is what the Berghain looks like when the party crashes into Monday: bodies moving through habit, everyone already wondering when they can do it again, knowing they will, knowing it’s bleak. They come back anyway.
Pussy Riot didn’t soften themselves for American television. Maria Alyokhina and Nadezhda Tolokonnikova, the Russian punk band that’s made their work out of defiance and paid for it with prison, appeared on Stephen Colbert and spoke plainly about Putin, the Sochi Olympics as propaganda, violence against queer people in Russia. No softening the message, no performed warmth to ease the audience in. Just two women saying what had to be said on a format that usually demands entertainment. That’s always been the point with Pussy Riot—they refuse to make you comfortable.
Been seeing less of Miley’s clothes lately, and I’m not going to complain about that. W Magazine has her topless for a recent shoot—black and white outtakes where artistry and straightforward sexuality don’t cancel each other out.
She looks good. The photographs work. That’s the appeal.
The Sochi Olympics were starting in a matter of days when Human Rights Watch released footage of teenagers beating gay people in the street. They’d filmed it themselves. The kids doing it didn’t see anything wrong — they were just fixing sick people, healing them with their fists, doing what they thought was right. Casual. Methodical. On camera.
I couldn’t get the video out of my head. Not because the violence itself was shocking — I’d seen worse, we all have — but because of how normal it looked. How much it fit into the world around it. The Olympic ceremonies being prepared. The news crews setting up. The patriotic broadcasts ramping up. And underneath all that, in plain daylight, the hunting. It was all happening at the same time.
What struck me was the confidence in their violence. These weren’t people operating in shadow or shame. They were teenagers in Russia doing what their culture had taught them was correct. And nobody important seemed to want to talk about it. The Olympics were more important. The story that mattered was the one about the games.
I don’t know what I expected. That Putin’s Russia would suddenly develop a conscience for the cameras? But the gap between what the world was watching and what was actually happening just sat there, impossible to ignore if you looked.
I’ve sat through enough wedding albums to spot the pattern: white doves, someone in a carriage, the cake-cutting moment. The same three shots, different faces. There’s a reason people don’t pull out wedding photos at parties anymore—they’re all the same, and they’re boring as hell.
Meanwhile, Russian couples are out here on swans, dressed as horses, posed behind absolutely wasted relatives. The photos look insane. And the thing is, insane is actually more honest than tasteful. A wedding should feel like something happened, not like you hired someone to execute a checklist.
The difference is permission, I think. One culture decided weddings had to be elegant and proper, so every photo looks like an insurance commercial. The other one said, “Let’s just go completely fucking nuts,” and the pictures actually feel alive. They’re terrible in the way that good memories are terrible—unflattering, chaotic, real.
I’m not saying Photoshop wedding backdrops are good aesthetic choices. They’re often hideous. But there’s something brave about choosing hideousness over blandness. You look at a Russian couple on a CGI swan and you know they made a decision. You look at the hundredth German wedding photo and you know they just did what they were supposed to do.
Tradition in one place means refinement. In another, it means you’re stuck with doves. Both are choices, I guess, but only one of them is fun to look at years later.
I’ve probably seen Miley Cyrus’s breasts more this year than my own. She’s 21, has bleached eyebrows, and seems to have concluded that bras are unnecessary. Magazine shoots, award shows, paparazzi moments—there’s always that chance she’ll just be completely bare-chested, totally comfortable with it. At first it seems like a series of accidents, these perpetual wardrobe malfunctions. But it happens too often. It’s just what Miley does.
I genuinely can’t tell if she’s genuinely that unrestrained about clothing or if she’s engineered the most ruthlessly efficient publicity strategy of the decade. Her breasts are more famous than her music, more discussed, more everywhere. You have to respect the math of it—barely any actual work, barely any actual talent on display, and somehow her body has become more newsworthy than news. The machinery runs on her refusal to cover up.
What’s wild is how much it works. She’s a name everyone knows, everyone talks about, and it’s almost entirely because she doesn’t wear a shirt. That’s either the greatest marketing insight of her generation or the luckiest accident in celebrity history. Probably both.
Game of Thrones comes back in a few weeks and I’m already in that space where I’m half-thinking about what’s coming. The show gets its hooks in with the obvious stuff—bodies, violence, the scheming—but what keeps me is that it actually means something when people die. You invest in a character and the show just ends them. It shouldn’t work but it does.
One thing has to happen for this season though: Daenerys needs to survive. Everything else can collapse. The politics, the wars, the death count—I can take all of it. Long as she makes it, I’m good.
The Guardian filmed it: journalists in a basement with angle grinders and power drills, destroying hard drives and USB sticks containing Edward Snowden’s files. This was July 2013. British intelligence, on behalf of the NSA, had forced the newspaper to physically eliminate the evidence of mass surveillance before the story could be fully reported. So they smashed it. On video.
I keep thinking about the sound of it. Angle grinders aren’t quiet. Neither are drills. The methodical destruction of your own evidence because someone in power asked you to. The weird obedience of it—not secret, not shameful even, just procedural.
A newspaper destroying its own reporting. The thing you’re supposed to do when you find out something important is tell people. They had to un-tell it instead, grind the proof to nothing under government supervision.
I don’t remember any particular outrage about this, which I think is the point. It’s not a scandal if everyone accepts it. The government requires you to destroy something, you destroy it, the story leaks anyway months later, and everybody moves on. The papers write about it, people read about it, and then what? The machinery demonstrated what it would do. That’s the real message, not in the documents but in the basement, in the angle grinders, in the fact that compliance just happens.
The Chaos Computer Club filed criminal charges against Angela Merkel’s government. Against Merkel herself, the interior minister, the heads of the intelligence agencies—BND, MAD, Verfassungsschutz. The charge: they’d been collaborating with the NSA on mass surveillance, violating citizens’ constitutional right to privacy, obstructing justice.
The CCC and some human rights groups made the case explicitly. The government hadn’t just known about American surveillance operations—they’d been actively helping. And now they wanted Snowden brought in as a witness. Bring him to Germany, protect him from extradition and kidnapping, let him explain what the government had been doing.
The beautiful thing about it was that everyone knew it wouldn’t work. The government wasn’t going to prosecute itself. No court was going to demand the US hand over a man they were hunting. You file the charges anyway, though—you name it, you make a record, you say publicly that you know exactly what happened and you’re not pretending otherwise.
I doubted it would actually accomplish anything. Turned out I was right.
I went to the Yami-ichi—the Internet Black Market—when it popped up in Berlin during Transmediale. First of all, the name alone gets you: a black market for the internet. Not the dark web stuff, but a literal offline marketplace where people were pulling the digital world into physical space. There were printed glitches hanging on walls. Stickers expressing everyone’s mutual rage about GEMA blocking half the songs on the country’s websites. Weird shapes, colors, memes in physical form. The whole thing felt like watching someone try to bottle something that was never meant to be contained.
I didn’t go in with a shopping list. I was just walking through, watching people trade what amounted to nothing for money, when I stopped at a stall run by a guy named Shunya Hagiwara. He was from Tokyo. With him was his girlfriend and their daughter, and they were making cotton candy—actual cotton candy, pink and blue and white, the kind you eat at festivals. There’s something about that detail I can’t shake. A guy from Tokyo bringing his family to Berlin to sell candy at an internet black market. Perfectly normal and completely absurd at the same time.
I bought a bit from Shibuya for five euros. A bit. As in a single binary digit from Japan’s most famous intersection. The transaction was stupid and perfect: I handed over five euros and got a tiny physical object that supposedly represented ownership of a piece of digital Japan. The guy included it in a little container. I walked away thinking about how you can now own Japan for the price of a beer.
The whole thing stuck with me because it hit some nerve about how we actually relate to the internet now. We’re so deep in it that the only way it feels real anymore is to yank it out into the physical world and sell it to each other. To look at it. To hold it. To own it. The black market framing is the joke and also the point—we’re all trading in something intangible and calling it merchandise. Hagiwara understood that. He came to Berlin with his family to sell cotton candy next to bits of internet, like that made perfect sense, because at this point it does.
Rowling finally admitted she got it wrong. Hermione should’ve married Harry, not Ron. She said this in an interview with Emma Watson for Wonderland Magazine, and now everyone’s talking about it.
“I wrote the Hermione/Ron relationship as wish fulfillment,” the quote says. “That’s what I thought at the time. They got together, but not for reasons of literary integrity — it was more about what was happening in my own life. I’m sorry, really. Distance has given me another perspective. It was a decision made on personal grounds, not on the basis of credibility.”
I could see it from the first book. Harry and Hermione made sense together. Not in some sappy romantic way — they fit structurally, narratively. Everything threaded toward it. Then Ron showed up, then Ginny, and the ending let me down. Not devastated like some people, just genuinely disappointed. You could feel it was personal, not literary.
Now she’s saying it was personal. She changed the story because of her own life, not because of the logic of the thing. Which is honest, I guess. But it’s the kind of admission that rewires how you read the whole series. All those moments you thought were leading somewhere. All that careful setup. Turns out the author was just figuring it out as she went along.
Twenty-eight. That’s how many reasons SNL found to hug a Black person during Black History Month, and the specificity somehow works.
It’s the kind of completely sincere, big-hearted gesture that network television does in February — not ironic, not winking at it, just committed to the sentiment. You can trace the calculation in it, sure, but that doesn’t make the sincerity any less real. There’s something almost brave about leaning that hard into unguarded earnestness.
There’s always that moment when you stop being a tourist somewhere and start being someone who knows the place. You walk past the same record shop twice a week, nod at the guy behind the counter, know which record he’s been spinning. You know the basement bar that gets crowded at midnight, the pizzeria that gets the crust exactly right. It stops being something you’re visiting and starts being something you inhabit, even if just for a few months.
Navigli, in Milan’s southwest, is where that happens for a lot of people. Historic canals still cut through it, remnants of medieval water systems the city nearly forgot and then remembered again. There’s something about a place that’s been overlooked — it stays itself longer. You’ve got your independent record stores, your basement bars, your local haunts. The kind of place where discovery happens the way it’s supposed to: walking, slowly, on foot.
Good shoes matter more in cities than anywhere else. Not for looking right, but because you’ll wear them for eight hours a day, and bad shoes ruin a city. Milan’s built for walking, for getting lost in pockets that haven’t been optimized yet. The neighborhoods where history is still just sitting on the corners, where nothing’s designed for Instagram. You move at your pace, stop when something catches you, turn down an alley because you felt like it.
The thing about a place like Navigli is that it doesn’t try. No branding, no “experience design”, no strategy. Just the accumulated texture of people who lived there and figured out what they needed. Someone loved records, so there’s a record store. Someone had a basement and wanted to pour drinks, so there’s a bar. That’s how neighborhoods work.
Walking a city with good shoes and no particular destination — that’s the real travel. That’s how you find the places that become yours.
Some mornings I think about just skipping breakfast and heading straight to beer. The Funky Buddha Brewery in Florida apparently thought the same thing and made a beer with bacon, maple syrup, and coffee in it. 6.4 percent alcohol.
I tried it once. It tastes like exactly what you’d expect — which is to say someone threw three breakfast things at beer and saw what happened. Maple is sweet. Coffee is there. The bacon adds something savory, or maybe that’s just your brain filling in the blank. It works better as a concept than as an actual drink, but that’s the whole point of this kind of beer.
The brewery doesn’t stop there. Their whole line is like this — chocolate, peanut butter, pumpkin. See an ingredient, think it might go in beer, put it in beer. Most of these are gimmicks. But someone has to push those boundaries, and I appreciate that it’s them and not some focus group at a massive brewery.
There’s something genuinely funny about categories that break themselves. Breakfast as beer. Coffee as beer. Bacon as beer. At some point you stop asking if it’s a good idea and just accept it as proof that people will try anything once.
The problem with music taste is that the moment you discover something good, you’re already watching it die. Every band you loved yesterday is playing on some mainstream radio station today, and suddenly they’re worthless to you. Not because they changed, but because they’re not secret anymore.
Enter Forgotify: a website that pulls only the unheard songs from Spotify. Zero plays. Complete obscurity. It’s the wet dream for anyone neurotic enough to believe that their musical identity depends on knowing things nobody else knows.
Sure, there’s something appealing about it. Being the first, the only one with your ear on something untouched. But Forgotify songs are unheard for a reason, usually. They’re either genuinely bad, or so aggressively niche that you’re not winning by finding them. You’re just swapping one anxiety for another.
The darker thing is that the second you play a Forgotify track, you’ve already contaminated it. You can’t actually stay ahead of the curve. The game is rigged from the start. Taste only means something when you feel alone in it, but the moment you feel alone in it, you’re not actually alone anymore—there’s someone else out there right now thinking they’re the only one.
It’s not Forgotify’s fault, really. It’s just how you work.
Australian PSAs don’t do soft warnings. Whatever this ad shows, it apparently took that approach and ran far enough to become internet weird. The kind of thing you watch and wonder if it was actually allowed to air.
There’s this long-running joke about McDonald’s where you can order drugs the same way you order a Happy Meal toy. Walk up, say the right things, pull to the next window, and there it all is in the bag. The joke almost feels plausible because the whole operation is built on accommodating any request without judgment. That’s probably why it never gets old.
SodaStream, some Israeli water-carbonation company, decided to take on Pepsi and Coca-Cola by running a Super Bowl commercial featuring Scarlett Johansson. The ad was explicitly framed as too scandalous for American television—which is always funny because the thing they’re selling is a kitchen appliance that makes fizzy water. But apparently having Johansson there was enough to make CBS nervous. They rejected it before it could air.
So obviously I had to see what was so offensive. And there’s really nothing there. She’s in a towel or something, making suggestive faces at the camera, doing that thing where she wraps her mouth around a straw. It’s mildly flirtatious in the way ads used to be, back when that was enough to get a reaction. But it’s not pornographic. It’s not even that bold, honestly.
What struck me is how deliberate the whole thing felt. SodaStream clearly knew NBC or CBS would reject it, and that’s the entire marketing play. The real Super Bowl commercial never airs—only the controversy does. The banned version gets passed around online, everyone sees it anyway, and suddenly people are talking about SodaStream in a way they never would have otherwise. It’s brilliant and cynical at the same time.
America’s relationship to sex in advertising is genuinely weird. We’re fine with violence, with gun ads, with beer commercials that are basically just women in bikinis, but put a woman suggestively with a straw and suddenly it’s beyond the pale. It says something about what we’re actually worried about, what actually frightens us. Or maybe it just says that network TV is run by people terrified of anything that acknowledges desire too directly.
I don’t even remember what SodaStream tastes like. But I remember Scarlett Johansson’s face and a straw, which I guess means it worked.
There’s a desk that runs for 250 meters through an office in Tokyo. It winds through the space like something alive, and scattered around it on the floor are LEGO-colored seats that feel like they fell out of someone’s dream. Manga on the walls. Flowers everywhere. The whole thing looks like it was designed during an acid trip, which I mean as a compliment. This is where Teamlab works—a Tokyo-based community of artists and illustrators, and the office is the kind of place that makes every other startup look like it was designed by algorithms and fear.
Every startup office hits the same notes now. Massage chairs. Ping-pong table. Free espresso. Fruit at every corner. Banana hammocks for the developers to nap in. It’s all the same theater—expensive set dressing to convince you that your workplace doesn’t suck because there’s a beer tap in the kitchen. None of it works. The space doesn’t matter if the work itself is meaningless.
But this place is different. It’s what happens when actual artists get to design a space they’ll spend eight or nine hours a day in. The 250-meter desk isn’t random—it’s a statement about continuity, about the work flowing from one person to the next. The LEGO seats scattered on the floor aren’t trying to look cool. They’re just there, waiting, like the space itself is half-finished or always in conversation with the people inside it. Most offices are static. This one feels alive.
Teamlab’s whole thing is immersive art installations—digital environments that mess with your sense of time and space, make you forget where you are. Their actual office has that same energy, which is strange to think about. You’re supposed to sit at a desk and focus and do the work, but the environment is beautiful and strange enough that getting lost in a project wouldn’t feel like the slow death it feels like everywhere else. The space itself is preventing that numbness that usually comes eight hours into a workday.
What I’m trying to articulate is the specificity. Not “we made it colorful.” Not “we put up some art.” But a 250-meter desk. Scattered seats. Manga and flowers and strange geometry everywhere. The work of people who actually gave a shit about where they’d be sitting.
I wonder what it’s like at night. An office like that empty, after everyone’s left, just the lights and the desk and the colors and the quiet. That’s when you’d know if it actually changes something about how you think.
A Saturday in Paris, Place de la Bastille. Seventeen thousand people marched—that’s the police count, probably closer to the truth than the march organizers’ claim of a hundred and fifty thousand. Everyone showed up with something they wanted to hate. Catholics against abortion. People who wanted immigrants gone. People who wanted gay people to disappear. And Jews, like always, blamed for whatever feels broken when nothing else makes sense anymore.
Three million people were out of work in France. The government was spending fifty billion to try to fix it, though no one really believed that money would help. But you don’t march because of economic policy. You march when you’re scared and angry, and someone gives you permission to scream at someone else.
The march started with the Catholics in their colors leading the way. People made jokes about the Holocaust on the street like it was funny. Then FEMEN showed up—women trying to disrupt it with screaming—and the police dragged them away. The men in the crowd, these righteous marchers, called them whores and ripped their clothes off and left them on the ground.
Two hundred and fifty arrests. Twenty cops hurt. A city full of angry people, and nobody actually going anywhere.
You sit in front of a camera and eat. Every night. Seven thousand euros a month for it. That was the calculation Park Seo-yeon made at 34 when she quit her job to stream full-time — uploading herself eating to viewers who tune in for the company, for the sense of sitting with someone while they consume. Mukbang, they call it: Korean streaming where watching someone eat is enough. Sometimes it’s normal amounts of food. Sometimes it’s grotesque amounts. The viewers don’t really care about the food.
The first time I read about her, I thought it was some desperate edge case, someone in a desperate situation. But the numbers were real. The audience was real. And importantly, it paid better than whatever job she’d been doing before. Which means at some point, the economics of it made more sense than the alternative.
What strikes me is how straightforward the transaction is. Most entertainment hides what’s actually happening: you’re lonely and will pay money to feel less alone, and someone is willing to provide that feeling for a price. Mukbang doesn’t hide anything. You’re watching someone eat. They’re being watched while they eat. You pay them for it. That’s the entire deal.
She’s probably happier now. The work is simple — show up, eat, turn on the camera. The money is real and doesn’t require you to care about anything except basic consumption. There’s something almost peaceful about that kind of honesty.
Your face just gives up. The sneeze hits and there’s no controlling it—eyes cross, mouth slack, everything collapses for a second.
Humans at least have the excuse of being weak, mortal creatures with no say in the matter. Dogs don’t even get that—they sneeze exactly the same way, look equally stupid and possessed, except they have zero idea it’s happening. Two seconds later they’re completely fine, moving on unbothered by what just went down.
That’s what gets me. The sneeze is the one moment where a creature that spends all day grooming itself and maintaining this whole image just loses absolutely everything. All that dignity gone. And then nothing—no shame, no checking a mirror, no awareness.
The photos catch that perfectly. That exact moment of total collapse, pure unfiltered stupidity with zero self-awareness. That’s the real equalizer.
Lotteria’s selling hamburgers with chocolate sauce now. Japan does this thing where they just try stuff without asking permission first. No market research, no focus group—just someone in an office deciding on a Thursday: “What if chocolate? On a burger?” and apparently the answer is yes, here you go, four euros.
I remember when they did chocolate fries. Same vibe. That specific mix of curiosity and absolute confusion that makes you want to buy one and regret it immediately. I went to McDonald’s once with a jar of Nutella and a spoon, genuinely wondering if that combination would work. It didn’t. The whole thing was stupid. But I still think about it sometimes because the trying part felt more interesting than it had any right to be.
There’s something I actually like about that willingness to fail in public. Most food companies would never let this happen—they’d test it to death before release and it would never survive. Japan’s food industry moves differently. They’re comfortable being dumb about it. And sure, most of these novelties disappear. But sometimes someone buys it. Sometimes it becomes a thing. Either way, you tried something ridiculous and that counts for something.
These game streamers and comedians—the German ones especially—try to systematize YouTube success the way you’d systematize anything else. Good thumbnails, smart tags, the right posting time, the right voice. Master the techniques, optimize everything, and you should win.
But YouTube doesn’t really work that way. There’s the formula, and then there’s the thing that no formula captures: the moment when something clicks with enough people that it takes on its own weight. You end up with technically perfect videos that nobody asked for, uploaded by someone you don’t care about.
The people everyone actually knows often got famous before the optimization playbook got written. They were doing something because they wanted to, not because they’d studied viral mechanics. The formula became an explanation for something that happened for different reasons. Now you can watch all the tutorials you want, but you can’t really teach the thing that makes people actually want to watch.
I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. But I’ve watched enough of this over enough years to think the people who are still around are the ones who figured out what they had to say and then worried about thumbnails second. Everything else feels like work.
There’s that moment at the Grammys where Taylor Swift is performing and her head is jerking around like something’s seriously wrong. Not choreography—just genuinely unsettling to watch. Everyone saw it. And then the internet, being what it is, decided what had really happened: Ryu from Street Fighter was offscreen beating the shit out of her.
The joke is so stupid it comes back around to being funny. Not because it’s clever—it’s aggressively dumb—but because it’s the exact thing the moment needed. Something awkward and unexplained happens in front of millions of people, and instead of boring think-pieces about performance anxiety or technical glitches, someone just draws a line between point A (weird head-shaking) and point B (video game character) and calls it proof.
That’s internet culture now. You take a real moment, usually something slightly embarrassing, and turn it into an absurdist meme. It’s not mean-spirited—it’s almost affectionate in how thoroughly ridiculous it gets. The video probably doesn’t exist. Nobody cares. The point is the image itself: Ryu’s hadoken cutting through a Grammy performance, and suddenly the moment makes sense.
Swift’s big enough that she can be a punchline. The moment passes, the internet moves on. But there’s something about a moment happening in real time, getting captured instantly and warped into something completely unreal, that you can only laugh at. She was shaking. Ryu was there. The internet had decided.
Somewhere around 2013-2014 I got caught in MØ’s songs—Danish artist Karen Marie Ørsted, who makes electronic pop that hits different when you’re alone in a room late at night. “Don’t Wanna Dance” and “Waste of Time” have this urgent, propulsive energy, like she’s trying to outrun something in the production, all glitchy synths and her voice sitting right on top of it.
I was new to her stuff then. She’d put out an EP called Bikini Daze that barely registered, but the singles off her debut album No Mythologies to Follow—coming in early 2014—felt like someone had figured out a specific frequency that made restlessness feel good. Not euphoria. Just clean, charged movement.
The thing about MØ’s songs is they’re not trying to be cool. They’re just… electric. “XXX 88” in particular, with that stripped-down beat and the way her voice cracks a little on certain words—there’s something vulnerable in how she’s singing over what’s actually quite cold production. Not romantic vulnerable, just real. Like she’s working something out in real time.
I kept coming back to those early tracks. There’s a confidence in her songwriting that you don’t hear everywhere—she knows exactly how much space to leave in a song, when to let the synth breathe, when to bury the vocal deep. It’s production that knows what it’s doing but doesn’t announce itself.
By the time the album came out I’d already spent weeks with those early singles. MØ wasn’t the revelation everyone was hyping her as. She was just someone whose songs happened to make sense to me at a specific moment, when everything else felt too loud or too slow. Sometimes that’s all an artist needs to be.
I found her old teddy bear in a box at her parents’ place. It was called Whitey, and it had been torn apart by a dog when she was a kid—still had the tooth marks and split seams. She’d mentioned it once in that casual way people do when they’re being nostalgic, so I knew it mattered.
I spent a few weeks fixing it. New stuffing, stitched seams, got it back to something close to whole. Didn’t tell her. Just wrapped it for Christmas.
When she opened it, she went quiet. Then she cried—not the polite grateful kind, but the actual kind where you’re surprised by your own feelings. She held it like it was what it actually was: something from her own past she’d written off as gone.
I’ve given her nicer gifts. More expensive ones. Nothing came close to that. There’s something about the difference between buying something new and handing someone back something they thought they’d lost. The money doesn’t matter. The effort matters less than you’d think. It’s just paying attention to what someone actually cares about, even when they’re not saying it.
Most gifts get forgotten. That bear’s been on her bed ever since. Every time I see it there, I know exactly what it means. That’s what actually works.
Nintendo finally said yes to mobile. For years, Satoru Iwata was clear: Nintendo games on Nintendo hardware only. But they announced a loss, and suddenly the company was open to phones.
Not open open. What Nintendo actually did was put previews on your phone—trailers, mini-games, just enough to make you want the real versions. The strategy is obvious: let someone feel how good Mario is on their iPhone and they’ll buy the hardware to actually play. It works.
Can’t fault it. For a company that doesn’t want to compete on mobile, it’s the smart move. You get to sample the game without Nintendo spreading themselves thin across every device.
But it’s not what anyone asked for. Fans wanted to actually play these games on their phones. Instead they got a very long advertisement for hardware they have to buy anyway.
Is it what I wanted? No. Is it better than another year of refusal? Barely. But it’s something.
I bookmarked a bunch of Heng Swee Lim’s illustrations the other day. She’s from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, and draws these small, careful things—planets with expressions, a cloud holding a rainbow pencil, a remote control drawn like it deserves a portrait. Nothing loud. Nothing straining for your attention.
What works about them is that she’s not trying to decorate anything. She’s just observing. A remote control is a remote control, but she’s drawn it in a way that makes you actually look at it, which sounds simple but isn’t. The restraint is what does it—the muted colors, the precise lines, the refusal to push anything further than it needs to go. You can tell she cares about getting it exactly right.
I can spend time with work like this. Something about the quiet doesn’t exhaust you.
Jesko Wrede photographed a Nazi march in Magdeburg a few days back, and the pictures won’t leave my head. Around 700 men marching to commemorate the 1945 bombing of the city, except they looked like they’d emerged from a Berlin thrift store — ear gauges, vintage sunglasses, studied beards, ironic tote bags with printed jokes. One said something about carrying yogurt. That detail sits with me. About 1,500 antifascists showed up to oppose them, so the whole thing unfolded as simultaneously horrifying and absurd in a way I still don’t know how to process.
The thing that gets me is how complete it feels. Hipster culture was built on radical not-caring, on the belief that you could wear anything and reference anything because nothing meant anything. Just surfaces, all the way down. Cynicism so total it became invisible, like clarity itself. And it turns out that worldview has room for fascism. It always did. Add an ideology that actually believes in something to the costume of believing in nothing, and the look doesn’t change. The guy in the orange sunglasses at a Nazi march is wearing the exact same armor as the guy in the orange sunglasses at a coffee shop in Prenzlauer Berg, just with different pins on it.
Maybe that’s the logical endpoint of the whole thing. Maybe it was always heading here.
A millionaire rents out a spare room to make ends meet. Years later he’s one of fifteen addicts sharing a three-room apartment in Manhattan, the utilities barely working, everything sold for drugs. Photographer Jessica Dimmock documented it in a series called The Ninth Floor.
The trajectory is what gets me. Not because it’s a cautionary tale—it’s simpler than that. He needed the money, so he rented the room. The tenant was addicted. So he was around it. He didn’t plan to become addicted. He just lived with someone who was, and you can’t undo that proximity. More people arrive. The apartment fills. The logic compounds until there’s no logic left, just the fact of it.
The photographs don’t sensationalize. They show the wear on the furniture and the bodies, the way people arrange themselves when they’ve stopped expecting anything. That ordinariness is worse than shock. It just is what it is.
I think about the economics sometimes—how a man with assets becomes a man with none. That’s not mysterious; addiction does that. But the speed. One decision creates conditions for everything after. You rent a room to a stranger. The stranger is an addict. Now you’re in the problem.
South Korea’s building a 5G network a thousand times faster than what we’ve got. Download a whole film in one second. Ultra-HD streaming, holograms — the full future — supposedly by 2017. Meanwhile my Telekom router’s green light is blinking like it’s having some kind of existential crisis, and I’m waiting for one episode of something to load.
Not even something good. Just some RTL show I half-remember. The point isn’t what I’m watching, it’s that I’m waiting. That’s the baseline experience here. Waiting is baked in.
You get used to it after a while. You get used to buffering, used to throttling video to 480p because that’s all the connection can handle. You accept waiting like it’s just how the internet works, like it’s not an actual failure of infrastructure. It becomes background noise, something you complain about but stop expecting to change.
Somewhere they’re already in the future, downloading holograms like it’s nothing. The rest of us stopped expecting things to work. Probably for the best.
I read about Kurt J. Mac in the New Yorker — this guy who decided three years ago to walk in a straight line through Minecraft until he reached the world’s edge. That’s it. Just keeps moving in one direction, no cheating, no flying, just walking. When the procedural landscape finally glitches out and collapses into colors and errors, that’s where it ends.
The border is theoretically 12,000 kilometers from where he started. He’s covered about 700 kilometers in three years. So there’s still a long way to go — possibly forever, depending on how patient he is.
The thing that gets me is that he’s not doing this as a stunt. He streams the whole thing on YouTube, narrates it like a pilgrim’s journey, treating a generated video game landscape like it’s an actual place to move through. He raises money for charity in the process, which is fine, but the money feels almost incidental to the walking itself. To the singular, obsessive focus.
There’s something about constraints that produces a kind of purity. You set one rule — go straight — and suddenly a limitless game world becomes a narrative. You notice things. You develop a relationship with the terrain. The glitches aren’t failures; they’re the destination.
I respect anyone weird enough to spend three years doing something completely pointless. Pointless in the way that actually matters.
You think about it at some point. Most people probably do, at least in passing. The money’s quick, you strip, you fuck on camera, you’re finished. How hard could it actually be? The work itself is probably straightforward enough, but here’s the thing: it completely rewrites your life, and not in the way you’re imagining when you’re just thinking about the money.
There’s a video where Asa Akira, Jessica Drake, and Stoya talk about what it’s actually like. These are women who’ve built real careers from this, and they don’t soften it. It’s not preachy. They just say it plainly: once you do this, employers will find you, your family will find you, strangers will recognize you, and you never fully escape that fact. You carry it forever.
The sex work itself probably isn’t the hard part. What’s hard is that you can’t really quit and move on the way you can with other jobs. This follows you. It’s in your history. Future partners know. Potential employers know. The internet knows.
I think about this sometimes and I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe because the appeal of fast money never really goes away, even when you know better. Maybe because those three performers just explaining it plainly, without judgment or drama, just the facts of what it costs—that cuts through all the romanticizing bullshit people tell themselves.
You walk into one of these places and immediately understand why they exist. There’s something about a room full of cats that doesn’t require conversation or effort. You sit there. The cats do their thing. The world outside is irrelevant.
I got onto this through Sharla’s recent video from Tokyo. She runs a YouTube channel about living in Japan, pumping out content every week for people curious about what it’s actually like there. In this one she visited a few different cat cafes around the city, showed you the price range (somewhere between ten and twenty-five euros depending on where you go), the warm strawberry milk they serve, that particular stillness of the space. Cats ignoring you, people sitting alone with their devices, everyone completely at ease with how strange this would seem anywhere else.
One of the places she visited runs an actual rescue operation—pulls cats off the street and adopts them out through the cafe. Which changes it a little. You’re not paying for the aesthetic of cats. You’re paying for tea and a chair in a shelter, and the adoption feeds the operation. It’s the least exploitative version of the concept I can imagine.
But what makes these places work, I think, is simpler than the narrative of “Japan loves cute things” or whatever narrative you want to tell yourself. It’s the permission structure. You don’t have to be interesting. You don’t have to make friends with the strangers in there or pretend to enjoy it. The cats have no opinions about you. They won’t validate you or reject you. You show up, you sit, you exist next to something living that has zero stake in whether you’re having a good time. For an hour you’re relieved of the basic social burden of being human.
When you watch Sharla’s videos from Japan, a lot of it is tourism—temples, food, the specific novelty of being foreign in a city that processes tourists. But the cat cafes might be the only thing she really captures honestly. Not because they’re exotic or rare. Because they’re so completely functional. You’re not looking for an experience. You’re sitting somewhere quiet with a warm cup in your hands, and it doesn’t matter if anyone knows you’re there.
I was waiting for Game of Thrones season 4 with the kind of focus that makes everything else blur out. April 6th couldn’t come fast enough. They put out a behind-the-scenes trailer but it only made it worse — you don’t want to see how they filmed it, you want to actually watch it.
The thing about GoT was that it had everything. Dragons. Brutal plotting. Enough nudity that you stayed alert through the slow political scenes. The show treated itself like it mattered, and that gave permission to care about it too, at least for a while.
I don’t hold season 4 in my memory the way I do the first two. But the feeling of waiting for it — that anticipation, that certainty that the next thing you needed to do was watch these episodes — that stuck around.
Black smoke hanging over the Maidan. Burning barricades scattered across the city center. Every few seconds another explosion, then gunfire, another explosion. Cars burned down to their frames. Buildings gutted. Five people already dead, and no sign it was stopping.
This was Kyiv a few days into the Yanukovych protests—actual street warfare. No metaphor. And what struck me about the reports coming out was the complete absence of control. This wasn’t some organized revolutionary force with a plan. It was a mob, and they were furious, and nobody could contain them, not even the people supposedly leading the movement.
Ilya Varlamov went down into it and saw the chaos firsthand. Different groups fighting for different reasons—some political, most just bone-tired of years of corruption and police brutality. But they shared one thing: Yanukovych and everything he represented. The contempt. The theft. The machine that ran on money and fear.
There’s this moment that keeps coming back to me: an eighty-year-old man walks up to some guys in gas masks and asks for a Molotov cocktail. They laugh, tell him his arm won’t throw it far enough. He says back: “Just give me one. I want these bastards to know I’m not doing this anymore.” Not some revolutionary rallying cry. Just an old man who’d finally had enough.
That’s the whole thing. It wasn’t political theorists or strategic thinkers. It was people who’d decided they couldn’t live like this anymore. But there was no structure to lean on. The established opposition tried to ride the moment, but nobody trusted them. Nobody trusted anyone. Everyone had their own vision of what came next. So the violence just kept going, the mob against the state, with the Berkut and the police caught in between, and there was no off switch because stopping meant losing, and losing meant going back.
The image that sticks is the smoke. Not the speeches or the analyses or the historical context. Just the smell of a major city burning because people decided they weren’t asking nicely anymore.
Twenty years ago, being a nerd meant being invisible. Now it means having money and power. The kids who got tormented for their comic books and D&D sessions are the ones setting culture. It’s a shift that happened so gradually I’m not sure when it happened.
I think it was the internet. Once you could find your people online, you didn’t have to pretend. You could care more about Star Wars than social status and find thousands of others exactly like you. Then smartphones made everyone a nerd—suddenly everyone needed to understand how technology worked. And Marvel figured out that comic books could be the most profitable genre in cinema. The hierarchy flipped.
So the thing that got you mocked became the thing that got you admired. Big glasses went from liability to aesthetic. Coding went from basement hobby to golden ticket. Being into sci-fi stopped being uncool. I’d take a world where people care about good storytelling over one where that stuff is dismissed as nerd garbage.
But there’s something that did shift. There’s a difference between discovering something in the dark, alone, because it was yours and nobody else’s, and liking it because everyone’s doing it now. The kid who wears the costume but has never opened the source material—that’s a different thing. It’s the currency without the devotion. It’s the style without the isolation that made the style matter.
I grew up invisible, which was fine. It shaped how I see things in ways that matter. And no amount of retrospective validation changes that. But it is funny—satisfying, really—to watch the world decide that the stuff I cared about back when caring about it made you invisible is actually worth caring about. The kid I was would be amazed.
I caught the Subaru commercial with Attack on Titan’s titans and it might be the best car ad I’ve ever seen. I don’t particularly care about cars, but this works.
Attack on Titan was my anime discovery last year and it hit harder than expected. Simple premise: humanity behind walls, colossal monsters outside. The execution is relentless. Every episode has that moment where your chest tightens. The visuals are what stick—the scale of them, the movement, the sheer wrongness. It’s bleak.
So Subaru made a commercial setting their sedan against those same titans, that same dread. The car’s just there, real and small, while the monsters loom in the frame. No story about escape or safety—just a vehicle existing in a world where monsters are real. That’s the sell. The show’s motto is ’Are you the food? No, we are the hunters.’ There’s something darkly perfect about selling someone a car with that in mind.
Snowden was in Moscow when he told a German broadcaster that people in Washington wanted him dead. Not arrested, not returned for trial — dead. He said it plainly, the way you’d mention that it was raining. The interview was with Hubert Seipel from NDR, and Snowden had already spent years doing this: speaking truth from exile, knowing it wouldn’t matter.
What he’d revealed was never as dramatic as the newspapers wanted it to be. The NSA doesn’t pull off heists or decode secret messages. They just take information when it’s useful. Company data from Siemens that might benefit American business? They take it. Political intelligence in the phone records? Theirs. They’d stopped pretending to have legal boundaries long before anyone was asking questions.
Once you know how it actually works, you can’t unknow it. Everything changes, except nothing does. People read the revelations, they got angry for a while, then they went back to using their phones, their email, their social media, typing things they’d never say out loud because why should it matter if someone’s reading. The machine was already running. We just hadn’t looked inside it before.
Snowden’s still in Moscow. The government still wants him dead, or maybe they don’t anymore — that detail stopped mattering years ago. What mattered was that he’d told us exactly how it all worked, and we’d decided to be fine with it.
Japanese lingerie brand Ravijour sold a bra called Mood Up for their 10-year anniversary. The premise is that it opens itself when you’re actually in love, or at least when their app detects genuine affection instead of just desire. I can’t picture a real use case for this, until you’re drunk at 4am at some party, desperate and high, wishing something—anything—would just work without you having to convince it. That’s the moment this bra starts making sense.
There’s this MDMA pill going around Belgium called Nintendo and the joke writes itself but apparently it’s actually there, making the rounds, people are taking it. Some guy from a club said it came on at midnight like a hammer, the whole place started looking beautiful, his friends got sentimental and kept telling each other how much they love each other, that moment about an hour in where you think you’ve figured out something crucial about what matters, and he got worried his friend was too far gone so he ditched his second dose, which obviously doesn’t help because now he’s just alone at the peak convinced he’s become the god of everything. That’s the thing about rolling—you get that certainty, that absolute conviction that everything makes sense, and you’ll never feel it again quite the same way.
The brands are everywhere. Nintendo, Mitsubishi, Superman, Li-Ion. You see them and you think they mean something, like there’s actual consistency or someone gave a shit beyond pressing them fast. But it’s just a name, a story the dealer tells so you don’t have to think about the fact that you’re consuming something completely unverified. Could be pure MDMA. Could be mostly speed. Could be something nobody even knows because they bought it from someone who bought it from someone. The brand is pure fiction, and we believe in it the way we believe in anything we can’t check.
Which is why people make the dark joke at the end. Bath salts, face-eating, the paranoia that lurks under every drug story about what happens when you take the wrong thing. At least with Nintendo someone put effort into pressing the pill, stamped a logo on it, created the illusion that a human being thought about what they were doing. It’s stupid and it’s not safe, but it’s something. It’s a brand, and a brand means someone decided it was worth naming. That’s all we have sometimes—the confidence of the person who labeled it.
Winter in Germany is all black. Black coats, black scarves, black shoes, the whole visual landscape just flattens. It’s practical, or it feels that way. You dress for the season and disappear into it.
Tokyo in December looks nothing like that. I was walking around Harajuku and just watched people get dressed for cold weather the way normal people dress—with colors, with patterns, the idea that you might still look like yourself. A kid with platform boots and bright socks under a long coat. Someone in a puffy jacket with silk trousers. Another person in a parka with fishnet stockings. It was casual, not staged. Just what felt right to them.
I realized I’d never questioned why I didn’t do that. Black felt inevitable, like cold weather demanded surrender. But it’s not, is it? It’s a choice that became so normal it feels like necessity.
The streets in Harajuku weren’t staging a rebellion or making some point about fashion. People were just deciding, every day, not to accept that getting cold meant getting boring. Not as a conscious act. Just a normal choice. What felt right.
I came back and couldn’t look at my winter wardrobe the same way. All that black suddenly looked less like practicality and more like a habit I’d stopped questioning.
Marteria’s video for OMG just dumps every religious image it can find into the frame and lets them pile up. Saints, crucifixes, prayer hands, the whole sacred imagery buffet. It’s built around a song asking the kind of question I’ve been half-serious about since I was a kid: how do you actually get into heaven? Pray every day? Show up to church on Sundays? Watch the unsuitable couples making out in the pews? The honest answer is nobody knows.
Marteria doesn’t seem to be winking at religion or mocking it exactly. He’s treating heaven like a practical problem to solve, which is maybe the most genuinely irreverent thing you can do with faith. The way the sacred imagery just accumulates and crashes together feels less like criticism and more like he’s throwing everything at the wall to see what sticks. And that’s probably the most honest thing I’ve heard said about belief in a while.
The news hit me the way these things do: all at once, totally unavoidable. Tokio Hotel are coming back this year. New album, apparently finished, tracks being selected right now. Their producer just confirmed it like we weren’t all collectively trying to forget they existed.
I had convinced myself it was over. Four years gone and genuinely sealed. But no. The eyeliner lives. The hair lives. That voice. “Ich muss durch den Monsun” is about to be inescapable again, and I’m sitting with the absurdity like it’s physics.
If you lived through German culture in the mid-2000s you know what’s about to happen. Not just a band reunion—the resurrection of an entire era we’d buried. Michael Wendler, Mark Medlock, Crazy Frog, and towering over all of it, Tokio Hotel. We were supposed to be safe now. That was the deal.
What actually kills me is knowing they’ll be competent. The comeback will work because nostalgia doesn’t care about your sense of humor or your dignity. People will care. And I’m going to have to sit with the fact that Tokio Hotel mattered, that their wildness was real, and that I can’t pretend otherwise anymore.
I’m not ready for this. But that’s never mattered much.
There’s a photo from Kiev that makes everything clear. A riot cop throwing a Molotov cocktail at the crowd below. Same weapon as the street. That’s when you know something has crossed into territory that doesn’t come back.
By late January 2014, the protests had dissolved into actual warfare. Fires burning across the city center. People with weapons, police with the same weapons, both sides committed to burning the other one out. The thing about that moment is how it strips away everything else. All the talk about governance and protest and political process just evaporates. You’re left with raw conflict and two sides that have decided there’s no negotiating left to do.
The photo is the punctuation on all that. A police officer with a Molotov cocktail in his hand. Not protecting order. Not managing a situation. Just fighting. Once you see that, you can’t unsee it. The whole framework of institutional authority — the idea that there’s a separate class of people whose job is to keep things together — just dissolves. They’re just another combatant now.
I don’t know what happened next, how long it burned before something changed. But that image is the marker of when it stopped being about anything except power and survival.
Someone sends you a selfie and you can feel the work in it — the angle, the light, the smile that was tested in a mirror first. Then you see a cat and there’s none of that effort. The cat wasn’t trying. It was scratching its ear or staring at nothing when someone aimed the camera and caught something true.
That’s the gap. A selfie is a question — look at me, do you like me. A cat photo is just an answer. It’s just there.
I’ve spent enough time trying to take decent pictures to know the moment you start caring about the result, you’re finished. The cat doesn’t know how to care. That’s why the cat wins.
Pope Francis blessed the internet. It’s a gift from God, he said—not cables, but people. A network of people.
I’ll remember that next time I’m scrolling through whatever’s on my screen that I’d never mention to anyone. The browser history, the incognito tabs, the things I look at alone. We’re all connected, he said. All part of the same network.
Friday comes and you’re ready for it, even though Tuesday wasn’t that long ago. The ritual never changes—swing by Görlitzer Park before dark, before the evening turns into something you don’t want to be part of. Usually you get what you deserve: something that’s been sitting in a pocket, something that smells like it’s making excuses for itself.
This time it’s actually decent. Fruity, sharp, the kind of thing that makes you pause for a second and smell it again. Not amazed—the park doesn’t do amazement—just surprised enough that you think the weekend might actually start okay. You pocket it and head toward the U-Bahn already thinking about the couch, and for once you’re not disappointed before you’ve even started.
The question of whether Edward Snowden was a hero or a traitor couldn’t get settled in early 2014, and by that point it didn’t matter anymore. The information was already out. Governments had already seen it. The NSA was what it was.
What surprised me wasn’t the mass surveillance itself—you’d have to be naive to think that wasn’t happening. It was how banal it actually was. No drama, no elegant tradecraft, just massive machinery running on millions of data points, most of them worthless, filtered through by people doing their jobs. It was boring surveillance, which somehow made it worse.
Obama did his speech promising reforms, and everyone knew it meant nothing. The machine doesn’t get smaller. It just gets quieter.
The real thing I remember is feeling like we’d turned a corner where you couldn’t claim ignorance anymore. And then immediately everyone moved on, and we all got used to it. That’s the actual story. Not whether Snowden was right or wrong. Just how fast humans can accept something once it stops being shocking.
I watched Kyiv burn on my phone in real time, sometime in 2013. The government didn’t like what was happening in the streets, so they sent in police. The protesters had Molotov cocktails. People died — at least two that first night, more as it went on. The Prime Minister said it was their fault for being criminals. It wasn’t an unusual response, which maybe is the worst part.
What got to me wasn’t parsing the politics of Ukrainian governance. It was the way you follow something like that. Refresh. Check the death count. Watch clips. Refresh again. It’s hypnotic in a way that feels wrong while you’re doing it. You’re simultaneously invested and removed. Checking the news while you make dinner. Halfway through a sentence about something else, then back to the footage. The scale of real violence gets smoothed into content.
I don’t know what actually happened with any of it in the years after — my attention moved on like everyone else’s. But I remember the weird unreality of watching a city you’ll probably never visit get torn open while you’re sitting somewhere safe. The government treating people like enemies. The people not backing down. And you, three thousand miles away, unable to do anything but look.
There’s something about moments like that that stick. Not the politics of it — I’m not qualified to judge that. But the reminder that the stable world you live in could do the same thing tomorrow if people pushed back hard enough. That’s a thought you don’t shake.
You know what’s hot? A genuinely good ass — the curve, the weight, the way it commands your attention. I’m apparently not the only person who thinks this way, because someone on the internet decided to document hamster butts.
Sad and Useless did it. A whole post just cataloguing hamster asses, photographed like they matter, like anyone should care about rodent posteriors. And the stupid thing is, looking at them, I kind of get it. There’s something almost perfect about how compact they are, these little fuzzy hemispheres, completely innocent and round and just… existing.
The whole thing is absurd enough that it becomes funny. Nobody needed this. The internet is arguably worse for it. But now hamster butts are a specific thing I’ve thought about, and there’s something oddly satisfying about that specificity — the kind of weird cultural artifact that sticks with you. Probably best to keep my distance from the pet store section for a while.
There’s a Miku Hatsune figure on my desk that’s been staring at me with this blank expression for years. I grabbed it as a joke at some point—a piece of anime merchandise to take up space—but I didn’t really understand the appeal until I spent time in Akihabara with Gonta, this guy from Tokyo who’s deep enough into Miku fandom that his apartment might actually be a shrine.
Miku started as voice synthesis software—just a program released for musicians to use. Somehow she became Japan’s biggest pop star. Turquoise hair, twin tails, no actual body or face to speak of, just the image of something that doesn’t exist. And the merchandise never stops: figurines, games, phone cases, coffee mugs, bedding, clothing, everything. Walk into any electronics shop and she’s there, multiplied infinitely across different products and limited editions.
Following Gonta through Akihabara was like watching someone move through a place he’d built in his mind. He knew which floors had what, which shops dropped their limited releases, what wasn’t worth the risk. The thing is, it wasn’t sad or desperate the way I’d assumed fandom obsession always is—it was just a person who’d found his people and his place, and that place happened to revolve entirely around a digital idol.
I think what makes Miku work is that she doesn’t disappoint. She’ll never age or say something stupid in an interview or leave you for someone else. She’s pure image, pure potential. She exists in that space between what the creator intended and what fans project onto her, and she stays right there forever. In a world where everything eventually lets you down, there’s something almost logical about choosing to love something designed from the start never to push back.
The walls of Gonta’s apartment were covered with different versions of her. Posters, figures, limited editions he’d collected over years, still in boxes. He talked about her like she was real, and maybe to him she was—not as a person, but as something that made sense inside his life in a way that human relationships often don’t.
I don’t get paid to do what I’d actually want to do all day. I’d be happy half-clothed, hanging around looking dumb, pushing a bike sometimes, pulling off my shirt when photographers like Joe Villanueva and Katie Stone tell me to. Kayslee Collins is 22 and that’s her literal job. And she gets paid for it.
The thing that gets me is there’s no path to it. You don’t study for this. You don’t grind toward it over years. You’re just young and willing to be half-naked in front of a camera, and that becomes a career.
So where did I actually go wrong? What choice did I make that landed me on this side instead of that one?
You lose track of time online without really noticing. A few hours gone and you don’t have anything to show for it, but you also don’t particularly regret it. In China they decided this was a disease. Serious enough that by 2008 it became state policy — internet addiction in teenagers required actual intervention.
They built camps for it. Military-run rehab centers where parents could send kids who were spending too much time online or in internet cafés. The cure was basic: discipline, drills, routine, authority. Strip away the comfort and force them back into structure. The logic being that if you just remove the choice long enough, the addiction breaks.
I doubt it actually works the way they think. You can force someone to run drills and stick to a schedule, but you can’t force away the fact that being online feels better than whatever’s actually happening in their room. The program assumes addiction is a weakness that enough military discipline can cure. Maybe it works on some people. Probably most of them just learn to hide it and resent the people who tried to fix them.
What strikes me is how different we handle the exact same behavior. Here, spending hours gaming or scrolling is just life. Nobody panics. Nobody sends you to boot camp. There, it’s treated like an emergency. At least someone’s panicking. At least someone thinks it matters enough to do something drastic, even if that something is completely wrong.
By the time Frozen came out, I’d decided I was too old for Disney animated musicals, but Idina Menzel’s voice on this song pulled me in anyway. The arrangement builds and the chorus opens up completely — it’s not subtle, but it’s solid enough to stick.
I watched a video Disney released showing the song in 25 different languages and kept waiting for it to fall apart the way most songs do under translation. It didn’t. The German version, the Japanese, the Spanish — they all land the same way, like the same moment. The melody is sturdy enough for that. Menzel’s performance carries it through. You’d expect something like this to lose something, but it just moves across languages without breaking.
It got the Oscar nomination, which feels right. What matters is that it’s genuinely good — the kind of good that doesn’t get tired when you revisit it years later. That’s rarer for a song like this than the numbers suggest.
Beijing’s air got so bad they put the sun on screens. Residents watched daylight through digital billboards because the smog was thick enough to block it out. The kind of thing you’d see in a dystopian film, except it was real.
The pollution levels in the city had become so severe that you couldn’t actually see the sun from the ground. So instead of accepting that something was fundamentally broken, they solved it the way you’d expect: with more screens, more electricity, more of the exact same system that got them there in the first place. There’s something perfect about that. Humanity’s answer to ruining the sky is to watch it on television.
I think about what we accept as normal. Fifteen years ago this would have been a shocking parable about environmental collapse. Now it’s just a Tuesday in a megacity. We’ve gotten used to breathing bad air, watching the world through glass and glowing rectangles, accepting that nature is something you experience at a remove if you experience it at all. The sun used to be free.
There’s an image I can’t shake: someone standing in Beijing on a gray afternoon, looking up at a screen, and below the screen people on their phones, probably watching videos from other cities with better weather. Everything’s mediated. Everything’s buffered. We’re all just watching the broadcast now.
Sailor Moon keeps showing up. Not trending, not in the news, just in what people actually watch at three in the morning when they can’t sleep. Someone finds the German dub on YouTube. Someone else buys the vinyl. It circulates quietly.
What still gets me about the show is the transformation sequences — that moment where Usagi touches her brooch and becomes something else, something stronger. Even knowing how it’s engineered, it carries weight. But what lands harder is that the show understood something about growing up that most things miss. Usagi’s always complaining about having to show up, about homework and boys and wanting to sleep in. The adventure is obligation. The power is burden. It’s not about getting cooler, it’s about getting responsible. That landed different when I was twelve. Lands different now.
The German version exists in this weird space between the real thing and a curiosity — it’s just the Sailor Moon that landed in a specific time and place. There’s something worth holding onto in that. It’s not a compromise version, it’s just what it is.
I remember watching the footage from Kyiv, probably 2013 or early 2014, hard to place exactly. The Berkut riot police in their gas masks, the crowds not backing down, the fires at night and the chemical smoke during the day. Vitali Klitschko, the boxer, suddenly on the opposition side recording videos about peaceful resistance while his country came apart. Yanukovych making official statements about ruin and danger, the way leaders always do when their people are telling them to fuck off.
What stayed with me wasn’t the violence itself—you get used to that, the endless news cycle of states crushing dissent—but the futility of it all. Klitschko’s pleas for nonviolence when the other side had the weapons. The riot police doing exactly what they were told. The whole thing unfolding like something already written, already decided, just waiting for everyone to live through the script.
I’d watch the videos, read the reports, feel that mix of anger and powerlessness, and then close the tab. Back to work, back to my own small life. The world’s violence doesn’t stop because you witnessed it. You scroll past it, you feel something, and then you move on. That’s the deal we make with ourselves about the rest of the world.
Melt comes back around in July and it’s one of those festivals I actually clear the calendar for. Portishead’s on the lineup, which is worth the trip alone. Recondite and Chromeo too. It’s one of the few that still feels like it’s curated by people who give a shit about the music instead of just the brand.
Festivals get cynical fast — they turn into brand experiences and influencer hangouts. This one’s managed to stay weird and thoughtful in a way that matters.
American Apparel put mannequins with visible pubic hair in store windows last week, which is their latest attempt at scandal. Just hairy crotches displayed for all the passersby to see. Bare breasts stopped working, so they’re testing the next boundary — whether we’ve actually moved past the idea that female pubic hair is something that needs to be hidden.
We haven’t. Nike from This Is Jane Wayne crystallized it perfectly: naturalness has become transgressive. Everyone has pubic hair. But we’ve built an entire system around the idea that it should be invisible, and the work of maintaining that invisibility is brutal. Razors, waxing, the constant anxiety about being seen with your body the way it actually grows. And you do it anyway because you’re supposed to, because the alternative is being perceived as gross or not trying hard enough, which is its own kind of terror.
The Instagram angle shows how deliberately we’ve enforced this. They’ll delete your account if you post a photo showing a hint of pubic hair, but breasts are completely fine. Teenage breasts, full adult breasts, it doesn’t matter — those stay. But that hairline? Deleted. The boundary they’ve drawn between what’s acceptable to see is so obviously rooted in what we’ve been trained to think is attractive that it’s almost not worth explaining. It’s the machine’s priorities in one policy.
Someone posted a photo with visible pubic hair and Instagram nuked her account. Full breasts are still fine. That’s where we are.
American Apparel knows it. They’re being provocative on purpose because it still works. A mannequin with a bush is still shocking. Still news. Which means we’re not actually past this at all.
I’m not going to pretend I’m above this. Rihanna’s Instagram is the only thing worth actually paying attention to on that entire app. Every photo is some kind of calculated assault on your focus—the angles, the looks, the way she stares at the camera like she’s doing you a personal favor by existing. She knows exactly what she’s doing and exactly what we’re all thinking, and she doesn’t care. That kind of power in how you hold yourself, the sheer confidence—most people spend a lifetime trying to cultivate it and never get close.
There’s something about the way she moves through it all, completely at ease with her own sexuality in a way that makes everyone else look desperate by comparison. No filters, no apologies, just this perfect understanding of what she is and how to use it. You can watch her photos and see someone who invented the game and is now just letting us watch her play it.
Amou Haji hasn’t bathed in sixty years. He’s eighty now, lives in southern Iran, and by every measure he should be the cautionary tale that proves hygiene exists for a reason. But looking at the photographs, there’s something else going on. He doesn’t look broken. He looks like someone who made a choice and kept making it until it wasn’t a choice anymore.
He smokes dried animal dung instead of tobacco. He burns his hair off with a campfire rather than cutting it. His drinking water comes from a barrel so corroded the rust is visible. Every daily ritual the rest of us treat as non-negotiable — he’s rejected it completely, and his whole life has become the evidence of that refusal.
In the West, he’d have been institutionalized decades ago. We have systems for this. We can’t tolerate someone this far outside the basic agreements about how to live. But in his village, people apparently decided to let him be, which is its own kind of freedom.
What stops me is that he says he’s happy. Not in some noble, tragic way. Just… happy. I don’t know if he’s lying or if happiness is just what your brain feels like after you’ve committed to something long enough. Maybe at some point you can’t remember what you were refusing, so there’s nothing left to resist.
I used to think radical refusal of social convention meant enlightenment. Now I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just exhaustion — the moment when you finally stop pretending and accept that you’re not going to play along. And once you’ve made that choice, there’s a strange quiet in it.
Amou Haji probably wasn’t making a statement. He probably just didn’t shower one day, then didn’t the next, and somewhere in that repetition, sixty years happened. By then he was already someone else.
Ron Jeremy filmed himself doing “Wrecking Ball.” I mean, what else is he going to do? Porn guy, Miley Cyrus, the setup writes itself. And naturally it’s exactly as explicit as the premise promises — him doing his thing to that song, on a wrecking ball, no apologies.
It’s not clever. The joke doesn’t go anywhere. But I kind of love how committed he is to just being exactly what everyone already thinks he is. No irony, no winking — just pure shameless directness. Sometimes that’s funnier than anything you could actually write.
Julia Engelmann recited something at a slam in Bielefeld that hit harder than expected. She studies psychology, which maybe explains the precision—the way she could name what everyone in the room was already thinking but hadn’t quite said out loud.
The piece is about aging. “One day, baby, we’ll be old,” she says into the microphone, “and we’ll think about all the stories we could have told.” It’s not a new observation. You’ve probably thought it at 3 AM, or lying in bed on a Sunday morning, or standing at your desk on a Wednesday knowing you’ve wasted another day. But the way she delivered it made it feel true in a different way—made you feel caught, in that uncomfortable moment where someone’s articulated something about you that you can’t quite dismiss.
What happens next is the real thing though. That moment of recognition, that flash of shame or clarity or whatever you want to call it—it doesn’t last. You feel it while you’re listening, and then you walk out and life continues exactly as it was. You don’t start doing the thing you’re supposed to be doing. You just sit with the feeling for a while, and then it dissolves back into the regular noise of living.
Hans-Peter Friedrich was Germany’s interior minister, and when the NSA scandal broke, he basically said he had more important things to deal with. That was his actual response. I remember reading it and just sitting there, thinking: what could possibly be more important? And his answer, implicit in everything that followed, was cheese and folk music and whatever else. People found a Tumblr with screenshots of him eating, playing, living his life completely normally while the world’s entire communications system was being monitored.
What gets me is how flat it is. He’s not even defending himself, not making excuses. Just stating a fact: I was busy. Like that’s all there is to say. And in a way it is, because that simple statement tells you everything about what he thought actually mattered. Not the privacy of an entire country. Not the massive security failure. Just… other stuff.
I have no idea what happened to him after that. Some politicians say incredibly stupid things and just keep existing, keep their jobs, move on. The news cycles away and you forget. But that phrase stayed with me because it’s the perfect distillation of dismissal—not even a shrug, just a flat statement of fact. And somehow that’s worse.
There’s a particular kind of aging-feeling that comes from realizing Sailor Moon turned twenty this year. The series, I mean — not Usagi herself. Though if she’d actually aged alongside the show instead of staying forever fourteen, she’d be thirty-four now. Thirty-four. That math sits differently depending on when you think about it.
The Japanese haven’t let it rest. New anime seasons, merchandise, a memorial album with contemporary pop stars rerecording the old theme songs. Tommy heavenly6, Momoiro Clover Z, artists I’ve maybe never heard of — all singing versions of music that soundtracked Saturday mornings or late-night reruns for anyone who caught the right era. The new takes are competent enough. The originals had texture you can’t recreate — the specific budget constraints of 90s anime, the earnestness, that particular sound. But there’s something to the fact that people keep reworking it, that it’s worth pressing onto new media, worth remaking.
It means something lasted. It means a story about girls in tiaras fighting darkness for love and justice still carries enough weight that people feel compelled to reinterpret it. That probably matters more than whether the new songs are any good.
I’ve noticed that 200 calories in a doughnut looks like nothing—like one bite of food. But 200 calories in pasta is somehow a full meal’s worth. The cruel joke is that your body doesn’t care about calories on a label. It cares about what hits your tongue and how empty your stomach still feels five minutes later.
New Year’s resolutions fail the same way every time. December shows up and you’re going to change. Meal prep on Sunday, gym four times a week, no more delivery. By February you’re ordering pizza again, and by March you’ve decided the whole gym membership was a scam. Probably was.
The food industry has engineered a perfect con. A cheeseburger looks like a reasonable meal. A handful of chips looks like a normal snack. A Frappuccino is just coffee, right? But each one is 200 calories sitting invisible in plain sight. You can eat five of them without feeling full. You can eat them without even thinking.
I’ve seen the breakdowns—200 calories of a doughnut lined up next to 200 calories of broccoli. The doughnut is one bite. The broccoli is an entire plate. It’s obscene. It’s a trick played on everyone’s brain at once. Nobody sees broccoli and thinks “that’s not much food.” Everyone eats a doughnut whole without doing the math.
The whole game is rigged against you. The stuff that tastes good is tiny portions. The stuff that fills you up tastes like punishment. So you eat the good stuff and feel like you barely ate anything, then an hour later you’re starving again. You’ve consumed 600 calories without noticing.
I don’t know why I’m writing this. Knowing the truth doesn’t change anything. I still want the doughnut. I still think “just this once” when I’m ordering. The fact that 200 calories can be invisible is just how the world works now. It’s not going to change, and neither will I.
It’s easy to mock everyone with a phone these days. Snapchatting their food, filming themselves on trains, documenting stuff nobody asked to see. And fine, most of it is genuinely pointless.
But here’s the thing that snuck up on me: cameras became universal right at the moment they could actually matter. There’s something happening somewhere—a protest, a crisis, a moment that matters—and someone with a phone is there. They press record. It gets out. Not filtered through the outlets that have reasons to bury it or skip it. Just the moment, raw and direct.
Mainstream media’s always had its limits. Geography, money, access, what some editor thinks is safe. Now there’s a camera in every pocket. Some of those pockets belong to people with something to risk, who document anyway.
I’m not going to pretend this saves the world or that every video changes anything. Most of it is noise. But when you see footage from someone who was actually there, unfiltered and direct, you see something true. That’s worth something.
Browsing Urban Outfitters and found this book: And Every Day Was Overcast by Paul Kwiatkowski. Nothing special about the cover. The content is mostly explicit scenes involving animals and women—graphic, no pretense. Just sitting there among the design books, priced and shelved like anything else.
What got me was the casualness. A few years back something this transgressive wouldn’t touch mainstream retail. Now it’s just another purchase, neither forbidden nor precious. Urban Outfitters selling animal erotica without ceremony.
Strange what ends up in normal circulation these days.
Lykke Li has a new album coming in May. No name, no specific date, just May. That’s enough to know about, anyway.
I’ve been following her work for years. Her albums work in cycles, each one returning to the same material: the guilt, the shame, the hurt, the pride—all the weight of trying to be honest in your music. In an interview, she described them as a trilogy, each record circling back with a different approach. She also talked about being misunderstood, how people focus on the surface—appearance, the pop machinery—when really she’s a songwriter working through something real.
That’s the difference that matters to me. Not the public image or the hype, but the directness. Someone thinking through something true and letting you hear it.
Around 2013 or so, Instagram figured out that fitness content could drive attention like almost nothing else. Jen Selter was the person everyone noticed first — just a young woman posting workout videos, nothing revolutionary, but then Rihanna followed her account and suddenly she was a moment.
Not a movie star, not a traditional celebrity, but someone the algorithm had decided was interesting enough to show to millions of people. That’s where Instagram was heading, and she was the vanguard of it. The sponsorship deals and brand partnerships came after that, inevitable really. She became proof of concept for an entire economy that didn’t exist yet.
Wes Anderson arranges people like he’s setting up a still life photograph. In The Grand Budapest Hotel, Ralph Fiennes plays M. Gustave, a concierge so committed to precision that his entire life is basically a long ritual of caring about things that don’t matter to anyone else. Color-coordinated suits, perfectly plated desserts, flowers arranged in exact positions. He’s funny, but underneath it there’s something sincere about the commitment—the belief that beauty is worth maintaining even when everything around you is falling apart.
The film itself is organized the same way. Every frame is deliberately composed. The aspect ratio shifts across different time periods, the color palette shifts with them, and nothing is accidental. It’s filmmaking that shows you all its work—you can see the design choices, the construction—but that somehow makes it more honest, not less. This isn’t pretending to be reality. It’s saying: beauty is artificial, and that’s what makes it meaningful.
I don’t think the cast matters as much as people say. Fiennes, Jude Law, Tom Wilkinson, Bill Murray, Jeff Goldblum—they’re all committed, but they’re also kind of beside the point. They’re elements in a composition, positioned to serve the image. That sounds cold until you realize that’s what the film is actually about: objects of care in a space that’s been meticulously maintained.
There’s decay underneath everything though. The hotel ages across the timeline. Wars happen. People disappear or die. Gustave just keeps polishing and arranging, knowing none of it will last. It’s not cynical, but it’s not hopeful either. It’s something quieter: a kind of tender persistence, the choice to care about beauty even though it’s temporary.
I watch it and think about why Anderson made it this way, composition by composition. Why these colors, why this rhythm, why this constraint. As someone who spends time thinking about design, about how you arrange space and direct attention, it’s almost a manifesto—an argument that beauty lives in the small caring, the deliberate choosing, the precision that only you and maybe one other person will ever notice. Anderson arranges his entire world around that belief.
Tokyo hits you all at once. Walk out of the airport and every sensory receptor is firing — the lights, the people, the scale of what’s happening at any given moment. Shibuya, Harajuku, Shimokitazawa all feel like separate cities stacked into the same coordinates, each with its own gravity. You feel like you’ve discovered something no one else knows, which you haven’t, but that doesn’t matter.
Captain Capa flew in to play a show and did what everyone does — tried to actually be present in the city while it’s overwhelming you. The Robot Restaurant happened because it has to when you’re there. The subway happened, which is a maze that wasn’t designed for comprehension. They played in front of people in costumes — not for display, just there because the music meant something.
What gets me about Tokyo is that it doesn’t need you to understand it. It exists at maximum intensity and doesn’t apologize. Decades of design layered on top of decades of design, neon and noise and brutal efficiency and complete weirdness all running in parallel. You sync up with it or you’re lost, and getting lost there is almost as good as knowing where you are.
Every time someone comes back from Tokyo they’re a little different. The city does something to how you think about space, about what’s possible, about effort. It’s exhausting and it’s perfect and you can’t go back to feeling the same way about anywhere else.
White pants, confident face, fistful of cash. I want this entire life. The outfit, the attitude, the casual way she’s holding money like it’s nothing — that’s a whole vibe. Pure confidence.
All white everything gets exhausting. You can only be an Apple-computer-colored person for so long before you need to break out, get Adidas to sponsor you, make some actual cash. Mix it up a little.
The camouflage outfit just works. Dress, sneakers, legs, hair — none of it’s wrong. It even matches the wall she’s standing in front of. There’s nothing left to criticize.
I always crack up watching people try to be hard in their small towns. You’re literally hiding behind the Aldi because someone breathed weed on you, and you’re out here posturing like you’re something. The cacti in this picture have more going on than you do.
I’d play basketball shirtless if I was any good at it. I’m not. Shit at basketball.
A guy makes that face at me from a couch and I’d burn the building down. But I keep staring at him anyway — his face, the angle he’s sitting, that smug confidence. Into it. Completely into it.
Dutch artist Diddo found a bag of cocaine on the street and pressed it into a skull. Twelve by eighteen by twenty-two centimeters — a solid chunk of shaped powder.
What gets me is the choice. Not the crime, not the risk, just that he looked at it and decided it was material to work with. That kind of thinking sits somewhere between genius and absurdity.
I’ve never seen the piece. Probably it’s less impressive in person than as an idea, which is fine — the idea is strong enough anyway.
He didn’t use it, didn’t sell it, didn’t do any of the obvious things. He shaped it — took what he found and made it into something that wasn’t there before. And that’s the move I think about: the refusal to do what you’re supposed to do, the choice to take material and reshape it into something else. Most people don’t think that way. Most people see a problem and solve it. Diddo saw material and made it into art.
I had glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to my ceiling as a kid — the cheap plastic kind that absorbed sunlight and gave off a faint blue-green luminescence in the dark. Nothing special. Every kid had them. But there was something about lying in bed watching them fade that made the whole experience feel less like surrendering to sleep and more like floating off into space.
A biotech company called Bioglow figured out how to make actual plants do that. Starlight Avatar, they called it. Genetically modified, bioluminescent without UV lamps or chemicals — just organisms producing light. Scientists had been fiddling with it for years, inserting genes from luminescent bacteria, until it worked.
The practical reality is probably underwhelming. A glowing plant in your apartment would be dim, would need constant care just to keep producing light. But there’s something genuinely uncanny about it. Not a trick of the light, not stored energy — the thing itself making light. You’re staring at something that looks familiar but is fundamentally strange.
We didn’t ask for glowing plants, but we made them anyway.
I like those A Day With shorts that VICE does—short enough to actually finish, long enough that you feel like you’ve seen something real. They don’t try to explain anything. Just here’s someone, here’s how they live.
Kanae Murakami is twenty and lives in Ginza. She makes money going out with wealthy businessmen in Tokyo—one of those transactions that exists in a gray space with no clean English equivalent. There’s rougher stuff before this: she broke her teacher’s spine, got kicked out of home, ended up in Tokyo. She talks about it the way you do after you’ve accepted it and moved on.
She talks about the men she sees with complete flatness—they have money, she needs it, everyone knows the deal. No performance, no story she tells herself about who she is.
The thing that stuck with me was the thing the video just leaves hanging: how long does this work? What’s next, if there is a next? She’s not worried about it—or she’s not saying she is. But that’s always how it happens. You think you have time.
Picture yourself on a New York sidewalk. There’s a carriage parked in front of you, and from inside you hear crying—small, distressed sounds. Your instinct is to check on it. You bend down to look and whatever’s in there suddenly lurches upward and screams at you. Heart rate spikes. Adrenaline. That moment where you realize something’s very wrong but your brain is already three steps behind.
That’s the setup someone executed in New York City recently with a mechanical baby—something designed to look unsettling and move even worse, rigged into a carriage and wheeled through the streets. The reactions are exactly what you’d expect. People genuinely startled. Some furious. Some laughing after the initial fear fades. It’s a prank that works because it preys on something basic and automatic: you see a baby, your concern circuits activate, and then you get punished for it.
There’s something I appreciate about the craft of it, if I’m honest. The engineering. Someone built this thing well enough that it convinces you for a split second. And the prank itself is fundamentally harmless—no one gets hurt, no property damage, just a jolt of adrenaline and a story to tell. It’s absurd in the purest sense. Someone somewhere decided that this was worth building and deploying. The commitment is almost admirable. Almost.
The thing about Fashion Week parties is that everyone’s hollowed out by evening. All day you’re moving between shows and meetings, holding your stomach in, shaking hands with people who don’t remember you, and by eight o’clock all you want is to move and sweat and stop being examined. The Hamburger Hof was where the crowd had congregated—the models from the circuit, the photographers, the designers still making the rounds, the people who’d somehow got the link and weren’t about to waste it. Eva Padberg was there. Bonnie Strange. Brooke Candy. You see the same faces all week under different light and they’re just people dancing.
Joe Goddard and MØ were playing—good enough to move to, not so good that you stopped thinking about other things. That floating quality where the music provides cover for the fact that no one’s really here for the music. Everyone was still performing in some register, that’s the thing about Fashion Week, but at least you could do it while sweating.
Fanni said something late in the night that landed—that she loved Fashion Week officially, loved all its parties, though she wasn’t sure why. I knew exactly what she meant. It’s not about the venue or the music or standing around with people you barely know. It’s just the week itself, the collective agreement to stay up late and pretend something matters. It doesn’t, but you go anyway.
There’s this trend out of Tokyo where people post photos of just their hair. That’s the entire concept. You point your phone downward and photograph whatever’s on your head. No face, no clever framing, just hair.
It came out of the gal fashion scene and blew up because it solves an actual problem: you want to post something but you don’t feel like being put-together. No makeup required. No angles to think about. Your hair is doing something and that’s enough. The genius part is that it works for everyone involved. Hairdressers get inspiration. People with specific interests get what they want. People who just woke up and want to post something get to participate without effort.
There’s something refreshing about a trend that asks so little of you. Just show your hair. Everything else is optional. It’s the opposite of most social media, where you’re supposed to be continuously curated and perfect. This is basically an anti-trend, a workaround that somehow became the main event.
I love The Newsroom. I’m basically alone in this — everyone else seems to hate it — but Aaron Sorkin’s show about the people running a cable news network is better television than whatever everyone’s watching. Better than the shows people pretend to care about. Better than the ones people say you have to see.
HBO just announced there’s one more season coming, and then it’s finished.
I had to sit with that for a minute.
The cast is what gets to me. Olivia Munn as the correspondent on her environmental mission. Dev Patel as the neurotic Twitter guy convinced social media can save the world. Emily Mortimer as the producer — there’s something about her, all competence and quiet sex appeal, the kind of person who looks like she’s thinking about something far more interesting than what’s happening right in front of her. Jeff Daniels holding everything together as Will, the anchor everyone else is trying to live up to while simultaneously resenting.
What I want to know before this is all over: Do Will and Emily finally figure it out? Does the final season give us what we’ve been waiting for? Does Jeff Daniels get to beat the shit out of someone while completely blackout drunk? We get one more season to find out.
The third season starts in the fall. After that, it’s gone.
This is what happens when a speedrunner stops running and starts breaking. Masterjun takes Super Mario World—the SNES classic that worked fine, thank you—and glitches it so completely that it stops being a platformer. He uses a TAS, a tool-assisted speedrun built frame by frame with surgical precision, to manipulate the game’s memory into executing his own code. Suddenly Mario World is running Pong and Snake, fed through the console’s controller ports. The game’s not playing itself anymore. It’s just hosting whatever Masterjun puts inside it.
What gets to me is the precision this requires. You don’t stumble into this. You need to understand the architecture so deeply that you can trigger specific glitches, manipulate memory, and make arbitrary code execute. It’s technical mastery that looks like play—someone who’s spent enough time with one game to weaponize it.
Years ago I put months into Super Mario World just trying to find all 96 levels. Running the same platforms, collecting coins, playing it straight. That felt like a real accomplishment. Now I watch Masterjun run Pong inside the game’s skeleton and I understand how wide the gap is between just playing something and actually understanding how it works.
I remember refreshing for this trailer. The fourth season was coming in a few weeks, and HBO had finally dropped the first real one. Game of Thrones had everyone gripped by then—the show where nobody was safe, where power shifted like sand, where you couldn’t predict who’d make it to the next episode. We’d all been waiting through an endless off-season.
Nothing crazy, just footage from the new season cut the way trailers always are. Wars, chaos, the usual. But everyone was parsing it frame by frame, trying to see what was coming. Would Daenerys actually make a move on the throne? What about Cersei—was she finished? Joffrey was still around being awful. Margaery was playing her angles. The rest of us were guessing, spinning theories that would probably be dead wrong.
The waiting felt eternal in that pre-streaming, weekly-episode way. You couldn’t just binge it. You had to sit in the uncertainty, the speculation. Everyone had someone they thought would end up with the thing, and most of those people were wrong. That was kind of the point of the show—your favorite was probably already dead.
I don’t remember exactly what happened in season four anymore, or what I was sure would happen. But I remember that specific flavor of anticipation, the feeling that something major was about to shift, that the board was about to get turned over again. The trailer was just an excuse to psych yourself up for the wait.
Around the time the Snowden leaks were everywhere, Sascha Lobo wrote something that crystallized what a lot of people were feeling but couldn’t quite articulate. He called it “Abschied von der Utopie”—a farewell to what the internet was supposed to become.
The dream was pretty straightforward. No gatekeepers between you and an audience. You could build something, teach something, make something public. YouTube tutorials, blogs, memes, weird communities—all of it felt like evidence that things were actually changing. That you could participate in something that wasn’t filtered through institutions or governments. That felt real.
Then you learn that the NSA has been reading everything the whole time. Not accidentally, not as a side effect of something else—that was the actual program. The infrastructure that looked like freedom was set up from the beginning to be surveillance. It’s not like the internet got corrupted. It was always deployed by whoever had the power to deploy it. And once you see that, you can’t unsee it.
What’s strange is how normal everything still looks. YouTube videos exist. People still post. Nothing tangible broke. But the ground shifted under it all. The space you thought belonged to you never did. Maybe that was always obvious to certain people. It wasn’t to me.
I think about Lobo’s piece sometimes and I land in the same place he does—not angry, exactly, but struck by the specific weight of that realization. The internet was supposed to be different, and it isn’t. And now we all know it.
Chino Otsuka photographed her childhood in 1970s Tokyo and Photoshopped herself back into the images as an adult. It’s one of those ideas that feels obvious the moment you see it, the kind of thing you wonder why it took someone until now to think of.
She was born in Tokyo, works in London now. The Photoshop process becomes a tool for what she calls time travel — a way to become a tourist of your own history. You stand in your childhood world as you are now, looking back at yourself from a place that only exists in memory. There’s something disorienting about it, something that gets at what memory actually feels like.
I don’t know why this simple idea moves me as much as it does. Maybe it’s because it captures something true about what happens when you live far enough from where you grew up. The past becomes a foreign country you can visit.
DayZ advertises itself as a zombie survival game, but any time you’ve actually played it, you know the real horror is other people. Somewhere in that world there’s a group that calls themselves Servants of the Dark Lord, and if the name doesn’t clue you in, their methods will. They run around half-naked with axes and if they catch you, they’re either hacking you apart while lecturing you about their dark lord, or leaving you bound and stripped down—a message for the next player who spots your corpse.
What makes it genuinely frightening is that the game doesn’t stop them. No systems, no safeguards, nothing between their intention and your character. They want to hurt you and the game lets them. That’s scarier than any zombie.
If you’re logged in and you see them on the horizon, you run. Probably won’t help, but you try anyway.
Inez van Lamsweerde and Vinoodh Matadin shot Kate Upton for V Magazine, and the photos come out the way you’d expect from those two—precise, clean, nothing wasted. Upton’s always understood exactly what she is and what people want from her, and she doesn’t feel the need to dress that up in irony or defensiveness. In the interview she talks about using her visibility to be a good example, which is the standard line anyone beautiful has to deliver, but it seems like she’s actually thought about it instead of just reading from a script.
There’s something decent about that directness. No apology, no winking at the camera. Just acknowledgment. The photographs get that too.
Studio Ghibli films — Spirited Away, Ponyo, My Neighbor Totoro — they work on you differently. There’s a patience to them, a way of sitting with moments that don’t serve the plot but somehow serve everything else. Time, detail, pacing. The opposite of how most animation operates.
The Simpsons are doing an episode where Homer wanders into a Ghibli world. Matt Groening paying tribute, which is funny because Homer and that kind of sensibility couldn’t be further apart. Homer wants to eat and sleep; Ghibli wants you to watch a character move through a space and feel something shift.
I’m curious what they actually do with it. Probably visual gags — Homer in watercolor backgrounds, that kind of thing. But there’s something appealing about the collision itself, the idea of Homer stumbling into a world he doesn’t understand and can’t eat his way through.
Season three had ended with the Red Wedding still burning in my head—that casual, sudden violence that made clear George R.R. Martin and HBO had no interest in comforting you. When they announced season four would start April 6, there was a real pull to it. Not because I needed the plot (the books existed), but because television is its own thing, and by then this show had become the show, the one everyone was watching, the cultural weight of it impossible to ignore. You’d wake up thinking about what might happen next. You’d text friends theories. Game of Thrones had become essential viewing, and of course I was going to be there when it aired.
Fifteen years. That’s how long I’d been waiting for new Sailor Moon episodes, and I didn’t realize how much it had bothered me until the announcement came. The original series just ended one day in the late nineties—stopped without warning, like someone had flipped a switch mid-scene. Most people moved on. I never quite did.
I watched it young enough that it shaped me before I understood what shape meant. Moon stones, talking cats, the apparatus of transformation and magic and schoolgirls fighting demons in their uniforms. It’s the kind of formative thing you don’t interrogate; you just live inside it and become a person who lives there. By the time I was old enough to think about taste, Sailor Moon had already made those choices for me.
In July 2014, new episodes were coming. Not a direct continuation but some kind of reinterpretation, the producer said—Atsutoshi Umezawa was steering it. The vagueness was almost worse than the wait. After fifteen years, any version would feel like waking from a dream where you never quite remember the ending.
The specific memory is locked in somewhere: watching in the afternoon, sandwiched between Monster Rancher and Digimon and whatever else the network gave us. Not nostalgia exactly, just the particular texture of being a kid with access to something you don’t have a name for yet. Something that matters for no reason you can explain.
Why it stuck is mostly obvious. It was beautiful in its own way, funny, weird, earnest without trying. But the real thing was just that it got in early and never left. So when the news finally came—when the story wasn’t over after all—I realized the wait had been less about wanting something new and more about needing proof that what I loved wasn’t just a closed door. That was enough.
Hair tied to a clothes dryer so you jerk awake if you start nodding off during study hours. Dirty gym shoes to sniff and stay alert. Rope. These are study techniques that Chinese students use, because passing the exam matters more than your physical safety. I read about how they prepare and some of it is properly deranged.
The thing is, you don’t resort to this stuff unless you’re desperate. And you’re desperate because everyone else is desperate too. Your classmates are tying their hair down, sniffing shoes, destroying their bodies. So you do it or you do something worse. Because if you’re not willing to suffer enough to hurt yourself, you’re not trying.
There’s something darkly honest about it. Most education systems torture you just fine—they just do it quietly. You stress yourself sick. You medicate. You kill yourself slowly and call it ambition. But you don’t usually put it in such literal, visceral terms. You don’t tie your hair to the dryer. You just suffer and pretend it’s for a good reason.
I doubt the extreme methods make you smarter. Probably they don’t. But once you’re in the system, that’s not the point anymore. The point is just that you’re suffering hard enough to deserve success.
There’s something perfect about Jan Delay showing up to Wacken in a white suit. This is Germany’s biggest rock and metal festival—mud, rain, thousands of people losing their minds for four days—and he’s walking through it dressed like he just left a yacht, completely unfazed. The video’s just him moving through the crowd with this blank expression, and that’s the whole point. Not trying to fit in, not performing, just existing in the wrong outfit at the worst place and not caring.
It’s the escape fantasy, right? Forget everything—your job, your problems, the whole grinding mess of it—and drive to the craziest festival in the country. Watch the bands, stand in the mud, feel something real for a while. Then go home and deal with it all later. Stupid logic, perfect logic.
Jan Delay’s always had that thing where he doesn’t need to explain himself. Hamburg rapper, genuinely weird, genuinely talented—he shows up to a rock festival in white and somehow it makes more sense than showing up in black like everyone else. That’s the kind of artist he is. Someone who doesn’t care if you’re paying attention, only that he’s doing exactly what he wants to do.
Friday afternoon and I’m dead in the water—two days off with zero plans. So I make a list. Buy a pony. Have sex with someone who shares your name, bonus points if the last name matches too. Tell all your friends they suck and find completely new people. The absurdity is the whole point. Not because this is real advice, but because weekend listicles are broken on principle.
They promise that if you just go to this place or buy that thing, you’ll feel less restless. But nothing lands because it’s not yours—it’s someone else’s idea of how you should spend Saturday. You’re going to scroll instead. Sleep until noon. Feel like you wasted it. Monday comes anyway.
So make the suggestions ridiculous. Make it obvious nothing helps. At least then you’re not pretending the list means anything.
A German footballer named Thomas Hitzlsperger came out as gay in 2014. The internet did what it does—BILD’s comments filled with predictable hatred, politicians gave speeches about acceptance, the whole machine of public sentiment moved forward. I remember thinking: is this even news anymore?
Esther Schapira said it better on TV. She pointed out that Hitzlsperger being gay isn’t actually any of our business, and that all the public celebration rings hollow when gay people are still getting beaten up, when the laws don’t budge, when nothing that matters actually changes. She was right. The applause felt cheap.
What I kept noticing was the people in the middle. They’d cheer Hitzlsperger coming out, mock the homophobes, go home. Nothing would shift. The same laws, the same fear, the same violence. They got to feel good without having to give anything up.
That gap—between what they said mattered and what they actually protected—that was the whole thing. A footballer comes out and half the country congratulates itself. The other half doesn’t care. Nothing changes.
Ohisama doesn’t look like much—small space, a few tables, shakes and ice cream on the menu. The rabbits are just moving around the floor the way rabbits do, unhurried and completely indifferent to the fact that you paid 1000 yen to sit with them for half an hour.
I watched one rabbit for a long time that had apparently decided my shoes were a problem worth investigating. It kept approaching, checking the laces, losing interest, coming back. There’s something about that specific focus—not affection, not even really engagement, just the mechanical curiosity of a rabbit encountering something slightly foreign. You take photos because the experience needs documentation somehow, but the photos never quite catch it.
Rabbit cafes are the logical step after cat cafes, which were everywhere by the time I even noticed them. There’s a progression to these things in Japan—what starts as a clever idea becomes infrastructure. Someone had the thought that people wanted access to animals without consequence, in a space designed around it, and now it exists as a category. Cats first, then rabbits. I wonder what’s next. Something smaller probably. Something equally soft and pointless.
There’s something genuinely generous about the concept, separate from whatever Instagram appeal it carries. A cafe that exists just to let you sit with animals for a while. No adoption, no responsibility, just half an hour with creatures that don’t care you’re there. It’s companionship without the weight.
Maybe that’s the whole thing—that they don’t care. You’re not the reason they’re here. That might be exactly why people come.
Someone on Tumblr’s been rebuilding album covers out of LEGO. Nirvana. Pink Floyd. The Beatles. Daft Punk. Kanye. MF Doom. All of them in plastic bricks. Sounds dumb until you see it — album covers are already built in layers and blocks and flat color. LEGO just translates the same thing.
The work is meticulous. You can tell someone spent hours getting the proportions right, matching colors as close as the palette allows, keeping the smiley face exact. It’s not trying to be clever or ironic. It’s just someone who respects the designs enough to rebuild them in a different medium, which is its own design practice.
Somewhere out there, someone’s spending evenings stacking plastic bricks and thinking about album covers that mattered to them. That’s the kind of thing you don’t usually see made visible.
Shane Smith got bored with CNN and thought VICE could fix it. The pitch made sense — VICE had actually earned the credibility. They’d done the unfiltered reporting, the warlords and drug routes, the stories that made network television look domesticated. If anyone could make news rebellious again, it would be them. VICE NEWS was launching online with a newsroom in Berlin, ready to cover Syria and North Korea and whatever else actually mattered.
There was an audience for it. People were tired of the establishment template — the remove, the formality, the sense that nothing mattered unless CNN decided it did. A newsroom with internet speed instead of broadcast patience, moving like a media company instead of a bureau, was genuinely appealing.
But there’s always a gap between brand and reality. VICE was interesting because it existed outside the system. The moment you build an actual newsroom, you’re inside it. Same gatekeepers, same constraints, same rules. You can film in North Korea and still be subject to news operation mechanics. The world doesn’t suddenly clarify because your logo is smaller.
I respected the bet anyway. Shane wasn’t wrong about CNN having become safe and distant. Whether cool was enough to actually change how news works was the question. Disruption usually turns out messier than the pitch suggests.
V Magazine’s spring issue came with a transparent plastic cover—tilt it one way and Kate Upton’s wearing something, tilt it the other and she isn’t. That’s the whole concept.
It’s pretty shameless, honestly. The cover mechanics do exactly what the appeal promises: let you cycle through undressing an attractive woman without any pretense or narrative. Most magazines would dress this up with talk about photography, light, form, the human body as art. V just went for it: what’s the actual draw here, and how do we make that the entire product?
That kind of honesty is rarer than you’d think. Not trying to hide what’s happening, not wrapping it in taste or artistic justification—just a transparent gimmick that does one job. There’s something kind of perfect about a magazine being that clear about what it is instead of performing something else.
Hamburg was being called Germany’s most dangerous city at the time. That’s what people kept saying. If you believed it, the place sounded like a war zone—chaos, vicious cops, danger at every corner. Tourists got nervous about visiting. The horror stories kept piling up, each one more terrible than the last.
It got so absurd that people actually started applying for government entry permits to Hamburg. Entry permits. Like it was a hazard zone or a quarantine area. When I saw the letter exchange with the Foreign Ministry, I realized what I’d always suspected: the government had completely lost the thread. No idea what people actually feared, what actually mattered to anyone, nothing.
Dolphins hunt pufferfish specifically to get high. They position themselves carefully to get sprayed with toxin in the face—the dose has to be perfect, just enough to send you floating without killing you. Then they swim around completely blissed out, grinning like they’ve cracked the code of existence.
The part that stays with me: they obviously know what they’re doing. This wasn’t an accident. They figured it out and committed to it. Other dolphins learn it. Groups of them get wasted together on weekends, basically.
There’s something I respect about that. An animal smart enough to know it’s stuck in its own head, and shameless enough to just get high anyway. No justification, no therapy-speak, no performance. I want to feel different, here’s a way, let’s go.
I spent a lot of time in Yoyogi Park in Tokyo but somehow never noticed Hisao, which basically means I was an oblivious asshole. He was the guy everyone said was the happiest homeless man in the park — always smiling, always had some story about his luxury apartment. In his head that place was real. In reality he was getting drunk on Sake and selling tourist junk at the flea market next door, but he never lost that smile. Old guy with actual style, even with nothing.
There’s something about someone that broken who shows up with a grin on his face every single day. Not performing it for anyone, not making some philosophical point about contentment. Just genuinely okay with his fake apartment and his Sake and whatever else makes the day work. That kind of thing stays with you.
Next time I’m in Tokyo I’m going to find him and get drunk with him. Hear all about his place. That’s non-negotiable.
Beth Behrs grabbed Kat Dennings’ breasts on Conan. Just reached over and did it. Not as part of some bit, not ironic, not as a setup for a laugh—just grabbed them on network television. It was crude and perfect.
2 Broke Girls is that kind of thing. It knows exactly what it is and doesn’t pretend otherwise—a sitcom about two broke women working a diner in Brooklyn, written to make you laugh at obvious jokes and look at attractive people. There’s something honest about that.
The whole thing operates in this space where it’s constantly testing what network TV thinks it’s supposed to be. The sexual tension, the body jokes, the willingness to be crude in ways most comedies won’t touch. It doesn’t apologize. So when Behrs does this on Conan, it feels like it finally gets to be exactly what it wants to be.
I like it. The writing knows what it’s doing, the cast has chemistry, and it’s not going to pretend to be something it isn’t. That moment on Conan probably was the moment of the year—just the show being itself on television.
Dennis Rodman sang Happy Birthday to Kim Jong-un, and if you haven’t seen the video, it’s worse than you’re imagining. The singing is bad. Kim’s grinning through the whole thing. It doesn’t work.
There’s something genuinely depressing about it. Not in a funny way—just actually depressing. Rodman’s spent his entire life not giving a shit what anyone thinks, which is usually kind of cool. But this is what happens when you take that and point it at a dictator who runs concentration camps. He just goes for it. Does it badly. Leaves thinking it was fine.
I don’t even remember if they played basketball afterward. I think there was basketball. It doesn’t matter. Basketball was never the point. The point was just another famous person deciding that this was how they wanted to be remembered.
You know the face. The lips, dark eyes, the styled hair that looks impossible. One of those faces where you stop thinking for a second and just want something ridiculous—like, what if she printed my face on a sticker and wore it on her nipples. What if. I’d give everything. I’m serious about this.
Terry Richardson shot her for GQ. Got to be in the room when she was wearing nothing but these stickers. Lucky bastard doesn’t even know how lucky. Probably doesn’t deserve it.
That’s the thing that kills you. Your face is never going to be what she’s looking at. Not printed, not placed anywhere near her skin. Not ever. It’s his. Some photographer who probably doesn’t deserve to be anywhere near her, and he’s the one who gets to see it, and you’re sitting here thinking about it anyway because you can’t turn it off.
Someone made the gamertag “Xbox Sign Out” in Call of Duty: Ghosts and just waited for angry kids to yell his name into their mics. Voice command triggers, logs them out—that’s it.
The players sound about twelve. They get mad, scream at him, get disconnected, boot back up, get mad again, like they never piece it together. You watch the clips and it’s the same thing over and over: rage, yelling, disconnect, respawn, rage.
What I liked about this is the purity of it. No hacking, no glitches, no special technical knowledge. He just understood that furious people yell without thinking, and that if you give your gamertag the right words, they’ll yell them. Social engineering through naming. Pure prediction of how humans behave when they’re frustrated enough.
I haven’t played multiplayer online in years, but this has stuck with me. It’s the kind of thing that makes sense the second you hear it and feels almost inevitable. Someone was always going to do this. Someone was always going to make this tag and just wait.
I stumbled across Lizzie Velasquez through the worst of the internet. Someone had filmed her in high school and uploaded it with the title “The Ugliest Woman in the World.” It got millions of views.
She has a genetic condition that makes it impossible for her to gain weight. At 24, she’d never weighed more than 31 kilograms. She’s blind in one eye. The condition is so rare that maybe three people on the planet have it.
When she found the video, she didn’t disappear. She started traveling and talking about it — not in some inspirational-recovery way, just straight: here’s what it’s like to be stared at constantly, to watch people you know dehumanize you online.
What gets me is that she didn’t perform some bigger narrative about it. She just refused to vanish. The video is still there. The comments are still cruel. And she went out and lived anyway.
There’s something in that refusal that I think about more than I should when I’m standing in front of a mirror worried about something trivial.
Sailor Moon lingerie already happened. Some Japanese company realized that combining a beloved anime with underwear created an obvious market — there are enough horny nerds with disposable income to make it worthwhile. Now Disney’s gotten the same treatment. Bellemaison did a whole line for the Disney Fantasy Shop’s twentieth anniversary, each around forty euros.
Rapunzel, Cinderella, Belle, Aurora. All of them as lingerie. The thing about it is how unambiguous it is. Nobody’s pretending there’s a deeper purpose here. It’s the fantasy, the costume, the aesthetic. It’s more honest than most fashion design.
The light blue one works better than the others. Color matters more than people think when you’re designing something like this, and that particular shade just lands better with that character.
You notice stuff like this and you realize fandom became mainstream a while ago. The people who were supposed to be embarrassed for wanting something like this are just a consumer segment now. That’s the shift.
Tuesday morning at Aldi. Someone’s picking through bananas to find a decent bunch. Underneath all that fruit: 140 kilos of cocaine.
Cops in Berlin found it scattered across five locations—Spandau, Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf, Lichtenberg, Marzahn-Hellersdorf, Treptow-Köpenick. Sixty kilos in one Köpenick store, forty in another, the rest across whatever other branches got lucky. Nobody was arrested. Nobody’s talking. Just a shipment that cost someone a fortune and now costs them everything, sitting in a police evidence locker.
The mundanity of it is what got me. This is Aldi. The place you run into on a random weekday to grab what’s on sale. Fluorescent lights, checkout lines, someone’s mom reaching for bananas. And underneath it all, nearly 300 pounds of a controlled substance. The world doesn’t even notice.
I keep picturing the moment someone found it. A security check, a routine inventory, and suddenly you’re holding a banana crate that contains something entirely incompatible with the place. Your brain doesn’t have a category for it. This is Aldi. This is where people buy milk and bread and cheap cheese. Not… this.
Which is the whole point, I guess. Hide something in plain sight and it becomes invisible because the context makes it unthinkable. Nobody’s checking banana crates for contraband. Nobody’s looking. So the thing just sits there in the most aggressively ordinary place it could possibly be hidden.
I found this mixtape called Big City Rooftops and the title alone grabbed me—that specific quiet of a rooftop in a city at night, surrounded by millions of people but completely isolated. The songs fit that mood exactly. Electronic, nocturnal, slightly sad. Jamie xx, DENA, Boat Club—they make music that sounds like thinking by yourself in a tall building at three in the morning, staring at lights and working through thoughts you can’t name. Not club music. Just loneliness with a soundtrack.
Clive Roddy makes wooden rings with landscapes carved into them. Forests, mountains, little houses by the sea. You can buy them on Etsy for around 20 euros, which is the kind of price that doesn’t require you to overthink it. He does other work too—door hangers, wooden stag heads, some waves he apparently wants 200,000 euros for—but the rings are where the idea actually lands.
Most jewelry feels like it’s performing something. Proving something. These rings are just small worlds on your finger. You could look down and see a forest, or a beach, or some trees against a mountain. Nothing’s trying to tell you how successful you are or what kind of person you should be. It’s just a place, small enough to fit on your hand.
Exey Panteleev’s Geekography series is exactly what the title suggests: models with code written across their bodies, photographed in studio light. CSS, Python, database queries — actual working code inked on skin. The first time I saw one, it registered as texture and pattern before it registered as code at all.
Code on a screen and code on skin are two completely different visual things. On a screen, code is function and instruction. It has to be read to mean anything. Written on skin, it becomes purely graphic. You see the letter forms, the curves of function names against bone, the negative space between lines. You don’t have to understand any of it. It’s just visual pattern.
I think why it stays with me is that code is otherwise invisible. It’s the work that happens in terminals, in files, in systems you never see running. Panteleev’s project makes it literal and real and impossible to ignore. Not to make nerds look cool or code look sexy — that’s not the energy at all. Just to make something usually invisible suddenly visible. To let it exist as an image.
The series is strongest because it doesn’t preach or perform. It just shows you what code looks like when it has to be real.
I remember when GIFs were internet garbage — the blinking text and rotating logos that made early websites unbearable. Then somewhere along the way they became the actual language of the web. A reaction captured in two seconds. A pop culture moment boiled down to its essential absurdity. The exact feeling you couldn’t articulate, transmitted without words.
Now they’ve got sound, which seems ridiculous until you realize it completes the thing entirely. A silent reaction GIF is something you project yourself onto. You’re filling in the audio in your head. With sound, it’s whole. It’s the moment itself, captured and broadcast.
The best part about GIF compilations is how little work goes into them on the surface. Someone finds a clip, trims it to the exact second where the joke lands, and that’s the post. There’s no commentary, no extra layer. Just the thing itself. That directness is probably why they work so well — no space between you and whatever just made you laugh.
I’m drawn to LEGO sets based on actual franchises. Minecraft has its charm—infinite worlds, weird communities, those blocky clouds. But you can’t hold anything in Minecraft, and that matters. LEGO is different. You’re building something with your hands, and when they license something you care about, it stops being a toy and turns into a really satisfying puzzle.
The Simpsons house arriving sometime this year is exactly that kind of thing. Twenty-five hundred pieces, opens up to show you the interior, comes with the whole family and even Flanders. I don’t know the price yet, but there’s something appealing about the idea of literally reconstructing Springfield in brick form. That yellow house, all those little details you’d recognize from thirty years of the show. It’s that literal kind of nostalgia—not a vague feeling or memory, just the actual object you’ve seen so many times.
The internet’s strangled now. Corporations and governments hedge it in with regulations, borders, restrictions—always calling it safety while everything gets worse. YouTube blocks something. A network closes itself off. Your data gets monetized while you’re told it’s protected.
Japan went further. They passed a law that could literally jail you for downloading. Whistleblowers there don’t stand a chance. So some young people in Tokyo started pulling their digital lives offline, making internet things real. Printing memes. Framing screenshots. Selling websites as objects you could actually hold. They called it Yami-ichi—an internet black market born from actual oppression, not just online complaining.
Now it’s coming to Berlin for Transmediale on February 2.
What appeals to me is how straightforward it is. It’s not a protest or a manifesto. It’s just: the digital’s broken, so let’s make something physical instead. Something that takes up space. Something that can be lost or damaged or burnt. Something mortal. Artists like Merce Death, Katsuki Nogami, and Michel Erler will be selling their own versions. I don’t know yet what they look like, whether they work or collapse into novelty, but the idea itself—holding the internet in your hands—feels like the first honest response to any of this.
Justine Sacco was a PR executive at InterActiveCorp. Before boarding a flight to South Africa, she tweeted a joke that wasn’t funny, the kind of edgy riff on racist stereotypes that feels clever for about five seconds. “Going to Africa. Hope I don’t get AIDS. Just kidding. I’m white!” Then she was offline for eight hours.
When she landed, #HasJustineLandedYet was already trending. Her employer had made the decision. Thousands of people had spent her flight time treating her name like a game, mapping out who she was and what they could take from her. She turned her phone on, tried to defend herself, tried to explain the joke, tried to beg people to stop. The more she posted, the worse it got. By morning she was just sitting in a hotel room saying things like “I have nothing left. I’m ruined.”
Eight hours offline and your entire life is gone. Not a scandal that unfolds. Not controversy that gives you a chance to explain or apologize. Just one bad tweet, one hashtag, one news cycle, one mob moving together without anyone directing it. No way to survive, no second chance, no mercy. Just erased.
This was December 2013. Still early enough that people were shocked by how fast it could happen. It wouldn’t stay shocking for long.
Miranda Kerr’s marriage to Orlando Bloom fell apart, and she responded by appearing in a Harper’s Bazaar photoshoot with Terry Richardson looking like she’d never had a bad day in her life.
I don’t understand how you’re supposed to do that. Most people disappear for a few months when a marriage ends — cry, eat badly, exist in a fog of bad decisions. But Miranda kept working. Kept looking that good. I genuinely don’t know if she’s someone who doesn’t feel things that hard, or if she’s just built different, or if there’s something about being beautiful and famous that means you never get to actually break down in public. You just keep showing up.
Anyway. Either way, respect. Not everyone can do that.
Jennifer Mones is a California illustrator who makes and sells octopus backpacks on Etsy. They’re hand-stitched, made to your specifications—whatever colors, whatever materials you want—and she ships them to you. Around thirty bucks each. There’s something about discovering a genuinely well-designed object made by an actual person that makes you want to own it immediately. Not because you need one, but because someone looked at an octopus and a blank canvas of fabric and decided they belonged together. I keep thinking about ordering one.
2013 sits in that weird zone where it feels both recent and ancient. Snowden’s leak, Boston, marriage equality suddenly looking inevitable instead of hypothetical. I was following the news but felt pretty detached from it all, like I was watching other people’s history reshuffle while I dealt with my own small chaos.
The Snowden thing was genuinely surreal. Suddenly everyone was paranoid about being watched, which obviously they should have been, but it took someone dumping millions of classified documents to make it real. Conversations shifted. But people adapt fast - after a few weeks of panic you just move on and accept you’re surveilled. It becomes normal.
What sticks more is the marriage equality momentum. You could feel the shift happening, not just legally but culturally. Like the future had decided to happen after all. And then Boston reminded everyone the world was fragile before we all moved on like we always do.
Looking back, the strangest thing is how invisible it all was when it was happening. The big historical moments were just backdrop to my own stupid concerns. Work, relationships, the usual noise. The year never announces itself as significant while you’re living it. You just remember later that something was shifting, and you missed most of it because you were too busy being alive.
Lady Rose in Downton Abbey is what makes the show actually work for most people. Lily James plays her with such ease that you end up caring about completely invented conflicts. That’s the whole trick.
She did a Tatler shoot with photographer Marc Hom recently, and the images land because she understands how to wear clothes — not just look good in them, but actually understand proportion and how fabric relates to her body. Most actors in period dramas get trapped in that era. Put them in contemporary clothes and something feels off. James moves between different worlds easily. In the Tatler shots, there’s no sense that she’s locked into any particular time.
What makes someone a style icon is understanding something about themselves and how design works with their shape. Not beauty, not styling, but actual understanding. James clearly has it. Whether she becomes whatever the fashion world predicted doesn’t really matter. She already looks like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
There was supposed to be a march for the Rote Flora. Thirty minutes in, they shut it down.
The Rote Flora is an autonomous center squatted in an old theater up in Sternschanze—art, music, meetings, everything that doesn’t fit Hamburg’s official version of itself. It’s been under pressure for years, and every time the city leans on it, thousands show up to push back. That day it was eight thousand. Three thousand came ready for actual confrontation. The rest of us were just holding space.
Once they declared the assembly dissolved, the cops moved. Small units would peel off and charge into the crowd, and people would push back hard enough to send them retreating. Then they’d come back. Hours of that. Pepper spray hanging in the air so thick you could taste it. People going down. Kids getting grabbed by three, four cops at once. Trash cans, benches, whatever was loose. No strategy—just reaction. Come at us, we don’t move, you come back harder.
The Reeperbahn usually feels loose and young. That night it was occupied territory. Restaurants locked shut with people trapped inside who just wanted to eat dinner. Blood on the street. Someone next to me bleeding, and I’m standing there knowing this line will break. The cops keep reforming, coming back meaner. My eyes are burning. I stay anyway.
I left before they grabbed me. I still don’t really know what I thought I was proving, standing there. But I know why I was angry about leaving.
One more romantic comedy and I’m done. I actually mean it this time. Sit through another two hours of this stuff and I’m quitting films entirely.
“The Other Woman” is the one that breaks me. Cameron Diaz and Leslie Mann start out hating each other and end up bonding because their boyfriend was cheating on both of them, and Nicki Minaj shows up too. It’s as exhausting as that pitch sounds. The kind of movie that gets greenlit because two names are attached, not because anyone involved cared about making something.
Kate Upton’s in it, and she’s wearing a bikini for a few minutes on the beach. That’s the entire appeal. That’s what the film is really about. Everything else is just scaffolding around those four minutes.
The trailer shows you the good part anyway. Two minutes of Kate in the bikini, and you’ve got everything that matters. No reason to spend two hours watching the padding when the actual content is in that clip.
Lil Bub by a fireplace. An hour of her just sitting there. She’s the cat who became famous years ago just by having an unusual face and existing on the internet. The attention never stopped, and eventually it became her whole thing.
There’s something strange about watching something just be. No performance, no tricks, no forced chaos. Just a cat, older now, in front of a fire. The flames are real. She probably doesn’t care about the camera.
I never understood the Lil Bub obsession until now. It’s not about the cat being impressive or clever or cute in a standard way. It’s about watching something exist without trying. There’s real peace in that.
Waffles on the frozen car. He’s got all the bravery in theory, but when it came time to jump, his body had other plans. Cold paws. Slick metal. The house looked warm and safe and not that far away. He’d crouch, gather himself, launch into it yelling what might have been Geronimo in cat, and something would fail. His nerve, his legs, his judgment. He’d slink back to the beginning and do it all over again.
I watched him attempt this maybe five times before I got bored and went inside.
Eminem’s in an elevator, descending through the floors of his own damage. Each level is another ghost — another era, another thought he shouldn’t have had or said but couldn’t stop. The song’s called “Monster” and it’s about exactly that, the noise in the head that won’t quiet down. Rihanna’s there in the video, singing like she understands the specific shape of that kind of darkness.
The thing that works is how unflinching it all is. No redemption, no recovery narrative, no apology masquerading as reflection. Just him in an elevator, going down, watching the debris accumulate. It’s bleak and it doesn’t pretend to be anything else.
Eminem’s always been good at that — documenting his own worst impulses instead of looking away from them. The video matches that. It doesn’t try to make him sympathetic or explain anything. It just shows you the elevator, the descent, the weight of never being able to unsay the things you’ve said. You watch it and you believe him when he sings about monsters, because one of them is wearing his face.
There’s something almost admirable in that refusal to soften the edges, though I’m not sure if that’s actually admirable or if it’s just competence masquerading as honesty. Probably both.
When I’m really down—like genuinely bad, nothing-helps down—I watch videos of broken animals getting fixed. There’s something about it that works. An animal that was suffering, abandoned, hurt, and then someone shows up and gives a shit. They do the work. They stay with it.
It reminds me that not everyone is a complete asshole. That somewhere, there are still people doing the hard, unglamorous work of actually saving something instead of looking away.
Hope For Paws found Miley on a landfill. She was destroyed—scared, starving, the kind of bad where you wonder how she’s even still alive. The video shows them finding her, coaxing her out, the whole slow process of getting her somewhere safe. Then she starts becoming a dog again. Eating. Playing. Her tail moves. She knows she’s home.
It doesn’t fix anything, watching these videos. But it reminds me that fixing is possible. That someone, somewhere, is still choosing to care about a broken thing instead of walking past it.
What I remember is Saturday mornings in pajamas, playing Super Mario World before everyone else woke up, cookies getting eaten, hot chocolate going cold on the side table. That’s the specific thing.
There’s a whole market now in refurbished consoles from back then — Super Nintendos, N64s, Game Boys, all of them painted fresh and actually cheap. Come with games. I think that’s funny and kind of sad and kind of smart all at the same time. Like we’re all collectively trying to buy back something specific.
The weird part is it almost works. Not the exact feeling — I’m older now, the room’s different, everything’s different. But I put in a cartridge and play for an hour and I get back to something. Maybe just the memory of the feeling, but that’s not nothing.
Nothing’s happening online today. I’m clicking through whatever, Star Trek playing in the background, and I realize I’m not finding anything worth my time. One video is fine. Some GIF is fine. An article with too much text. Nothing that makes you want to stay.
Then it hits: I probably haven’t found all the good blogs yet.
That’s the real problem. The internet is supposedly infinite, but good blogs are scattered, and half the time you don’t even know they exist. The ones I used to read regularly are dead or dormant or absorbed into someone’s newsletter. The new ones are hidden behind search spam and corporate content written by algorithms pretending to be human beings.
Finding something genuinely good online feels like an accident now. Someone’s small corner of the internet where they’re actually thinking instead of performing. Where they don’t care if you’re listening, so you listen. That’s rare. You notice when you find it.
People tell me their favorite blogs sometimes and they’re usually wrong—not their fault. Most of what people bookmark is recycled from their feeds. The actual good ones stay hidden because algorithms don’t push them and nobody’s paying for ads.
I’m still looking though. Still scrolling, still hoping something grabs me. It happens, just not as often as it should.
Vivienne Mok’s photographs sit in that space where everything is sharp and nothing quite adds up. Clear detail but dreamlike. Real but unreachable. It’s the logic of memory—specific about some things, blurred about others, the way you remember faces you’ve never actually seen.
Her portrait of Margot for C-Heads has it. The composition, the light, the way the frame holds the moment—it all feels like reaching for someone you barely remember. You’re looking at a photograph and also accessing a dream, or the memory of a dream, something that happened to you in sleep once and you can’t quite hold onto.
It’s not a soft effect or technical trick. It’s what Mok does with presence. The way a face sits in the frame. How light moves. The distance between lens and subject. She understands that exact point where a photograph stops being a document and becomes a feeling, and she lives there.
High divers are up there making the dumbest faces. They’re supposed to be graceful athletes, all control and precision, and the moment they commit, their face falls apart. Mouth hanging open, eyes panicked and distant. They look like your little brother on his first attempt at anything.
The diving itself is beautiful—the rotation, the precision, that clean water entry with barely a ripple. But the face getting you there is pure collapse. Just concentration, which apparently makes everyone look stupid.
I’ve been watching some diving videos and can’t stop noticing it. Every diver, from beginners to Olympic pros, makes the same dumb face. It’s universal. You have one setting when you’re about to do something terrifying, and that setting is catastrophic. You can’t think your way out of it. The harder you try, the stupider you look.
Which is honest. All that training comes down to the moment where you look like you have no idea what you’re doing. That’s who you are when you actually care about something—someone who looks incredibly dumb while committing to it.
Diving’s just doing it six stories up while people watch.
WORLD ORDER is a Japanese performance group that dances in flawlessly synchronized robot formations. They’ve been doing this for years—slick, mechanical, almost inhuman in their precision. I’ve seen videos of them in subway stations, hotel lobbies, atriums. Eerie and hypnotic. Someone described them once as “what the future looks like if it’s very depressed,” and that stuck.
In 2012, they released a video of themselves dancing in Fukushima. Not the city—the exclusion zone. The land around the nuclear plant that was supposed to be safe, then wasn’t. They danced in rows, in formation, in their signature style, while the landscape behind them was flat and empty and wrong. The point was to protest Japan’s continued reliance on nuclear power, to ask for alternatives while the government was still insisting everything was fine. It was completely absurd.
By that point, the Japanese government had spent years pretending the meltdown was under control. Communities were evacuated, the narrative stayed the same: nuclear is necessary, nuclear is safe. WORLD ORDER showed up in a dead zone and danced like robots trying to save the world, which is either the most honest response to catastrophe or a joke about how powerless we all are. Maybe both.
There’s something in the refusal to just stand still. To do something, anything, even if the government won’t listen and it won’t change a thing. That’s the thing I keep coming back to—not the futility, but the refusal to accept the futility.
The robots kept dancing. They still do, I think. The government kept denying. Fukushima kept leaking. And somewhere on the internet, that video sits: WORLD ORDER in their flawless formation, moving in sync in a place that was supposed to be dead. It’s beautiful and terrible and the most Japanese solution to a problem that has no solution.
Kevin Rose built Digg—the site that was going to be bigger than Reddit—and then it wasn’t. Now he’s working on Tiny, which is his theory about making blogging feel more real. The idea is that you blur a webcam photo of yourself and your room, then use it as the background for every post you publish. So people reading what you wrote also see where you were sitting, what time of day it was, what the light and mood of the space suggests. Context as visual design.
I can see the appeal of it. Blogging works best when it feels rooted in an actual person, in an actual moment. Adding that visual anchor back—even blurred, even abstract—could make writing feel less floating and disconnected. As someone who thinks about design, there’s something there.
But he’s missing something obvious. Blogging only became what it is because you could be honest without being exposed. You could write something raw and personal without documenting your bedroom as proof. That distance was the whole point. It’s what made people willing to say what they actually thought, without the weight of being watched.
Rose wants to collapse that distance, and he talks about it like it’s obviously good—like visibility equals honesty. Maybe for some people. For most of us, it just means more exposure, more self-consciousness. He’s even mentioned using live webcam feeds instead of static photos, which is where I’m pretty sure he stops thinking altogether. That’s not adding context. That’s a surveillance window into someone’s private space. That’s honesty framed as truth-telling, but it reads as watching.
So when he asks if anyone actually wants this, the answer is probably already clear. Most people don’t. Most people want to keep some part of their life separate from the thoughts they share. Rose is betting that’s changed. I don’t think it has.
“Rumour” gets stuck in your head in a way that matters. Chlöe Howl, eighteen years old from the UK, apparently made waves with “No Strings” but this new track is the one that works for me. The whole thing’s built clean—there’s actual space in the mix, which seems small until you realize how much of what passes for pop just collapses into itself. Her voice is control without effort. No affected breathy thing, no overselling. Just there.
I’ve heard the superstar-in-waiting pitch a thousand times. Every few months a new kid with decent production and label money gets the treatment. But “Rumour” doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t reach. It just sits in this middle ground between straightforward pop and something quieter, and that restraint is what makes it land.
The wind in Ålesund during Christmas shopping season doesn’t care about your errands. I watched people get physically blown sideways down the street, bags flapping, and most of them were just laughing about it. They’d accepted defeat before they even left the house.
There’s something honest about that surrender. Move somewhere that exposed and the weather stops being an inconvenience—it becomes the actual condition of life. Christmas gifts happen or they don’t. The wind decides what matters.
By the time I left, people had stopped even pretending to maintain dignity. They were just stepping into the gusts like it was part of the job, moving through it without complaint or expectation of cooperation. That kind of acceptance is rare. You live somewhere that unforgiving and you learn fast that fighting it is just noise.
The 3DS and Vita sit in my bag like backup brains while everyone else decides which home console to mortgage their living room for. I’ve played hundreds of hours of Persona 4: Golden, Zelda: A Link Between Worlds, Animal Crossing — all on a screen the size of my palm, all portable, all mine.
Tiny Cartridge gets it. It’s a blog run by people who understand that handheld gaming isn’t a consolation prize — it’s a way of life. Reviews of Japanese exclusives, photos from fans documenting their collections, actual news about what’s coming. No gatekeeping, no snobbery. Just people who remember what it felt like.
I spent whole summers in the back seat of a car with a Game Boy, whole nights under blankets with a flashlight and a Game Gear, hours in school hallways and bathrooms and parks just escaping into a small screen. That wasn’t deprivation. That was freedom. A handheld gives you a complete world that asks nothing of you except that you carry it. It doesn’t demand a room, doesn’t need permission, doesn’t announce itself. It’s just there.
Everyone else can have their 4K immersion. I’ll be on a plane with Bravely Default and Tearaway, and I’ll be happy.
During protests in Turin last November against a high-speed rail project, a woman kissed a cop’s helmet. Franco Maccari, head of Italy’s police union, filed a sexual harassment complaint. His defense was elegant in its absurdity: if a cop had kissed a female protester, the world would end. But a woman kissing a helmet? That required legal intervention.
I’ve thought about this incident more than I care to admit. Not because it’s shocking—it’s too stupid to be shocking—but because of what it exposes about who gets to claim victimhood, and what we’ll criminalize when it comes from women. A kiss on riot gear is affection or protest or both. Touch the uniform and it becomes assault. Maccari invoked the specter of international conflict over a hypothetical, then filed charges over a woman’s lips on plastic.
The double standard isn’t hidden. It’s his whole argument.
What lingers is the impulse underneath—not just policing the protest, but policing bodies, touch, the crossing of that line between citizen and authority. A cop in riot gear isn’t remotely vulnerable to a kiss. But the fact that someone would kiss him? That seems to have threatened something. Not his safety. His position. His distance.
Airport terminals are where people forget they’re not alone. You’ve got someone three seats over screaming about quarterly reports into a phone, another guy FaceTiming his family at full volume, a woman having what sounds like a genuine crisis on a call, and everyone else just sitting there absorbing it like it’s part of the atmosphere. You can read your magazine or eat whatever overpriced thing you’ve decided is airport food, but the sound is there, unavoidable, inexplicable. Why does getting on a plane make people think they own the room?
Greg Benson figured out something clever: if you sit next to one of these people and pretend to have your own loud phone conversation, responding directly to their words, repeating back their half of the dialogue in real time, it becomes unbearable. Not because of the noise now—because of the spotlight. The rudeness that was invisible when it was just background becomes a mirror. They’re being mirrored, and suddenly they can hear what they sound like to everyone else in the gate area.
There’s something genius about that. Not the disruption exactly, but the mechanism. He’s not yelling back or asking them to stop—he’s just using the same social space they’re already dominating. He’s making the invisible visible by doing the exact same thing and showing how much it doesn’t work. It’s a prank that actually says something about how much noise and rudeness we’ve learned to tolerate just because it’s happening at volume.
I don’t know if it actually changes anything. People probably just move to a different seat. But there’s something satisfying about watching someone’s rudeness become unbearable the moment it’s not invisible anymore, the moment someone else is doing it right back at them. Not as punishment, just as a reflection. He’s showing them what they sound like to the rest of us, which is all the prank ever needed to do.
Playboy dropped a behind-the-scenes video from their 60th anniversary shoot with Kate Moss. Obviously I watched it.
She’s in her late thirties now. Still looks good. The whole thing is soft-lit and expensive — shot to make you want to keep looking at her. And you do.
I’m not going to pretend there’s something deeper happening here. She’s attractive. If magazines keep putting her in them, I’ll keep watching. That’s the deal.
I spent months thinking about Game of Thrones. Not reading the books — who has time — just wondering what would happen next, spinning out theories nobody asked for, checking my phone to see if anything had leaked. Then HBO dropped the season four trailer, and it was eight seconds long. Eight seconds. Long enough to maybe see a face, hear a line of dialogue, get the faintest suggestion of what the next hours might feel like. And then nothing.
I watched it again. Then again. If you watch it fifty times back-to-back, you get almost seven minutes of content, which still doesn’t add up to an actual plot point, but it’s something. The teaser showed just enough to confirm the show still existed and was happening. That felt like the whole point — not to tease anything specific, just to break the silence and prove the thing was real.
There’s something funny about how hungry we get for the smallest scraps. A few seconds of footage and we’re dissecting every pixel, inventing meaning where there probably isn’t any. But that’s the deal with anticipation — you’ll take what you can get. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway. You watch the eight-second teaser fifty times because fifty times of nothing is still more than the zero you had before.
The season premiered on March 31st, 2014. Looking back now, I can’t remember much about that trailer, or what I imagined it was promising. But I remember the wait, and the weirdness of being satisfied with absolutely nothing, just the signal that something was coming. Sometimes that’s all you need.
The Diva broadcasts at 8 PM every night on Afreeca and people pay to watch her eat. That’s all it is. She sits in front of a camera shoving food in her mouth—pizza, steak, pasta, whatever—talks about what she made while she’s eating, and viewers send her Star Balloons (digital tips, a few euros to fifty) to keep her going. She makes around a thousand euros a night.
I heard about it and thought it was a joke.
There’s something weirdly compelling about it. No narrative, no performance, just watching someone consume. It’s intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sex, just the sound of her swallowing, the mess of it, the comfort of sitting in your room watching a stranger eat. Maybe it’s parasocial hunger. Maybe it’s something weirder than that.
South Korea figured this out before anywhere else because they move fast on this stuff. Streaming infrastructure, monetization schemes, the willingness to find money in appetite and attention. The Diva’s just the obvious endpoint.
The platform’s called Afreeca, which is darkly funny if you think about it, but that’s not really the point. This is just how the attention economy works.
Jonah Hill and Channing Tatum are back for 22 Jump Street, which sends them undercover at a college this time instead of a high school. As if changing the setting is the only innovation required.
They have chemistry. Tatum is a massive guy with almost no instinct for irony—his blank delivery is half the joke—and Hill is all nervous energy and verbal tics, and the contrast just works. They commit fully to whatever the script gives them.
With buddy comedies, the plot barely matters. You’re there because two people on screen make each other funnier, and you want to watch that happen. The script is just the excuse to get them in rooms together.
The premise is recycled from the first movie—undercover cops, romance plots, partners learning to trust each other. Same setup, different location. The studio didn’t make this because of a brilliant idea. They made it because the first one made money. And that’s fine. That’s how this works.
I’ll watch it when it comes out. Hill and Tatum together is enough.
Elise Bahía calls her Norwegian fashion blog Living Doll. The name isn’t metaphorical—she’s built herself to look like one, completely committed to the aesthetic. Spray tan, makeup, the works. Everything locked in.
The thing actually works. Blog pulls readers, she gets sponsorship deals, travels constantly. The aesthetic is the product. I respect the consistency, even though I’d lose my mind maintaining it. I’d crack. Show up one day in regular clothes and the whole thing crumbles.
I don’t know if she’s real or pure construction, but at this point it probably doesn’t matter. Either way, she’s designed something people respond to. That’s what’s interesting about it.
Saturday morning and Lorde dropped something new. ’No Better’ — I had it on before I was actually awake, kept it on through coffee and the rest of the morning. That’s the whole thing, really. One listen and it pulls you back. It’s the kind of song that makes a Saturday feel shaped, purposeful, even if you’re not doing anything special.
There’s a thing about Lorde’s music where it always arrives at the right moment. Not because she’s timing it to your life, obviously, but because the songs she makes are built for those in-between hours, the moments when you’re actually present instead of scrolling through noise. This one does that. Saturday morning, cup of coffee, nothing pressing — and suddenly there’s something worth your actual attention.
By afternoon I’d played it enough times that I’d stopped thinking about it and just kept coming back. That’s when you know something’s real.
You see the headline and already know it won’t happen. Someone’s quoted a source. HBO Max is bringing it back. The cast is ready. Then by evening an actor’s denied it, the story collapses, and people move on. But a few months later the rumor surfaces again and people believe it again, and the cycle repeats. There’s something comfortable in it — the fantasy of return, going back to something you already know instead of taking a risk on anything new. We know exactly what Friends is. Why would we want uncertainty instead.
I wore out the VHS of The Lion King as a kid. Watched it until the tape got grainy. Nothing Disney made after that ever came close—Pocahontas was fine, The Hunchback of Notre Dame had its moments, but there was this gap that just never filled. By the time I was a teenager they’d basically given up on animation anyway. The 3D films, the franchises, everything started looking like it was made by a committee, like the artistry wasn’t the point anymore.
Then around 2016 I heard about Moana. A film about a Polynesian navigator, set in the Pacific islands two thousand years ago, directed by Musker and Clements—the guys who made Aladdin and The Princess and the Frog. I remember reading about it and something sparked back to life. Maybe they’re trying again, I thought.
It came out and it was really good. Not The Lion King—I don’t think anything will be—but it felt like someone had actually decided to care. The animation, the story, the songs, the whole thing had this sense of intention that most Disney stuff had lost. It wasn’t made for the spreadsheet. It was made for the film.
I probably shouldn’t be this affected by an animated movie when I’m supposed to be grown. But there’s something about watching a medium you love get treated like an afterthought for years, and then suddenly one comes along that doesn’t. It makes you remember why The Lion King mattered. Why you still care.
Beyoncé’s got a new video for “Drunk in Love” and it’s exactly as sexual as you’d hope. She and Jay-Z on a beach, both of them soaking wet, not pretending to be anything other than hot and confident. Black and white. No metaphor, no distance.
The whole thing has that reckless Rihanna energy, like she’d been watching too much half-naked content before shooting this. Everything works because nothing’s trying to be tasteful. She knows how good she looks and the camera agrees.
Jennifer Lawrence was on the cover of Flair magazine, except they’d photoshopped her down a dress size or more, smoothed her into something untrue. The before-and-afters circulated online, original next to the edit job. It was aggressive work.
Here’s what got me: how unnecessary it felt. You hire Jennifer Lawrence for a cover—isn’t that the whole thing? Apparently not. Even she needed the treatment.
That’s what magazines are selling. Not Jennifer Lawrence, but the idea that Jennifer Lawrence isn’t good enough. The message is in the gap between what exists and what’s considered acceptable for print. And they’ll execute that gap on anyone’s face.
Once you’ve seen the before-and-afters spelled out like that, you can’t un-see it. A magazine cover stops being a photograph. It’s a render, an idealized version executed on a real face and presented as if it were real.
Either she wasn’t good enough, or the standards are insane. Probably both.
That year I watched Spring Breakers and didn’t know what I’d just seen—Korine doing his full fever-dream thing with pink and excess and violence, the kind of film that stays unresolved in your head for weeks. Then Star Trek Into Darkness, which at least tried to reach for something underneath the action. And Despicable Me 2, which just worked because it understood what made the first one stick.
What made the year interesting wasn’t that everything was great. It was the range. A film that weird and unapologetic showed you what cinema could do if it wasn’t worried about being safe—then you’d turn around and watch something commercial just trying to be good at its own thing. The whole year felt like that. Different bets, different people, nobody building one vision together.
I watched enough to feel something happening. Not everything landed. But there was reach in it. Ambition sitting next to entertainment sitting next to pure craft. That’s what I remember—not because the films were perfect, but because the whole thing felt honest in its scatter.
I’m always late to things. Genuinely, perpetually late. So I didn’t discover Die Pixelmacher until long after their show had been cancelled, and not just the show—the entire network, ZDFkultur, basically got liquidated. By the time I found it, it was already gone.
My favorite episode was the Japan documentary. A documentary so different from everything else on German television that I kept thinking how much better TV would be if the whole system operated like that one episode did. Not that it would be easy, not that it would work—just that it was possible, apparently, once.
Which makes me wonder what it actually costs to start your own television network, because I’ve definitely got ideas.
Sure, I watch TV purely for the compelling characters, the intricate storytelling, the killer soundtracks. Definitely not because I’m anticipating nudity I can discuss in uncomfortable detail with everyone I see the next day.
This year had some legitimately notable moments. Orange is the New Black opened with Taylor Schilling and Laura Prepon in a shower scene that announced the show’s intentions pretty clearly. Rose Leslie in Game of Thrones season 3 became one of those scenes everyone remembers—the kind of thing that defines a show in people’s memory. Masters of Sex basically committed to the principle that nudity could exist in almost any scene, which is at least consistent.
There’s a real argument that TV’s become an actual art form. The writing often beats what you get in movies, the actors get meaningful depth, the directors have control. All of that’s true. But there’s something dishonest about watching and pretending you didn’t notice the bodies. That’s the whole point. That’s entertainment.
The Social Experiment remix of M.I.A.’s “Bad Girls” is just bass and distortion the whole way through. No buildup, no mercy. You put it on and it’s destroying everything from the first second.
M.I.A. always had that quality — willing to just sound bad in the best way, genuinely reckless. This remix gets it. It doesn’t try to seduce you or build something you’re supposed to care about. It just turns up and wrecks.
Something about that bluntness appeals to me. Most music wants something from you. This doesn’t care. It just is what it is.
MTV Unplugged in New York, December 14, 1993. Kurt in a cardigan, the band acoustic, nothing between the songs and the listener. They played “About a Girl,” “Come as You Are,” “Pennyroyal Tea.” They covered Leadbelly, The Vaselines, Bowie. They didn’t play “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
Here was the guy who’d become the voice of a generation just giving it all up, stripping everything down, making it small and true. Most musicians do unplugged sets to prove they’re serious. Kurt looked like he wanted to stop existing. The record from that night is still the concert I come back to most. It’s just him and a guitar and a room, and every choice feels necessary.
I was a kid when Nevermind hit, old enough to know something big had happened, not old enough to know why. Unplugged made it clear. It was the admission that the noise was never the whole story. That underneath all of it was someone scared and tired and not sure what to do with being famous. I think that’s why it stuck around. The older you get, the realer it becomes.
BRAVO ran a headline that week about Justin Bieber catching an STD from what they called a “porn bitch”—and they meant it straightforwardly, not as buried copy but their actual framing for teenagers. The article itself was exactly what you’d expect: tabloid garbage, medically nonsensical, using casual slurs about sex workers like that was just normal magazine language.
I knew BRAVO from the edges—newsstands, cultural references, the basic awareness of it as a magazine that had once mattered. But even from a distance you could track the decline. It had standards once, or the pretense of them. By this point it was just thrashing.
Twitter pointed out the obvious. Sex addiction isn’t contagious. The premise was invented. Someone asked the magazine’s advice column to define what they meant by porn bitch, since apparently this was now a category of person. The usual online pile-on, but justified because the magazine had actually printed this.
What got me was what lay underneath. BRAVO was hemorrhaging readers to the internet and this was the move—get meaner, cruder, spray shame about sexuality at young people. They’d stopped pretending to have standards or purpose beyond moving copies off the newsstand.
There’s something depressing about watching a brand that once mattered become so hollow it’s willing to dehumanize sex workers for attention. Not evil exactly, just hollow. Just desperate. Just gone.
So I watched the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show highlights — the usual suspects parading in impossible heels while Taylor Swift and Fall Out Boy played in the background. It’s this peculiar machine they’ve built, very expensive, very deliberate. Models like Karlie Kloss and Cara Delevinne floating past in the kind of light that makes everything look better than it should.
The thing that always gets me is that it works. You know exactly what it’s supposed to make you feel, and you feel it anyway. By the end you’re mentally pricing out gym memberships you’ll never use and fantasizing about spray tans. It’s honest in that way — they’re not pretending to be anything other than a vision designed to make you want something you can’t have.
Not that I’m complaining. It’s well done, at least.
First thing every morning—before my eyes are even open—I’m reaching for the phone. Last thing at night, same thing. The screen glows in the dark and I’m scrolling through notifications like they’re oxygen.
The internet used to be a tool. Now it’s just how we live. It’s the first conversation I have, the last thought before sleep, the default when I’m bored or waiting or just existing. I don’t really think about it anymore, which is maybe the whole problem.
A British agency called Mother decided to test this. They convinced five digital natives—including a fashion blogger—to go completely offline for a week. No internet, no fallback. I’m curious what happened in those seven days because I already know what they were running from: that moment when you reach for the phone and it’s not there, and you feel it in your chest like a phantom limb.
I’ve done it before, accidentally. My WiFi went down for six hours once and I spent the first three hours reaching for my laptop out of pure habit. Fourth hour, I read a book. Fifth hour, I realized I hadn’t thought about checking my email in thirty minutes. By the sixth hour, when the router came back online, I almost didn’t plug it back in.
The thing a week offline teaches you: almost nothing requires documentation. A conversation doesn’t need an audience. A meal doesn’t need a photo. A moment is allowed to just be. On day five or six, you stop reaching for the phone. On day seven, you don’t want to turn it back on.
The Japanese have a specific word for older women in their adult industry: jukujo. There’s an entire category built around them, and it’s not failing. The industry gets fresh twenty-year-olds every year in bad schoolgirl costumes, and the jukujo women just keep working. They’re not marginalized, not treated as a novelty. They’re just there.
Vice did a piece with Chisato Shoda, one of the performers in that space. She talked about the work—what the fantasies look like, what happens when desire is aimed at bodies that show their age. The Japanese industry has never pretended that male desire is monolithic. It’s messier and more specific than that.
What interests me is how unsentimental it is. The category exists because men want it. The women know what their audience desires and deliver it, no apology, no story about empowerment. Just work. The fantasy isn’t “she’s secretly young”—it’s “she knows what she’s doing.”
In America, we pretend desire should be simple: youth and perfection. Anything else is a fetish, a compromise, something to hide. The Japanese just make what people actually want instead of what they think people should want. I respect that approach way more than I probably should.
Winter hits different when you’re not sure where you’re sleeping. I notice it inside—the way the air gets dry, the light changes, everything feels more settled. But there’s another winter happening outside, and it’s not the same one.
I’ve never been homeless, so I’m not pretending to understand what that’s actually like. But I know enough to know that small things matter: a real jacket, socks without holes, a blanket. Things I have without thinking. Things that just exist in my life.
There’s something about seeing someone on the street in winter that lands different than other seasons. Not in a way that feels good to notice. Just the plainness of needing to stay warm and not having the setup for it. I don’t know what solves it. But I know small donations actually turn into clothes and blankets and heat. It’s not complicated. It’s just the difference between a worse winter and one that might actually break you.
Christmas Dinner now comes in a tin—12 courses stacked in aluminum like some kind of holiday ration pack. Eggs and bacon, turkey, potatoes, everything else squeezed in, all the way down to pudding. Heat it up, eat it straight from the can if you want. You’re done in ten minutes.
The original post was pretty harsh about who this is for—people alone on Christmas, family who’ve disowned you, nothing but you and your cats and whatever’s on TV. That’s funny because it’s true. If you’re not pretending the day matters, why bother with the whole production? Cooking takes hours. This takes minutes. The day’s annoying anyway, so why not just acknowledge it and move on?
The product doesn’t apologize for what it is. No marketing fantasy about tradition or gathering or memory. Just: here’s Christmas food, it’s in a tin, eat it if you want. Someone at a packaging company thought about how to keep turkey from bleeding into custard during storage, and they just solved it and moved on.
That’s what gets me. The product is honest. It doesn’t pretend you’re having Christmas. It just acknowledges that the day happens and you need to eat something, and here, we made that simple. No shame, no strategy, no pretense. Just a tin.
I’d probably seen Miranda Kerr naked more times than clothed by that point. After the Orlando Bloom split and that Justin Bieber thing, she seemed to be in a different place—less guarded, more just living in her skin. Harper’s Bazaar shot her, naturally with Terry Richardson, naturally with his white wall and that blank stare he specializes in. Nothing dramatic about any of it. Just straightforward, unguarded, moving on.
I was always Amy. Not Serena. The chaotic chosen one never made sense to me - I needed the smart girl with glasses, the one who actually read, who thought her way through things before she’d fight anything. It took years to stop being weird about identifying with her, or maybe to stop caring that it was weird. Sailor Moon was just comfort - the strange relief of characters as confused as you are, doing what had to be done.
So when I found out someone was making official Sailor Moon lingerie I had to sit with that. Decades after the series defined what animation could be, after it shaped how I thought about nearly everything - now there’s merchandise designed to make the fantasy wearable. To seduce someone in character. Which is absurd and I can’t look away from it.
Five sets. One for each of the first five warriors. They’re made in Japan and they exist in that pocket between nostalgia and desire - where something innocent gets reclaimed as adult fantasy. Which tracks. Everything from childhood becomes that if you wait long enough.
I won’t pretend I wouldn’t want to try it. There’s something genuinely compelling about reliving that particular fever dream with someone who understood what it meant - who grew up enchanted by the same characters. The lingerie isn’t the point. It’s permission to pretend, just for one night, that the magic you believed in at eight still works somehow.
It probably doesn’t. But the wanting to try - that’s what tells you it was real in the way that actually matters.
The Amadeu Antonio Foundation ran a sticker design competition called “Stickers Against the Right.” One of the winning designs comes available in fifty-packs, with proceeds funding their work against right-extremism, racism, and antisemitism in Germany.
It’s blunt. You’re paying for proof you’re against Nazis. Transactional, weird, and exactly how grassroots activism works when institutions won’t fund it. You make something, you sell it, the money goes to people doing actual work.
As a designer I like the competition angle. Don’t hire an agency. Let people design it, let the best win. Someone made this. Enough people wanted it to buy it fifty at a time.
The Foundation is what matters. They do the unglamorous work of strengthening civil society in a country that knows what happens when you stop paying attention. In Germany, that’s not theoretical. It’s recent.
New Year’s Eve felt like it needed something, some gathering point. That was the whole idea behind the Wii — make gaming a thing you did with other people in the room. The Wii U kept that dream but complicated it with the GamePad, a screen right there in your hands while everyone else stared at the TV. You could be looking at something nobody else could see. Hidden information. A separate world. For a designer, that’s genuinely interesting — asymmetrical play, where the rules shift depending on who you are and what you’re holding.
Nintendo invented that constraint and then mostly didn’t know what to do with it. Most games ignored the potential entirely. The few that did use it well were solid, though. Super Mario 3D World came out near the end, when the Wii U was already clearly failing, and it was good in a way that had nothing to do with the gimmick. Just tight level design and clever platforming. You didn’t need the GamePad. It just worked.
I look back on the Wii U now with something like affection, which feels weird because it was a commercial disaster. But there’s something about hardware that tries something real, even if it fails. The tablet was awkward, the library was thin, the whole console felt pulled in a dozen directions at once. But someone pitched it, and someone green-lit it, and for a moment the industry could have gone a different way. It didn’t, but the possibility was there.
Shell decided to throw a Science Slam in Berlin—one of those events where young researchers stand up and explain their work on energy and mobility to a general audience, all very forward-thinking and responsible. Perfect cover for a major oil company trying to convince two hundred people that they care about the planet. A guy showed up with a pseudonym, Paul von Ribbeck, and presented a machine he claimed would turn car exhaust into ingredients for beverages. When he activated it, the machine sprayed black liquid everywhere.
Which was the point. He was with Peng!, an activist group that’s been after Shell about Arctic drilling and the Niger Delta pipelines that have been leaking poison into the water for decades. The stunt shut the whole thing down. The moderator had to pull the plug early. Shell’s own spokesperson, Cornelia Wolber, basically admitted defeat—she said the event had been “completely infiltrated.” Which is funny because infiltration implies deception, and they were just doing exactly what they said they were doing, only it happened to be honest.
What gets me is how fragile these PR operations are. A corporation spends money to stage legitimacy, to sit among academics and look thoughtful, and it collapses the moment someone shows up with black paint and a sense of humor. The activists didn’t need to yell or fight. They just walked in, mixed with the crowd, and let Shell’s own ambitions do the work. The machine that was supposed to look impressive just looked guilty. That’s the real magic—not the disruption, but the self-sabotage that gets revealed when the stage is small enough that the truth can actually fit on it.
Everyone’s wearing these chunky Nike Air Max in every color now, even guys in business suits. I get it. But my favorite shoe has always been the Adidas Superstar, and I’ve never needed to question that.
There’s something about the shape that works. It’s so minimal it’s almost boring until you see it on a foot, and then it’s perfect. The three stripes, the shell toe, the way it sits. It doesn’t try.
Adidas keeps releasing new versions, which I’m genuinely torn about. Do I want them changing something that’s already right? Not really. But they do it anyway, and I always look. Three new colorways came out: white with black stripes, white with red, white with yellow. All the heritage angle, referencing the 80s, invoking a golden age that probably never existed.
I want the classic. White with black stripes, nothing else. That’s always been the version that makes sense. It looked right forty years ago and it looks right now, and probably always will.
I’ve fallen down this thing with a group called Goose house — Japanese musicians who record covers in a Tokyo apartment. The setup is what it sounds like: friends, instruments, a camera, and they go through whatever pop songs they feel like. Perfume, AKB48, Utada Hikaru. Living room recordings, nothing precious about it.
And somehow it became actual. Built an audience, they tour now, which is genuinely funny when you remember it started as people filming in a living room.
The covers work because they’re not trying to nail the originals. Arrangements shift, parts get swapped around, there’s real experimentation happening. You’re watching musicians actually engage with songs they like, not just execute some definitive version. It’s loose enough to feel honest.
I know how niche this is. Japanese pop cover videos from someone’s apartment? I’m probably one of five people in the world actively seeking this out. But there’s something about it I keep coming back to. No self-importance, no pretense. Kei, Migiwa, the whole group — everyone dresses significantly better than I do, which is the extent of any vanity, and they’re clearly just making this because they like it.
I watched the Perfume video knowing what it meant. After the conservatorship years, the court battles, the awful spectacle of her life becoming public trial, she was just making something on her own terms. Not performing recovery or justifying herself, not explaining to anyone—just choosing to make a video. The video itself is fine. It doesn’t matter. What mattered was the simple fact that she could do this now without it being examined for signs of distress or health, without needing to be defended or explained. Just work. That quiet kind of power.
YouTube was starting to own culture in 2013. Not metaphorically—I mean it was genuinely forming what people thought was funny, what they watched late at night. PewDiePie screaming at video games, Jenna Marbles being unbearably charming, Epic Meal Time with their grotesque calorie counts. These weren’t side channels anymore. They were the thing.
Then Google put out their year-end recap, this whole celebration of the best videos. And it was almost entirely American. The creators shaping the platform worldwide, and the official narrative was basically US content only. Meanwhile, there’s all this stuff happening in other parts of the world that never made it to my feed because of regional blocking or just not being pushed hard enough.
But that wasn’t even the worst part. Google was rolling out this Google+ requirement—you needed a Google+ account to do anything on YouTube now. Comment, upload, create channels, watch certain videos. It was a naked attempt to force people into their dying social network by holding YouTube hostage. The platform wasn’t being built for creators or viewers. It was being extracted for corporate goals.
That’s what the recap should have been about. Not a highlight reel of the year’s biggest moments, but an honest look at how YouTube was starting to squeeze the thing that made it worth using in the first place. Instead we got a slick video montage and a reminder that you needed to give Google more of yourself if you wanted to keep going.
India’s Supreme Court overturned a decade of decriminalization this week. Same-sex acts are illegal again. Fourteen years of something like freedom, gone. I spent the day checking the dates.
The statute is colonial — criminalizes what the books call ’unnatural’ sex, carries ten years and a fine. For a century it barely mattered, just a tool cops used to squeeze money and compliance from anyone vulnerable. Then Delhi’s courts ruled in 2009 it violated basic rights. Something shifted, at least in cities. Bollywood was making different kinds of films. People were less hunted.
This week the Supreme Court reaffirmed it. They’re saying only Parliament can change this law, so the courts are just keeping the cruelty legal. The activists are calling it a black day. I don’t know what people who came out in the last decade do now — what you do with freedom you thought was real, that just got revoked by a gavel.
The cylinder battery on the Yoga 8 was the thing that actually caught my attention. Moving it to a side module instead of spreading it through the chassis shifts where the weight sits—into your palm instead of across your fingers. That’s not huge until you hold the thing, and then it clicks. The folding stand does the same work, solving the problem of how your hands actually want to move instead of assuming one correct way to hold a tablet. Thin edges, laser-etched back to prevent scratches. It’s competent design—nothing flashy, just someone thinking hard about how your body and the object meet.
H&M’s selling a shirt with pearl beads right over the nipples. The listing calls it embroidery, which is true in the way that any euphemism is technically accurate. Twist the beads and they do exactly what they look like they’d do.
I don’t know if this is intentional design or if the Swedish office just wasn’t paying attention. Either way, it exists. Thirty euros. Someone’s going to buy this for exactly what it is, someone else will buy it and realize what it is in a dressing room, and H&M will keep selling them because they cost almost nothing and there’s no good way to explain why you want to pull a product without sounding insane.
Joanne and Gareth Morgan from New Zealand actually rode motorcycles through North Korea. Not “wanted to,” actually did it. Somehow they arranged a tour, brought friends, and made it happen. There’s a VICE documentary from the trip — twenty minutes of footage showing exactly what you’d expect. Roads and buildings and people performing their assigned roles very convincingly.
The whole thing is thoroughly engineered. Every street is approved, every view is curated. Everything is designed to be seamless and controlled and completely devoid of surprise. Motorcycles don’t change that. You’re just moving through a landscape that was built for foreign tourists specifically in mind.
I don’t know what the logic is for going somewhere like that. To say you did it? To see something forbidden? But the forbidden doesn’t exist once you’re on the tour. They’ve already decided what you’re allowed to see, and that’s your entire North Korea. The real version is completely invisible.
Most tourist destinations fake being open while quietly controlling you anyway. North Korea just skips the pretense. This is what they show. This is what you get. Ride your bike, don’t wander, keep moving. You’re not discovering anything.
I’m curious what Joanne and Gareth were actually thinking the whole time. The documentary shows what they were shown, not what they felt. Did they feel like tourists or like performers in someone else’s film? Probably both.
Pope Francis became TIME’s Person of the Year instead of Miley Cyrus, who was leading the online poll. Editors one, internet zero. He’d been Pope for nine months—came from Argentina in February when Benedict XVI stepped down—and he was already doing something different. Talking about the poor, saying he wouldn’t judge people for their sexuality. That wasn’t typical for the Vatican. People who’d written off institutional religion were paying attention.
TIME started picking a Man of the Year back in 1927, after Charles Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic. They needed something to put on the cover, so they made him the year’s defining person. A hundred years later they still do it, still use it as this cultural pulse check.
Edward Snowden had leaked the NSA files earlier and basically showed that mass surveillance wasn’t a future threat anymore—it was here, woven into everything. That was real rupture. TIME could’ve picked him, made it about accountability and transparency. Instead they went with the Pope. Comfort instead of disruption. I don’t know if that was the right call, but it says something about what they wanted to recognize.
ASOS threw an online house party in 2012. Jessie Ware headlining, Mount Kimbie, Is Tropical. They split it into virtual rooms — living room for the sets, kitchen for interviews, bathroom for a selfie competition — so you could feel like you were moving through an actual house while sitting alone at your computer, refreshing your browser.
Which is funny because the whole thing was so carefully constructed, so earnestly explained. They’d really thought through every detail. This is the thing about brands discovering the internet — they come in trying to architect the experience instead of just letting something happen. They itemize what a party is, then reassemble it in code, missing the actual texture.
The music was fine. Jessie Ware had real momentum that year, Mount Kimbie was making interesting stuff. I might have tuned in if I’d known about it, probably didn’t. But I remember thinking at the time how odd the whole framing was — like you needed a metaphorical house to convince people to watch musicians play.
It’s a weird artifact now. Not a failure exactly, just a very sincere attempt to recreate something that didn’t need recreating. The internet had already figured out how to make live music feel intimate. You didn’t need the rooms bit. But ASOS hadn’t learned that yet. They were treating the internet like it needed the same scaffolding as real life.
I heard about some girls from New York who showed up half-naked at a university library one winter. They were sitting surrounded by economics textbooks while elderly people made shushing sounds. The whole thing was probably profound and completely stupid at once.
What stuck was the refusal to play along. Libraries want you to be grateful, reverent, quiet. They want the quiet reverence of someone grateful to be allowed to study, like those dusty books deserve respect. And maybe they do, but after six hours of cramming supply-and-demand curves into your skull in a room that smells like old paper and despair, the reverence wears thin. Winter makes it worse—the light through the windows is thin and gray, and you’re realizing that none of this will matter in five years.
So these girls just stopped pretending it was serious. They sat cold and ridiculous instead, which is a more honest response than I’ve ever managed. I’d never actually do it. Most people won’t. But there’s something real in that—the decision that studying doesn’t have to feel this way.
Cara Delevingne was on the Vogue UK cover at twenty-one, shot by Alasdair McLellan for something called “The Face.” In the interview with Violet Henderson, she said she wanted to act. Even then you could see it.
She had something most models didn’t. The eyebrows, sure, but more than that—this swagger, this refusal to be blank. You could actually see the person inside, which isn’t something that usually happens in magazines.
The acting made sense. There was never going to be a time when that was enough for her.
I watched a TIME video about krokodil that looked like it was filmed in hell. Emanuele Satoli is the one who made it, which means he spent time in Russia actually filming people using the drug — documenting something you can’t really un-see.
The trap closes fast. Krokodil is absurdly easy to make, and once you start, there’s no quitting because withdrawal is somehow worse than the drug itself. Your memory goes. Your skin rots at the injection sites. The video shows young girls — actually shows them — with their genitals destroyed. People who look like they’re already dead but are still somehow conscious.
I don’t know what to do with what I watched. There’s no angle on this, no way to make it digestible. It just reminds you how close everything is to the edge, how fast it all can go.
Australian television decided that a sun-tanned surfer selling brightly colored condoms was too much, so they banned the Four Seasons Condoms ad almost as soon as it aired. Too crude. Too forward. The regulatory board indexed it, which in Australia apparently means that’s it—no TV ever again.
The thing about banning something is it usually just makes people want to find it. And the condoms themselves are still sitting in every pharmacy across the country anyway. The censors get their symbolic victory, the ad gets thrust into infamy, and the sunburned guy becomes the thing Australian television was too nervous to let you see.
Catherine Polyanskaya’s answer to Russia’s state-sanctioned homophobia was a soap opera. Moonlight People is the first gay soap opera in Russia, based on real events, aimed at young people in a country where being queer gets you hated, avoided, and in the worst cases killed by authorities or hired thugs.
Putin’s government has made that the actual structure. Gauck boycotted the Olympics over it. Dissenters catch hammers. This isn’t a cultural lag or private prejudice — it’s policy.
So she made a television show. Melodrama as response.
I understand the logic. Television gets into homes the way essays don’t. Watching people like you on screen, in their own stories — maybe that shifts something. Maybe one person’s nephew sees himself reflected and thinks differently about it. That’s the bet.
The problem is what television does and doesn’t do. It’s good at emotion, at making someone feel real and human. It’s terrible at changing minds in hostile places. You don’t watch a show and unwind a lifetime of state messaging. You don’t watch a show and start risking your life for something the government wants you to fear.
But there’s something to the attempt itself. The refusal to accept that the system is closed, the decision to make something true and put it on screen anyway — to insist that this story exists, right now, in Russia. Probably it reaches people already sympathetic. Probably it just gives shape to something already there. But the act of making it anyway, of broadcasting it in a country that hates what it represents — that matters.
“Nothing Escapes Us” — that’s the actual motto the NSA printed on their spy satellite. An octopus wrapping around the Earth. They really did that.
For months they’ve been taking heat for privacy violations so extensive and so blatant that lying about it became harder each week. The standard response from Washington was always the same: don’t worry, it’s not as bad as you think, go buy an ice cream and try to forget any of this is happening. Then they launched a satellite with a giant squid as its official emblem, the entire planet in its grip, and turned their mission statement into a joke that isn’t actually a joke.
At some point you have to figure out what’s going on in someone’s head. Is it stupidity? Is it actually possible that nobody in the room said anything about the sheer stupidity of advertising total surveillance with a monster consuming the world? Or is it something else — a kind of indifference that’s calculated, where they’ve decided the secret’s out anyway so they might as well own it. The octopus logo reads like the only honest thing they’ve ever produced.
That’s the thing about power at that scale. You don’t have to hide.
A hundred euros for a chocolate penis from Spain. United Indecent Pleasures makes them—banana or strawberry filling, shrink-wrapped and ready to ship. That’s the actual asking price for this thing.
I don’t know if it tastes good. Probably fine. But the taste isn’t really what you’re paying for when you order a hundred-euro chocolate dick. You’re paying for that moment someone opens it and has to decide whether this is funny or insulting. Usually it’s both.
The novelty gift works because it’s honest. You couldn’t find anything real, so you got them something stupid instead. At least you were thinking about them. At least you tried.
Somewhere online there’s a Sesame Street parody of The Hobbit where Cookie Monster plays the lead, and it’s genuinely better than the Peter Jackson film. Not in any technical sense—it’s obviously worse. But better in the only way that counts.
Cookie Monster’s version is about a character trying to find cookies. Eggs, milk, crumbs. Things he actually wants. In the real movie, a hobbit walks across a continent carrying a ring that half the world wants to kill him for. He’s hunted, miserable, surrounded by enemies. And he keeps insisting the ring doesn’t matter, that he’s doing this out of duty, that destroying it will save everyone. But we both know he just wants to keep it. The whole film is about a guy lying to himself.
Cookie Monster doesn’t bother with that. He wants cookies. He’s going to find them. You know exactly what’s happening. There’s something honest about it—no invisible corruption, no mythology to hide behind, no weight of history. Just someone looking for food, and that’s actually enough of a story.
Maybe that’s why the parody works. It strips away everything: the lore, the stakes, the sense that you’re watching something significant. What’s left is something smaller and truer. The hero’s journey stops being ridiculous when your hero just actually wants to eat something.
I haven’t watched the new Hobbit film and don’t plan to. But I’ve caught pieces of the Cookie Monster version, and I understand why it exists. That’s the hobbit story worth paying attention to.
I found this list from Dazed & Confused ranking the year’s best Korean pop songs, and it was a wake-up call about how thoroughly I’d missed everything that was happening. T.O.P, EXO, G-Dragon, B.A.P—names that circulated with genuine reverence in comment sections I’d never scrolled through. The gap between this world and the one I lived in was staggering.
Korean pop in 2013 was a fully formed industry operating at a scale and with an ambition that made Western pop look provincial. SM Entertainment was basically running a design studio that made music on the side. Every visual element, every video, every styling choice was refined until it was impossible to look away. The production on an EXO song was worth studying just for the craft of it.
T.O.P’s “Doom Dada” was genuinely strange—production that refused to sit still, built like someone’s fever dream. EXO’s “Growl” was relentless. G-Dragon’s “Coup d’Etat” showed what happens when someone with real taste gets a real budget. But CL’s “The Baddest Female” was the one that stuck. I’d been following her because she refused to perform humility, and this track cut through every manufactured sentiment the genre usually requires. It was angry in a way most pop music wouldn’t allow itself to be.
What made it stranger was realizing the scale of the audience. These songs had millions of plays. A global fanbase had assembled itself entirely through YouTube and forums, no radio blessing, no MTV approval. The music industry kept acting like distribution was unsolved while K-pop had already solved it quietly, invisible to anyone not paying attention.
By the end of the year it felt impossible to argue that Western pop mattered anymore. The energy, the innovation, the visual clarity—it was all flowing in a different direction. I was just late in noticing.
You can feel something’s off with the 1998 Godzilla about ten minutes in. You don’t need to see the whole thing to know Roland Emmerich misunderstood the assignment. He turned the most iconic monster ever into a bloated lizard that moves like a guy in a suit—which it was, but somehow less convincing. The film arrived like a massive shrug.
The Japanese versions understood what Godzilla actually is: a force of nature, something that doesn’t negotiate with you, doesn’t have motives you can reason with. It’s apocalypse with a tail. But that’s not how Hollywood thinks. So for years, I figured Godzilla in America was a dead thing, killed by that one film.
Then they decided to resurrect it again. Different director, different crew, but the same basic instinct: throw money at it, cast some recognizable faces (Aaron Taylor-Johnson, Bryan Cranston, Elizabeth Olsen), and see if spectacle alone can carry you across two hours.
I expected nothing. The trailer proved me wrong about one thing: you can make destruction look compelling, even if the character delivering it is a guy in a motion-capture suit. There’s something honest about that kind of filmmaking. It’s not pretending to be anything it isn’t.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s the whole point of a movie like this—you sit in the dark, something massive and terrifying dominates the screen for a while, and for a couple of hours you get to feel small again. It’s not art, but it’s not nothing either.
Davey Wavey has this video where he explains how gay people have sex, and what gets you is how unstriking it all is. No shame, no mystery, no performance. Just straightforward description of what bodies do.
I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe shame or mythology or something that felt forbidden. But he’s just calm about it. Here’s what happens, here’s what might feel good, here’s what you might worry about. That’s the video.
Apparently that’s rare enough that watching someone explain sexuality plainly feels almost radical. Especially when the subject has spent decades getting either demonized or sensationalized, with nothing in between. No normal conversation about any of it.
I’d been absorbing all the cultural baggage around gay sex without really noticing—the whispers, the mythology, the hypersexualization. Watching it get broken down plainly made me realize how little space there actually was for straightforward talk.
The sad part is that a video like this needs to exist at all. The good part is he made it without trying to be clever or provocative. Just the facts, delivered plainly, which turns out to be what was missing.
The internet runs on cute cats. Symmetrical faces, strategic angles, perfect lighting. The formula never changes—cute cat, everyone stops scrolling.
Then there are the ugly ones. Hairless breeds that look like wrinkled aliens. Cats with faces that didn’t assemble right. Cats that look aggressively dumb. The ones that make you stop and think, what happened there.
I started noticing them once I started looking. A friend sent me a video of some weird creature doing something stupid, and I realized—that cat is genuinely hard to look at. But that’s what made it good. No bullshit. No angles, no strategy, no performance. Just something weird existing exactly as it is.
The cute ones are easy. The safe choice. But the ugly ones have actual character. They don’t calculate. They don’t perform. They’re just weird.
D E N A released “Bad Timing” recently and it’s been stuck in the rotation. Bulgarian artist, 29, signed to K7 — one of those labels worth paying attention to. For the last couple years she’s been putting out these lean electronic tracks that don’t try very hard to win you over. Cash, Diamond Rings, Swimming Pools, Games, Thin Rope. Songs that work best when you’re not paying full attention, when they can just sit in your space and do their thing.
What interests me about her work is how much she doesn’t do. There’s a confidence in that — the restraint, the refusal to add more texture or build toward some obvious moment. It’s the opposite of the default instinct in electronic music, which is usually to pile on. More, more, more. She goes the other direction.
“Bad Timing” is quieter than some of her earlier singles. It’s a track that reveals itself slowly, if at all. You play it and then realize two hours have passed and you’ve had it on repeat the whole time without noticing.
Next year she’s putting out a debut album called Flash. I’m curious what that sounds like — whether she expands the sound or just makes an entire album of these understated, isolated moments. Either way, she has the taste and the discipline to make it work. I’ll find out when it’s out.
Hamburg at night in the rain. Sasha Grey and Mary Ocher in a car driving through it, talking.
ARTE — that Franco-German cultural channel that shouldn’t work but does — has this late-night show where they put two random people together in a car and just film them driving around a city. No script, no forced conversation. Just time and proximity and whoever they could talk into it that night.
This time they got Sasha Grey, who had a whole life in adult film that defines how people see her now, and Mary Ocher, a musician who sounds like she’s thinking out loud. Not people who’d normally meet, not people with any obvious connection.
The show doesn’t try to make one. You just watch them move through Hamburg’s streets, the Alster bridges, the rain. Late enough that the city’s empty. They talk because that’s what happens when you put two people in a car for long enough.
I watched it half-asleep, not sure why, and something about it stuck. The randomness, the rain, the specificity of Hamburg, two unconnected people just being around each other. Not profound. Just true. That’s the kind of television that works.
In Berlin, there’s talk of opening the first legal marijuana shop in Kreuzberg, and in the circles I run in, that’s mostly good news. Weed, Club Mate by the liter, pirated TV shows — that’s just what happens in student flats. Nobody questions it.
But then you read the interviews, and it gets harder to stay casual about it.
There’s a psychiatrist at Hamburg-Eppendorf — Rainer Thomasius — who runs the addiction clinic for kids and teens. He’s rigid about this: legalization is a mistake, even for adults. His argument is about damage. Cannabis rewires the teenage brain in ways that stick around. It shrinks the hippocampus, where memory lives. About five percent of the young patients he sees develop psychotic symptoms. Some of them trigger full schizophrenia. Once they’re hooked, they’re hooked hard. One course of treatment isn’t enough to catch everyone who needs help.
Then there’s the kid who came through that clinic. He was eighteen when he talked about it — started with a joint, thought the whole thing was overblown. How could something that felt that good actually be dangerous? Half a gram a day at first, then a gram, then five. By the end he was spending six, seven hundred euros a month. Not even getting high anymore, just needing it to function, needing it to leave the house. Dropped out of school. Got thrown out of home. That’s when he finally understood he couldn’t do it alone. Therapy was the only way out.
The thing about legalization is the signal it sends. Kids see it and think their parents’ warnings were just paranoia. They don’t have the neural real estate yet to tell themselves to stop. And if you’re already wired for schizophrenia, this stuff can flip that switch years before it would have happened anyway.
So the argument against legalization isn’t really about freedom or nanny states. It’s about specific damage to people too young to see it coming. You can understand the case for legalization. You can also understand why knowing this makes it harder. Once you hear the stories, you stop having an opinion about it. You just know better.
Students at the University of London occupied a building to stop the university from taking private investment money and closing the student union. Police cleared them out. Some students got hit. Some got arrested. More action’s planned.
The occupy-police-clear cycle is predictable enough. You sit down in a place you’re not supposed to be. That’s kind of the point of it. They come with uniforms and authority and move you. Sometimes it’s rough. Sometimes people get hurt. This time it was rough.
What lingers afterward isn’t the immediate outcome. It’s the question about whether anything shifted or whether the administration just filed it under “student unrest” and continued as planned. 2011 gets cited constantly whenever London’s streets tense up, like some measuring stick for how far escalation can go. But mostly what people remember is that they did something significant enough to require a police response. Whether the institution remembers is the part you never really know.
I spent a summer in Tokyo and came back convinced everyone else was listening to the wrong music. Not wrong—late. Three steps behind Perfume.
Kashiyuka, Nocchi, and A~chan built a sound nobody else had cracked. Synthetic, precise, made from 8-bit fragments and drops that feel inevitable. Their new track “Sweet Refrain” does what they do: impossibly sweet without sentiment, built from elements that shouldn’t fit but do. The video is pixelated dream-logic, text floating over scenes, lyrics about memory and possibility. It’s the kind of thing that feels obvious once you’ve heard it, like they discovered something that was always there.
I’m not going to claim Perfume owns the future. That’s too much. But I know they understood something early that everyone else is still catching up to. I heard it in Tokyo and I haven’t stopped listening since.
The internet and a cracked copy of Photoshop are a dangerous combination, and not in a good way. For years amateur manipulators have been flooding websites with the worst possible content: fake celebrity nudes, shitty text overlays ruining perfectly decent photographs, absurdly inflated muscles, vanished waists, bigger chests, clearer skin, longer legs — all of it executed with the sensitivity of a sledgehammer. It’s almost universally terrible.
But there’s one thing Photoshop is actually good at: face swaps. Just swapping someone’s face from one photo onto another person’s body and it somehow works. I don’t understand the mechanics of it. The algorithm or the technique or just dumb luck — something about it lands in a way that every other photoshopping attempt fails to.
I’ve lost embarrassing amounts of time to this. Digging through photos of people I know, finding the most unflattering one, swapping their face with someone else’s entirely and watching the result become genuinely funny. You don’t need any skill or understanding. Two photos and suddenly your friend has your boss’s face or your crush has a dog’s head and it’s hilarious in a way that feels completely accidental.
The strangest part is how naturally it happened. Nobody designed this. It just became possible one day and immediately people started doing it. Now seeing a photo of someone triggers the automatic thought: what would this look like with someone else’s face? It’s not even a deliberate hobby anymore. It’s just a reflex.
Rebecca Black’s “Friday” was the kind of viral that consumed everything around it. People hated it, which meant they couldn’t stop listening to it, which meant she was suddenly famous. She was a kid.
Of course she made “Saturday.”
What else do you do when you’ve accidentally cracked some algorithm of the internet? You try the same thing again. She was probably sixteen, old enough to think you could franchise a moment, too young to know you can’t. The first time lightning hits, you get famous. The second time you’re just chasing it.
Everyone made the same joke — she’d do the whole week eventually, Monday through Sunday, a complete weekday-song cycle. A kid trying to catch something that can’t be caught twice.
I don’t know if she ever finished the week. Probably not. But that move, that immediate grab at a second strike, that’s stuck with me as the clearest image of how viral fame works. You get hot by accident. Then you spend the rest of your career trying to recreate an accident.
That’s not actually a compliment, even though it sounds like one. It centers the gender instead of the person. Anna Groß pointed this out—she runs the Suck My Trucks contest in Berlin and built this archive documenting how the skateboarding scene treats women. It’s hostile in a way that’s pretty stupid because everyone kind of knows it’s happening and nobody does anything.
Skateboarding culture is built on individual style and competition. Who lands the sickest trick, who’s got the best style, who looks coolest doing it. That’s not inherently the problem. The problem is it collides with this age-old thing where strength equals masculinity and weakness equals femininity. So women get ranked by their gender first, always. It’s the same in surfing, snowboarding, hip-hop—anywhere the culture worships individual expression. Action sports are just boys’ clubs, mostly teenagers, and teenagers think sex is funny, so companies sell products with breasts on them because it works. Capitalism.
The self-perpetuation is what kills it. No female role models means fewer women try skating. No women in the scene means magazines get to say there’s no talent to film, which is comfortable because you don’t have to actually show the women who are good. The harassment does the work too—jokes about tampons, getting slammed on your chest, constant small things that wear you down. Eventually you quit. Then everyone’s proved right: women just aren’t serious about skateboarding.
Anna’s documenting it, building something different, trying to push back. Whether that actually shifts the culture or just makes space for people who already care, I don’t know. Probably both. Probably neither. But someone’s saying it.
Mykayla Comstock is eight years old with leukemia, and her family in Oregon decided that cannabis was her best shot at survival. Not just painkillers—the actual cure. VICE documented it in a series called “Stoned Kids,” and it’s the kind of thing that sits between two truths you can’t reconcile.
The easy judgment would be to call them reckless, but that ignores what childhood cancer treatment actually is. Standard chemotherapy works by being slightly more lethal to cancer than to the kid’s body, which is a gentler way of saying poisoned. So when that fails, when the doctors run out of options, when your child is suffering—I get why people reach for something else. Anything else.
The documentary doesn’t pick a side, which means you’re stuck with both things at once. Parents making what they believe is the right choice for their dying daughter. And a choice that violates every rule we have. You can’t resolve that tension, and an honest documentary won’t try.
I’ve never had much use for stoner culture. But this isn’t culture. This is a specific desperation, specific to a kid, and it doesn’t leave room for irony.
You watch it and somewhere in there you stop analyzing. You just think: fuck cancer. Not as a joke. As a fact.
Converse dropped Simpsons Chuck Taylors. Yellow heads with the red mouth logo, hitting stores in Tokyo. It feels inevitable, honestly. The Simpsons had a run as something that was actually funny, and when that ended it just became a brand like anything else. I’d probably want these shoes if I were younger, back when wearing something branded felt like a statement of taste rather than just existing. Now they’re just merchandise — another nostalgic product line, another way to buy your childhood back from a shoe company. There’s something hollow about watching something you loved become pure commodity. The show was genuinely funny once. That fact matters less than I’d like it to.
Marteria’s “Kids (2 Finger an den Kopf)” is him cruising through Berlin with a bunch of kids who just want to make this two-finger gesture at the camera. It’s deliberately stupid, which is the whole thing.
The video’s built on this rant about modern life being nothing but career and money and sex—and kids just falling out of the equation entirely. Marteria, who’s been a German hip-hop fixture for decades, actually made a video about it. The best part is that he sounds genuinely annoyed. Not preachy, just exasperated that everyone’s decided children don’t matter anymore.
What works is that the video doesn’t try to be clever or revolutionary. Just Marteria and a crew of visibly irritated kids doing this same stupid gesture repeatedly, and underneath it all pointing out how absorbed we’ve all become in our own shit. Not a message, just an observation made dumb enough that you can’t look away.
I caught myself smiling, which probably wasn’t the point, but I’m fine with that. Sometimes the most effective social commentary is absurd enough to actually land.
There’s this moment when someone orders something that looks perfect, and before anyone picks up their fork, out comes the phone. The food cooling while they hunt for the right angle, the right light, the right filter. I do it constantly, guilty as anyone. Then I’m eating something lukewarm, not really tasting it, because I’m composing a caption in my head.
Rhett and Link made a video about this—some song about putting your phone down and actually living. The premise is simple: you’re so busy documenting that you miss the actual thing. You film the concert from behind a screen. You photograph the sunset but never actually look at it. The documentation becomes the memory, and the real memory just vanishes.
What’s weird is knowing this is happening and not stopping. I’ll catch myself mid-shot, already framing the narrative, and think: what am I actually here for? I’m tasting the food but I’m really just composing how I’ll describe tasting it. The real experience is always one frame behind, filtered through whether it’ll photograph well.
It’s not about Instagram or Snapchat or whatever app is flavor of the month. It’s just that gap between the thing and the proof of the thing, and we’ve all gotten used to it. You document to remember, but the documentation is what keeps you from actually remembering. You take a picture and somehow that replaces the moment.
Last week I went somewhere without my phone and actually paid attention. I retained more of it. Tasted the food better. Saw the actual colors instead of how they’d render on a screen. It’s strange realizing how much the documentation was getting in the way of the living.
Daft Punk’s back with a video for “Instant Crush.” Julian Casablancas is in a museum with two robot heads, and they’re in love with a plastic woman. By the end, everything’s on fire.
That’s it. Two robots that want something they can’t have, and the video just watches them want it until the whole thing burns. It doesn’t complicate it. No backstory, no reason, no lesson. Just the image and the fire.
There’s something specific Daft Punk does that makes it work. They’ve always understood that gap between what machines are and what they seem to feel. Two robots staring at something impossible—it’s not sad exactly, it’s something else. It’s beautiful because it can’t work, and it knows it can’t work, and it happens anyway.
I wasn’t expecting to care. They’d been gone long enough that I’d moved on, or thought I had. But then you see this image—two still figures in a museum, looking at something they can’t reach—and something lands. Maybe it’s just good production design. Maybe it’s that I know what it feels like to want something that doesn’t want you back. Either way, the video stays with you.
IMG decided fashion bloggers had become a liability. This was around 2013. Catherine Bennett, their senior VP, told the Wall Street Journal that Fashion Week had turned into a zoo — it used to be for established designers showing collections to serious media and buyers, now it was street photographers and Instagram people and fans packed into the Lincoln Center. Next year they’d go back to being exclusive. Real connections to fashion only. Everyone else: out.
The timing was almost funny. By the time they were trying to seal the gates, social media had already shattered them. A person with a good eye and a following mattered more to brands than someone who went to every show. But admitting that meant admitting the old hierarchies didn’t work anymore, and the fashion industry isn’t good at that. So they doubled down on keeping people out instead — the move of an institution that can feel its power slipping.
They offered the excluded bloggers a consolation prize: livestream access, social media channels, photos and videos. You can see everything, just not be there. Not be part of the story. Just the audience.
The thing that stuck with me wasn’t the exclusion itself — that’s fashion industry standard procedure — but the panic underneath. They were nervous about who decided what mattered now. They were fighting a battle that was already lost, trying to make gatekeeping mean something when the gates had functionally opened everywhere else.
Obviously it didn’t hold. A few years later, the influential bloggers got let back in because you can’t ignore reach. The whole thing just shifted into this weird hybrid where Fashion Week became less about exclusivity and more about managing every possible platform. The gatekeeping failed quietly, which is how most of it does.
I have no idea what Milk Made Magazine is, but they gave a model named Leila Spilman to five photographers and had each one shoot her however they wanted. The whole concept is just another way to build portfolios, let people see the same subject through different eyes.
There’s one series that actually works though: “In The Street” by Brad Elterman. Black and white, natural light, no art direction. It’s the only one where she looks like an actual person instead of a styling exercise.
Most photography loads up on technique like the technique is what matters. Color grading, retouching, conceptual framing, all of it applied with the assumption that if you use enough craft you’ll make something meaningful. Usually just deadens what’s there. The Elterman shots don’t have anywhere to hide behind that apparatus. Either they work or they don’t, and something about that simplicity works. There’s no artifice between you and the actual photograph.
Obviously I’m not pretending I’m attracted to the intellectual side here. She’s beautiful, young, she photographs well. But what keeps pulling me back to these shots is that they feel true in a way the rest of the series doesn’t. Everything else is someone being styled into importance. These are just someone, photographed.
A guy posted a photo on Reddit of his Shanghai hotel room view. Brown air completely obscuring the next building over. Not some exotic poison gas attack—just the regular atmosphere loaded with industrial pollution. I had this idea about visiting China someday, maybe multiple times. Just voluntarily moved that dream way further back.
The air quality index hit 6. That’s the level where you don’t throw your worst enemy into that air. Maybe you do if you hate them enough. But not this guy. Not the nice man from the hotel. Unless he’s my worst enemy somehow. I’m going to stop thinking about this now.
There’s this question I’ve been sitting with for fifteen years: what’s inside a Pokéball? Are the creatures compressed into the sphere? Stored as data? Do the balls work like tiny black holes that just catch and release on command?
Bruno Clas illustrated it—not the mechanism, but what the three starters actually do when they’re in there. Bulbasaur’s bathing. Squirtle’s grilling something. Charmander’s asleep. They’ve built lives in there. They’re fine.
It lands differently than you’d expect. The Pokéball isn’t a cage or a storage unit. It’s just where they exist when you’re not looking.
Lana Del Rey made a short film called Tropico. Thirty minutes. She cast herself as Eve—the whole biblical narrative thing—and wrote the script. The story runs through three chapters from the Garden of Eden to contemporary Los Angeles, which explains itself if you know her sensibility.
Three Paradise album tracks play through it: Body Electric, Gods and Monsters, Bel Air. Supposedly it concludes some larger narrative that started with her Born to Die videos, though I’ve never tracked that particular thread. You don’t really need the connective tissue with Lana’s work.
It’s the kind of project that hovers between genuine ambition and self-aware camp. Biblical mythology filtered through her vision of American imagery and melancholy. I haven’t lived with it long enough to know if it’s brilliant or just confidently made, but with Lana those probably feel identical.
I watch it happen on the street sometimes. A woman walks by and some guy yells something—’Hey gorgeous’ or ’Nice legs’ or something actually awful that I’m not going to repeat. In his head, he’s being bold, flirting, making a move. In hers, he’s just some asshole interrupting her day with unsolicited sexual commentary.
The gap between what he thinks he’s doing and what’s actually happening is kind of shocking. He thinks he’s charming. He’s being gross. He thinks it’s flirting. It’s harassment. The two things are so far apart and yet somehow guys keep squinting at them like they’re the same.
I get why he thinks this works. You grow up watching movies where guys are rewarded for being loud and forward, and maybe you internalize that boldness equals success. But shouting at a stranger about their body isn’t bold. It’s lazy. It makes you look insecure and stupid, like you never learned how to actually talk to someone.
The whole thing requires that the guy never has to face what he’s actually doing. He yells and walks away, or drives past. He never sits with the fact that he just made someone feel unsafe. He gets to feel like he tried something without any of the consequences of being heard. It’s the coward’s version of confidence.
There’s a context where flirting works—at a party, somewhere you’re already talking to someone, where there’s actual chemistry to build on. But a stranger on the sidewalk? You’re not opening anything. You’re just being loud. And I think most guys know that. They just don’t care.
Kate Moss is back in circulation. The Playboy appearance made headlines, but really she’s always been this constant in culture - the style icon who’s also a beautiful disaster, someone who makes her own chaos look intentional. Nick Thomm made a skateboard deck with her face on it, which is the right idea before you even see the thing.
Skate culture and fashion have always been cousins. Both are about refusal, about looking like you don’t care while obviously caring. Kate Moss lives in that space. She’s the proof that the distinction between high fashion and street culture was never real anyway.
Owning an object like that isn’t about the deck itself. It’s about carrying someone who refused the approved version of herself. That’s been my gravitational pull forever - people and images that suggest you could exist on different terms.
When something clicks, it clicks. The reference is right, the person is right, the execution works. This is one of those things.
I found this Santa costume on Amazon and couldn’t look away. Not because it’s beautiful or clever. Because it’s actually disturbing. The proportions are wrong, the grin sits at a bad angle under the beard, the plastic has that sheen where light doesn’t reflect right. Your brain registers it immediately: this is not safe. This is watching you. This is not what Christmas pretends to be.
Which is the point. You buy this, put it on around someone you dislike, and you’ve made a genuine problem for them. A cocky kid, an annoying sibling, whoever—you just became their actual nightmare on the day they’re supposed to feel safe. The grin is everything. You can’t quite see it under the beard but they feel it the entire time. That’s the whole design. That’s why it works.
I haven’t bought one yet. I will eventually. Some things sit with you because you know exactly what you’ll do with them.
The Fast & Furious cast posted a tribute video for Paul Walker set to P. Diddy’s “Coming Home,” and it’s brutal in how simple it is. Just clips of him working, being present, doing the job he was there to do. The song is built for this—slow and mournful at first, then into something almost like acceptance. No narration. No ceremony. Just people who worked together saying goodbye.
Walker died in a car crash on a Saturday in 2013. Roger Rodas was driving; he died too. That’s where everything becomes impossible to parse—two people, one moment, and the certainty that no explanation will ever be enough. The kind of thing that makes obvious statements about mortality suddenly matter, because obvious things only matter when it’s too late.
The video doesn’t fix anything. But there’s something in the way they made it—the care, the simplicity, the refusal to turn a death into content. That’s the only thing that matters. That’s all that could possibly matter.
In 2013, I couldn’t help but notice women everywhere. Malala Yousafzai at the UN, Jennifer Lawrence giving interviews, Michelle Obama at everything — they had something to say and actual platforms to say it from. For a moment it felt like something was shifting.
But open any website that year and the calculation was always the same: yes, these women have power, and here’s how attractive they are. Outlets covering Malala’s activism would run photo galleries rating her face. Jennifer Lawrence’s intelligence and her appearance were inseparable in how people talked about her. Michelle Obama was articulate and dignified and also half the internet spent 2013 analyzing her body with an intensity they never brought to actual policy.
I waited for the contradiction to become obvious enough that it would matter. That visibility might actually mean people saw another person instead of just running through a sexualization reflex. It didn’t.
Marx, late Friday nights. Douglas Greed on vocals with Nagler on drums, and the usual rotation of local DJs: Cris Urban, Alexander Lorz, Malte Seddig, Spanks, Vonda7, Modig. If you went to clubs in Berlin you knew these names. Not because they were famous, just because they were there every week building whatever that night was.
That’s the thing about local scenes. They’re invisible unless you’re in them. Carlsberg ran this Support Your Local campaign where you’d vote for your favorite DJ and they’d make some money from it. The idea was embarrassingly direct—just show up and make sure the people who actually build the thing get paid.
I never cared much about the DJs I read about in magazines. But the people who shaped the actual nights, who understood their crowd and their city—those people mattered. You knew what they’d play, how they’d read the room, what they were capable of. That’s a real relationship in a way that following someone online isn’t.
I don’t know if that series still happens. Sponsorship money dries up, people move, scenes change. But the basic idea was sound: that the people who actually build culture deserve to eat and deserve to be recognized by the people who show up. It’s not complicated. It just requires showing up.
Lotteria, this Japanese fast-food chain, started offering chocolate sauce for dipping fries. Sounds stupid until you actually think about it—salt and sweet together isn’t some new discovery. Japan just commits to stuff like this in a way most places don’t. Corn on pizza. Mentaiko mayo. Some of it fails, some of it becomes something you crave.
I had sweet potato fries once and assumed they were wrong. Same instinct with chocolate fries. But the salt-sweet thing works in your mouth. The sauce is cheap too, like three euros, so it’s not some premium gimmick. Just another option sitting there alongside ketchup and mayo.
What I like about it is the willingness to look stupid for a second. Most chains would never risk it. You can almost feel the corporate fear in every menu decision. But Lotteria just puts it out there. Nobody dies from trying chocolate fries. It either works or it doesn’t. Hard to know which until you taste it.
Maternity photos do something. Chelsea Salmon, Steve Shaw’s lens, all soft focus and inevitability. I think of Steffen, who once fell apart in my living room because his condom split. His girlfriend’s image in one hand. He was panicking but also something else — like the future had already decided itself and he was just catching up.
These pictures only show the soft part. Not the 3 AM sickness or the body doing things you never signed up for, not the sheer randomness of when it actually happens. You wait for the right moment with the right person and the timing is always wrong, or it never comes, or you’re still waiting while everyone else’s lives change.
Hundreds of thousands filling Independence Square in Kiev, tents going up despite the ban, students ditching classes to camp out on the concrete. Yanukovych killed the EU deal under Russian pressure — not delayed it, killed it — and something in the younger generation woke up all at once.
The universities shut down. #EuroMaidan flooded Twitter and Facebook. The hash told you everything: this wasn’t left versus right, it was about direction itself. East or west. Autocracy or something closer to what free looks like.
A student named Alina Rudenko had spent five nights on the square. She said something that stuck. Normally, she told the person asking, Ukrainians don’t much care about politics. They’re too busy just surviving. The parties usually pay people a euro an hour to show up, bodies for rent. She wanted to make real money someday so she could feed her own kids. But here she was anyway, no payment, no guarantee, because if the government could just kill a major trade deal on a whim, what actual future did anyone have.
That’s the gap right there. Between paid attendance and actual stake. Between being hired to show up and showing up because you have to.
A designer named Ivan Bandura was documenting it all on Flickr — the moments that slip past the headlines. People in tears during the national anthem, store windows shattering, children screaming, students coordinating, old people holding photos. History moving through the streets in real time.
It echoed 2004, the Orange Revolution, when hundreds of thousands fought electoral fraud and actually won. Changed the president. They knew it was possible. Maybe it could happen again.
The students were the spine of it all. Everything to lose by staying home, nothing to gain right now except a future actually worth having. Alina in her tent on night five, no money, because she believed the math worked out. A government that couldn’t see it.
I watch Home Alone every December without fail. The first one, and usually the second, but I stop there. The others don’t count. It’s pure habit at this point, the way some people drink eggnog or drive around looking at Christmas lights. Just something that happens.
Apparently there’s a pug version now. I saw it mentioned somewhere and just kept scrolling. The idea of remixing Home Alone with a novelty element feels absurd, but then again, why do I keep watching the exact same movie every year if it’s already perfect? Maybe I’m just nostalgic. Maybe the movie earns it.
The original works because it actually works. The jokes are solid, the stakes feel real, Kevin isn’t annoying. Macaulay Culkin nailed it. When they made sequels they just made sequels—they missed whatever the first one had. So I stopped watching them.
The pug version is probably fine. Probably pointless. But it exists, because apparently nothing can just stay as it is. Everything gets a remix, a reboot, a novelty spin. I get it. At least this one leaves the original alone.
I’ll be watching the original in December, like always.
I’ve done it plenty of times. Wine, sandwich, streaming some free porn—RedTube, Pornhub, whatever’s fastest to load. You’re just scrolling for something worth watching, and most of it’s garbage. Bad lighting, weird dialogue, setup that makes no sense. You’re skipping through it, looking for the thirty seconds that might actually do something for you. Then you close it and move on.
Except now there’s a law firm with your IP address. A guy named Karsten Gulden represents the production company, The Archive AG, and they’ve started sending cease-and-desist letters. They know what you watched. They have your username. They have evidence.
Someone in Cologne got hit. Went to court. Nobody’s entirely sure how the production company got the data—site’s hosted in the US, whole thing’s murky—but it happened.
So the nightmare is real now. You’re standing in front of a judge, face completely red, and you have to say it out loud. Not “porn” in general. The specific thing. The weird thing. The thing you’d normally die before telling anyone about. And now a lawyer is asking you to describe it in detail.
Maybe that’s the thing that actually kills free streaming—not laws or fines or regulation. Just the shame of it. The thought of having to explain your taste to a room full of strangers. The one consequence that actually works.
Peter Clatworthy from Nottingham bought an Xbox One on eBay for 550 euros. The seller shipped him a photograph instead.
He was buying a Christmas gift for his son, and the listing was in the Games category, so it seemed legitimate. The description mentioned “photo” somewhere in the details, but he missed it or didn’t read carefully enough. Most of the time you don’t have to read every word—the system is supposed to protect you. The category is supposed to mean something. But eBay has millions of listings now, and categories don’t really protect anyone anymore. He ordered, the seller shipped, and what arrived was a printed picture of an Xbox One.
When reporters talked to him about it, the absurdity was pretty plain. He’d paid for what he thought was actual hardware. The seller had literally sold what they described—a photograph—but the category and the platform made him assume it meant something else. That’s the gap you live in when you shop online. You trust the system instead of reading the fine print. You assume the categories mean what they used to mean. Most of the time the system works. Sometimes you get the picture instead of the thing.
His son got something else for Christmas. Peter Clatworthy got a very expensive photograph and maybe a lesson about reading what you’re actually paying for.
I heard Mandela died the way most people do these days—on my phone, between other notifications. Ninety-five, pneumonia. The BBC had its template ready. Twenty-seven years in prison for fighting apartheid, became president, spent his later decades becoming a symbol. By then his face was already more famous than his actual life.
What I remember isn’t the political story. It’s a photograph from after his release, him in a room full of people who had every reason to want him dead, and he just looked worn out. Not vengeful, not triumphant. Just the kind of tired that made sense. Most people would torch everything from that position. He didn’t.
By the end he was the kind of thing you put on a t-shirt, which is a form of erasure. You become so large that nobody knows who you actually were. The death itself barely registered. Zuma gave his speech, the news moved on.
I didn’t think about him much before he died. He was already the statue, not the man. But once he was actually gone, I couldn’t stop thinking about that worn-out face in the photograph. That refusal to burn it down, that exhaustion with dignity—you don’t really see that anymore.
A vaping lounge in the US turned old GameCubes into water pipes and started calling them VapeCubes.
There’s a logic to it, actually. The GameCube’s been dead for twenty years — just garbage hardware collecting dust in thrift stores and garage corners. So someone figured, why not hollow one out and make it useful again? No romance about it, no preservation instinct. Just repurposing. The console becomes a prop becomes functional becomes something else. It’s stupid and clever at the same time, which is probably the only reason anyone actually did it.
I recognize obsession when I see it. Blake Baer and Jack Bittner, both teenagers, decided to build an entire Hobbit diorama using eighty thousand LEGO pieces. The number itself is what stops you — not a thousand, eighty thousand. You start calculating what that means: hours, organized bricks covering tables, that much of your brain space occupied by construction and planning.
Their Flickr account documents the whole thing. It’s not just quantity; there’s actual craft in how they used color and light to suggest the geography of the films. They understood something about how the eye moves through a diorama. It’s design work.
What I respect is the sheer pointlessness of it. In a world where you’re supposed to build things that solve problems and create value, they built something that just exists to be looked at. A Hobbit diorama. No use case. No practical purpose. Just the specific satisfaction of having done it. That kind of vision at that age is rare.
I’m envious, though not of the diorama itself. It’s the focus and clarity it required. The kind of time investment that only makes sense when you’re young enough to believe you have all the time in the world.
Lorde just showed up one day and changed what pop music sounded like. When the “Team” video hit, the servers crashed trying to handle the traffic—and the funny thing is that felt right somehow. She was already everywhere by then, this teenager from New Zealand who’d figured out something most artists spend their whole career trying to understand: how to be completely herself without apology or compromise.
Her music had this austere quality, all careful restraint and precision. Minimal production, her voice doing exactly what it needed to and nothing more. You could hear the thought in every choice, the refusal to add anything just because it was expected. “Royals” was the breakthrough, the one that hit the mainstream, but the depth was in the album tracks—songs about the specific texture of being young and watched, about emptiness and desire and the way wealth looked from the outside.
What got to me was that she never performed modesty about her own talent. She knew what she’d made, and she stood by it. No hedging, no deflection, no trying to soften things to seem more likeable. In pop music, that’s almost unheard of—especially for someone that young. You usually see artists that age either crumble under the pressure of sudden fame or get swallowed up by what the industry wants them to be.
There was something cold about the whole moment, cold in a way that felt true. Not distant or unfriendly, just clear-eyed about what she was making and who she was. The crash, the hype, the think pieces that would follow—none of it seemed to touch her, or if it did, she wasn’t interested in showing it. Just: here’s what I made, take it or don’t.
Daniel Kim’s Pop Danthology came out, which is how I catch up on the year in pop music. He takes every big song that blew up—Selena Gomez, Miley Cyrus, the Harlem Shake, whatever else—and stitches them together into one continuous track that somehow flows instead of falling apart into noise.
What gets me is the craftsmanship. Kim posts his process, and it looks straightforward until you think about what he’s actually doing. Finding the exact moment where one song can feed into the next without the energy dropping. Balancing everything so no single artist drowns out the year. He’s been refining this formula for years now, and it’s become this weird annual checkpoint. Not a ranking or review, just the year compressed into six minutes.
There’s something about that I can’t quite explain. It works practically—I didn’t listen closely enough to know every song that year, so this solves that problem. But it’s also proof that someone actually listened, that they cared about transitions and flow. It’s a document of what everyone was hearing, and if you pay attention, you can read the cultural moment in what made the cut.
The weather hit different the second you landed. Back home they were bracing for some storm that would knock everything out for a day. Here it was just sun and clear sky.
Mercedes had arranged for a group of us to visit their new research headquarters in Silicon Valley, wedged between Google and Apple’s compounds. Inside was the AMG Vision Gran Turismo, a concept car headed into the next Gran Turismo game. That was the reason we were there, though no one said it explicitly.
I went with Mathias Winks, Don Dahlmann, and Robert Basich—bloggers who were always up for a good story and decent weather. The photographer crew from Hypebeast and NOTCOT were already there, everyone shooting the same car from slightly different angles, looking for an image no one else had captured.
Kazunori Yamauchi showed up—the guy behind Gran Turismo. We talked for a bit. He told me he’d loved concept cars as a kid, the way they promised some future that felt real. Still did. That’s the thing about Yamauchi: he means what he says. He talked about design the way someone talks about a problem they’ve spent thirty years on: proportions, the balance between elegance and aggression, whether every line reads right. In the game, that all has to work. The shape, the movement, the camera framing the car in space. Real, even when it’s imaginary.
The car was a nice piece of design work. You could see both directions in it at once—past and future, elegant and fast, classical and modern. That balance was what interested him. Finding something that lived in multiple registers.
It’s in the game now. On PlayStation 3. You can drive it, crash it, race it. In the physical world it still sits in that building somewhere, proving a point about what’s possible.
The weather is what stayed with me. The hummus too—this pale creamy hummus everywhere in California that I’ve never found in Berlin. That’s what I think about now when it’s cold. The sun was nice. The car was worth seeing. But it’s the hummus I actually miss.
Kate Moss turned 39 and decided Playboy’s 60th birthday was the moment to get naked in front of cameras. The photographs happened. Everyone stopped and looked.
Marc Jacobs wasn’t going to miss that. T-shirt, books, posters — he got the merchandise made. It’s remarkable how fast fashion moves when something worth selling shows up.
What gets to me is how it all fits together. A moment occurs, someone decides it matters, someone else makes a t-shirt. The whole thing is real and then it passes.
I wonder who’d make t-shirts about me undressing. Nobody, obviously. No magazine, no designer, no moment. Just Tuesday in an apartment. Same nakedness, different outcome. The machinery only turns when someone important gives it a push.
Kate Moss is in the new Playboy, everyone’s losing their mind, which okay, I get it. But the real find is deeper in the magazine — Alejandra Guilmant. I have absolutely no idea who she is, where she’s from, how old she is, nothing. I’m just looking at David Bellemere’s photographs and something’s got me hooked enough that I’m going to spend today trying to assemble whatever the internet has on her, which is probably almost nothing.
The photographs deserve a handshake from Bellemere. Next time I see him I’ll definitely make sure to — which is never.
I was deep into HAIM when the Giorgio Moroder remix of ’Forever’ showed up. He synthesized the life out of it, basically — the song becomes something from another decade, another world. It works. I played it too many times.
Harry G—Bavarian comedian who just says obvious things out loud—was talking about gentrification. Double-edged sword, he called it. He’s right. I’ve watched it happen to places I knew. Neighborhoods improve, rents climb, old character drains out. Everyone wants you to pick a team, but it doesn’t work like that. The dive bar was genuinely great. The coffee shop that replaced it is fine. Both are true. It’s everywhere—Berlin, Munich, my city. You mourn and move.
I watched a Charlie Brooker documentary recently called “How Videogames Changed the World.” What struck me was how cleanly it laid out the turning point. Games went from toys to scapegoats, and somewhere in between everyone got scared.
Violence, isolation, whatever was wrong with young people—games caused it, or so the thinking went. Nobody wanted to look deeper. It was easier to blame something new than to admit the initial dismissal was wrong.
But here’s what I’ve noticed: games saved people. Not in some grand philosophical sense—just practically. They gave shape to years that might have been formless. I know people who pulled themselves out of dark places because they had something to work toward, a community that wasn’t weird or conditional. They weren’t getting fixed. They were just finding a place where they existed.
The documentary is only half an hour. It doesn’t solve anything, but it sits with the actual thing instead of the retreat into blame.
Somewhere over Switzerland, a guy in skydiving gear is falling through the air with nothing but his beloved manga body pillow. That’s Melon pan—Swiss, completely shameless, and apparently the world’s greatest otaku if you ask the Japanese internet.
His whole thing is aggressively stupid. He’ll film himself licking a terrible Miku Hatsune sex doll with all the pride of someone tasting a five-star meal. He throws himself out of planes with his waifus. He lives his anime fantasies at maximum volume and maximum commitment, and the internet watches. The Japanese comments range from “This guy’s a total pervert” to “He’s definitely having more fun than we are” to just “What the actual fuck?” Which is honestly the universal response to anything truly good online. You can’t explain it. You can’t fit it into a category. It just is.
What gets me about Melon pan is the purity of it. He’s not trying to build a brand or monetize his weirdness or become an influencer. He’s just a guy in Switzerland living out fantasies that most people would keep in their heads, and he’s filming it, and he doesn’t give a shit who sees it. There’s something beautiful about that kind of shamelessness—the refusal to apologize for being exactly as strange as you want to be.
The internet needs people like this. Not because his content is well-made or clever, but because he’s proof you can be as weird as you want and somewhere there’s a community that gets it. Some Japanese otaku who sees this Swiss guy plummeting through the sky with a manga pillow and thinks, “Yeah. That one. That’s the greatest among us.” Maybe they’re right.
The silence in Pyongyang is what gets you. Not the absence of sound—actual silence, the unmistakable kind. No screaming, no rushed footsteps, no chaos. Just apartment blocks with planted balconies and French doors, amusement parks, and this suffocating quiet that makes the whole place feel like a set, not a city.
Photographer Dominik Schwarz spent last summer in North Korea and came back with images and observations that keep nagging at me. What struck him first was something obvious once you think about it: there’s no advertising anywhere. Not a billboard, not a logo, not a single commercial image on any surface. In a place where you design everything, the complete absence of visual noise hits differently. It’s almost more disorienting than if the walls were covered in propaganda.
Pyongyang has roughly the same population as Paris, but nothing in the photographs suggests it. No density, no energy, no noise. Instead there’s this uncanny emptiness, this sense that the entire apparatus of control is just barely holding its breath. And then the parades come—these massive coordinated stadium events that materialize the instant any group of tourists arrives. It’s like the system itself has to go on display, has to remind everyone watching that it’s running at full capacity.
I don’t know if I’ll ever go. Part of me wants to understand it firsthand—what that quiet actually feels like, whether the control reads the same when you’re standing in it, what Pyongyang smells like. Another part suspects some places are better left at a distance, understood through filters of photography and hearsay. Some things exist best as questions.
Felix Colgrave made this video called “The Elephant’s Garden,” and you’d need to be on absolutely everything just to survive watching it. Bath salts and MDMA and glitter mixed with hashish and desomorphine and absinthe, throw in some cocaine and fizzy powder and whatever else exists, and only then might you be approaching the right headspace to process what’s actually on screen.
I watched it more or less sober and all that stuck with me are fragments. Dancing flowers. Blood cells fleeing. Trees that seemed pleased about it. Bushes getting stomped flat. A god swallowing birds. An elephant grinning like it knew something I didn’t. Everything else just disappeared. The whole thing seems to erase itself from memory the second it ends. I can’t tell if that’s by design or if the video just breaks something in you that keeps the details from sticking.
The first good decision anyone made about Terry Richardson’s DIESEL calendar was not putting Terry Richardson in it. Instead: Charlotte Carey, Stella Maxwell, Karley Sciortino—the Slutever blogger. They stripped down for the camera and he photographed them, and DIESEL turned it into a calendar because that’s apparently what jeans companies do now.
I have no idea why denim needed nudes, but it’s the kind of thing that happens in fashion when you have the right ingredients: a photographer with a reputation for this, models willing to do it, a brand with a budget, and nobody questioning the whole concept.
Calendars themselves are pointless—nobody uses them to track days anymore. They’re decoration, usually of something nice to look at. This one works. The photos are professional, everyone involved knows what they’re doing, and DIESEL got what they paid for: a moment of attention, something unexpected from a jeans company. Then life moves on.
Nate Hill’s hobby is wearing naked women as scarves. He photographs it. Suit, professional lighting, Instagram. His reasoning: it demonstrates his status and power. That’s his actual explanation.
I don’t have commentary. It exists. He does it. The internet is a place where you can commit to the weirdest specific idea and just run with it until it becomes your identity, until you’re known for the thing, until it’s true.
Flip someone’s eyes and mouth upside down and your brain doesn’t know what to do with it. Freaking News ran a series doing exactly this to famous faces—Brad Pitt, Jessica Simpson, Salma Hayek—and the results are predictably unsettling. They don’t look monstrous. Just wrong in a way that’s hard to articulate.
Our face-recognition system is so tuned to human anatomy that even a small inversion breaks everything. You see the features, you know it’s a face, but something in the processing goes haywire. The gap between knowing and being disturbed is where the creepiness lives.
What’s strange is how much worse it is with celebrities. You’ve seen their faces your whole life—on screens, in magazines—so they’re wired into your visual memory. Invert them and suddenly they’re strangers. It strips away the familiarity that usually keeps them grounded as real people, and that disconnect is what gets to you.
Just finished watching Justin Bieber’s “That Matters” and I can’t tell if I’m watching a music video or a checklist. Shirtless guy, hand in his crotch, stars and sky and you’re the only thing that matters. It’s so completely built from clichés that I started wondering if maybe it’s supposed to be funny and I’m missing something.
The song is for fourteen-year-olds discovering sex. Kids fumbling with each other, no idea what good music sounds like when there’s actual desire involved. And the video hits every single beat—the topless model, the gold chains, the light bulbs, nothing resembling an actual idea. It’s designed not to challenge anyone, not to make anyone uncomfortable, not to make anyone think about anything.
And it works. His audience gets exactly what they want, and they want exactly this. But watching him make the same video again, repeat the same sexuality, recycle the same empty gestures—it starts to feel less like a creative choice and more like he’s just going through it. The market doesn’t demand anything more. The music stopped being music a while back and now it’s just something playing in the background while you do something else.
A photographer collective in Rio found a man in a homemade Batman suit. Not a joke costume—actual fabric, dye, effort. He calls himself Bruce Wayne Do Santos and walks the neighborhood at night.
The original Bruce Wayne only gets to be Batman because he’s incomprehensibly rich. Unlimited gadgets, armor, training, a cave under his house. Money is the real superpower; it solves every problem his body can’t. Take that away and what’s left? This guy, apparently. Nothing but the suit and a Brazilian last name.
I don’t know if he actually fights crime or if he walks around hoping someone feeds him because of the cape. The photographers found him and left it at that—didn’t dig into motive, didn’t explain. Good choice. Some things get worse when you understand them.
He’s out there trying to be a hero with almost nothing. The suit doesn’t make him safer or less hungry. But it makes him Batman, or whatever version of Batman exists when you strip away everything except the impulse to be something other than invisible. That’s the whole decision right there.
Night on an empty road, snowing. The kind of conditions where winter tires matter. Then a white figure appears on the asphalt. Just standing there.
That was the whole pitch from Autoway, a tire dealer from Fukuoka — a Japanese commercial that genuinely unsettled me. And it’s brilliant because the horror clicks immediately. You’re driving toward something you can’t stop for, and without the right tires, you’re not stopping.
Most tire ads are technical, all tread depth and grip numbers. This one works because it taps into something actual: that moment on ice when the road stops listening to you. The ghost is almost beside the point. The real horror is powerlessness.
Japan does this sometimes — uses strangeness and dread to make something stick. You remember it. You remember their tires. So I guess it works.
Two people kiss with their eyes closed. That’s the entire content of Anne Sorrentino’s videos on the subject. No framing, no reason, no music underneath. Just the fact of it.
It shouldn’t feel radical. But we’re so used to kissing as a plot point, as advertisement, as something that serves the narrative, that the actual thing looks strange. In films it’s timed to a swell. In ads it sells whatever they’re selling. In pornography it’s foreplay. Everywhere it’s in service of something else.
Sorrentino’s videos just show up. They don’t explain anything or make an argument. You watch and the difference is obvious—between what you’re usually offered and what’s actually happening when two people are just there together.
4chan was always the internet’s sewer, and if there was a lower way to get attention, someone would try it. So when a 20-year-old named Stephen decided to burn himself to death on a livestream in front of a few hundred people, it felt less like a shock and more like the logical end of a certain trajectory. This was 2012, on Chateen—a small streaming platform. He logged in as LOLDoge, downed vodka and pills, set his dorm room on fire, and posted about it while the smoke got thicker.
The chat filled up fast. Two hundred people watching in real time, dropping emoji, trying to figure out if this was real or just the best bit ever. The firefighters showed up and pulled him out of the wreckage. Nobody was ever completely sure who he was or where it happened—University of Guelph in Canada, maybe Pittsburgh, maybe nowhere at all. The story took on that murky quality that internet stories get when they pass through enough hands. What stuck was the name: Toaster Stephen. The guy who actually meant it.
The internet had already made the space for this—turned self-destruction into the logical extension of the joke, made hurting yourself in public the final proof that you’re not kidding around. Stephen just took it the extra step. He made the bit real.
I’ve never been the jewelry type. Chains, rings, bracelets — I’ve always felt more comfortable without them, the weight, the attention they ask for. But Kate Bogucharskaia’s work changed something. In Bill Kidd’s photographs of her, winter jewelry becomes the thing that warms you, not your coat.
There’s a paradox in her images: precious metals catch the cold light and gleam like ice, something crystalline and sharp, but they’re the only thing worth looking at when everything else is dark and muted. They become necessary. Not beautiful in some abstract way, but vital — armor or ritual, something you wrap around yourself because you need to know you’re still here.
Maybe that’s what she’s figured out. What winter really needs isn’t more layers. It’s something small and expensive and meaningless that somehow means everything. A reason to look down at your hands and remember you wanted something.
A basement near Friedrichshain, 3 AM, the bass running through my chest. I understood for maybe five minutes why people romanticize Berlin nightlife. Then the DJ switched tracks, the moment fractured, and I was just another person in a crowd again, sweating, half-deaf.
The Boiler Room footage from San Soda’s set is designed to make you feel permanently locked out. Everything aligned—the energy, the sound, the crowd—the kind of night you’re supposed to imagine when you think of these places. That’s what sells the myth.
Most of what actually happens in these rooms is waiting. The music is sometimes incredible, sometimes just there. People film it or ignore it or both. Every twenty minutes something shifts and everyone syncs up briefly, then it’s gone. You stand around thinking about leaving. You don’t.
The original post was tabloid fantasy: wild youth, drugs, sex, total abandon. That’s the story people tell themselves about Berlin nightlife. It’s almost entirely disconnected from what’s actually happening. There’s no depravity. It’s just people and music and the recurring hope that the next hour will be the one.
That’s the real hook, not the danger. The false promise that if you stay, if you go back, if you find the right room, you’ll find that moment again. You probably won’t. You’ll go next week anyway.
There’s a Garfield lamp somewhere in the Amazon warehouse, and you want it. You wanted it the moment you saw it—that’s how this works. You order it at two in the afternoon, and immediately you’ve forgotten you ordered it. Your brain is already three days from now, in the moment you open the box, that brief hit of satisfaction when something tangible arrives.
Amazon knows we’re bad at waiting. They’ve built an entire empire on accommodating this weakness. So here comes Prime Air—drones, thirty-minute delivery to your door. The announcement came in 2015. You order your lamp, and before you’ve finished your coffee, a small drone lands on your doorstep.
It’s almost absurd if you think about it, which of course we don’t. We just notice that waiting is shorter. We’ve managed to make the interval between wanting and having the problem to solve, rather than the wanting itself. The actual ownership of the Garfield lamp—the thing itself—that’s not what we were after.
I get it. Speed feels like freedom. Inconvenience feels like failure. But somewhere in the system we’ve built, we’ve made impatience into a virtue and sitting with desire into a character flaw. The drones will come eventually. The deliveries will be fast. And we still won’t feel like we have enough time.
A Polish casket manufacturer called Lindner has been selling erotic calendars for five years. Twelve women, scantily clad, arranged on wooden boxes. That’s it. Someone decided to make this, and apparently someone else decided to buy it.
The business logic is almost reasonable if you don’t think too hard. There’s clearly a market. Lindner identified it. Someone in that office probably proposed exactly this—”What if we added models to the calendar?”—and the idea either got enthusiastic agreement or just didn’t get shot down hard enough. Either way, production happened. Distribution happened. The calendar exists.
What stops me is the specificity. Not erotic calendars in general, which you can find anywhere. Not coffins. This exact combination. Someone wanted it specifically like this, badly enough that a casket company paid attention and acted. The machinery of commerce grinding just for that.
Now I’m thinking about what other calendars exist that I don’t know about. What other specific desires are quietly generating revenue somewhere in the catalog. It’s a little terrifying, honestly.
There’s this weird moment when you see a place you know on the news, except it’s not the version you remember. Bangkok in early December 2013 looked like that—the Government House area was tear gas and water cannons and people throwing stones, and somewhere in the same city the sky bars were still open, still full of tourists rotating slowly above the chaos.
I never made it to Thailand that season. The standard travel advice at the time was either “it’s fine, go anyway” or “maybe give it a few weeks.” What struck me was how fast the narrative shifted—the same city went from “book your holiday now” to “protest zone” in the feed, and both versions were true. The unrest never really stopped the tourist economy, which tells you something about either the scale of the demonstrations or the desperation of the travel industry, probably both.
A drone video of the Government Quarter doesn’t tell you much. It shows you scale and smoke and the architecture of confrontation, but not what it felt like to be there. I think that’s why the footage circulated so much—it looked like something, it looked serious and organized, and it didn’t require you to have an opinion about Thai politics to be unsettled by it. Just footage of a city fighting itself.
Germany’s grand coalition announced a victory: cosmetic surgery for minors is banned without medical justification. CDU and SPD shaking hands over finally protecting teenagers from false beauty standards. You’d think they’d cured something.
About ten percent of cosmetic procedures in Germany happen to under-twenties, so someone decided legislation was the fix. The rule’s fairly specific. Medical justification exists if you have documented psychological distress from your appearance—actual harm, not just discomfort. Birth defects and burn scars obviously qualify. Wanting your body different? Wanting to be modified? That’s not medical. Not by their definition.
Jens Spahn from the CDU explained it to the press: protect youth from beauty obsession. Kids are still developing. Major surgery has lasting consequences. Breast augmentation as a Christmas gift for a fifteen-year-old is completely unacceptable. The logic makes sense.
But the actual effect is bleak. Before the ban, your parents could agree to surgery if they wanted. Now they can’t, unless you’re documented as psychologically harmed by your appearance. You need to prove to doctors that your body dysphoria meets the medical threshold. You need to hurt enough that the system takes it seriously.
Which means nothing actually changed. Kids still want to modify their bodies. Kids still feel wrong in themselves. The only difference is now you need to be bullied enough, questioned enough, analyzed enough, that the state finally agrees you have a real problem. The policy didn’t remove the pressure. It just set a higher bar for proof before you’re allowed to do anything about it.
Lina Esco got sick of the contradiction: American films will show you gore, weapons, violence, bodies in pieces — but actual human flesh in a context that doesn’t involve someone dying, and the whole system shuts down. Parents freak. Networks apologize. It becomes a scandal.
So she got some people together — Lola Kirke, Janeane Garofalo, others — and made a movement out of pointing at it. Free The Nipple. The basic observation being: this is what we’re afraid of, not the violence. The body. Look how backwards that is.
The interesting part isn’t whether they succeed. It’s that they had to organize it in the first place. We’d built our entire culture around this fear so completely that you need activists and campaigns just to make the contradiction visible. We needed the formal gesture to even register it was there.
That’s what it shows you. Not whether the politics work out, but what we’ve decided is actually normal.
The PlayStation 4 hit Germany on Friday and it was complete chaos. After six years—six fucking years of waiting while everyone else played—people could finally walk into a store and buy one. Of course they lost their minds.
Media Markt and Saturn turned into absolute madhouses. The kind of retail apocalypse you see in videos, except this was happening everywhere at once. Our American friends were already cracking jokes about the German launch disaster. They didn’t understand the pressure that had been building. Six years of imports, of workarounds, of watching other countries get theirs, and then finally it’s just there on Friday afternoon.
What got me was the sheer absurdity of it. After six years, everyone had completely lost it—treating a console like it was the last one on earth, frenzied crowds, shelves clearing instantly. There was something darkly comic about watching an entire country lose their mind at once. The desperation made sense, but the chaos was just too much.
Kate Moss is on the new Playboy cover. She’s 39, the magazine’s hitting its 60th anniversary, and the photograph is drenched in retouching—which is just standard now. Every woman past a certain age gets digitally rebuilt, the whole apparatus pretending that this is flattery instead of erasure.
But Kate Moss has always been one of those people who never really disappear. She was the 90s icon, then the Pete Doherty thing for a few years, and now she’s just still here. There’s something mechanical about how it works. Once you’ve mattered enough, you’re inoculated against irrelevance. You can bring her back every few years and it still sells magazines because she doesn’t age out of the culture the way people are supposed to.
Rebecca Black’s “Friday” is one of those songs that happened to the internet like a meteor. She was 13. The auto-tune was thick as a wall. The lyrics read like someone had described the concept of “a day of the week” to an alien who then tried to write a pop song based on that description alone. Within a week, everyone had an opinion, and the opinion was: this is the worst thing ever.
Two and a half years later, Rebecca confirmed what you’d expect. She hated it. Can’t blame her. Being the butt of a global joke at 13 is a particular kind of torture, and “Friday” was so thoroughly mocked that it seemed impossible for her to feel anything but revulsion toward her own voice.
But somewhere in the middle of all that contempt, something shifted. The song didn’t get better—it stayed exactly as ridiculous and overdone as it was on day one. Except people started quoting it differently. It became this weird shorthand for joy, chaos, the absurdity of the internet. An anthem, basically. The kind of song you’d never admit you liked, except that everyone did anyway.
I think it’s because “Friday” was incapable of pretense. It didn’t try to be cool or calculated. It just was what it was—overdone, earnest, kind of dumb—and in a world of engineered pop songs that go through seventeen rounds of focus groups, there’s something almost refreshing about that kind of innocent failure. Most terrible songs aspire to be better. “Friday” just existed, unaware that it would become the most famous mistake on YouTube.
Rebecca probably still hates it. But the song escaped her somehow. It’s not hers anymore—it’s everyone’s. That’s not a compliment exactly, but it’s not an insult either.
Paul Walker died in a car crash in California on a Saturday afternoon. He was 40. He was a passenger in a red Porsche that hit a lamp post and a tree at high speed, and the car caught fire. His friend, who was driving, died too.
He’d just come from a charity event for typhoon victims in the Philippines. A few years earlier, after the Haiti earthquake, Walker had started an organization called Reach Out WorldWide to help disaster victims. It wasn’t some celebrity vanity project — he actually showed up and did the work.
Most people knew him from Fast & Furious, which is fine. That’s not nothing. He was good at what those movies needed him to be. But what gets me is that he was also the kind of person who, after an earthquake, thought about the people affected enough to start something and stick with it for years. That takes a different kind of presence.
The randomness of it sits wrong. A car accident. When your entire public life is tied to cars and speed, you don’t expect that’s how it ends. Except nobody expects how it ends for anyone. You just don’t think about it until you have to.
I can’t shake Pokémon no matter what’s going on in my life. You think you grow out of it, move on to cooler things, but that feeling from showing off your Level-100 Charizard at school—that credibility, that stupid pride—never actually disappears. You just stop mentioning it.
In Japan, Pokémon still feels genuinely huge. Designer Shinzi Katohei released a product line called Pokémon Tales—bags, keychains, books, pencil cases, all with these Pokémon rendered in a soft illustration style that somehow manages to be cuter than the official designs. The work is clean, intentional, made by someone who clearly understands what they’re drawing.
There’s something disarming about how well-designed it is. It doesn’t feel like merchandise the way most Pokémon stuff does. It feels like actual design—considered materials, good color sense, shapes that work. The kind of thing you could pull out without feeling like you need to explain yourself.
I’m probably going to buy some of it anyway. The design is just too solid to resist.
Lady Gaga showed up on Music Station and looked completely at home. Japan’s pop scene is hypnotic in a way — everyone perfectly synchronized, the spectacle just constantly on. Gaga gets it. She fit into that world like she’d been there the whole time.
Kyary Pamyu Pamyu was on the same episode, the girl famous for costumes that are basically performance art themselves. She looked exhausted, though. You could see the weight of maintaining that character, that constant commitment to an image. These moments remind you there’s always a cost to that kind of performance.
There’s something both brilliant and hollow about Femen’s decision to literally piss on Yanukovych’s portrait outside the Ukrainian embassy in Paris. While over 100,000 people were back home getting tear-gassed in the streets for refusing to accept the status quo, here was a feminist activist group finding its own language: crude, defiant, impossible to ignore.
The Euromaidan protests were real. The violence was real. Yanukovych refusing to sign the EU agreement wasn’t abstract — it meant people bleeding on snow, getting arrested, watching their country turn inward. But Femen’s tactic wasn’t about that specific political question. It was about shock, about forcing the world to look at something primal and ugly. You can’t ignore someone desecrating a president’s image. You can’t unsee it.
I get the impulse. There’s honesty in crude protest that clean marches can’t touch. It says: you don’t deserve respect. You don’t deserve dignity in how we respond to you. Femen knew that image would spread, would disgust people, would make the news when a thousand respectful petitions wouldn’t. Shock works. It travels.
But shock is also the end of the story, not the beginning. You piss on the dictator’s portrait and then what. The camera moves on. Yanukovych didn’t care. His government didn’t care. The only people who felt something were the ones already watching, already angry, already there. The undecided person scrolling through news didn’t think “the EU agreement matters,” they thought “these women are crazy.” Which maybe was the point. Hard to say.
What Femen understood was that visibility is a weapon, and sometimes you have to be willing to look ridiculous to wield it. There’s courage in that — taking your body and your refusal to be polite and using it as a tool. In a world that wants women to be palatable and quiet, they chose to be impossible.
Every time I butter toast, I’m basically excavating a crater into the bread before the butter melts. The cold stick doesn’t spread, it destroys. You have to wait for it to soften or work it like you’re angry at the bread, which I guess I am by that point in the morning.
I found this Japanese butter grater called the Easy Butter, from a company called Metex. It’s a cheese-grater-looking thing that shreds cold butter into fine threads that actually distribute evenly across the bread. Sounds stupid until you realize the butter melts into the bread like it’s supposed to instead of creating this greasy smash-up.
Now I’m thinking about it more than I should. The elegant stupidity of it — a tool that solves a problem I’ve been creating every morning without even questioning why it had to be that way. Cold butter was just always going to ruin toast, so I dealt with it. Never occurred to me that the butter grater was sitting there in Japan waiting to fix this.
I want one. Not in the performative ’add it to my aesthetic’ way. Just actually want to butter my toast without feeling like I’m failing at something that should be effortless.
Patrick Ballesteros drew this image of Doctor Who characters playing hide and seek with a Weeping Angel, which is funny if you know the show—that game normally ends with everyone dead or displaced in time or whatever horror the Weeping Angels have planned. But in the Tardis, locked away from the real world, it’s just silly fun. I’d just started season six when I ran across this, and I was beginning to understand why everyone cared so much about the show.
It shouldn’t work. The writing is uneven, the effects are cheap, the tone shifts wildly from horror to comedy to genuine emotion. But you stop noticing those things pretty quickly because you’re too invested in the characters. Amy Pond is the core of it. Karen Gillan plays her with this casual confidence and irreverence—she’s not starstruck by the Doctor, just genuinely interested. She questions him, she jokes, she’s got her own life. That’s not typical for companion characters. Usually they’re just there to marvel and get rescued. Amy does plenty of rescuing.
Watched a timelapse of Sofles, an Australian street artist, and it was like seeing someone explain something you’d been trying to figure out wrong for years. The hand moves like it’s done this ten thousand times. The line weight never wavers. No hesitation. No moment where the spray can shakes because something went wrong. It’s not even trying anymore—it’s just what happens when you know.
That’s the distance between him and every piece of amateur graffiti. The kid with a can just wants to make a mark. Nothing wrong with that. He does. But he’s not building anything. Sofles is. The difference is in the consistency, the control, the casual confidence that comes from having painted the same shapes so many times your hand doesn’t need your brain anymore.
I’m not a spray painter myself but I recognize the gap. You see it everywhere—the moment when someone stops learning and starts knowing. Most people never get there. They do the work, figure out the basics, and think that’s skill. They never put in the years. Sofles did. You can see it.
Once you know what to look for, amateur tagging looks different. Not worse, exactly. Just honest. Someone spent an hour at a wall and made something that looks like they spent an hour at it. That’s fine. It’s true work. But Sofles is working at a different level entirely. That level isn’t reachable unless you’re willing to spend years to get there. Most people aren’t.
I saw those Kate Upton beach photos making the rounds and they just didn’t register. Hollow. I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to feel looking at them. Then Tony Duran’s shoot with Emily Ratajkowski hit and it was a completely different thing. There’s a confidence in how he photographed her—the angles, her body positioned without apology, her presence sharp. She looks like she knew exactly what was happening and didn’t care if anyone thought it was too much.
There’s something about muscularity in women that doesn’t get foregrounded in photography like this. It’s either absent or it’s a punchline. But Duran just lets it be what it is—strong, centered, unapologetic. That probably made the difference for me.
It’s not about nudity. It’s about vision and honesty. Duran saw something in Emily that felt real in a way I couldn’t articulate about the Upton shots. The presence, the refusal to apologize for taking up space. And yeah, that probably appeals specifically to people who actually want to look at bodies like this, not just breasts as a footnote.
I’m not going to pretend this is about anything other than visual desire. But there’s a difference between being shown what you’re supposed to want and actually wanting something. There’s no hedging here. Duran didn’t soften anything. He let it exist as is. That’s what makes you want to look.
There’s a café in Akihabara where the staff beats you. Actually beats you — throws you against walls, hits you while you’re trying to drink your coffee. They’re harder on the men. The women seem to enjoy it, which has its own appeal.
The concept is that it’s celebrating a video game, but nobody cares about the game. What they’re actually selling is a specific fantasy: women smiling while they overpower you, wanting you badly enough to beat you. There’s a crude honesty in that transaction. Someone’s paying for exactly what they want, someone’s getting paid to provide it, and both parties seem pretty happy about the arrangement.
Akihabara has been building toward this for a while. The whole district is fantasy made available — maid cafés, game shops, everything optimized for a very specific kind of loneliness. This café is just the logical endpoint. Why roleplay service when you can have the real thing? Why keep the fantasy at a distance when you could let it physically overpower you?
I’ve walked through that district enough times to understand the appeal and still find it claustrophobic. Everything is right there, everything is available, and that’s somehow more depressing than the mystery was. You’re not longing for anything anymore, you’re just consuming whatever’s in front of you.
If this is what you want, Akihabara will give it to you. The whole neighborhood exists for people exactly like this.
Walked into a store and there were XXS clothes everywhere. Sizes so small they’re basically for nobody real. Then I realized: no, they’re for exactly one body. Someone sketched a specific figure—proportions set a certain way, narrow and angular, a certain height—and the dress was built to fit that sketch. That’s the customer. That theoretical ideal.
Fashion runs on this. A designer picks one body, usually whatever model is current, and cuts everything to match those measurements. One sample size. One frame. Everything else is a compromise. Most clothes end up engineered for someone who barely exists.
There’s a logic to it I understand. Build for one perfect body and the line works, the proportion feels right, the fabric falls correctly. Simpler than designing for variation. But it means almost everything sold was made for one very specific person—certain height, certain narrowness, certain bone structure. You’d have to be quite thin to actually fit most clothes the way they’re meant to be worn.
The fashion industry isn’t ignorant of this. They know what they chose. They picked their ideal body years ago and held the line. The body that works on the runway, that makes the proportions land, that lets the fabric move how they want. Everything flows from there. And if most people end up feeling like the problem when clothes don’t fit, that’s not really an oversight.
I think about it whenever I’m working on something. The frame I automatically sketch for. The proportions I assume without thinking. How fast an assumption hardens into rule. How hard it would be to work any other way.
Ronny showed me a calendar called Carponizer. Twelve women, completely naked, posed with carp in different lake settings. You can grab it on Amazon for about twenty euros. The fish in the photos look genuinely bewildered by the whole arrangement, which somehow makes it better.
What really made me laugh was reading the reviews. Some guy named Olaf wrote: “One of the most beautiful erotic fish calendars I’ve ever seen. Perhaps not a true classic like the rollmops calendar 1997, but still an honest engagement with the aesthetic interface woman/carp.” He meant every word. The rollmops reference is what got me—this wasn’t irony, it was completely sincere.
Jonathan and Jason Bastian set their skateboards on fire and then rode them. Not a stunt where they jump off—actual tricks on flaming boards, carves and whatever else you do when you’re committed to the bit. Someone filmed it at 2000fps, which means you get the slow-motion ballet of flames against grip tape, the shimmer of heat, two guys keeping their balance while their boards actively burn.
It’s stupid and pointless and completely absorbing. There’s no message here, no broader point. Just: here’s something that shouldn’t work, and it does, slowed down so you can watch every frame. That’s it. That’s the whole thing. And somehow that’s enough.
Everything viral on the internet basically comes from Reddit. I don’t mean it’s inspired by Reddit or references Reddit — I mean that’s where it starts. The cat videos, the fast-food kitchen photos, the celebrity interviews that news outlets pretend they discovered — it’s all funneled through that site first. BuzzFeed wouldn’t have anything to write about without Reddit. Mainstream news outlets constantly mine it. We all do it.
Reddit is the internet’s real content factory. Everywhere else is just repackaging.
A guy named James Trimble made an interactive map showing the 200 most successful Reddit posts of all time. The premise is obvious: study what works, learn the formula, crack the code. But it doesn’t quite work that way. The thing that actually breaks through is never the thing you’re trying to make break through.
The most upvoted post on Reddit ever was titled “Test post - please ignore!” Some user was just testing if their account worked, asked people explicitly not to engage with it, and it became the most successful thing on the platform. That’s everything about the internet distilled into a single post.
The moment you’re performing is the moment it stops working. The thing that wins is always the one that doesn’t care if anyone’s watching.
Seven thousand five hundred bitcoins. Bought for a few dollars in 2009. Stored on a hard drive in 2013 and tossed into a Welsh landfill because James Howells needed the space. Worth nearly five million euros today.
The part that kills him is that he didn’t know they’d be worth anything. Bitcoin wasn’t on anyone’s radar then—it was Silk Road money, money for people in the deepest forums, incomprehensible to the rest of us. He bought some as an experiment or a joke or whatever people did with Bitcoin in 2009, threw them on a drive, and forgot about them. Then years later he started hearing the stories. Bitcoin was exploding. People were getting rich. And he remembered.
Now there’s a literal treasure hunt at that landfill, people actually digging through garbage trying to find this one hard drive. Probably impossible. Probably already destroyed. But he’s tried. There’s something absurd about it—this whole public spectacle around his worst decision, turning it into a kind of modern legend. The guy who threw away a fortune by accident.
One afternoon of negligence and it defines him. You do something right—buy Bitcoin when no one else believes in it—and one stupid careless moment erases the win. That’s what gets you about this story. It’s not really about Bitcoin or hard drives. It’s about how badly a single oversight can invert your life.
Black Friday in America is organized violence. After Thanksgiving, when people are still full and drunk, the stores open and something switches. They shoot each other for parking spots. They trample strangers for toys. They run each other over. Four dead, sixty-seven injured over the past seven years, according to the website keeping count.
I’ve watched the footage. The chaos is real and specific. All that rage and screaming for a TV at half price, a PlayStation on discount, things that stop mattering pretty fast.
It’s a window into what a culture actually values — not what it claims to, but what it will kill for. The answer is: merchandise. A sale. Stuff.
The worst that happens where I am on a holiday weekend is the supermarket sells out before close. An inconvenience. Over there, people are dying in parking lots for the same basic impulse: more, cheaper, now. I think about that gap whenever the holidays come around.
Gabriel made an ARD appearance pushing data retention — the idea that governments should collect everyone’s metadata indefinitely, just in case. To make it sound reasonable, he reached for Norway’s experience with the 2011 Breivik shooting. Seventy-seven people dead, mostly teenagers at a camp. He claimed that data retention helped them catch the killer fast.
The problem is that Norway didn’t implement data retention until 2015. Breivik was already in prison, tried and convicted. Gabriel just inverted the timeline completely.
Either he didn’t know what he was talking about, or he was comfortable lying about a mass shooting to make his point. Both are bleak. He wasn’t hedging or misremembering. He built a whole argument around a fact that was exactly backward, and he stated it with total certainty.
What gets to me is how casually the lie landed. The fear was genuine. The tragedy was real. And the falsified precedent just stuck. People heard “data retention caught the murderer” and didn’t ask whether that was true. Why would they? He said it on television.
It makes you paranoid about every other political argument forever. Which other cases are they getting backwards? Which studies have they never read? How much of what we hear is just confident misremembering, facts completely inverted but stated with the certainty of someone who doesn’t doubt themselves?
I don’t have Eminem posters on my wall anymore. You probably don’t either. But here he is again, still calling himself Rap God, with a new video that’s just kind of unsexy and weird in a way that doesn’t quite land.
I watched it and I genuinely couldn’t decide whether I should think it’s stupid or just accept with tired resignation that Eminem is Eminem, exactly as he’s always been. The video exists. It’s there. Visually strange, technically fine, emotionally dead. Maybe the whole thing is that he never changed, which is either the problem or not the problem depending on what you wanted from him. Anyway, he’s back. Or something.
I’m scrolling through the usual garbage—cat videos, broken YouTube links, whatever—when this appears. A dead whale washed up on the Faroe Islands, so decomposed it barely looked like a whale anymore, just this massive bloated thing. Some guy decides he’s going to cut it open, see what’s inside. Probably thought he’d find some organs worth looking at. The whale had been sitting there for months, building pressure from its own decay, and the second his knife goes through the skin, the whole thing goes. Explodes. Everything comes out. There’s a video. I watched it. I shouldn’t have.
If someone told me I could only watch one type of visual content for the rest of my life, it would be Japanese commercials. Hands down. You watch these spots and half the time you genuinely don’t know what’s happening, and then the last frame just hits you with a product that you had absolutely no idea existed.
There’s this obsessive YouTube channel called JPCMHD that hunts down the weirdest and funniest Japanese commercials every couple weeks and dumps them in HD. It’s basically a direct pipeline to everything my brain loves about weird, committed visual culture that doesn’t care about selling anything real.
So you’re watching AKB48 members following Keanu Reeves around, or Kyary Pamyu Pamyu doing her thing with Mario, old guys breathing fire, demons eating candy, fathers completely unraveling in a supermarket. None of it makes sense. The editing is hyperactive, the acting is all-in on nonsense, and the product being advertised feels like an afterthought.
I love Japan for this. Not in spite of the weirdness—because of it.
VICE absorbed i-D the way things get absorbed now—without ceremony, and then they made a video about it. The smart move. You don’t announce a media consolidation with a press release. You make something that looks like an ad: models spelling the alphabet in clothes that are so perfectly put together you forget what a strange thing they’re actually doing. It’s probably the best way to announce you’ve acquired something. Keep the thing people care about—the styling, the photography, the eye—and just keep doing it, maybe better.
The video itself is fine. It’s designed to prove VICE understands what made i-D worth buying. Real models instead of the usual catalog bodies. Clothes that don’t scream “trend”—they just look right. The whole thing has the opposite feeling of desperate. It’s not “we’re cool and bought something cool.” It’s just: here are good clothes on interesting people. Alphabet video. Done.
What stuck with me was Miranda Kerr’s outfit, which is weird because it’s a four-second moment in a video where models are literally spelling letters. But that’s the thing about clothes that are actually designed instead of thrown together. You remember them. I don’t think there’s anything sexy about it in a lazy sense. It’s more like the clothes are thinking. Which is what i-D was always supposed to be good at—that level of attention. Even announcing its own collapse, they do the thing they know how to do. That’s maybe why VICE wanted it.
I don’t know what happens next. Maybe i-D stays weird and good. Maybe it becomes one more content franchise. But right now they announced their own obsolescence by doing the thing they’ve always done well, which is make clothes look undeniable. That counts for something.
All that talk about fashion needing realistic bodies and more diversity didn’t land. Victoria’s Secret had their New York show and the runways were the same skeletal parade—models so thin you could count their ribs, wrapped in nothing but minimal bikinis.
Cara Delevingne was there, and she gets a pass. But watching Hilary Rhoda in that turquoise scrap of nothing, I had this dark fantasy. I wanted to corner her, corner all of them, and force-feed them actual food until they looked human. It’s crude and sexual and violent in this weird way, but there’s something satisfying about the impulse. A physical refusal of the whole sick system. Eat. Become. Stop being a ghost for someone’s profit margin.
Watched some instructional video about jerking off and realized I’d been doing it wrong for years. Not wrong like it didn’t feel good, but wrong like there’s an actual better way. Technique matters — different grips, angles, rhythm depending on what you’re working with. The whole thing was presented in crude cartoons that somehow made it less sexy and more useful, like a manual for assembling furniture except the furniture is your own cock. The absurdity of needing illustrated instructions for this stuck with me, but then again most people figure it out alone and end up doing whatever works, not what works best.
I’ve watched this SNL bit at least five times. Kanye and Kim in their own morning show — it shouldn’t be funny but it is. The setup alone is stupid enough, but the real joke is the casting. They bring out an actual celebrity as their first guest, someone who’s completely unprepared, and watching them realize what’s happening is perfect.
It works because they both just commit completely. No winking at the camera, no breaking character. Kanye especially — he just deadpans through the whole thing like it’s the most serious project he’s ever been involved in. That straightforward earnestness against absolute absurdity is where the comedy lives.
Can’t pretend I got into Icona Pop for the right reasons. Their new track “Just Another Night” is genuinely good—ballad-pop hybrid that works—but that’s not why I’m listening. Aino Jawoja is just one of those people. You look at her and the questions stop. Years ago when “I Love It” was everywhere, same thing. At least that song was real. Now they’re back with something solid, so I’ve got better justification. But the actual reason I’m listening hasn’t changed. Is it shallow? Yeah. Does it matter? No.
The ’Bound 2’ video was exactly as uncomfortable as you’d imagine—Kim Kardashian staring at the camera while Kanye convinced himself he’s a genius. James Franco and Seth Rogen decided to fix it. They made their own version called ’Bound 3’ on a film set and somehow nailed what the original completely missed.
Shibuya at night. That’s the one that gets me. I’ve probably seen a hundred photos of that crossing — packed with bodies, neon spilling onto wet pavement, everyone moving through their own direction. Every time I see one, I think about standing in the middle of it on a Saturday, around 11 PM, just watching. Not trying to get anywhere. Just standing there while the crowd moved around me.
I found myself looking at some travel photos from Japan the other day — Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka, the usual places. They’re good shots. But what caught my attention wasn’t the temples or the landscapes. It was the smaller stuff: the platform of a train station at 6 AM, the inside of a convenience store, the light off a pachinko parlor. The texture of those places. The way they sit there without needing to impress anyone.
I want to go back. Not because Japan is some vision of perfection, but for something harder to name. Standing in a crowd of a million people and feeling like the only one awake. Sitting in a basement bar with a drink that costs twelve dollars and a bartender who doesn’t make small talk. The smell of the stations. The weight of the air in summer. The way it all just exists, indifferent to whether you find it beautiful or not.
There’s a photoshopped bird-dog I keep looking at. Wings, fur, that dumb dog face. You know it’s Photoshop, know it’ll never exist, but for a second you’re genuinely considering it—what it would be like to own a flying dog, barking at the mailman from the roof. Stupid and pointless and somehow perfect. I’d name mine Chansi.
You think about it sometimes, right before sleep. Where would you actually go if it happened right now. Not the fantasy version—the real panicked version where you have maybe five minutes and you’re deciding between your apartment and the road. Most people don’t answer that question seriously. This house makes you not have to.
Someone built a bunker that doubles as architecture. The kind of thing that reads as obsessive until you’re inside it, then reads as smart. Concrete walls thick enough to stop whatever’s trying to get in. Storage that keeps you fed for months. Air filtration that doesn’t feel like you’re choking in a tomb. The things you’d never think to include until you’re actually thinking about them.
The real design problem isn’t the survival stuff. Any paranoid person with money can build a bunker. What’s harder is making it live like a house. Making the safe room not feel like a room you’re hiding in. Making the prepper mentality disappear when nothing’s actually happening and you just want to exist in a space without thinking about collapse every five seconds.
This one doesn’t feel like an apology. It doesn’t hide what it is. The bunker is integrated—not bolted on or sunk into the ground like some paranoia joke. Just part of how the thing’s built. When there’s no catastrophe, you’re not living in a shelter. You’re living in a house that happens to make sense.
I’m not sure what it says about us, that someone actually built this and someone else actually wanted it. That we’re all circling the same anxiety and someone finally just said it out loud in concrete. Maybe it’s just honest. Maybe we all know something’s off and it’s cleaner to plan for it than to pretend.
By the time Nymphomaniac came around, von Trier had already made Antichrist and Melancholia and Dogville, so you basically knew what he was going to do with a film structured around a woman’s sexual compulsion. Charlotte Gainsbourg plays a woman found beaten in an alley, and the entire film is her confession to a stranger - chapters of her life, her desire, the compulsive machinery of how it actually works.
He doesn’t soften any of it. The film is explicit and unapologetic because it has to be - the subject doesn’t work if you flinch away. Von Trier’s interested in the gap between desire and shame, between what the body wants and what the mind can’t accept. Not transgression for the sake of it, but the real shape of that conflict.
So yeah, it’s a sex film, but not one that’s trying to get you off. It’s trying to show you something true and uncomfortable, and it’ll be as graphic as it needs to be to do that. Which apparently is very.
I never actually saw it, so I can’t tell you if it worked. But that’s always the bet with him.
I saw a photo from Seoul once, someone I’d been following online. She’d had the surgery—double eyelids, a reshaped nose—and posted the before-and-after like it was nothing. One in five women in that city get cosmetic procedures done. Not because they’re vain, but because the job market prices beauty in. Because dating requires meeting someone’s template. The pressure is absolute.
People travel from all over Asia to get surgery in Seoul specifically. The doctors are artists. The whole apparatus is so polished and normal that you barely register what you’re watching—the endless before-and-afters, the clinics, the cheerful efficiency of normalizing something that used to be extreme. It’s just the thing you do now.
What gets me is how it stops being a choice. It becomes the thing you have to do to stay competitive. The infrastructure makes it inevitable—smooth enough, visible enough, profitable enough that opting out feels like a risk. That’s what unsettles me more than the surgery itself. Not cruelty, just efficiency.
Some website called Happy Hour Virus generates fake computer errors — Blue Screen of Death, Kernel Panic, all the classics. You pull one up on screen, show your boss, tell them your computer’s dead, and leave. That’s the whole thing.
The naming is perfect. Happy Hour Virus. Like wanting to leave work is an infection, like the desire to go home is so contagious it crashes your hardware. I respect that someone made this. Not because I’ve used it — I’d overthink it, get paranoid, probably confess to my boss out of pure anxiety. But just knowing it exists is enough.
There’s something human about coding up a joke tool specifically so tired people can fantasize about leaving early. You’re not even using it most of the time. You just find it, think about it, imagine that perfect moment where you show the fake error screen and everyone accepts it and you walk out the door. The fantasy is the product.
Pharrell’s “Happy” became one of those songs that’s everywhere before you really notice it happening. The 24-hour video was part of that: an endless loop of people dancing, smiling, repeating the same moment over and over until it starts to feel less like a song and more like a spell.
I never watched all of it, but the premise appealed to me — this commitment to pure brightness for a full day. In November especially, when the light goes flat and everyone’s mood sinks with it, there’s something almost radical about that. The song itself is aggressively cheerful in a way that should be unbearable but somehow isn’t.
Some Krautchan user made a thread asking if I’d “deliver,” which I still don’t know what that means. Doesn’t really matter though - now I’m getting unsolicited dick pictures from random guys across Germany who apparently think that’s going to work on me.
It won’t.
For context, Krautchan is basically Germany’s answer to 4chan. It’s where Bundeswehr dropouts, school skippers, and guys who failed English class all congregate under the name “Bernd” so they feel less alone. Someone made a thread about me, and now every horny idiot with an email address thinks sending me his cock is a viable strategy for getting my attention.
I actually like penises. I really do. Could be any size, any shape, any particular angle or aesthetic - they’re interesting things. But there’s a massive difference between the cock attached to someone you actually want to spend time with, and the cock attached to some random internet stranger who found your email on a forum.
Here’s what these guys don’t understand: attraction doesn’t work like a menu you can order from. You can’t just hit send on your best dick pic and expect me to suddenly want you. I’m not going to be interested in your body until I’m interested in you as a person.
And random unsolicited nudes do the exact opposite - they make me want to pull together a group chat with my friends and laugh about the angle you chose, the sad bathroom tiles behind you, the sheer desperation of thinking this was ever going to work.
The pathetic part is how confident they are. They see someone online, they find an email, and they think this is a legitimate opener. Like anyone’s ever been like, “Oh wow, I got a random dick pic from a stranger and now I’m in love.” It doesn’t happen. It never happens. What happens is exactly what I just described - mockery.
So here’s what I need you all to understand: if you’re on Krautchan, you’re already out. If you think sending me pictures of your genitals is going to impress me, you’re out. Keep your dick in your pants or find someone who’s actually getting paid to look at it. Someone with a much lower bar and significantly more financial need.
I need podcasts when I’m traveling. Driving, flying, sitting in airports waiting for the delayed connection—without something in my ears I’ll start talking to myself out loud, which is still somehow weird even in a city like Berlin where people are generally doing stranger things.
Found one called Hobby Alcoholics, which is basically a bunch of German blogs getting together to discuss whatever’s supposedly destroying the blogosphere that particular week. This time it was the ethics of blogs making money from advertising. Riveting stuff. The kind of conversation that’s definitely going to change everything about the internet tomorrow.
But I listened to the whole thing mostly because they spend the first hour talking about me. More specifically, they use that time to call me out for being incompetent at taking photographs in Tokyo. Which they’re right about. It’s strange listening to people criticize you and knowing they’re completely accurate and having zero ability to respond or defend yourself. You just sit there, quiet, with your cold coffee.
It was funny though. Uncomfortable but funny.
Anyway. Maybe 82 people know this podcast exists now instead of 81.
The Florida State AcaBelles covered Lorde’s “Royals” and it’s one of those covers that actually works. The song had been everywhere in the States by that point, burned into everyone’s brain, but their version somehow brings it back to life. There’s something about the arrangement that makes you hear the track fresh.
If you’re one of the people who never wants to hear the original again, do yourself a favor and watch it on mute. Focus on the second girl from the left in the second row and watch what she does with her mouth and eyes. That’s the whole cover right there. Sexy doesn’t even begin to cover it.
The video for Katy Perry’s “Unconditionally” is basically what happens when you throw a massive budget at someone’s breakup. She’s dancing in the snow in Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana, Wes Gordon — the kind of clothes that cost more than my first car, which is funny because the song is about heartbreak and wanting someone without conditions, without all the stuff.
It’s weirdly sterile, this video — perfectly immaculate, every frame composed, every color locked in, and Perry moves through it like she’s choreographed her own devastation. The snow, the gold, the designer labels — it’s all designed to feel luxurious and untouchable, which is maybe exactly the point. You’re supposed to feel the distance between what you’re seeing and what you’re hearing.
Perry has always been someone who understood that pop music could be a vehicle for excess, for oversized emotion and oversized production. “Unconditionally” is her trying to make heartbreak look like art direction, and honestly, it mostly works. The song underneath all of it is pretty straightforward — just a woman saying she loves someone no matter what — but the video wraps that in so much visual silk that you get two things at once: the raw confession and the armor she’s built around it. That’s the real thing happening here.
I lost my virginity at thirteen in some fascist’s garage before sunrise, and didn’t get a goodbye kiss. Catarina Migliorini from Brazil is trying to actually make money off hers—and this is her second round attempting it.
Last year she posted her virginity on Virgins Wanted and got a bid of $800,000 from a rich Japanese guy named Natsu. Then it fell through. Maybe he was repulsive, maybe she chickened out, probably both. Nothing happened, and she stayed broke. She’s trying again.
This time she wants $100,000 minimum, $1.5 million ideally. She appeared in Brazilian Playboy so interested parties could actually see what they’re buying. Fair enough—if you’re dropping that money, you want to know what you’re getting. And if you’re the kind of guy with the cash but nobody else will sleep with you, well, here’s your shot.
The whole spectacle made her a minor celebrity in Brazil. They don’t do subtle there. The story—the girl, the money, the crude transaction—was everywhere.
I’ve been hearing “Jambalaya” on repeat. It’s off Hinterland, and like everything Casper makes, it doesn’t waste time. The song moves you through something like a party, but the actual point is simple: about being singular as an artist, about what sets you apart.
Casper’s always been like that. He’s one of those German rappers who never bothers with flash or performance. Just precise language, exact spacing, nothing rushed. When he says he’s the only one doing what he does, it doesn’t sound arrogant because it’s clearly true. He’s been making that case for years just through the work.
I keep coming back to his albums because of that. There’s no attempt to impress you, no noise, just someone who knows what he’s doing and isn’t interested in explaining it.
You breathe into a glass vessel. Inside are honeybees. If they detect disease in your breath—cancer, serious illness, something metabolic—they navigate to a smaller sphere at the center. That’s Susana Soares’s design, shown at Dutch Design Week in Eindhoven. It’s simple and unsettling: your breath exposed, read by an organism.
The mechanism is clean. Bees smell better than dogs. Train them to associate the chemical signature of illness with food, and they seek it out—takes minutes. They’re just using something they’re already built to do, more precisely than we can.
The application is what matters: in countries where healthcare infrastructure is thin, this solves a real problem. No labs. No diagnostics. No equipment that needs electricity. But these insects don’t need any of that. They’re a diagnostic tool that works without infrastructure. Just the box, the biology, and your breath.
What gets me about this—thinking as a designer—is how thoroughly backward it is. We’re taught to innovate forward, to technologize, to build systems. And she solved a serious problem by moving in the opposite direction. The bees don’t require maintenance or software updates or specialist training. She just identified something they’re already better at than we are, and used that. It feels honest. Like a solution that doesn’t announce itself as progress.
San Cisco’s “Awkward” is the worst kind of earworm—the kind that doesn’t ask permission. The 2011 track buries itself in your skull with a stupidly effective hook and doesn’t leave.
The song is about two people so awkward they can’t manage to text each other, and the video just hammers home that they’re both idiots. The melody is dumb on purpose, the lyrics don’t try to be clever, and the whole thing feels engineered to be inescapable. Which it is.
I don’t remember clicking play, but I do remember the rest of the day—spending it humming “Do do do do do do do do do” without even meaning to. At first it was just background noise, that thing playing in the back of the head that won’t turn off. By evening I was quiet-singing it. By night I’d surrendered completely and was belting it in the shower.
The thing about a song like this is that it doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. It just has to be constructed right, and then it spreads like something contagious. Once it gets in, it stays in. And once other people click through, they carry it too. Now I’m the guy who somehow knows San Cisco’s “Awkward,” and I’m not even sure how to feel about that.
Freeskier Sebi Geiger is obsessed with a railing at Haus der Kulturen der Welt in Berlin. Modern abstract building, nothing you’d notice walking past, but the entrance has a rail that doubles back on itself. Long obstacle. He wants to ride it. Probably won’t — it’s near government offices, always busy, security everywhere — but he keeps it in his head anyway. Photographs it mentally. Waits.
The thing about Sebi is he’s learned to spot this way. He keeps his phone out in cities now, snapping pictures of potential lines, rails that catch his eye, stairs that could work. It’s a habit. Years ago he saw a railing in a skate video and it stuck with him for years without a location, a reference point to nothing. Then a friend called him to shoot photos somewhere in Germany, mentions a spot he’s planning to film at. Same railing Sebi had been carrying around. Took years to find it, but he rode it.
This is the real thing: the spots are everywhere. Hidden in ordinary places, in city geometry, in spaces built for something else. Your board — surf, ski, snow — works on anything. A staircase. A rail. Packed snow on pavement. You’re just reading the space differently. Making angles out of restriction. Every city becomes terrain if you’re patient and strange enough to look.
There’s something about riding somewhere you weren’t supposed to ride that’s different from riding where it’s expected. Even now, even knowing all the spots are there to find, I understand why Sebi keeps that Berlin railing in his back pocket. It’s the wanting that matters.
Germany’s in full panic about teenagers sexting, which is hilarious because the public alarm just taught a bunch of kids who weren’t thinking about it that this is apparently something you can do. Congratulations, authorities.
I know enough people who’ve done this, seen enough leaked pictures, heard enough stories, to know that nearly everyone completely botches it. Not in a moral sense—I mean technically incompetent. The photos are just bad. So I’ve spent enough time thinking about what would actually make them less bad.
The main issue is that people look like they didn’t try. Celebrity nudes that leak are usually terrible—fluorescent bathroom lighting, worst possible angle, looks like they got surprised mid-shower. If you’re already committed to taking a naked picture of yourself, the bare minimum is to not look like a disaster. Shower. Find decent light. Not the bathroom mirror at 2am where you’re deathly pale, but something that actually works. Groom yourself. Use a real camera if you have one, but your phone works fine if you’re not shooting in the dark.
But the bigger issue is the performing. Most bad nudes I’ve heard about have someone trying way too hard to look “sexy,” which just reads as unhinged. Weird angles, weird face, over-the-top posing. The only thing that reads as attractive is comfort, which means you have to actually feel comfortable. Stand there like you exist as a person. Let your face be in the frame. The whole point is that it’s you.
Your background matters in a way that’s easy to ignore. A room full of dirty laundry, empty cans, your general disaster—it doesn’t matter how good your body looks if the background is screaming that you live like an animal. Find a clean corner. A clean bathroom works. It’s straightforward.
The technical stuff barely matters. Use a real camera if you want; a pixelated dick pic is just sad. But your phone’s fine. Polaroid actually works if you want to pretend it’s art, which has a certain charm.
How much to show is up to you. Start with whatever you’re comfortable with. The face changes everything. Not sure why exactly, but it does.
Don’t Photoshop yourself. You’ll distort the background and it’ll be obvious. Either shoot in a way that hides what bothers you, or accept your body. Black and white works. Normal bodies are fine.
Take a ton of photos. Find the angle where you don’t immediately regret everything, then delete all the others. Actually delete them—off your phone, your computer, your cloud backup, everywhere. Future you will be grateful.
Once you’ve done it a few times and aren’t terrified, stop being so formal. Get weird with it. Props, strange locations, something that feels like you’re having fun instead of performing. Get a trusted friend to help if you have one.
Here’s the thing though: if you send nudes, accept that they might not stay private. Angry ex, cloud syncing wrong, wrong group chat. You have to be okay with that possibility before you even take the picture. Not okay with your family seeing it, maybe, but okay with the fact that it exists somewhere beyond your control.
And that’s fine. A naked body is just a body. Everyone has one. What actually matters is whether you feel good about it—whether you’re doing this because you actually want to, not because you’re desperate or trying to prove something. Everything else is just technical execution.
Kanye dropped ’Bound 2’ on Ellen. It’s nine minutes of Kim in a red bikini while he sings about wanting to fuck her. Kitchen counter, if we’re being literal about the lyrics. No narrative, no style, no pretense — just him wanting her and making a video to say so.
Most guys hide desire like that under metaphor or art direction. Kanye decided honesty was the move. Just raw possession, pure and simple. The video doesn’t apologize for it. Doesn’t try to be anything other than what it is.
It’s not elegant. It’s not even good. But there’s something almost admirable about the complete lack of self-consciousness — just pure, dumb horniness on display.
There’s a video of a kid dressed as Harry Potter at Penn Station, walking up to strangers and asking where Platform 9 3/4 is. Dead serious about it. And what happens is exactly what you’d want—people stop. They smile. They actually try to help. A woman at the ticket counter lights up. Someone remembers their kid reading the books. For a moment everyone’s just there with him.
I get why these things work when they work. You’re moving through your day with headphones in, eyes down, carrying the weight of whatever started it. Then some kid in a striped scarf asks a sincere question and you remember being someone who cared about things that hard, where the small details mattered.
What kills me is how real it is. The kid genuinely believes someone might know. The strangers genuinely want to help. There’s no angle, no performance. Just an honest question meeting actual kindness, and that breaks through everything else.
I think about the things I used to care about that intensely—where you’d ask a stranger and actually believe they might know the answer. You lose that somewhere without noticing. But seeing it still alive in someone else, seeing people respond instead of walking past—that’s worth something.
The theory that Breaking Bad is just Hal from Malcolm in the Middle having the world’s worst nightmare has been floating around so long that nobody remembers who started it, but it’s weirdly hard to shake once you think about it. Bryan Cranston played a sitcom dad barely holding it together in the suburbs. Then he played a meth cook who burns down his entire life with purpose and precision. The through-line is dark enough that it could be a dream.
What makes it stick is how little you’d have to change about either show for it to be true. Take the beige, desaturated palette of Breaking Bad, the way everything’s always going wrong, the nightmarish logic where consequences just pile up forever. That’s not TV, that’s what it looks like inside someone’s head when they’re trapped in a nightmare. Hal jolting awake in his modest house, wife asleep next to him, grateful his life is so small and ordinary — that’s the real ending, the only one that makes sense.
Except it’s not. Walter White stays dead. The show never wakes up. And that’s what makes Cranston’s performance so eerie — somewhere in his range as an actor is a guy comfortable playing both the broken suburban dad and the guy who’d burn everything he touches. The joke works because the show actually earned its darkness. You want it to be a dream because the truth is scarier.
You get your PS4 and it’s dead on arrival. Won’t boot. Won’t do anything. Just sits there, black and useless.
Turns out you weren’t alone. Amazon filled with photos—hard drives dangling loose, cables fried, obviously deliberate gaps. People started connecting the dots. In the Yantai facility where Foxconn assembled them, students working under the guise of unpaid internships had apparently decided to fight back the only way they could. A quote made the rounds on forums from one of them: If Foxconn doesn’t treat us well, we don’t treat the PS4 well. The consoles barely turn on.
Foxconn is the place where workers jump off the roof because they can’t take assembling one more phone. This is where your consumer goods come from. These kids—broke, exhausted, powerless—found a way to say no. They sabotaged consoles on the assembly line. Deliberately. Most of the defects traced back to their facility, their shifts.
The pattern was there if you looked: missing connections, burnt cables, things that would overheat and brick themselves after the first update. Rage made technical. Someone getting paid almost nothing deciding to tax someone buying leisure on credit.
I don’t know what happened after. Sony probably fixed it before the launch in Europe. Swapped suppliers, tightened checks, took a loss. The usual cycle. But for a moment your expensive new console arrived broken by choice, and it came from someone who had almost no power at all.
I found a video of Lorde performing with her school band at an Australian battle of the bands in 2009. She was twelve. What hits you first isn’t her voice or the song—it’s that she belonged on stage in a way most people never will. She talked afterward about how big stages make a difference, and she was right, but she also already knew it. That kind of certainty at twelve is almost unfair.
By the time “Royals” came out, she’d become my newest fixation. The song sounded like she’d been waiting for everyone else to finally catch up. “Tennis Court,” “Team”—these aren’t songs written by someone still finding themselves. They sound written by someone who always knew exactly who they were. Most people spend their twenties trying to become whoever they’re going to be. She showed up already fully formed.
Some people are just built that way. Everything installed from the start, complete confidence, vision matching voice perfectly. She happened to be one of them. The music proved it.
Kalen Hollomon draws dicks on white clothing. He takes it seriously — you can tell. This shirt is probably his peak work: “Bro’s Before Ho’s” in slightly crooked English, with illustrations flanking it that leave absolutely nothing to interpretation.
The phrase is the kind of thing guys say in group chats when someone’s disappearing into a relationship. A crude loyalty oath. It’s not about disrespect to women — it’s about that very specific, unexamined bond between lifelong friends, the kind of friendship where you’ve known each other long enough that it feels stupid to have to justify why you’re hanging out instead of pursuing something romantic. The shirt gets that.
What makes the design work is the commitment to the crude register. No trying to be clever or ironic. The lettering’s wonky, the drawings are straightforward, everything sits at exactly the same level of obvious crudeness. It doesn’t try to wink at you.
Seeing these in photos from a few years back, it reads like a very specific artifact — not timeless, not entirely dated either. Just a shirt that knew what it was doing and didn’t apologize for it.
I can’t stop thinking about North Korea, for all the wrong reasons. Not because I’m drawn to its culture or impressed by some innovation or charmed by something about the place. It’s the horror that won’t let go.
The pure fact of it existing in 2013 makes no sense. A state sorting people into castes, controlling the images they see, executing them however the regime feels like. Whole families wiped out. Entire generations locked away. Guilty, innocent—doesn’t matter. The system is so complete it feels like something from another era, except it’s happening right now.
Channel 4 put out a documentary recently and it found its way onto the usual video sites. Interviews with people who escaped. Secret recordings. Footage from inside the system. Young people talking about their lives under constant control, constant threat, the state pressing down on everything.
What gets me is that Kim Jong-un isn’t a cartoon. He’s not some laughable figure everyone jokes about. He’s a man killing people, running an entire country through pure cruelty, and the reason it continues is because nobody does anything about it. I keep turning that over—how absurdity and horror are the same thing when it’s actually real.
I’ve done plenty of transgressive shit in virtual worlds that would never hold up in actual court. Shot old men off bicycles and danced on their bodies. Wiped out entire neighborhoods because I wanted to build a stupid reactor there instead. As a gay spaceship captain, I seduced extraterrestrials in my quarters decorated with dead fish. But this game? This is actually new for me.
Some guy named Mr. Boonstra (what kind of name is that, and what kind of world do I live in?) programmed a game called “Shave Them Titties.” The premise is simple: there’s a pair of hanging breasts, and they’re hairier than your armpits get when you ignore personal hygiene through a whole winter. Your goal is to shave them. That’s it.
I’m still not entirely sure what the point even is. Maybe it’s a practical simulation—training wheels for when you’ve got hair growing in places you don’t want it. Maybe it satisfies some fetish gap I didn’t know existed. Maybe there’s no point at all and that’s somehow the whole thing. Whatever. Games exist to be won, and I’ve played weirder games for less reason, so let’s get to it. Shave them titties.
Every time someone visits and doesn’t speak German, I watch them hit the wall. They’re trying to say Mecklenburg-Vorpommern and their mouth just gives up halfway through, like they’re choking on consonants. You can see them calculating, rewinding, trying again. It never works.
German place names aren’t built for English speakers. The consonant clusters pile up like a bad accident. Niedersachen. Schleswig-Holstein. It’s not a pronunciation problem; it’s architecture.
Harald Havasaus from Austria finally surrendered. He made a map that translates German geography into what actually comes out when an English mouth encounters German place names. Not approximations or practice versions—just the honest phonetic result. Mac Len Borg-Four Pom Earn. Neither Suck Zen. Toyed Shoe Lunt for Deutschland. Berlin becomes Bear Lean, which is somehow completely wrong and exactly perfect at the same time.
The brilliance is that he stopped teaching. He looked at decades of English speakers failing at German pronunciation and just went, okay, this is what you say instead. Give up on the real version. Say the phonetic one. At least then everyone knows what you mean.
There’s something freeing about that surrender. I’ve spent a long time watching people apologize for pronouncing things wrong, and the relief comes when you stop pretending it matters. The place is still there. The people are still there. The language doesn’t change because someone’s mouth shaped it differently. Say it however you want.
A journalist named Nils Jacobsen—economics background, actual media credentials—wrote about me in some German media publication. Not a profile I’d asked for, just an analysis of what Amy&Pink was and how it’d managed to capture a moment that respectable media had completely missed.
His argument was straightforward: the blog lived in the space between what teenagers actually wanted and what grown-up publications thought they should want. Everything was explicitly sexual, written by eighteen-year-olds for eighteen-year-olds, operating in a cultural moment where YouPorn and BuzzFeed were the actual authorities. Magazines and newspapers were irrelevant. The blog just provided what people craved, without dressing it up.
Nils didn’t soften it. He called it trash. Limited writing. Calculated. (He’d quoted something I’d said about basically forgetting how to write properly, which was fair.) But he made this observation that stuck with me: despite all that—maybe because of it—the blog captured the actual moment more truthfully than anything respectable media was doing. Magazine editors scrambling to seem young were missing it. Critics were always catching up. This was just direct.
Then he wrote that I was “the blogging pimp of the Miley Cyrus generation, constantly feeding fresh material to eighteen-year-olds—written by eighteen-year-olds themselves.”
I’ve never met Nils. But reading that felt like recognition. Not flattery, exactly. The rarer thing: someone from outside seeing clearly what you’d made and naming it accurately, without trying to make it respectable or noble. He just called it what it was.
I actually love when strangers write about you. It’s even better when they hand you a usable phrase. That one was so perfectly gross and specific I considered getting it printed on business cards. Which is exactly the kind of thing that should tell you something about my actual values versus whatever I might claim about them.
I had a friend who got into gauges—started stretching his earlobes with increasingly large jewelry, the whole flesh tunnel thing. At first it actually looked fine, maybe even cool in that committed way. But after a few years it became hard to look at. The earlobes don’t bounce back the way you’d think. They’re just permanently changed, stretched out, different in a way that played better when the trend was still alive.
I never went that route. Partly cowardice, partly just not caring, but I watched enough people deal with it to feel relief that I didn’t. The strange thing about extreme body modification is that it works when you’re young and in the moment, everyone doing versions of the same thing. Then time moves on and the trend dies and you’re just living with a decision your twenty-year-old self made for the rest of your life.
Some people who stretched their ears have regrets now. Some don’t, but they’re aware of it in a way that suggests the regret was at least considered. It becomes something you carry—you either own it or you’re quietly managing it, but you can’t pretend it didn’t happen. It’s on your face.
I’m glad it wasn’t me. Not because there’s anything wrong with it. Just because my ears got to stay unmarked and unremarkable, and watching other people navigate permanent choices makes that feel like a gift.
I heard about Karate Andi before I ever saw him—just his name getting thrown around at the Wednesday rap nights in Neukölln. He’s the guy who supposedly runs that whole scene, or at least makes enough noise that people treat him like he does. The other Berlin neighborhoods all have their thing, their identity, but Neukölln’s got this specific meanness to it, and Andi’s its avatar. You spot him in the crowd with his crew, those hand signals he’s always making, that particular Berlin aggression that never quite becomes violence but you feel it anyway. He’s the kind of local character that makes a place worth caring about—not because he’s good or interesting in any respectable sense, but because he’s genuinely real in a way most people aren’t.
Sido wears a mask. Not metaphorically—literally, an actual mask, which is either brilliant or ridiculous depending on whether you buy it. I’ve never quite decided which, and I suspect that’s the whole point.
German hip-hop in the 2000s had this guy: dark production, violent imagery, weird hooks, a theatrical presence that refused to quit. His records ended up in bedrooms. His lyrics entered the conversation. You could argue about everything—his taste, his persona, the darkness in his work, his actual past. But the reach was real. Influence doesn’t ask for permission.
“Einer dieser Steine” is his new one with Mark Forster, being called an epic return, hearts melting, all that language. I’d just say he’s back doing what he does: the voice, the darkness, the thing that got under people’s skin. The Forster collaboration pulls it toward pop territory, which is either natural or compromise, but either way it works.
I’m not fifteen anymore, so I don’t need Sido the way I once might have. But there’s something solid about watching someone return to what they actually do, without reinventing, without apologizing, without chasing who they used to be. That’s more than enough.
Howard walks around Hong Kong dressed as Kim Jong-un. Full haircut, the scowl, all of it. He’s thirty-four and his real name isn’t something he advertises—he’s convinced the North Korean regime would prefer he didn’t exist. But the payoff’s too good: strangers stop him for photos, everyone laughs, he gets to be unmistakable for a moment.
The danger’s real. He knows it. It’s not enough to stop him, though. The appeal of being a living joke, of being instantly recognizable as something impossible, outweighs whatever theoretical threat lives in the back of his head.
You respect that. Most people let fear keep them small. Howard picked the joke instead.
There’s this moment in ’What Now’ where everything drops away and it’s just Rihanna’s voice, and you understand that’s all that’s left. The song is a ballad, completely stripped down, and she doesn’t perform sadness or strength or anything else. Doesn’t try to make the breakup mean something bigger. Just sounds like someone after everything’s over.
The video works the same way. Minimal, dark, no attempt to spin it into a statement about resilience or beauty or her place in pop. Just her, lit well but not showy. Existing in the space after.
When I first heard it, I thought: this is what happens when you have enough power that you don’t need to prove anything. No production, no sheen, no hooks designed to stick in your head. Just someone singing about wreckage because the song needs it.
I came back to it a few times. Not because it became iconic or unforgettable, just because it sounds true in a way that most things aren’t. That’s rarer than it should be.
Moscow put a squat machine in the subway for Olympic year: ten squats gets you a ticket. Stupid and perfect at the same time.
The joke is it’s honest. You already know how this works: need money, you work; want something, you perform. Now they’re just asking you to do it literally. Squat for your commute. Run for your welfare. Do push-ups for a movie. Make your body the currency instead of pretending it’s something else.
Most people saw it as a fun stunt. I saw it and immediately thought about the person with bad knees, or the person who’s already sore, or the person who just needed to get to work. The machine doesn’t care. It counts.
It’s not evil, exactly. Just transparent. You already know what the deal is: pay with money or pay with effort. Nothing’s free. At least with the squat machine you can see it happening.
I never found out how long they kept it running or if anyone actually used it. But I kept thinking about it—the image of someone on their way to work, sore and bitter, feeding themselves to a machine that demands physical proof before it lets you through. That’s the system, just made visible.
Clara found this thing called Serial Killer or Hipster, made by some guy named Bobby Watson in Paris. The game is simple: you get shown a photo and you guess whether the person is just drowning in an existential crisis about identity, or whether they’ve actually murdered someone. In a lot of these photos the answer is impossible to tell, which is exactly why the game exists.
I’ve tried it a few times and can’t make it past a certain point. Maybe I’m just bad at categorizing people, or maybe the game knows something about me I don’t want to know. But whoever can actually finish this thing proves something about themselves—that they’ve spent enough time staring at youth culture and archive aesthetics to see the patterns. Or maybe that they’re the serial killer. Could go either way.
In November 2013, Microsoft opened pop-up studios in four German cities to launch the Xbox One. Celebrities were on hand. The pitch was simple: one machine would transform your living room, with Kinect always watching, games and TV finally unified. It was the last time a console launch felt like a cultural moment instead of a product rollout.
The always-on Kinect became a privacy disaster. The digital-only requirement got reversed. The living room transformation never happened. Microsoft spent years undoing what they sold in November 2013.
But there’s something in that moment I still think about—the confidence that if you promise hard enough and surround it with the right people, the future will cooperate. It won’t. But the theater was beautiful. The Wunderkiste sitting there, promising to change everything. For a few weeks, people actually believed it.
Winter and you want someone to lie around with. Not forever, just warm company on the couch while you both watch TV, no need to be interesting. It’s the thought everyone has in February.
A couple of designers in Berlin started a dating project that photographs singles at home and posts them online. No filters, no algorithm, no endless scroll. You see Sara from Prenzlauer Berg and know she likes pillow fights. You see Karl from Friedrichshain and learn he inexplicably loves alpacas. You see Luisa from Kreuzberg drinking vodka with olives and that’s the complete picture. Either you want it or you don’t. No swipes, no optimized matching, no promise that someone better is one click away.
Everything about dating apps is designed to keep you browsing and comparing. This project is the opposite—specific, limited, human. Just people in their actual apartments instead of curated profiles. That’s the whole appeal, really. You know what you’re getting into because you’re looking at how the person actually lives.
I don’t know if it matters much in the grand scheme of things, but there’s something right about it. Honesty over optimization. Specificity over infinite choice. Small feels like the better answer these days.
I went to reply to a YouTube comment and it asked for a Google+ account. I didn’t have one. Didn’t want one. There was no decline option.
Google had decided Google+ was going to happen and YouTube was the lever. Sign up or your comments get posted under a name Google assigned you. It was the kind of plan that only gets approved when nobody in the room actually uses YouTube.
Jawed Karim, who’d actually built YouTube, complained about it. Emma Blackery made a mocking song. Francis explained how the moderation fell apart completely — trolls could impersonate anyone while real users got shadowbanned. Everyone could see it was worse, not better.
That’s when YouTube stopped feeling like something I was using and started feeling like something being done to me. The comments section had always been a mess, but it was a genuine mess. This felt processed, filtered, owned.
I never signed up for Google+. I just stopped commenting on YouTube, like a lot of other people did.
I found out Die Beginner were working on new material. Eizi Eiz, Denyo, DJ Mad—three guys from Hamburg who made hip-hop that actually sounded like something, back when I paid attention to that stuff. They’d gone mostly quiet over the years, the way bands do when everyone’s working solo projects and paying rent and dealing with all the friction that slowly grinds a group to pieces.
Die Beginner had a specific sound for a specific moment. Their music was crude in a way that didn’t ask permission, funny without performing humor, genuinely hostile to what hip-hop was supposed to be. When I heard them, they sounded like three people who’d figured something out and couldn’t be bothered checking if you approved. Probably I was reading too much into it—probably I still am—but that’s what you hear when you’re young and you hear the thing that moves you.
By the time they’d faded, hip-hop had become something else. Slicker, more self-conscious, more committed to its own mythology. Die Beginner never cared about that machinery. They were just there for a while, and then they weren’t, and now they’re back in small ways, between other lives and other projects.
So they’re working on an album. It’ll take time. People change, and you want the band that lived in your head at seventeen, but what you actually get is three men in their forties making music between everything else they’ve got going on. That’s usually the truer thing, if you’re honest about it. If the album comes out, fine. If it doesn’t, you already have what mattered.
I spent too much time on Vine. Everyone was making art — careful shots, ideas that would resonate, things that were supposed to matter. Logan Paul from Ohio just did stupid stuff instead and it was infinitely more interesting.
Not cleverer. Not more ambitious. Just commitment to being absurd. A video of him doing something ridiculous and the complete faith that honesty about stupidity lands harder than trying. He was probably right about that.
Someone compiled his videos and put them on YouTube. I watched longer than I’d want to admit. Anyone who says they didn’t laugh is lying or has genuinely lost their sense of humor, which feels like an actual loss.
Vine’s been gone for years now. YouTube Shorts and TikTok inherited the format but they’re longer and softer. When you have unlimited time you get precious. The whole power of Vine was the constraint — six seconds meant you couldn’t hide behind craft or cleverness. You either made something sharp or you made nothing.
Someone invented a burger made from a warm donut spread thick with Nutella, passion fruit jam, strawberries, and kiwi slices. The strawberries are funny — they’re there to justify it, make it reasonable, but they change nothing. It’s still chocolate-hazelnut spread on fried pastry. Yet somehow the fruit makes it okay, makes it feel less completely insane. Food’s been pushing in one direction for years: more meat, more cheese, more excess. The sweet stuff just follows the same path. This burger is the logical endpoint of that thinking, the answer to how far it goes. Pretty far. The strawberry’s there to make that feel manageable, and somehow it works.
I grew up on the Flipper version of dolphins—noble, intelligent, rescuing drowning sailors. The mythology. Then I watched this video and it just dismantles everything. Turns out dolphins do unspeakable things to decapitated fish. Not fucking them in any normal way. Just sexual violence against dead parts, apparently routine behavior. The whole image collapses the moment you know about it. I felt stupid once buying a crooked cucumber. These animals are committing acts that would get you on some kind of registry.
Emily Ratajkowski was 21 in 2013 and already knew the game better than the people who were supposed to be mentoring her. “Blurred Lines” made her visible; she just decided what visible meant. By the time the Treats! shoot happened — just her, naked, completely unbothered — it felt less like a scandal and more like the only honest version of something everyone had been pretending was more complicated than it was. She made money. She controlled her image. The internet got what it wanted. What always struck me was how everyone else kept acting surprised about the whole thing, like they hadn’t seen it coming from a mile away.
When Lily Allen sings about forgetting your balls and growing tits, she’s not being ironic or defensive about it. She’s just saying it, matter-of-fact, like it’s obvious, all of it packaged in a hook that won’t leave your head. The video’s all half-naked dancers and Lily pushing boundaries that shouldn’t exist in the first place. That’s “Hard Out Here”—crude, sexual, aggressively feminist in a way that doesn’t require permission or apology.
She’s been away long enough that this feels like a return, but really she’s just the same person—the one who gave us “Fuck You” and “Smile” when we needed someone to not care what anyone thought. What strikes me now is how rare this combination actually is: artists who are provocative, sure, and plenty who are feminist, but the ones who merge both without irony, who use sexuality in a way that doesn’t perform for men—those are uncommon. That’s always been Lily’s thing.
I remember her from years ago in interviews where she’d say something shocking and the interviewer would freeze, trying to figure out if she was joking, and she’d just stare back with this look that made clear she wasn’t concerned with their confusion. That’s the through-line. She’s always been more interested in what amuses her than in reassuring anyone else. The album hasn’t dropped yet, but this single is enough to know she’s still here and still not apologizing.
There’s a photograph from Sofia I keep thinking about. A student, face wet, reaches toward a police officer during the protests—asking him not to hurt her, not to hurt her friends. The officer breaks. He cries. And he tells her to hold on.
Bulgaria had been burning for weeks. The country ground down by corruption and poverty until the students finally broke, occupying the parliament, calling the system what it was. From the May elections on, the pressure just kept building. Stefan Stefanov’s photograph caught something I haven’t seen said any other way.
It’s the moment when power admits it can’t hold. When the person in uniform realizes they’re pointing a weapon at another person, and that person is real. There’s something about that—the officer crying, his voice soft—that says everything about how fragile it all is. Systems don’t survive on strength. They survive on the agreement to stay numb, to keep pressing, to not feel the weight of what you’re doing.
I think about that a lot. What happens when someone can’t anymore. When the person holding the line realizes the line is holding them prisoner.
That photograph is everything. Everything else is just noise.
I renamed this dispatch and nobody cared. NEUE ELITE, I called it—serious, austere, a clean break. Lasted two weeks before the money ran out. Two articles a day, well-researched, actually good. But you can’t fund that on good intentions. I was burning through cash like I was throwing cocaine parties, except it was really just Thai food and porn subscriptions. So I changed it back to the old name, the one with history, and suddenly revenue appeared. Posts started flowing. Writers started pitching. The machine worked again.
But the name still didn’t feel right. You know that 2am thing, sitting at your desk with whisky, where you realize something you’ve been defending is just… wrong? I got there. All the logic about seriousness and positioning and fresh starts—none of it matters against what actually works, which was what I’d been doing before.
I found an old photo. Years distilled into one frame. All those people, all that energy, everything we’d built together before I decided to burn it down out of boredom or ambition or some feeling I can’t name now. I missed it.
So here we are. The name is back. Everything is as it was. Whatever NEUE ELITE was—the serious attempt, the experiment—it’ll probably show up again someday as something else. But not as the main thing. Just a side project, if it shows up at all.
Drake in “Worst Behavior” is doing exactly what he always does—playing the tough guy while maintaining just enough self-awareness that you feel like you’re in on the act. The video’s got everything locked down: slick production, calculated visuals, every frame exactly where it should be. There’s no surprises, just precise execution.
Part of what makes it work is that he seems aware of the construction. He’ll layer on the hardness—the looks, the posture, the whole persona—but there’s always this subtle wink underneath, like he knows it’s a performance and assumes you do too. It’s a smart move. Build enough plausible deniability into your image that people feel clever for understanding you’re not entirely serious, but also that you’re still completely committed to the bit.
He’s turned this exact formula into an entire career, and it’s effective. You watch it and there’s nothing wrong with it. Everything is intentional, everything lands, the image is consistent and well-maintained. But somewhere in the middle of that flawless execution, it starts to feel less like art and more like product. A really well-designed product, sure, but product nonetheless. At a certain point the line between the performance and the person gets so blurred that the distinction stops mattering. You’re just watching someone be extremely good at being himself—or at least at making you believe that’s what you’re watching.
Swedish cinemas are labeling films with the Bechdel Test now—an official rating system. Two named female characters who talk to each other about something other than men. That’s the requirement. Lord of the Rings fails. Harry Potter fails. Star Wars fails.
I’ve watched Lord of the Rings more times than I care to admit, and I never noticed. The film is compositionally perfect—the kind of thing you study to understand how images actually work. But female characters with any real presence? There’s almost nothing there. Now it’s impossible to unsee.
The Bechdel Test came from a comic artist named Alison Bechdel back in the eighties. For years it was something you’d mention casually in conversations about media, a funny observation that went nowhere. Sweden made it official, which is either completely obvious or completely missing the point depending on who you ask.
Pulp Fiction fails. Good Will Hunting fails. The Social Network fails. Films people genuinely love and watch repeatedly. There’s no ban—they still get released and shown. They just get marked now, and somehow that marking makes the absence visible in a way nothing else could.
I’m skeptical it changes anything. Probably doesn’t. But there’s something about the visibility itself.
The film opens with Adèle in motion — walking, eating, existing without any ceremony to herself. By the time she meets Clémentine, she’s someone else entirely, because Clémentine made her that way. That’s what “Blue is the Warmest Color” is about. But when it came out in 2013, nobody was talking about any of that.
Everyone was talking about the sex scene. The explicit 10-minute sequence between Adèle Exarchopoulos and Léa Seydoux became the only thing that mattered, stretched long and unflinching in a way that made people uncomfortable in exactly the way they wanted to be uncomfortable.
The internet flooded with “how do real lesbians react to this” takes, which always felt like trying to mine authentic response from something that didn’t need authentication. The scene isn’t even the point of the film. It’s just bodies, honest and unmediated in a way cinema usually sidesteps. What actually stays with you is everything that comes after — how the film measures the distance that grows between two people who loved each other, the way circumstance hollows out what looked inevitable.
I watched it because the noise was inescapable. The sex scene is fine. The heartbreak is what lingers.
I watched a video I didn’t want to watch. Hassan Hammoud in Lebanon put his cat in the microwave. His friend Jallad filmed it, laughing while it happened. One minute. The cat got severe burns. He posted it online.
Twitter did what Twitter does. Calls for arrest, posts about how animal abuse is where serial killers start, the whole reflexive machinery of moral outrage. Except Lebanon has no animal cruelty laws. So nothing happened to him. The cat suffered. The video went viral. The outrage died down. We all moved on.
What I can’t stop thinking about is the casual filming. Not the cruelty itself—I know people are capable of anything. It’s that he thought this was worth documenting. That his friend laughing was funny enough to capture. That he had no sense at all that this was the kind of thing the world didn’t need to see. The confidence to commit casual torture and film it and expect people to find it at least a little bit amusing.
The video made people angry for a day. The cat’s still alive, still burned, still remembering what happened inside that microwave. The two facts don’t balance out. Nothing we tweeted changed anything. Our outrage was just a noise we made at screens before moving on to the next horrible thing.
Remember when shock value still felt like something? Miley riding naked on a wrecking ball felt transgressive. Smoking weed onstage felt like she was actually doing something. Now it’s the default mode—every single release is another excuse to take her clothes off. The new video with Future and Mr Hudson has her floating in space with body glitter instead of actual clothes, and it’s so familiar at this point I barely register it as a choice anymore.
I’m not even judging the nudity. I care about a lot of naked people in art and music and film. What gets to me is the predictability of it. She’s found the thing that gets attention and she’s stuck in it, which means the thing stops being transgressive and just becomes the job. Miley running the same shock-value playbook over and over is less an artistic statement and more like watching someone on a treadmill, except the treadmill is just her stripping down again for the tenth video this year.
Maybe she genuinely likes being naked in front of cameras. Maybe it’s become the only language she knows how to speak to an audience anymore. Either way, I’m waiting for the version of her career where she wakes up one morning and decides to wear clothes again just to see if anyone notices. That would actually surprise me.
Someone’s been replacing McDonald’s and Burger King billboards in German cities with recipe posters. Spaghetti bolognese, a rice stir-fry—actual food you could make. The design matches the original ads so closely that the contrast works perfectly.
I like that approach. It’s not a protest or a moral argument. Just someone who understands how advertising works and decided to use that against what it usually sells. Small, formal, effective.
Broly posted pictures on Instagram. Guns, cash, women, phones — all the usual stuff, but documented like a lifestyle. Selfies from inside something brutal, filtered and framed like it meant something.
The thing that got me was how normal it looked. Instagram has this way of flattening everything into the same visual language. A guy with a cartel and a phone was just another person performing his life for strangers. The violence wasn’t the point anymore — the audience was. He wanted the likes, the comments, the feeling of existing in front of people. Most of us just hide better.
There’s something deeply unsettling about watching someone document a reality you know ends badly, framed like a vacation. The distance between the gun and the filter. Between what’s actually happening and what you’re willing to see. Social media lets you pretend it’s all the same thing.
I don’t know what happened to him. Probably nothing good. But by then everyone had already moved on to the next viral thing, the next person performing their worst or best self into the void, all of it looking exactly the same on the feed.
The first few seconds of Smooth McGroove’s a cappella version of the Overworld theme from A Link to the Past and I’m somewhere else entirely. Back in that cartridge, that overworld, the one that felt both infinite and intimate.
McGroove does video game music this way—pure a cappella, layering his own voice until he’s a full arrangement. Street Fighter, Sonic, Mario Kart, whatever has a melody worth taking seriously. He’s got the look of a viking who actually turned out fine, which somehow tracks.
But the Zelda one gets me because it’s specific. Summers I spent in that world, days before I understood you could even leave the starting area. Just the theme on loop, over and over. Hearing someone sing it now, no synth, no irony, just the melody straight—there’s no way to protect yourself from that. It just lands.
There’s something right about Placebo playing Zeche Zollverein. The venue’s built on what used to be a coal mine—UNESCO site now, monument to an era finished—and that industrial weight, those enormous headgears still standing, it changes what you hear in ways a regular venue can’t. Sound held against genuine history. Most places you see bands are just rooms. This is architecture with memory, and Molko’s voice against all that weight feels like the right match.
Placebo shouldn’t have lasted this long. Pretty-boy androgynous provocation in the ’90s, survived being fashionable and then being a punchline, somehow became genuinely essential because of what Molko does—that waver, that fragility underneath the rage, the way vulnerability sounds dangerous when he sings it. Twenty-some years in, they’re still touring industrial sites in Germany like it says something about endurance, about surviving aesthetics and trends and staying functional underneath all of it.
The headgear over Schacht 12 isn’t scenery. It’s the actual thing. I like that they’re playing in front of it.
There’s a Walking Dead Monopoly now, which is funny in the particular way that licensed board games always are. Someone convinced Hasbro that zombie-apocalypse survivors need a casual evening pastime, and they actually went and designed it. You move around in an armored bus. The prison is safe. You collect supply crates and weapons. The base premise is so absurd it wraps back around to charming.
I stopped watching the TV show somewhere in the middle, but the universe has this gravitational pull anyway. Every corner of it — games, comics, merchandise — grinds through the same loop. Find shelter. Establish community. Watch it fall apart. Repeat until people stop watching. Ritual masquerading as survival.
The thing about licensed board games is they live in this weird space between genuine product and generous thought. Someone had to actually sit down and design this thing. They had to figure out which properties mattered in a zombie economy, whether weapons should be currency, what the winning condition even looks like when you’re supposed to be surviving. It’s earnest capitalist creativity, which is somehow worse and better at the same time.
I’d play it once, probably. At some gathering where everyone’s looking for something to do. We’d be mildly bored. But I’d get it.
Something’s been missing, this quiet thing that makes the day feel less sharp. M83 just put out what feels like an intro, a small hymn that settles into you the way “Midnight City” used to settle into everything around 2011. Nicolas Fromageau and Anthony Gonzalez have been doing this for a long time now—the ethereal synths, the way they can make something sound both distant and immediate. “Midnight City” was the song that somehow belonged to everyone. “Wait” had this patience built into it. “We Own The Sky” felt like reaching for something just beyond touch.
Now there’s “Ali & Matthias,” from the “You And The Night” soundtrack, and it’s the kind of thing you put on when you need permission to let the world fade a little. Not bombastic, not trying to convince you of anything. Just there, floating. Gentle in the way that gentleness requires actual skill—it would be easy to make something forgettable this quiet. It’s not forgettable.
There’s something about the timing of it, too. The way their older songs feel like they’re from another era now, but this new one doesn’t feel nostalgic, just necessary. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go there anyway.
Missing summer isn’t about the weather. It’s that zone where nothing matters and your only function is existing in one spot as long as possible — a drink, sun, a body, nothing else. Alyssa Arce, Jaclyn Swedberg, and Tiffany Toth’s “Indian Summer” photos get it right: no concept, no message, just that pure blank brightness that photographs nail better than real experience ever does. When winter arrives you’re supposed to accept it’s finished, but by January you’re scrolling back to pictures of women in bikinis with this kind of desperate ache that’s stopped being about horniness and turned into something closer to grief.
The McRib appears every couple years when pork gets cheap, riding back like some seasonal ghost. Someone at McDonald’s photographed the frozen patties in their raw, pre-heat-lamp state and it went around online—the sight hits different than the marketing image. It’s meat pressed into geometry, colorless, and yeah, there’s something unsettling about seeing the engineering so exposed. Not disgusting, just clear. You can see what it’s for: cost optimization, shelf life, storage.
I’m not precious about fast food. I’ll eat garbage when the craving hits. But there’s something clarifying about seeing the thing before all the presentation, before the toppings make it look like food. Makes you wonder what else we’re not allowed to photograph.
MTV still exists. They still throw these massive parties where two actual superstars and everyone else stand in a giant hall trying to prove they’re completely insane. On TV it’s polished and explosive. In real life it’s screaming fans, deafening noise, and you’re squinting at the stage trying to figure out who’s performing.
Miley Cyrus showed up in what was technically a dress—basically two dead rappers positioned to keep her from getting arrested. Then she fucked some tiny guy on stage and smoked a joint because it’s Amsterdam and you’ve gotta be crazy, right? Robin Thicke grabbed whichever woman was nearest (Iggy Azalea). Katy Perry flew in, sang something, flew out. She could do that in someone’s living room.
These award shows are all just choreographed craziness. People tell you it used to be better and different, but nobody actually remembers that anymore. Hipsters in fox suits. Half-naked men. Whoever Bruno Mars is. Same faces, same energy. I couldn’t tell you who won anything—probably whoever was standing closest to a camera. The only moment that actually worked was Will Ferrell as Ron Burgundy, and I have no idea what that has to do with music or any of this.
There’s something about a new console. The sealed box, the weight of it, that smell of fresh plastic when you crack it open. The PS4 was all clean lines and black matte finish, looking more serious than a rectangle full of chips deserved.
The controller felt substantial, not light and plasticky. The changes were subtle—stick layout finally fixed, a touchpad, a speaker built into the pad itself. Small things that made it feel intentional. You’d hear sound pipe directly into your hand during games, which seemed ridiculous until it actually happened.
Those first weeks everyone was doing the same thing—booting it up, staring at the dashboard, loading the first game to see what next-gen looked like. There was this mythology around the box, this sense it represented something. A gate opening. The future as a piece of consumer electronics you’d set on your shelf and forget about in six months.
I never felt that urgency. The games weren’t that different yet. But the object itself, the craftsmanship—that stuck with me. Sometimes a black box is just a black box. Sometimes that’s enough.
YouTube forced everyone into Google+ if you wanted to use the platform. You couldn’t comment, upload, do anything without a Google+ account. Google’s explanation was that it would improve discussion quality. What it really was: a Hail Mary pass from a company trying to prop up its dying social network by making it mandatory.
The backlash was instant and massive. Everyone hated it. Emma Blackery wrote a song called “My Thoughts on Google+” that nailed the frustration so perfectly it went viral — a million views just from people recognizing themselves in it.
What stuck with me wasn’t the complaint itself, which felt obvious. It was watching something this transparently stupid get defended by a corporation so out of touch with its own users that it actually thought it could force adoption through administrative will. Emma’s song worked because she didn’t argue. She just stated it plainly, and a million people recognized the truth in it.
Minecraft changed something about what games could be. One person’s sandbox idea reached millions of people who didn’t just play it but lived in it, built in it, made it their own. Notch got rich. The indie game market got proof that something mattered. The whole cultural weight of what a game could be shifted.
“Minecraft: The Story of Mojang” is a half-hour documentary about how it happened. It’s available now on YouTube, in full, legally. It’s just the story of the team and the moment they found themselves in the middle of something enormous.
What gets me about Minecraft is that it’s built on a genuinely generous idea—the world itself is the medium, and the player isn’t following a story or solving puzzles the way they’re supposed to, just building whatever they want to build. That’s rare. Most creative software makes you work within its constraints. Minecraft hands you the constraints and says go.
There’s something real in watching the documentary—seeing how these things actually happen, how a single idea spirals out into the world, how millions of people attach themselves to something one person made and then remake it as their own. It’s not mythologized or romanticized. It’s just what happened.
Back when the German blogosphere was maybe a dozen weird social misfits sitting in front of computers on Saturday nights instead of actually going out, there was this little tradition nobody remembers now. You’d get tagged in a “Stöckchen” — basically people asking you ten questions, you answer them, you come up with ten of your own, you tag ten other people. It sounds simple enough. Anna Frost threw one at me and I figured, why not?
The honest answer to what blogging’s done for me: it’s introduced me to people I never would have met otherwise. People across the world, in cities I’ve ended up moving to, people who fundamentally changed how I think about things. Berlin, Tokyo, New York — blogging dragged me to all of them. More than that, though, it’s let me turn the one thing I actually want to do — sitting around watching anime and cartoons and complaining about it online — into something that pays the bills. I can’t imagine many people get to do that. I’m not going to pretend I’m not grateful.
I can’t function without my MacBook Pro. If I could marry a piece of hardware, that’d be it. And yeah, I’m aware that says something depressing about my romantic prospects.
Running a blog is like running one of those simulation games — SimCity, Civilization — except it’s real and people actually care. You pick your topics, you push them out into the world, you watch the numbers, you talk to readers, you make agencies want to throw money at you, you stay on top of the trends. It gets addictive because the game has actual stakes. Your life becomes the game in a way that’s hard to explain if you haven’t experienced it.
I used to dump everything into the internet. Who I slept with, how much I hated certain teachers, why some girl wouldn’t date me. That was back when this blog had different names — TOKYOPUNK, then ANIBOY, then MARCELTV. Privacy wasn’t a concept that existed. Somewhere around my late twenties I started keeping things back. The blog isn’t just me anymore either, so there’s other people involved. But I try to put myself into everything I write, even if it’s quiet about it.
The sponsorship requests get genuinely insane. Couple hundred a day, and after a while you develop a sense for what’s actual money and what’s just someone hoping you’ll take pity on them. I’ve been pitched everything — wooden dildos, underwear for old people, guys who’d insult me in one sentence and try to get me to promote their hip-hop album in the next. It’s funny until it’s not.
If I could build an app with unlimited resources and time, some days I’d want something that could answer every question — what’s the point of any of this, is there a god, why can’t I just have nice things without everything being complicated. Other days I’m just horny and want something completely useless that won’t help anyone. Both impulses are real. Both feel equally important at the time.
I’m bad at keeping things consistent. I see something cool somewhere and I want to pull it into my own work immediately. German to English to German, crude one day and trying to be sophisticated the next, constant design changes. It drives readers away. People want consistency and I’m incapable of it. But those experiments are how you figure out what you actually like versus what you think you should like.
The internet needs people in charge who actually understand it. Fair use laws, net neutrality protection, affordable access for everyone. And German bloggers especially need to stop tearing each other down out of spite and jealousy and realize they’re stronger as a unit. That’s not some motivational poster insight — it’s just how power works.
I remember someone asking me what I’d wish for if I could only wish for other people. I said I’d want René to get his drinking under control. That’s still true. That’s the only wish that matters.
“Day of the Tentacle broke my brain when I was twelve.” That’s the kind of thing you hear on Stay Forever, a German podcast where two old GameStar editors spend hours talking about games from an era when anything seemed possible. Gunnar Lott and Christian Schmidt have this way of discussing the old stuff—with genuine affection, with cheeky banter that never quite turns mean, with the sense that they’re pumping something real out of each other. These weren’t just good games. They were proof that a different kind of culture was possible.
I’m not much of a gamer anymore. Haven’t owned a console in years, quit most Steam games after five minutes except Civilization V. But I’m obsessed with these podcasts, with listening to someone remember why a janky point-and-click adventure or a complex strategy game mattered enough to shape their thinking.
What gets to me is the structural difference they’re describing. That individual vision could still mean something. You could make something totally strange and find an audience for it. Alpha Centauri, Ultima, the whole early-PC landscape—these games felt unfinished by design, still negotiating with players about what a game could even be. Now everything gets polished into the same glossy shape, tested to death, designed to offend nobody and delight everyone equally. The budget is enormous. The care is professional. It’s all suffocating.
I’ll never replay most of those old games. I don’t have the patience or the time. But listening to someone remember them—really remember them, not in some hagiographic way but with specificity and argument—that connects to something. The nostalgia isn’t for the games. It’s for a moment when computers could still be weird and broken and strange, when failure and strangeness were features, not bugs.
The podcast is the real artifact. Two men trying to explain to anyone listening what that window felt like, why it mattered, why we’re all worse off for the way things evolved. They do this almost casually, between anecdotes about spending student money on PC games, between arguments about which Sierra adventure game was the worst. They’re not trying to convince anyone. They’re just remembering, and I’m just listening, and somehow that’s enough.
The Japanese show “Poko x Tate” had a simple premise: a gay bar owner named Takuya would try to make porn star Sawai Ryo climax, despite Sawai Ryo actively resisting mentally. That’s the actual bet.
Germany’s “Wetten, dass…” was about truck drivers identifying toothpaste by taste. Seventy-four varieties. This was television.
The Japanese format understood something Germany forgot: game shows aren’t about demonstrating a skill. They’re about that moment when someone realizes what they’ve committed to—the sexual tension, the panic, the absurdity. That’s where the real entertainment lives.
I don’t remember who won the Takuya bet. The outcome doesn’t matter. The point is that it was filmed.
Remember when you had to prove yourself to a specific friend group by reciting all 150 Pokémon in one go? You’d sit on someone’s bedroom floor, rattling them off without stopping, and if you made it through without choking you were in. They weren’t particularly cool, but at least they understood obsession.
Someone made a new version with all 718 Pokémon. I made it through about twenty before my brain just shut down and refused to continue. And I’m sitting here wondering what changed—not the rap itself, but me. Why does it feel impossible now when the original felt like something you could actually pull off?
Half these new ones I don’t even recognize. Klefki. That sounds like a furniture store, not a creature that lives in the tall grass. There are so many of them now, creatures from generations I stopped paying attention to, with designs that get more unhinged the further down the list you go. At some point the creators just started combining random shapes and calling it a design.
The crazy part is that someone actually made this work as a rap and not just a list. It’s mechanically coherent, which is pointless but kind of impressive. The original was perfect because it was achievable—you could memorize it, own the skill, be someone’s entry ticket. Now it’s just an endurance test that nobody’s going to finish, and if they do, it won’t mean anything.
I don’t know when I stopped being the kind of person who could do that. Probably somewhere around the time the Pokédex numbers got too high to count.
Someone announced that December would bring a new Star Wars film, and the news landed with this weird weight I wasn’t expecting. After all the years since Return of the Jedi, the dead period where the only new material was books and toys and endless arguments about what should happen next, suddenly there was going to be actual film. JJ Abrams directing. Lawrence Kasdan on the script. John Williams doing the score. On paper it looked right.
I remember the strange feeling of it—wanting to care, wanting to believe it could be good, but also knowing that nothing recaptures what those original films meant when you were young. The mythology had already happened. Whatever they made would have to exist in relation to that, not replace it. It was going to be a different thing entirely, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to want it.
The Jane and Jesse moment gets me every time. Just the two of them on a couch in the dark, her hand in his, watching something on TV that doesn’t matter because nothing matters anymore. It’s the saddest three seconds in the entire show.
Isabella Morawetz painted that scene. I found it one day scrolling through fan art of Breaking Bad, and it stopped me cold. Not because it’s technically perfect—though it is—but because she captured the actual thing. The weight of it.
I’ve been thinking about why that is. Breaking Bad is about Walter White’s transformation, the descent into darkness. But the moments that actually break you are never the big ones. The explosions, the poison, the schemes—those are just plot. The real gutpunch is watching two people sit on a couch together, knowing what’s coming, unable to stop it. Like watching someone you know walk toward a cliff in slow motion.
Fan art probably seems like a weird thing to make or collect, but I get it. Some movies and shows sink so deep that you need something physical to hold onto. You need the image on your wall to remind you that yes, that happened, that’s how it felt. That you weren’t crazy for caring that much about fictional people.
I don’t know what I’d do with a Breaking Bad painting on my wall except look at it sometimes and feel that weight again. But I also don’t think I’d take it down.
A Chinese guy successfully sued his wife because their daughter was ugly. Genuinely went to court and won. The wife had spent over $100,000 on cosmetic surgery in South Korea before they met—complete transformation, new face, everything—and just never mentioned it. Showed up as his wife looking nothing like whatever she looked like before. Then they had a kid who looked like the genetic combination of two actual people. And instead of accepting that that’s how genetics works, he sued her for fraud.
The court sided with him.
What gets me is the logic. He apparently expected the surgical changes to genetically transfer. Like the kid would just inherit the nosejob. Which… that’s not how any of this works. But apparently it made sense to a Chinese court.
This is what happens when cosmetic surgery becomes the baseline. In parts of Asia it’s so normalized that people just assume everyone’s done it or everyone will do it. Wider eyes, whiter skin, the full package. So when a woman shows up looking like her actual face, it reads as a betrayal.
I’m still not sure which part is worse—that he sued his own daughter over her appearance, or that he won. Either way, that’s the future now.
Beards on Disney princesses shouldn’t work but they do. Something about facial hair reads as authority, experience, the kind of person who won’t take your shit. Arielle with a beard looks less like a decoration and more like someone with an actual interior life. Same with Pocahontas, same with all of them—add facial hair and they stop being designed-to-please objects.
I get why someone thought to do this. There’s this weird economy in how we draw gender: feminine = soft, available, decorative. Masculine = substantial, credible, real. Slap a beard on a princess and you’ve essentially rewritten her entire character in shorthand.
Mulan’s the one where it actually lands. She looks wise with a beard, like someone whose judgment matters. Maybe because she was already operating in that register—the beard doesn’t change her so much as complete her. The others are interesting as a visual game, but Mulan actually looks right.
You watch someone take a selfie and the face changes — there’s the actual face, and then there’s the face that arrives when the camera comes out. The chin tilts, the eyes open wider, the mouth arranges itself into something that’s supposed to look effortless. It’s automatic now, this muscle memory for the performance.
The thing about photos is they’re meant to hold a real moment, something spontaneous and good enough that you want to see it years later and feel something. But what actually happens is you pose for minutes until someone finally presses the button. There’s nothing spontaneous in there, nothing genuine. It’s just performance dressed up as capture.
Nottingham Trent did a video showing what people actually look like when they’re posing, and it’s brutal — the distance between the face you think you’re making and what’s actually there. Everyone in the footage convinced they look natural, everyone objectively ridiculous in that specific way that comes from trying. It’s funny and depressing at the same time.
The photos I still think about from years ago are never the posed ones. They’re the accidental shots, the moments where nobody was performing anything. Just someone caught in strange light, or a real moment that happened to get recorded. Those stay with you differently than anything you ever arranged.
I don’t know if knowing how stupid you look is enough to stop doing it. Probably not. The camera comes up and something shifts automatically in your expression before you even notice. The habit’s too deep.
Jawed Karim co-founded YouTube before Google bought it, and then he basically vanished. Eight years of silence, and then he posted something simple: “Why the fuck do I need a Google+ account to comment on a video?”
Google had forced YouTube users into Google+, trying to build some unified social network to compete with Facebook. It didn’t work. Everyone hated it. You couldn’t comment on a video anymore without a Google+ account — they made it mandatory.
What hit me was how direct he was. No careful diplomatic language, no “I have concerns about platform direction.” Just pure frustration at something that clearly never made sense to him. Looking at the comments, Karim wasn’t alone — people were furious about being forced into Google+ just to participate. It was such an obvious mistake, the kind where you wonder who signed off on it in the first place.
This is what happens when you’re big enough not to care what your users think. Google had the platform. They had the reach. Why would they need permission? They forced it. They assumed people would accept mandatory integration because where else would they go. Except it didn’t work, because you can’t make people want something by making it the only option.
There’s something perfect about Karim showing up after eight years just to say what everyone was already thinking.
Sports Illustrated could simplify their entire homepage to one button labeled ’Kate Upton’ and nobody would complain. In ’Swim Daily,’ they found the obvious content: her topless while someone paints her blue. That’s the whole thing.
A fake Justin Bieber video went viral because that’s just what happened with celebrity videos in those days. Someone made one of him in a bed, presented it as real, and it spread faster than anyone could verify it. By the time Lance Patrick’s actual video showed up, it didn’t matter anymore. The fake was already the story everyone remembered.
You put on your mother’s clothes and suddenly you’re seeing the future. Not metaphorical. Your face in her face. The same jaw, the same way you move your hands when you’re thinking. You’re already her, and time becomes something weird.
Carra Sykes documented this feeling with a photo series called “Mother + Daughter.” She paired up friends with their mothers—side by side, sometimes wearing each other’s stuff, caught in the same expression, same bones. The resemblance is uncanny. You’re looking at the same person, twentyish years apart, like time is just a trick of the light.
It hits harder than it should. You’re not becoming your mother in some abstract sense. You’re going to literally be her face. Your own kid will look at you the way you’re looking at her now, and they’ll understand for the first time that mortality isn’t some distant thing—it’s already written in your features.
I have my mother’s exact hands. I’ve known this since I was twelve or so, watching mine do things I didn’t remember learning—the way she holds a coffee cup, the gesture she makes when she’s making a point. For years I found it unsettling, that inherited body memory. Now I just accept it. Strange to be occupied by the past, but there’s something about that too.
Sykes’s images make the inheritance visible. They’re factual. You don’t die—you get passed on. Your face stays. Someone will wear it the way you wore your mother’s.
Adventure Time’s visual design works on you in a way most cartoons don’t. Lumpy Space Princess, Marceline, BMO—they’re all drawn with intention. The show knows what it’s doing with how characters look and how it frames them.
There’s a particular kind of desire that lands between ’I want to look at this’ and ’I want to live inside this.’ It’s the desire for the thing to exist near your skin. If those characters existed as wearable fabric, you’d burn everything else you owned to make room for them.
That’s the only standard that matters when you’re deciding what to commit to visually. The show clears it. Adventure Time’s never been sexier than when it’s something tangible.
Kenza launched her YouTube channel, which is really just the next box to check if you’ve already completely owned Swedish fashion blogging by 22. Magazine covers, television appearances, the kind of actual fame that most bloggers never get near. Now she’s extending it.
Her blog is bilingual and somehow both useful and addictive—the kind of place that makes you feel like you’re inside something rather than consuming from the outside. She mobilizes fans the way someone who understands attention actually does it, and if I’m being honest, I would stalk her if I could, just to reverse-engineer how the mechanics work. She makes it look so clear.
YouTube is just the logical expansion. She figured out the pattern once, proved it works, and now she’s applying it again. Not revolutionary. Just focus on the obvious thing while everyone else is still arguing about whether it matters. Most people see the pattern but never actually move on it.
There’s something about Scandinavian culture that figured this out before Germany did. Or maybe it’s just that some people see the next step before anyone else. Kenza sees it. She moves. By the time anyone else realizes what happened, she’s already three steps ahead.
There’s this image I keep in my head: a Sailor Moon-style magical girl in a colorful miniskirt, wielding a staff against digital viruses. This was Microsoft’s ad for Internet Explorer 11 in Japan. Somewhere in Redmond or Tokyo, someone decided that was the solution to Internet Explorer’s branding problem, and honestly, I respect it.
In the US, Microsoft was struggling to make IE seem like anything but a necessary evil. They threw money at privacy promises and corporate partnerships and whatever else. But in Japan, they just went full anime and committed to the absurdity. A cute girl fighting trojans and worms. No irony, no winking at the camera—just a straightforward magical action sequence selling browser security.
It’s the kind of marketing that shouldn’t work but does, at least on me. It’s specific enough to matter, weird enough to stick, and confident enough that it stops being embarrassing. You can tell no one involved was trying to appear sophisticated. They just wanted to make Internet Explorer cool, realized that was impossible in any conventional sense, and pivoted to the only thing that might actually work: pure, unfiltered anime energy.
I don’t know if it increased IE adoption in Japan or if anyone actually cared. But I remember it. That’s more than I can say for every other browser war skirmish from that era.
Kindan No Tasuketsu’s “Tonight, Tonight” is bright chaos. Pretty girls, weird artistic shots, a narrative that doesn’t land anywhere and clearly doesn’t care. And that’s completely right. A music video doesn’t owe you an ending or an explanation. It’s just color and movement around a song.
There’s something about how this music gets made in Japan that feels different from elsewhere. It’s playful and careful at the same time. The song is the thing. The video is just mood and color around it, and that’s enough. Pretty girls if that’s what fits the frame. Weird moments if they work. No message underneath trying to be something bigger, just a track that’s fun to listen to.
Kindan No Tasuketsu isn’t alone in this. There’s a whole universe of Japanese indie and alternative music made with the same approach—well-executed, totally at home with being exactly what it is. Not trying to be important or deep or anything other than that. The music’s good, and that’s the whole point.
This isn’t just one band. Japanese indie and alternative music is full of artists doing this same thing—making music that sounds good and knows it, nothing else to prove. It’s a universe worth falling into.
You get a particular freedom in GTA V, that moment when you’ve had enough of simulation and you just drive straight through everything. Cars, storefronts, pedestrians—smash it all, watch the chaos unfold, no real consequence. It’s cathartic. Some guy in Chicago decided to live it. Got in an accident with a taxi and then just kept going, accelerated right through everything in his path like he’d been playing for twelve hours straight and forgot there was a real world attached to the controller.
The video went around because it’s darkly funny, that gap between what you fantasize about and what a handful of people actually do. But it’s weirder than that. GTA exists because that rage-and-destruction fantasy is genuinely seductive. You sit in traffic fuming and the game lets you process what you’d never actually do. Everyone gets it. Most people leave the fantasy in the game. This guy took it with him into the morning.
I won’t make it more than it is—some statement about violence or the corruption of our digital lives. It’s just one person closing a gap that most of us keep carefully open. We all know that appeal. The game exists because we do. He just went a step further. That’s the only interesting part, actually—not the destructive impulse itself, which is normal, but the fact that someone didn’t talk themselves out of it.
I need to apologize to every friend I’ve ever called a hipster for playing Game Boy Color or wearing a beaded bracelet. Because these two—Charlotte Free and Gryphon O’Shea—they’re the hipsters. The full thing. The complete nightmare.
Charlotte’s a model who doesn’t care. Gryphon’s her half-brother, also mixed up in fashion or something like it. They made a video for Dazed & Confused—the magazine VICE owns—talking about their relationship, and I’ve never felt such pure rage in two minutes and thirteen seconds.
Watching her trip about MySpace while she looks like roadkill, watching him in his butterfly shirt throw this Blue Steel look at the camera and ramble about the ’crazy sound’ while holding a plastic arcade guitar, watching this bored, deliberate nothing sell itself as art—I wanted to scream. I wanted to start a petition. I wanted this ironic triple-alternative waste of time to end, wanted them to actually care about something instead of just assembling a lifestyle from borrowed retro scraps and nothing.
Maybe I’m just jealous. Maybe what got to me is that she can be with her half-brother and nobody says anything, and I’m sitting here furious at their freedom.
I have no idea why I like Selena Gomez as much as I do. Never watched any of her Disney stuff, found Spring Breakers pretty mediocre, and her music isn’t something I’d choose to listen to. None of it explains it.
But I’m always genuinely happy when I see her somewhere. I think there’s real emotional depth under all the Hollywood stuff she does, something darker and more complicated than the image suggests. She keeps it mostly hidden.
The weird thing is that knowing she’s got all that depth underneath doesn’t really change why I like seeing pictures of her. I’m pretty sure I just really like the way she looks in sneakers.
There’s always this moment in the evening where the news comes on and you just… don’t move. Too tired to find the remote. Too worn out to care what happened in the world. The newscaster goes through their cadence and somewhere by the third story about parliament or whatever, you’re half asleep.
Some guy (Bay Ctoast?) figured out what was actually happening and just leaned into it. Took the news and delivered it like reggae—pure Shaggy vibes, dub and dancehall rhythms applied to the day’s catastrophes. Angela Merkel reduced to a vocal line in a dubstep remix. The whole apparatus that’s supposed to convince you something matters, just turned into background music.
Which is kind of honest, actually. The news wants to feel urgent and important. And someone just decided, no, what if we just grooved about it instead? Made every headline sound like a riddim. The form just eats the content. Or maybe it just shows what the content always was—ambient noise pretending to be information.
I never saw the full thing, just clips. But that was enough. The idea was funnier than any execution could be.
Marteria put out something new called “Bengalischer Tiger,” and I actually listened. Not from any obligation—just checking in on someone whose stuff from years ago never stopped making sense.
He’s always been the kind of rapper who doesn’t need to scream. You hear him sit back in the beat, let the space breathe, and somehow that feels more powerful than desperation. His production choices matter; every part of the track does work. Most German hip-hop felt like it was fighting something—proving a point, justifying its existence. Marteria just made music and trusted it.
I’m not going to pretend it’s a revelation or that he’s suddenly relevant again. That’s not how this works. You get older and you stop expecting the artists you respected to become urgent again. Sometimes you just want what you liked to still exist, to not have gotten worse or tried too hard or lost what made it worth listening to in the first place.
This one doesn’t disappoint that way. It’s the sound of someone who knows what he does and isn’t confused about it anymore. No reinvention, no apology, no adaptation. Just the same register he’s always worked in—that space between confident and completely unbothered.
There’s a small pleasure in that kind of consistency. Not many things sustain it.
I found this Pentatonix cover of a Daft Punk track somewhere and couldn’t stop watching. Not because it’s revolutionary or anything—it’s just a really well-made a cappella arrangement—but because hearing it without all the production is strange. Daft Punk made sense as these untouchable robot figures, all synthetic and processed, but strip that away and you’re left with melodies that are actually kind of simple, almost vulnerable when they’re just voices.
What’s wild is that this is basically how people discover music now. Not radio or MTV or streaming playlists, but someone’s cover of someone else’s song on YouTube, done well enough that it reaches you. Pentatonix built a career on this—taking existing songs and redesigning them with nothing but stacked voices. It’s weirdly parallel to what producers do electronically, except it’s tactile, acoustic, human.
The precision required is almost mechanical. Someone listened to a Daft Punk track—all separated, all designed to sound inhuman—and figured out how to translate that into five humans singing together. Each person has to know exactly where they sit, which notes they’re holding, when to drop in and out. It’s like solving a puzzle where the solution is people.
I’m not sure the cover is better than the original, and I don’t really care. It’s just this thing that exists in a different context now, for different reasons. But it made me want to go back and listen to the real Daft Punk again, even though I’d mostly stopped thinking about them. Maybe that’s all a cover is supposed to do—make something you thought you were done with feel present again.
Sometime in the early 2010s, YouTube became the place where you could hear a twelve-year-old British kid with a genuinely good voice cover songs by Adele and Snow Patrol. Jasmine Thompson wasn’t the first talented kid on the internet, but the timing was right — she hit a moment when the algorithm was still just showing you what was good, not what was profitable.
I remember watching these covers because they were *covers*, which meant there was a reference point. You could hear what she chose to do with the song, where she placed her voice, what she understood about the melody. And that understanding was mature in a way that contradicted her age. She’d sing “Wrecking Ball” and it didn’t sound like a kid doing a performance; it sounded like someone who had lived inside that song somehow.
It’s strange to be invested in a stranger’s child becoming famous. You root for them, share their videos, feel weirdly proud. Then they either do or don’t, and you move on. I have no idea where Jasmine ended up — probably somewhere normal, probably not a superstar, probably not even still singing. And that’s fine. For a minute there, she was the thing that made you stop scrolling and actually listen.
You get a Lego ring as a romantic gift and have about two seconds to figure out if this person knows you or if they just think they do. That’s genuinely the whole thing. Whether it lands as sweet or stupid, clever or lazy — it doesn’t matter. All of that is secondary. Someone thought that was the right move, and now you know what they think you are.
Guttenfelder’s been getting back into North Korea since 2000, and somehow he maintains access—the kind of access that lets him photograph things the state designed to keep hidden. Concentration camps, daily life, the machinery of control, all showing up on his Instagram feed. He’s AP, but the photographs are what matter. They’re unsettling not because they’re shocking but because they’re so banal about it, so matter-of-fact.
How does this happen? You photograph something forbidden, upload it somewhere the state hasn’t figured out how to control, and you wait. The access obviously won’t last. At some point they’ll notice or care, and that access is done. He knows this is borrowed time.
What strikes me is the simple insistence of it—documenting what you see and making it public without waiting for permission or institutional cover. Probably doesn’t change much. But while it exists, something that was meant to stay invisible is visible.
There’s something about a photograph of an empty apartment that hits differently than a painting or a film. Lori Nix builds miniature dioramas and photographs them with such precision that you forget they’re tiny. You’re looking at New York or Berlin or Tokyo with nobody in it—vines covering walls, books scattered on floors, a restaurant perfectly arranged but vacant. The series is called The City, and the photographs are vivid with color, all the objects we surround ourselves with, now just things.
What gets me is that this isn’t the apocalypse fantasy we usually consume. No explosions, no survival narratives, no spectacle. Just the quiet moment after, when the stage is set but everyone’s gone. We’ve seen countless images of cities collapsing by now—it’s shorthand for our anxiety—but most are cinematic and dramatic. Nix’s work is smaller, sadder. These are places I might have walked through yesterday, and now they’re fossils.
There’s an intimacy to the scale. She built these in her studio, all that care poured into rendering emptiness. It’s a kind of memorial to the spaces we move through without thinking, the ones that only matter when they’re stripped of people. When I look at these photographs, I feel something like what I imagine archaeologists feel—the strange beauty of the ordinary, preserved and silent.
I watched Episode I in theaters and felt it the moment he appeared on screen. This was wrong. This character wasn’t landing. Everyone around me felt it too, this collective discomfort at what was supposed to be the comic relief of a Star Wars film.
Jar Jar Binks became one of cinema’s most reviled characters, the kind of thing fans cut out of their own viewing experience, edit out of their own memories if they could. The running joke was simple: why is this character allowed to exist?
Turns out someone almost didn’t allow it. A deleted scene shows him dying in Episode I, a moment someone at Lucasfilm shot and considered keeping. But it was part of a larger scene that got cut, so it disappeared twice—the death scene and the scene containing it, both gone.
Lucas filmed his solution to the Jar Jar problem and threw it away. Left him in the movie anyway, let him survive to the end of the trilogy and beyond. Maybe he didn’t want to draw attention to the problem by actually killing him off. Or maybe he just liked the cut better without. Either way, Jar Jar got to be despised without being allowed to exit gracefully. Just stuck there for the whole run.
There was a sex scene in Blue is the Warmest Color that I was supposed to take down from the blog. I kept watching it instead—kept coming back to it, in different moods, different times of day, with wine and candles in the bathroom. Not because the scene itself was anything special, but because of her. Because Léa Seydoux in that moment made something click.
I don’t know how to explain it exactly. I’m not saying I’m in love with her, or that I have some chance with her, which I obviously don’t. What I mean is that watching her work clarified something about what I actually want from beauty and intelligence and presence. She doesn’t perform. She doesn’t care if she’s hot. She’ll take any role if it interests her, no matter how uncomfortable. She loves the work and doesn’t need to advertise it. There’s nothing calculated about her.
Some photographs came out in V Magazine, shot by Nan Goldin. They told me the same thing. Not that she’s the most beautiful woman in the world—I mean, she might be, but that’s not the point. The point is the indifference. The sense that she’s lived in a way that doesn’t need anyone’s validation, that doesn’t register being looked at.
So yes, I’m obsessed with her. But what I’m actually obsessed with is the proof that this kind of person exists. That you can be that careful with your work, that disinterested in the machinery of it all. Since I’ll never actually know her, I have these images instead. The performances. It’s not nothing.
The best feeling in the world isn’t sex, isn’t a perfect burger, isn’t even that first bathroom break after four hours on the highway. It’s diving into a ball pit, that chaos of hollow plastic and color, all those spheres pressing against you. We had them as kids — furniture stores, arcades — and you’d lose yourself for hours in there. But wanting one as an adult? That’s where it gets weird. You grow up and something that felt innocent suddenly has an edge to it.
Not in Shanghai. They just opened the world’s largest ball pit at the Shangri-La Kerry Hotel — a million balls, green and pink. At that scale, weirdness doesn’t apply. It’s just too much stuff. It’s architecture.
I’d take that trip. Two weeks in Shanghai, entirely in the ball pit. That’s the whole thing.
There are kids in Ulaanbaatar who are obsessed with skateboarding. I know this because someone sent me photos of them—young guys carving concrete, bent over their decks, fully committed to a culture that shouldn’t, by any logic, have reached them.
Skateboarding is a weird thing. It started in California, got coded as rebellion and escape, and then spread through punk and hip-hop and video games and YouTube until it became this global language. But the path from Long Beach to Ulaanbaatar isn’t obvious. There’s no industry there, no sponsored shops, no existing infrastructure waiting for new arrivals. Yet here they are.
A group called Uukhaiskateboarding is trying to build something real for them—decks, clothes, maybe an actual park. It’s not a new idea. Every skate culture started somewhere like this: kids with one board between them, rolling on whatever ledges and spots they could find. You need someone to notice. You need someone to care.
What gets me is that these kids found skateboarding the same way teenagers everywhere do—through the invisible channels of image and attitude and music, the sense that something mattered enough to learn and risk looking stupid for. Skating has always been about kids making it themselves in places that didn’t plan for them. These kids in Mongolia are just doing what skateboarders have always done.
I don’t know if a park actually gets built. I don’t know what happens next. But the fact that kids at the far edge of the world picked up boards and decided this was theirs—that already happened. Geography doesn’t change that.
Miley Cyrus’s new website looks like it’s from 1996. Garish colors clashing everywhere, images scattered with no sense of hierarchy, the kind of chaos that early web design just accepted. She did this on purpose, of course.
Smoking joints, wet tongues, exposed breasts next to hamburgers — nothing’s held back. Whatever’s in her head, thrown up without editing or strategy.
Most celebrity platforms are built to be safe. Hers isn’t interested in safety. There’s no buffer between the thought and the image. It sounds like it shouldn’t work — and honestly it looks like a mess — but somehow it does. There’s more personality in one chaotic corner of this thing than in the entire output of most celebrities.
I’m not saying it’s the best website in the world. But it’s probably the most interesting thing I’ve looked at online in a while.
The second Hobbit trailer dropped and I watched it probably five times in a row. Not because I needed to—I just kept coming back to it. There’s something about those mountains, that scale, the way everything is built to feel epic and inevitable.
I was never the type to care about Lord of the Rings. Everyone else was doing the midnight premieres and reading the appendices and I remember thinking it all seemed exhausting—too much lore, too much self-seriousness, too much trying to matter. But somewhere between the first film and now, something shifted. It’s not that I suddenly care about the mythology or the intricate worldbuilding. It’s that I like this thing that exists—this enormous, expensive, carefully constructed world that someone built just to disappear into for a few hours.
The family feeling comes from watching something that’s been designed to be overwhelming in the best way. It’s not trying to be cool or subtle. It’s just: here are mountains, here is a dragon, here is chaos and adventure and a scale that makes your life feel smaller in the way you need it to. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway.
That trailer gets it exactly right. It’s all spectacle and motion and promise. And yeah, it’s bombastic. That’s the point.
I’d never found cats sexually attractive before I saw them in pantyhose on Tumblr, which is not a sentence I expected to write. But that’s where we were. A real trend, fully formed, with devoted galleries everywhere. Nobody could explain it.
The weird part isn’t that it exists. It’s that nobody knows why it does. Ask around and you just get blank stares. There’s no origin story, no artist account that started it, no logical explanation for why cats and pantyhose collided in the internet’s brain. It just appeared one day.
That’s how internet culture works now. Things materialize from nothing. Someone makes something weird. Other people find it funny enough to repost. It spreads until it’s everywhere, and by then you can’t trace it back. The why stops mattering.
I kind of respect that. There’s something honest about a trend built on pure weirdness and nothing else—no marketing, no algorithmic boost, just people passing something strange around because it landed funny.
It’ll vanish when the internet moves on to whatever comes next. But for now, cats in pantyhose exist, and I guess that’s all the meaning they need.
A five-year-old’s understanding of love is cleaner than ours. Show a kid a same-sex proposal and they think: if they love each other, that’s good. No confusion, no disgust, no sense of transgression. They haven’t been trained yet to rank different kinds of love. There’s a viral video of this—kids aged five to thirteen watching exactly that scene—and the whole point is supposed to be heartwarming: proof that kids are unprejudiced angels. But it’s sadder than that, watching something so obvious look like a revelation. In a few years, school and the internet will teach them which loves matter less than others.
The photoshoot in Interview magazine stopped me — Claire Danes looking directly at the camera, composed in a way that Carrie Mathison, her character in “Homeland”, never gets to be. Carrie’s mind works against her constantly, pulling in different directions. The performance is exhausting to watch because it has to be.
But in the photograph, there’s ease. Not the ease of a character arc resolved, just the ease of someone who knows how to hold her face and isn’t apologizing for it. Confidence that the role doesn’t let her have.
I remember Angela Chase from “My So-Called Life”. That show was about a person caught between who she was and who she wanted to be, with no real way forward. Claire understood that wasn’t a problem to solve. It was just the condition of being sixteen, and you lived there. Same actress, same understanding of how people break, two decades later, except now the stakes are higher and Carrie is actually falling apart under the weight of it all.
What matters is that she doesn’t soften what she plays. She doesn’t look away from it, doesn’t let the character become easier than it is. You believe Carrie is paranoid and desperate and brilliant because Claire seems like someone who would be those things — not visibly, but underneath, the way she moves through the scenes. No winking at the audience. Just the work.
Dustin Hoffman has said he’s a fan of hers, and I get why. There’s no performativeness to it, no attempt to impress. She’s just a good actor who made smart choices and kept doing that, and somehow that’s become rarer than it should be.
Adel Tawil hasn’t really been part of the rap conversation the way Sido has, or Prinz Pi. Tawil operates in a softer space—pop-rap, accessible, emotional. Sido is Berlin institution. Prinz Pi is the one who actually thinks about what he’s saying. Three different corners of the same landscape, almost never overlapping. ’Aschenflug’ is them together anyway.
Just three people doing what they know how to do. No grand statement about empowering youth or giving voice to anyone—that’s the promotional story, and it’s boring. What’s actually interesting is that it happened at all. German rap has always been fragmented, everyone in their own lane, probably always will be. But there’s something in three artists deciding to work together that makes the fragmentation feel less absolute. Whether the song actually matters is beside the point.
I saw the Call of Duty: Ghosts trailer with Megan Fox in it and had that weird moment where celebrity and games collided in a way that felt both inevitable and completely absurd. There she was, guns and armor, Las Vegas falling apart around her. The game industry had gotten big enough that Hollywood just started showing up.
The thing about Call of Duty is that it stopped trying to be anything specific about a decade ago. It’s just the game everyone plays—the cultural default for shooters. It doesn’t need to prove anything anymore. Which is maybe why having Megan Fox in the trailer felt fitting. Not surprising, not some big score, just another celebrity appearance at a franchise that’s so established it can afford to be weird without trying.
I can’t remember if Ghosts was any good. I remember the trailer more clearly than the game, which probably says something. Gaming had reached this point where the marketing was more interesting than the product. Or maybe the product had become so standardized that marketing was all that mattered. A new Call of Duty every year, and the only way to make it news was to put someone famous in the trailer.
There’s something oddly depressing about it if you think about it long enough. But I didn’t. I just watched Megan Fox shoot things and moved on.
Two planes collided over Wisconsin. Both caught fire. The scenario kills everyone on board. Except everyone on board was a professional skydiver, so when separation came—violent, unplanned, early—they just deployed their parachutes and floated down.
Someone had cameras on their helmets. Multiple someones. So there’s footage of the whole thing: the impact, the breakup, people falling away from the fireball with their equipment. The kind of thing you’d expect to be the last known footage of those people. Instead it’s a viral video of people surviving the unsurvivable.
Watching it doesn’t compute. You’re waiting for tragedy and instead you get people doing their job. They trained for emergencies, and this was an emergency, and they handled it. The fire isn’t metaphorical. The fall is real. The parachutes work. Everyone goes home.
There’s something about watching someone’s job description save their life that stays with you.
Ten weeks. That’s how long Terre des Hommes, a Dutch organization, left a fake child online. Ten years old, supposedly from the Philippines. They called her Sweetie. Just real enough to fool the right—or wrong—people. Just enough to see who would come looking.
Twenty thousand men did. Seventy-one countries. Two hundred and eighty-five a day. They wanted her to undress. Wanted to watch. Some offered money. One man, thirty-five, from Atlanta, used the handle “Older4Young.” He offered ten dollars. Just turn on your camera, he wrote. “I’m horny.”
They tracked down a thousand of them. Americans, Brits, Germans, scattered everywhere. Fathers, musicians, architects. Regular men. Regular men asking a child—as far as they knew—to show them her body.
That’s the thing that won’t leave. It’s not that these people exist somewhere in the dark web. You always knew they did. It’s the scale. The sheer number. The absolute ordinariness of them. You could have gone to school with half of them. Could work next to them now. Could be related to them. Every day, thousands of them are online looking for a real child, and they find them, because children are online and predators outnumber the people who can watch for them. You learn that number—twenty thousand—and you can’t unknow it.
Someone in Glasgow shot a giant glowing penis into the night sky. I don’t know how it happened or who signed off on it, but the videos hit and people reacted along their usual lines—some offended, some thrilled, most just amused by the sheer pointlessness.
These are pure internet culture moments: absurdity for its own sake, no message underneath, no craft or irony protecting it. Someone spent money and effort to fire a dick skyward and that was the whole idea. Not a prank, not a statement, not trying to be anything other than what it is.
There’s something honest about that. No subtext, no layers, no lesson waiting at the end. Just a fireworks penis over Glasgow and the satisfaction of watching people lose their minds over something completely stupid.
A guard. A prisoner bent over. Walls. The perspective from inside the cage. Someone was there, saw it, drew it with hands that are still learning what it means to have freedom.
When someone escapes a concentration camp and produces these images, the work carries a different weight than testimony on its own. You’re not reading about horror—you’re looking at how someone who lived through it chose to remember what matters. The lines aren’t trained. The perspective isn’t correct. But the specificity is devastating.
North Korea gets treated as a joke. The haircuts, the parades, the regime’s bizarre attempts at propaganda that somehow leak out as comedy. It’s easier that way—to keep the whole country at arm’s length, to treat it as too absurd to fully reckon with. But the camps are real in a way that makes everything else look like theater.
Hundreds of thousands of people are locked in these places, most for the crime of being born to the wrong family, of knowing the wrong person, of asking a question someone decided was dangerous. They work until dark on rations that keep shrinking, meeting quotas that keep expanding. If they don’t meet them, they get beaten. In the evenings they memorize ideology and confess their failures to the state. It’s slavery, ongoing, and the international response has been a shrug and a policy change that never comes.
What these sketches do is make that distance harder to maintain. Photographs can be abstract—you’re looking at an image someone else captured. Testimony can be filed away as historical fact. But someone’s own hand drawing what they saw, drawing it rough and imperfect because they’re not trained, because they’re drawing from trauma, that hits differently. There’s a human effort visible in every line, and that effort is what keeps the work from settling comfortably into the category of “atrocity we know about and have decided to ignore.”
I don’t think these drawings will change anything. They won’t topple the regime or free anyone or move a government that’s decided this is acceptable. But they’re harder to look at than the facts are, and that difficulty is the whole point. Some things shouldn’t become comfortable in our minds.
There’s a company making underwear that’s hard to take off without knowing how it works. The idea is that if someone tries to assault you, they’ll waste time struggling with the mechanism instead of proceeding. It sounds like dark, clever design—someone’s answer to a problem that exists.
I get the logic. Rape happens. It’s everywhere. Someone saw that and designed a product around it, and apparently people want to buy it. Both sensible and completely depressing at the same time.
The thing is, I don’t think it actually stops anything. Someone determined enough will figure it out. But maybe that’s not the point. Maybe it’s just friction, enough to make someone pause or give you time to fight back or run. Or maybe it’s just the feeling that you did something, that you have some control, even if it’s illusory.
What gets me is that the women I know don’t find this absurd. They find it practical. I mentioned it to a friend once, not as a joke, but as something that actually exists, and she was genuinely interested. Not as some ironic chastity belt thing, but as something she’d actually wear. And I believe her. The threat is real enough that a product like this makes sense.
You can design your way around a lot of problems. You can’t design your way around the fact that some people are predatory and everyone else has to engineer their lives around it.
Photographer Mike Dowson shot Emily Florence-Shaw for magazines like FHM, Loaded, and Front. She’s a British model, fluent in the language of angles and light and what a camera does to a body.
Those magazines were built to sell a particular feeling—eternal youth, invincibility, hunger. And over all of it, always, the same question: are they real?
America being the place where they fry everything and serve soft drinks in buckets is hardly breaking news. But I recently learned they’ve now come for the potato chip. Lay’s Wavy has a limited edition chocolate coating available at Target stores in the US — three dollars a bag, limited run, and I haven’t stopped thinking about them since I found out.
There’s something weirdly appealing about the combination in a way that shouldn’t quite work. Salty and sweet is familiar enough, but chocolate-covered chips feels like a specific bet on excess that most snack companies wouldn’t make. Most chocolate snacks are too refined, too sweet. But a chocolate-covered crisp sits somewhere between actual food and pure indulgence — there’s texture there, a contrast that might actually be interesting.
I’ve never had them. I’m not in a place where I can easily get them, and honestly, I’m not sure they’re worth hunting down. But there’s something in knowing they exist at all — that someone at a snack company decided this was worth making, and that people somewhere are actually buying a bag of chocolate-covered chips. It’s the kind of small, weird experiment you just want to witness once.
Rakede, a band from Cologne, put out a video of a table concert—basically just them sitting at a table, near-a cappella, no production—as a teaser for an upcoming tour. It’s gone viral on Reddit and the blogs. People are on YouTube trying to parse the German lyrics, debating what’s even happening.
There’s something effective about that kind of directness. No mystique, no production value, nowhere to hide. Just the sound and whatever that means when everything else is stripped away. That’s apparently what lands with people sometimes, not despite the lack of setup but because of it.
I watched that scene in Blue Is the Warmest Color—Adèle and Léa, just completely unguarded—and couldn’t quite shake it afterward.
It’s four minutes of no editing tricks, no angles calculated for arousal. Just two people who clearly wanted each other, and a camera honest enough to stay there. I’ve never seen that in a movie. I definitely haven’t had anything like it in real life.
Most sex is negotiated. Someone gets shy, or self-conscious, and the moment contracts. This didn’t. It looked shameless in a way that made everything I’ve experienced feel like practice by comparison—technically fine, never quite present.
So I thought about the actresses after I left the theater. That’s unavoidable and stupid and fine. What stuck was a different question: how does a director access that kind of honesty, and what does it mean that I haven’t. Whether genuine shamelessness like that is even possible outside film.
I’m worse off now than I was before watching it. You see real desire like that and then look at your own life, and you can’t unsee the gap.
I put Matangi on expecting something immediate and digestible, and it refuses. The whole thing operates on its own logic, not trying to seduce or convince anyone into caring.
What strikes me most is how uncompromising it sounds. Given everything M.I.A. was dealing with—motherhood, fame, the music industry, all of it—the album could have gone soft or explanatory. Instead it stays complicated and difficult. The production is intricate without being pretty. Lyrics land sideways instead of head-on.
I keep returning to it because it’s genuinely at odds with what pop music was supposed to be at that moment. Everything around it was algorithmically perfect, immediately gratifying. Matangi doesn’t want that. It demands that you sit with the discomfort, do some work.
There’s something almost defiant about it—someone thinking out loud about what they’re doing, why it matters, what the cost is. That kind of honesty doesn’t age the way hype does. The year doesn’t matter anymore. What stays is the refusal to make it simple.
Ashley Smith. The gap-toothed thing is real, and yeah, it works. She’s got this distinctive look—those cheekbones, that hair—that just lands. She showed up in Purple Mag’s latest issue with Sandy Kim, and she looked good. Not much else to it, but then there were these red shoes she was wearing, and I couldn’t stop thinking about them. That’s how these things go sometimes.
The Fresh Prince theme doesn’t leave your head. If you were anywhere near the 90s, it’s still there — the opening line, the bounce, Will Smith’s voice sliding in. It became the kind of song that transcends music, just pure cultural fact.
David Hasselhoff is basically the same thing but in a different key. Knight Rider, Baywatch, the way he’s somehow both ridiculous and entirely genuine, that sincere moment with the Berlin Wall. He’s the defining figure of 90s earnestness — leather jackets and no irony and complete faith in the weird premise.
It’s one of those moments that exists perfectly outside normal logic. Two different icons from the same decade of maximum sincerity, colliding head-on. It shouldn’t work and it doesn’t really need to. It just is, and that’s the whole thing.
Some people got depressed enough to consider suicide after Avatar, because Pandora seemed more worth living in than Earth. This is real. Cameron apparently took it as a sign. He made a documentary about climate change—Years of Living Dangerously, coming to Showtime, featuring Jessica Alba, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Matt Damon.
The logic is there, sort of. If people can get suicidal over a fictional planet, maybe you can make them care about the real one by slapping famous faces on the problem. Make climate change feel like a story with stakes and recognizable characters. Make it as compelling as Pandora looked. People don’t respond to statistics. They respond to a face they recognize saying “this matters.” A graph doesn’t carry the same weight.
Cameron seems to believe that if you can make global warming feel as urgent and beautiful as Pandora, some percentage of viewers will actually do something. Maybe he’s right. Probably not, though. Most people will watch, feel the appropriate emotions, feel good about themselves, and then go back to how things were. It’s like liking a post about something you care about and thinking you’ve helped.
But maybe that one percent is worth it. Maybe that’s the wager.
A former sumo wrestler was shuffling through Tokyo yesterday dressed as a zombie, flanked by a group of girls in full undead makeup. It was a Halloween walk of that kind—the event that happens when people decide to commit to something pointless and fun in public.
Japan’s been absorbing American culture for decades, so Halloween becoming a real thing there isn’t surprising. What’s different is how it reads. In most places, zombie walks are a niche subculture thing—self-aware, people making a statement about their interests. In that city, it looked incidental. Just what you do in the fall.
I’ve got no idea how a sumo wrestler ended up leading the thing, but there’s something genuinely charming about the image. This massive guy in makeup moving with that slow-motion commitment, flanked by teenagers who were clearly having the best time. No irony, no performance. Just stupid and sincere at the same time.
It’s the kind of casual chaos I don’t see much where I am. Not zombie walks specifically—just people doing something dumb and specific in public without performing it, without needing permission or a reason. That kind of freedom is rarer than it should be.
You’re not supposed to play GTA V like a designer. The game demands chaos—you’re meant to be thoughtless, destructive, a cartoon psychopath. But Luis Serrano, a photographer from Spain, took his practice into Los Santos and decided to play it differently. He walks around with a camera, composing shots. The light, the scale, the geometry of the city—he’s documenting it like a real place.
What got me is how it reframes the entire space. Serrano isn’t being clever or ironic. He’s just using his tools in a world built for something else. And suddenly Los Santos stops being a sandbox for violence and becomes a landscape. The game has no response to being observed instead of destroyed, so it just sits there, massive and indifferent.
It makes you think about every game world differently. Red Dead as pure ecology and isolation. Every environment as something to move through and see rather than solve or conquer. Games train you into one relationship with space. Serrano’s photographs feel like proof that another mode is always there, even when nothing in the design invites it.
Jay-Z and Lana Del Rey sharing a track is already a strange enough pairing. He’s been running rap for three decades, all calm authority, and she’s always been in some shadows of her own. Urban Noize pulled them both onto ’Papi & Lolita’—that title alone is doing something clever with power and role-play. The better joke might be that the track never announces who’s who, just lets you figure it out for yourself.
Google invited some of us over yesterday to show us stuff. I’m still not sure why—maybe they thought we needed convincing—but there we were, eating Halloween brain and drinking some kind of vegetable juice while someone from their team explained YouTube monetization and voice search. As if we didn’t already know the basics.
Part of the evening I spent flying through a pixelated Tokyo on a virtual tour, or a demo, or something. I’m genuinely not sure what it was supposed to be. I ate actual brain—because Halloween—drank beer, drank more of the vegetable juice, and on the way out they handed me a little speaker and a notebook. No pen. You had to steal one.
Daniel was clapping at some point. Peter kept making sounds. Paulchen was working his way through the food spread. The whole thing had that strange energy of a tech press event—people in casual poses explaining why their new thing is going to change everything—while you’re standing in the middle of Germany eating meat and drinking juice and trying not to think about whether any of this actually matters.
They wanted to pitch Google+ to us, like it was the next big thing, like we’d all eventually get tired of Facebook and migrate over. Better privacy controls, supposedly. More community-focused. I came home with the speaker and forgot about it pretty quickly. Never opened a Google+ account. Probably never will.
Jeff Bennett remixed Thomas Kinkade’s cottages and glowing landscapes with Star Wars—stormtroopers in the mist, AT-AT walkers in soft valleys, the Rancor in some impossible pastoral. It’s absurd and it somehow works. Kinkade’s whole thing was that golden light, everything soft and safe, and that warmth is exactly what space opera needs. You can hang these over your couch and nobody’s going to judge you. Or they will, but at least you’ll know you meant it.
Nicki Minaj and Miley Cyrus apparently had the same stylist that Halloween. Miley went for one breast as the statement. Nicki went both - massive, pressed straight into the camera for Instagram.
Was it supposed to be a costume? Dominatrix outfit? Doesn’t matter. The outfit was the boobs. Two enormous boobs. That’s all it was.
The Simpsons are still around and occasionally they actually nail something. This couch gag was a Hobbit thing — the family on a ridiculous quest for the perfect sofa like it’s an epic journey. It’s a stupid obvious reference but it somehow works.
There’s supposed to be a gruesome discovery at the end, or maybe not — the gag doesn’t quite commit to its own punchline. That’s the couch gag format: you set something up, it gets weird, it doesn’t resolve cleanly.
The episode aired on the weekend and was available illegally somewhere by morning. Nobody’s shocked by it anymore. This is just how it goes now: new episode, inevitable piracy, occasional moment where they still remember how to be funny.
She went from Disney clean to someone who’ll use basically any excuse to take her shirt off. Halloween, red carpet, random Tuesday. The breasts are infrastructure at this point—part of the visual language, the most honest thing in her whole public image.
There’s something refreshing about how unbothered she is by it. Most performers spend their whole career trying to reach the place where they actually don’t care what anyone thinks. She got there in her twenties. The costume barely registers; it’s just framing for what’s actually happening, which is her being deliberately provocative without explanation or apology.
The panic was real when Disney bought Star Wars — suddenly all the anxiety about what a megacorporation would do with something that sacred. The antidote people reached for was fantasy: what if Nintendo had gotten it instead?
Everyone imagined it as some retro resurrection, 8-bit Ewoks and chiptune TIE fighters. But that misses Nintendo entirely. Nintendo doesn’t do retro — it does essential. If they owned Star Wars, there’d be no bloat. A story that went exactly where it needed to go. Characters that moved with perfect economy. Menus with nothing unnecessary on them. All the stuff Disney takes four hours to establish would be done in a title screen.
The real weird part is watching what Disney actually did with it. More films than anyone asked for, characters from the original films shuffled back on screen like they’re cashing a check, the whole thing getting thinner as it stretches.
I’m not sure Nintendo would’ve made better Star Wars. Honestly, Nintendo probably wouldn’t have made Star Wars at all. They would’ve made something else, something smaller and weirder, and people would’ve loved it for being exactly what it was instead of a replacement for something else.
Thirty Seconds to Mars made a video of people talking about Los Angeles. Nothing revolutionary as a concept, but what matters is they got genuine answers. Kanye and Selena and some others sit down and actually describe what the city does to you. Not the postcard version. The real accounting.
LA fulfills dreams. That’s not exaggeration. It actually delivers the things you came for. But the cost is strange and personal and nobody can predict it in advance. The city doesn’t cheat you—it honors its end of the bargain. You get fame or money or recognition or whatever you wanted. And then you discover that having the thing you wanted is almost exactly as hollow as not having it. Almost.
That’s the thing that works its way under your skin about Los Angeles. It’s not that it lies. It’s that it tells the truth and you still can’t live with it.
I keep running into this Boiler Room mythology — underground beats in some basement venue, streaming live, and dancing in front of the camera means you’ve arrived. The thing is, it’s usually over before it even starts, like the whole phenomenon lasts shorter than a children’s TV episode.
Ben Klock’s Berlin set is different. By the fourth minute he’s already torn through whatever mythology someone walks in with. It’s pure destruction — the audio is the room being ripped apart from inside. Watching it stream somehow captures what’s actually happening, which you almost never get.
The comment that sticks is just “Nuke Berlin.” That says it all.
Someone showed me a Loughborough University promo video and I still don’t understand why they released it.
Loughborough’s a proper British university where smart people study and graduate into real lives. But they went ahead and made one of those promotional videos anyway—the kind everyone knows doesn’t work, that misfire constantly, yet people keep making them regardless. They made it. Then they released it.
What I can’t get over is the moment someone had to watch it and decide it was done. Not just done—done enough to show the world.
You know that moment at a funeral when half the room pulls out their phones? Not to text or check the time. To take pictures of themselves. With the dead person in the shot if possible.
It used to feel obscene to me—you’re there because someone died, and you’re posing for Instagram. But I think I’ve been reading it wrong. The phone isn’t the problem. It’s just making visible what was already happening: we need proof that we experienced something, that we showed up right, that our grief was real. We need someone to believe us.
A selfie at a funeral is genuinely strange. But it’s not new. People have always wanted evidence—a story they could tell, a detail they could describe—that proved they grieved correctly, felt enough, were there. Now you just show a picture instead of telling someone. Here’s my face. Here’s my dead relative. Here’s my sadness.
The weird part isn’t the phone. It’s that we’ve gotten so used to needing the phone in order to believe in our own experience. A moment doesn’t count unless you can see it reflected back at you. A feeling doesn’t exist unless you can post it.
Maybe that’s just honest. Maybe it’s tragic. Probably it’s both.
There’s a crew of six-year-old skateboarders in California. Pink Helmet Posse—Sierra Kerr, Relz Murphy, Bella Kenworthy. I came across video of them through some skateboarding magazine coverage, and what stuck was how they just roll. No hesitation. Four-meter ramps like it’s nothing.
The magazine’s editor called them exceptional. Not exceptional for their age—just exceptional. He showed the video to his own daughters who skate because that’s what you do when you witness something fearless. You want people to see it.
What strikes me is the lack of negotiation. Kids older than six have learned the internal conversation—risk, hesitation, fear. These kids skip that entirely. See the ramp, roll. Whether that’s innocence or something about growing up in a different world, I don’t know. But there’s something clean about the fearlessness.
You’re standing at a food stand watching the cook and you’re genuinely curious and genuinely nervous, which is probably the honest response to eating something made in a place you can’t fully see by someone you can’t fully talk to. The safe bet is going where the locals go, where volume and speed mean less time for things to sit around. Or you ignore that entirely and eat at whatever looks sketchy, which you’ll remember far more vividly than anything from a real restaurant. You might get sick. You probably won’t. Either way you’ve got a story. That’s probably the point.
The first Walking Dead game managed something most zombie fiction can’t—it made you actually care. Lee and Clementine became real in a way that surprised me. You made choices that felt like they mattered, and in that small moment of agency, a video game transformed into something personal. I thought about those choices for weeks after I finished it.
What made it work was the refusal to get clever. There were no elaborate set pieces, no boss fights, no mechanical flourishes designed to impress. Just two people in increasingly terrible situations, and the question of who you became in those moments. The writing was solid, the voice acting was understated, and somehow none of that formality got in the way of genuine feeling.
Season Two is almost here, and this time Clementine is on her own. She was a kid in the first game, dependent on Lee for protection and guidance. Now she’s older, alone in a world that only got worse. The trailer doesn’t give much away, but you can feel that she’s harder now, sharper—the kind of hardness you develop when there’s no one else looking out for you.
I’m genuinely curious to see where they take this. If they can keep that same focus on character and choice, on the small moments of human connection in a broken world, it could be something special. Clementine deserves a story worthy of what happened to her. I’m ready to find out if they know that too.
Halloween in Tokyo felt like watching an entire city take something Western and turn it into something completely their own. The streets of Shibuya were full of people in actual costumes—not the sad store-bought vampire teeth and fake blood variety, but real work. Considered choices, genuine effort. Someone had dressed as a moving Starbucks logo, which shouldn’t have been that funny but absolutely was.
What got me wasn’t the exoticism of it, the ’oh look how quirky Japan is’ thing. It was how straightforward it all felt. People were here to dress up and look good, and they’d invested the time to do it right. Anime character wigs and makeup done well. Coordinated group outfits. The kind of commitment you see at conventions, not just happening out on a random night in the street.
In the West, Halloween’s either for kids or an excuse to get drunk in something you’ll regret by morning. It’s become an obligation or a joke instead of an opportunity. Tokyo didn’t ask permission. They just did it—dressed up, went out, looked good, moved on. No irony, no apologizing, just the thing itself.
What stuck with me was the straightforwardness of it all. Most places import things and then apologize for them, or treat them as exotic oddities. Shibuya just took Halloween and made it work on its own terms. There’s something about that kind of straightforward ownership—just absorbing something and making it real—that feels rare now.
There’s this moment where you’re sitting on your bed, scrolling, telling yourself you can’t talk to anyone because you’re too fat, too tired, too wrecked from sitting at a computer all day. As if appearance is the actual barrier. As if the problem is your body and not your nerve.
Jason apparently made a video about this — about approaching women as an overweight guy, and it working because he had the confidence to actually try. And that’s the thing that keeps surprising me: it does work. Not because he’s secretly attractive, but because he showed up without the commentary running in his head about why he shouldn’t be there.
The video was probably meant to be motivational, the kind of thing you watch seventeen times hoping it rewires you into someone who can just walk up to a girl and ask her out. Steffi from afternoon class, whoever she is. Someone you’ve been thinking about for years but never spoke to because you were too busy manufacturing reasons why it wouldn’t work.
Here’s what the list at the end reveals — “works for skinny guys, muscular guys, short guys, tall guys…” The specificity is almost absurd. It’s saying the barrier isn’t body type. Never was. It’s the moment you decide to anyway, despite whatever narrative you’ve built around yourself. Despite the certainty that you’re disqualified. A fat guy, a thin guy, a tall guy — they all have different insecurities, different versions of “why not me.” The guy who finally talks to someone anyway is the one who doesn’t wait for those to resolve first.
I don’t know if I’m convincing myself or if this is actually true. Probably both. Confidence sounds like such a stupid answer when you’re the one sitting there, but it’s the closest thing I’ve found to an actual answer. It’s not “be yourself” or any of that hollow stuff. It’s more like: accept that you’re nervous and do it anyway. Accept that you look like whatever you look like and ask anyway. The combination is less explosive than the self-help version makes it sound, but it’s also less impossible.
The thing I think about is: how much time did I waste waiting to be different before I could try? How many years of Steffi sitting there, approachable, while I was manufacturing certainty that it would fail? I don’t even know if that’s regret or just information. Either way, it’s not going to happen while I’m thinking about it.
Jonathan Leder’s shoot for Darius with Emily Ratajkowski landed somewhere in my feed the way these things do, back when she was starting to be everywhere. I actually stopped and looked at the photographs instead of scrolling past, which doesn’t happen often. There was something about the way she was lit, the composition, the moment—it worked.
Her face wasn’t what you’d call conventionally beautiful. The lips were strange, almost unsettling, and her eyes gave nothing back. But in these frames, that blankness became the point. It’s one thing to be born pretty and another to be photographed well, and Leder understood the difference. The image doesn’t lie, but it can make something ordinary into something undeniable.
I was drawn to her, obviously. You see something that works on film and it works on you, and there’s no point pretending otherwise. But what actually stuck with me was watching the craft—the way a photographer sets up a moment and has it land exactly right, how light and composition can redeem an ordinary face into something iconic.
She became everywhere after that, which is what happens to images that are right. You see them in a dozen different contexts until you stop seeing the person and start seeing the symbol, and by then the moment’s already passed. You were just early enough to catch it when it was still fresh.
I’m convinced the collapse is coming — doesn’t matter which flavor — so finding this jacket by Marie-Elsa Batteux Flahault felt less like novelty and more like finally someone understood. It’s built around what actually matters when the grid dies: pockets for food, water, a knife, tools, first aid. Camo exterior, hood, facemask, reflective gold foil for the radiation scenario. Inspired by the Prepper movement, those people who genuinely believe civilization’s ending and plan accordingly.
There’s something almost peaceful about working through what you’d need. Not paranoia, though sure, there’s that. Just logic. Gear needs to work when stakes are real, needs to look right doing it. That’s all this is.
It doesn’t look ridiculous. That’s what matters. Not neon, not screaming, just quiet, lean preparation. Camo, gold foil, serious pockets. Sexy in a paranoid way. It’s the uniform for someone who thinks they know what’s next, or has stopped asking.
Where to buy it — that part’s harder to find than the jacket itself. The internet knows, if you know where to look before the solar flares, bioweapons, comet, or whatever finally arrives. Worth looking while the shops are still open.
I hate YouTube videos with babies. Really hate them. They’re almost never funny or cute or worth watching. But I clicked on this one anyway, not sure why. The mother starts singing and it just hits the kid—this 10-month-old—so hard that tears start pouring out. And suddenly I’m sitting here with tears in my own eyes too.
Eminem was between eras, and Rihanna had mostly moved past the point where she needed to prove anything to anyone. But this collaboration made sense the moment you heard it—that heavy, minor-key production, the kind of beat that doesn’t announce itself but just sits in your chest and stays there. The song is exactly what its title suggests: a look at the darkness you carry around, the parts of yourself you can’t quite shake. Not metaphorical. Literal.
Eminem’s verse is precise and ugly in the way he does best, laying out the accumulated damage without asking for sympathy. Rihanna comes in and her voice cuts through it—not redemptive, nothing like that, but steady. She’s not trying to save him or herself. She’s just there in the wreckage, naming it. “I hate these blissful memories, they make me sad.” That’s the whole thing in one line.
What gets to me about this track is how little it tries. No big moment, no switch to a hook that lifts you up. It just stays in that dark space the entire time, and because it does, it actually means something. Most collaborations like this are designed to be anthems or statements. This one is just two people standing in a room acknowledging that some things don’t go away, and that’s okay. You don’t have to fix it. You just have to keep going.
I’ve come back to this song more times than I expected to. Not because it’s uplifting. Because it’s honest.
Ari Gold screaming at someone—that’s the news I wanted, and it’s actually happening. The Entourage movie is real. Full cast returning, Warner Bros. bankrolling it, production starts early 2014. Set about six months after the series ends.
I know why people tapped out. The show was built on a repeating pattern—Vinny creates chaos, there’s fallout, somehow it resolves, back to status quo. Eight seasons of that, and the structure becomes obvious. The novelty wears thin.
But I wasn’t watching for the plot. I was watching for Ari Gold. That machine-gun delivery, the total commitment to the tantrum, the way he could make anger feel righteous even when it was pure performance. You couldn’t create that character on network television now, not with that kind of aggressive, unrepentant cruelty positioned as comedy. The medium’s moved past it.
A movie is different. Not six more seasons of the same well, just one contained trip back. One last Ari performance. That’s enough for me.
Nothing in an advertisement is real. Not the skin, not the eyelashes, not the hair. And it doesn’t matter.
The beauty industry runs on a simple model: make something impossible, make people want it desperately, profit forever. Girls in China break their legs to lengthen them. Men in Europe get liposuction because exercise takes too long. American parents buy their teenage daughters breast surgery like it’s a normal gift. The specifics change, but the structure stays the same.
What gets me is how crude the mechanics are. Magazine covers, ads, posters—all built from such basic tricks they barely deserve the name. Lighting. Photoshop. Angles. Filters. I watched a video once that broke it down: how little actual work it takes to turn something ordinary into something that reads as human perfection. It’s not sophisticated. It’s not expensive. It’s just relentless, stacked up enough times that the fake becomes the standard and no one even notices the switch.
Which would be funny if anyone cared that they’ve been deceived. But they don’t. The seams are visible now. Everyone can see the construction. Everyone wants it anyway. That’s the actual trick—not that the beauty industry is lying, but that the lie became transparent and it didn’t matter. You see the mechanism and you still want to become it.
There’s a video of a man punching another man at what looks like a public gathering in Saudi Arabia. The reason is uncomplicated: the victim said something to the first man’s wife. Or was near her. Or existed while she existed. The details matter less than the logic—a man decided that contact between his wife and another man was insult enough to require violence.
The victim is Asian, almost certainly a migrant worker, which means he’s at the wrong end of every available hierarchy in that context. The Saudi man is at the right end of most of them. That shapes how the punch lands.
What gets me isn’t the punch itself. It’s the obviousness of the calculation underneath it. The wife is the property; the other man breached it; therefore violence. Not as a crime, but as correction. Consequence. His right.
The woman doesn’t appear in the video except as the object of it. Two men fighting over her and she’s barely visible. That’s the actual content of the moment—not the violence between them, but the fact that she doesn’t belong to herself.
The video went viral and people were angry, which is correct. But anger at incidents doesn’t touch the logic that made the incident feel reasonable to him. And I don’t know what would. The systems that let him feel that entitlement are older and deeper than any single beating caught on video.
Early Madonna photos—the actual candid stuff, not the magazine versions—basically explain everything. She’s young, confident, casual about being sexual in a way that wasn’t common then. No Photoshop, no concept. Just ease.
That’s what everyone was obsessed with. Not the music, not the concept, just her being comfortable in her body while everyone else was still pretending to be shocked by bodies. That was novel.
By now it’s different. She’s still beautiful, still obsessed with staying tight, still performing. But the effort shows. You can feel the maintenance. It’s not hot anymore—it’s sad.
I think that’s the thing about watching someone age in public for decades. The gap isn’t the aging itself. It’s the refusal to let go of what you were.
Though I’m not going to pretend those early photos aren’t worth looking at. They’re the real thing, before all the management and packaging kicked in.
I was one of millions of teenage boys who jerked off to Geri Halliwell’s “It’s Raining Men” video—five minutes and six seconds of pure conditioning. Not proud of it, but it happened. I loved her the way you love a fleeting one-night stand, the kind you see on the street years later and pretend not to recognize. The memory’s better than the person ever was.
Now she’s forty-one and back with a new single called “Half Of Me.” The song is terrible. The video is worse. It’s the kind of awful that makes you desperate to look away but somehow unable to. She’s not the girl in that old video anymore, which is fine—nobody stays twenty-five—but she’s not anything else either. Just here. Making music no one asked for, like she owes it to herself or to us or to that version of her that used to matter.
The gap between then and now feels bigger than it should. Not because she’s older, but because getting older without becoming anything interesting just reads as defeat.
The “TKO” video is just Justin Timberlake getting dragged across the desert by a beautiful woman in a car, and then they drive off a cliff. That’s the metaphor for heartbreak—literal, brutal, kind of absurd.
Most heartbreak songs try to dignify the suffering somehow. This one just shows you destroyed. Bleeding in the sand. No bigger meaning, just the actual damage.
The key moment is right before the cliff when they both know what’s coming and do it anyway. That’s recognition. You know it’s going to hurt but the alternative—not getting in the car—feels worse. Everyone’s been there. I’ve been there.
The original post ended with a joke about Jessica Biel, like hopefully he doesn’t actually go through this with her. It’s funny because it’s completely beside the point. He’s married, he’s happy. But you remember what it felt like to be heading toward that cliff, and honestly you don’t regret it.
I found this German blog called Wackrap Welten that catalogs the worst hip-hop anyone’s willing to document. Names like KM Heckert, Jasko, Aziz Merre. I hadn’t heard of them before, and I absolutely didn’t need to.
The production is aggressively bad. Not charming lo-fi—actual disaster. Beats that sound like someone’s first FL Studio experiment after a six-pack. Lyrics that are stammering gibberish. No melody. It’s the kind of music where you stop and just think, “Did this person actually believe they were done?”
What gets me is the confidence behind it. These guys recorded this. Uploaded it somewhere. Probably genuinely thought they were creating something. There’s something almost beautiful about that magnitude of delusion—the complete absence of self-awareness that would’ve stopped anyone else from hitting publish.
I’m not a snob about experimental or weird music. I like plenty of stuff that shouldn’t work. But this isn’t that. It’s just pure failure, the kind where you can’t even be cruel about it because it’s too sad. You just feel like someone’s parents should probably know.
Sesame Street made a Homeland parody called “Homelamb” and somehow captured the actual tone of the show — the paranoia, the dissolution of trust, the way you can’t relax — while making it about sheep and puppets. No kid watching it would understand why a lamb questioning loyalties feels so uneasy, but that’s the whole point.
Most parodies flatten their subject into gags. This one doesn’t. The dread is still there. A puppet bureaucracy is still a machinery of suspicion.
I’ve watched Homeland through its phases — the early seasons when you genuinely didn’t know if Carrie was onto something real or just breaking, and the later seasons when it broke completely. When it worked, it made you feel unstable in a way television usually won’t. Most shows let you settle in. Homeland wouldn’t.
“Homelamb” is maybe five minutes long and stupid and completely committed to the bit, which is why it hits. It takes the thing about Homeland that actually matters — that specific dread — and doesn’t reduce it. Just puts it somewhere it doesn’t belong. Sheep in a spy operation. A lamb on a mysterious phone call. The atmosphere intact, the format wrong. That collision is the whole thing.
I would have voted for Obama if I could have. But somewhere between the NSA revelations and the Merkel phone-tapping story, Europe lost faith in him. Not because he was a tyrant, but because it became clear he genuinely had no idea what his own government was doing. Jon Stewart had the only appropriate response: “What?!”
You want to believe in people. You build them up as something different, something smarter, and then you realize they’re just managing the chaos around them while the actual machinery does what it wants. It’s not quite betrayal. It’s something weirder.
A cleric in Saudi Arabia had made a public health claim so bizarre that it shouldn’t exist in the modern world: driving damages women’s ovaries and causes birth defects. Hischam Fakih, a Saudi artist and activist, took that claim and weaponized it through parody. He recorded a version of Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” with a friend, singing the official absurdity back to the people it was meant to control. In traditional dress, he mimics that same cleric, warning women away from the steering wheel: “I remember you sitting in the family car, but in the backseat, so your ovaries stay intact and you can produce many babies.” There’s something almost beautifully stupid about delivering pseudoscience over reggae. It makes the lie impossible to ignore.
Fakih released the video as part of a larger action—a day when women were supposed to drive anyway, authorities be damned. The results were predictable and depressing. The regime had made its threats clear beforehand. Most women stayed home. At least sixteen who tried were stopped by police, fined, and forced to sign statements promising to follow the kingdom’s rules in the future. Not a rebellion. Not even close. Just an attempt, swiftly shut down.
What makes this even more absurd is that Saudi Arabia is the only country on earth where women can’t drive. It’s not even officially illegal; the whole thing rests on a single fatwa from 1990. No law. No legislation. Just one religious opinion that somehow became absolute fact for millions of people. And when someone tries to point out how ridiculous that opinion is, they get arrested for it.
Airplane safety videos are designed to break you. Everyone knows this. They strap you into a narrow seat for three hours, the cabin goes dark, and some voice starts explaining emergency procedures like they’re reading a phone book from 1987. The actors look dead inside. The cameras look older than the plane. You pull out your phone or stare at the back of the seat in front of you, waiting for it to end.
Virgin made one that’s actually good. That’s the whole story, really. Not good for a safety video—good. Engaging. The kind of thing you watch instead of escape from. I don’t know if it’s because Richard Branson likes messing with convention, or if someone at Virgin just got tired of how aggressively bad these things are everywhere else. But somewhere in that airline, someone decided that something trapped people are forced to watch doesn’t have to be unwatchable.
Most carriers don’t bother. Their logic is sound: you’re stuck. Why spend money making it good? Virgin figured out the inverse. People are stuck for hours before and after that video. Maybe they’d rather remember you as the one that didn’t waste their time.
Someone built an app at a TechCrunch Hackathon that promises guaranteed entry to Berghain. Zalando integration for the right shoes, weather forecast, the whole thing. Like those are the hidden variables in a bouncer’s decision-making.
What makes it funny is that Berghain’s power entirely lives in the rejection. The rope, the arbitrary gatekeeping, the pleasure of saying no—that’s the whole operation. So an app that claims to crack it is treating exclusivity as a technical problem, which is exactly what you’d expect from Berlin right now. Someone looked at a velvet rope and thought, ’I should build something about this.’
You make a video, post it, and the comments roll in. Most of them are people telling you to die.
That’s what happened to Meghan. She made short videos on Vine, had a distinctive voice, and attracted the kind of strangers who seemed to have an endless reserve of cruelty but nothing else to offer. The comments piled up: never speak again, you should be dead, kill yourself.
Instead of disappearing, she started reading them back. Just grabbed the harshest ones, said them out loud on camera, and laughed. Turned the cruelty into comedy. Made the abuse hers.
I respect that. The plain cool of someone who took cruelty and decided she owned the punchline.
There’s a video of an 87-year-old woman playing Grand Theft Auto V like she’s got something to prove. Not fumbling with the controls or trying to figure out which button does what. She’s focused. She’s mowing down pedestrians and torching cars with the casual competence of someone who actually knows what she’s doing.
The spark: a gas bill so ridiculous it broke her. Some utility company decided to absolutely fleece her, and instead of calling to complain or stewing about it, she grabbed a controller and loaded up the game. Which is honestly a more efficient response than what most people would do.
What gets me is watching her play. No performance, no self-awareness, no “isn’t this funny, a grandma playing a violent game.” She’s just putting something into the world that wouldn’t fit anywhere else. That’s what the violence is actually for. Not a moral lesson. Just somewhere to put it.
There’s something unsettling about that kind of certainty at any age. But especially at 87.
Saw a roommate listing in Frankfurt where some guy had just laid out his criteria. No Arabs. No Africans. No political science majors because they were “left-leaning leeches”—his exact words. Not that he was trying to hide what he meant.
What got me wasn’t the bigotry. It’s that he didn’t bother with code language or plausible deniability. Just posted it plain. Natural light, own bathroom, and also: you are not welcome here. No apology baked in. Just straight rejection.
I kept thinking about who would see that and apply anyway. People who know they’re not wanted. Who need the place enough to walk into it anyway. That specific kind of quiet damage.
Didn’t follow up. But it stayed with me somehow—the casual way he’d just posted his contempt like that, apparently saw nothing wrong with it. As if being honest about your prejudice was some kind of excuse for it.
Monday morning, gray and cold, everything terrible. You drag yourself out of bed, shuffle toward the office or class, and there’s Margot—already awake, somehow in a good mood, moving through it all with this impossible grace. The rest of us are slogging through mud. She’s cozy. I have no idea how she does it.
You’re moving into your apartment in Qingdao and you get to the window and it’s not there. Not broken, not missing glass—it was never real. Someone painted it on the wall. Professional paint job. From far enough away you wouldn’t notice, but standing in your living room, running your hand over the concrete, you can feel where the joke ends and the wall begins.
The developer painted windows instead of installing them. Saved money. Probably figured no one would look too closely, or if they did, they’d already signed the lease. A building full of fake windows, maybe dozens of them, tenants paying rent to stare at skilled brushwork instead of the city outside.
It’s the kind of shortcut that’s almost admirable in how bluntly cynical it is. Not a flaw or an accident—an actual design decision. Someone had to propose it, someone had to approve it, and then someone had to execute it. At what point in that process does it occur to you that this is insane? Or does no one even notice until they’re already living there?
I think about whether people complained. Whether they called the landlord demanding actual windows and whether that conversation even happened in a way that mattered. Whether the developer fixed it or just absorbed the hit and moved to the next project. Or maybe those apartments are still occupied, and the people living there have just made peace with painted glass, like it’s a fact of nature instead of a choice someone made about how much they cared about them.
It’s the kind of thing that makes you paranoid about every wall you move into, every window you look out of. Like now you know this is possible, the trust is gone.
The thing about kids tasting something sour for the first time is that their face does all the work. There’s no filter, no strategy—just biological reaction written across their mouth and eyes. April Maciborka and David Wile caught that moment across a whole series of kids hitting lemons, and it works because the reactions are totally genuine. No amount of staging fakes that expression.
I remember being maybe five, snatching a lemon slice from my grandmother’s kitchen, expecting sweetness because it was bright yellow. Instead my mouth seized up. The shock of it, the absolute certainty that I’d made a terrible mistake, the immediate need for water. I probably made the exact same face these kids are making.
There’s something about photographs that don’t try to be anything more than what they are. Just what happens when you put citrus in front of someone who’s never had it. No narrative, no setup, no hidden message. The comedy works because the reaction is completely genuine.
I saw a girl collapse in a café in Nîmes. Couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Her parents were right there, and when they tried giving her a chocolate bar—like maybe that small thing could fix what was happening in her head—she wouldn’t take it. Just looked away. There’s this specific expression you see on a parent’s face when they understand their kid is disappearing and there’s nothing they can do about it.
I keep coming back to that moment. To the fact that we all know the statistics—something like one in five teenagers in Germany dealing with eating disorders—but knowing it is different from watching it happen. Different from seeing the actual body refusing food, the actual fear driving it.
What bothers me is how invisible the connection is, even though everyone can see it. Every magazine, every billboard, everything online is selling thinness as the default beautiful. Bones as a feature worth having. And then when people—when girls, mostly—actually believe that message enough to starve themselves, we act like it came from nowhere. Like this tragedy somehow isn’t connected to the world we all keep building.
Maybe that’s too dark. Maybe I’m making too much of a single moment. But I don’t think I am.
On some gray morning, wedged into a packed U-Bahn with my forehead nearly touching the window, I start thinking about a car. My friends in the city will tell me it’s stupid, that I don’t need it, that the transit is fine. They’re right in theory. But they’re not the ones standing here.
There’s this thing about living in the city that nobody mentions — the way you end up following everyone else’s rules. Take the train they tell you to take. Walk the route they tell you to walk. Wait. Wait some more. You’re part of the system, and the system hums along whether you like it or not.
A car sits in my head as the opposite of that. Not as a vehicle exactly, but as a small refusal. The ability to say no — to leave when I want, to go where I want, to not be tethered to someone else’s schedule. Even if I’d only use it once a week. Even if it doesn’t make logical sense. The wanting isn’t logical.
I get it now. It’s not about the car. It’s about the feeling that I could have it if I decided to. That I’m not locked into this one particular way of living just because I happen to be standing in a crowded train in a city. The car is just a symbol for taking my life back into my own hands, whatever that means.
German television is mostly garbage. You know this if you’ve ever tried to find something to watch—endless Schwiegertochter gesucht, crime reruns, programming that seems designed to insult your intelligence. So when Rohce and Böhmermann got renewed, I felt something like relief. Not excitement exactly, but the specific easing you feel when you realize there’s still at least one smart show being made here.
I don’t know what the new season will look like or whether it’ll hold up to whatever came before. That’s not the point. The point is just that there’s a show still operating on the assumption that the audience can think, that wordplay matters, that you don’t need to pander to be funny. On German television, that’s almost shocking.
GQ UK marked its 25th anniversary by putting Rihanna on the cover naked, holding a snake. Damien Hirst shot it. I’m not sure what he was thinking—what the snake represented to him, what he was trying to work through. But I spent most of the time just looking at it.
There’s something about Rihanna I’ve always loved, and this shot has it in full measure: this ease, this complete unselfconsciousness in front of the camera. No performance, no defense, just there. And I’m not going to lie, I’m jealous of that snake. It gets to be wrapped around her like that, gets to be that close to it all.
The issue came out on Halloween. Fitting, somehow—something beautiful and something dangerous wrapped up together.
Steve Payne takes your profile photo and turns it into something that looks like it belongs in a museum. A classical portrait, oil and formality. You as a Prussian general or a rococo aristocrat. Your face, but historical.
The joke is obvious—take the most disposable digital image, the selfie nobody cares about, and paint it like it mattered. He’s done it with celebrities. Eminem as a military commander. Rihanna in silks and jewels. Steve Jobs looking like he was born in the wrong century.
What’s actually interesting about it is the collision. Your profile photo exists for a second before someone scrolls past. A classical portrait from three hundred years ago announces that this person was worth remembering. The weight of history versus the weightlessness of the internet. Payne gives your phone-camera face the gravitas of a Renaissance duke. It looks absurd and impressive at the same time.
And maybe that’s all importance is—a frame, a light, some velvet, an old aesthetic. Paint anyone like they mattered and suddenly they look like they did. Your selfie is nothing. Your selfie as a Napoleonic general is something you’d want on your wall forever.
The Catching Fire trailer was just a reminder of why that franchise existed. The whole premise is ridiculous—teenagers executing each other to keep the population docile?—and the books told it better. But the books didn’t have Jennifer Lawrence, and that’s what the movie was actually about.
Bacon short-circuits something in your brain. You smell it before anything else, before you can even think about it. Your body just knows—there’s something you want.
Someone made body wash out of it. Archie McPhee’s Bacon Body Wash is real, costs four bucks, and smells exactly like you’d expect. It’s the kind of stupid that matters—not throwaway clever, but stupid as in someone genuinely thought, “What if we made bacon soap?” and then did it without questioning themselves.
There’s a real gap between “what if” and “why would anyone,” and that’s where the interesting design lives. Most novelty products are just ironic, just winking at the camera. But bacon body wash commits. It doesn’t apologize. It smells like breakfast. If you wear it, people will want to be closer to you for the wrong reasons, which is its own kind of funny.
What interests me is what novelty products reveal about desire. Fancy bath stuff sells refinement—you’re supposed to become someone better through botanicals and careful scent. But bacon body wash doesn’t pretend. You’re not getting sophisticated. You’re getting hunger, pure and simple. And apparently that’s what people actually want.
I haven’t bought it, but I think about it sometimes. Not because I need to smell like bacon, but because the fact that it exists feels like winning something. Someone made this thing, took it seriously enough to manufacture it, and put it in gift shops. In a world of optimization and algorithms, that kind of committed stupidity is close to an act of resistance.
Bonnie Strange was one of those creative rebels who made Berlin feel alive — a fashion designer and artist who understood that real creativity meant making things that felt necessary, not precious. The Shit Shop was exactly what the name promised: no apologies, just the actual interesting stuff. A photographer caught her in a museum after hours, and the images have that rare quality where the subject isn’t performing for the camera, just moving through the space like they belong there. Which she did.
I checked out those early episodes of the unofficial Game of Thrones porn parody out of sheer curiosity, but it killed whatever arousal potential the whole concept had. The thing was just inert. Boring. The kind of boring that makes you wonder what actually works in porn.
The sketches went nowhere, the sex scenes were shot with no energy, and the whole production felt like someone had the idea and then did the absolute minimum to execute it. You’d think the Game of Thrones world would offer something useful—the costumes, the politics, the elaborate setup—but instead it was just bodies in bad lighting going through standard motions.
I think what got me was how little imagination went into any of it. Not even trying, just doing. Bad porn can be funny or weird or interesting. Boring porn is just a void.
Marcia Wallace died. Seventy, breast cancer. She voiced Mrs. Krabappel from episode two of The Simpsons onward — that depressed teacher with the raspy laugh and the sarcastic drawl, who hated her job and wanted a drink and had nothing but contempt for the world, but showed up anyway.
I’ve been hearing that voice since childhood. That character defined what a certain kind of exhausted adult sounded like. Not mean, just worn down by the world. When the show eventually killed off Mrs. Krabappel, it seemed right. Al Jean said she was irreplaceable. He wasn’t being sentimental. She was.
You don’t really think about the voice actors until they’re gone. Then you realize how much of your own sense of humor came from their voice, how they taught you that adults could be bored and resentful and still show up anyway. That’s the stuff that stays.
Marty’s about to wake up in Lorraine’s bedroom, and when he does, there’s a Twitter account waiting for it. Someone decided the best use of their time was recreating the entire Back to the Future trilogy on Twitter in real-time, one account per character. The DeLorean gets its own profile. Fifty accounts deep.
This is the kind of thing that only makes sense on Twitter. Some person with obsessive tendencies and too much free time decides to chronologically work through a movie they probably love, turning it into this sprawling, participatory thing. People follow the accounts for the characters they care about, mute Biff if they want, and suddenly the story breaks across their timeline at its own pace. It’s not faster, it’s not better, but it’s different — the film split into pieces and distributed across this weird social network where anything can happen.
I watched Back to the Future growing up like everyone else. It’s a perfectly constructed film, three times over. But there’s something almost more interesting about watching someone else be so obsessed with it that they’ll create fifty accounts and manage this elaborate real-time reenactment. It says something about how we consume stories now, how we want to be inside them, not just watching them. This person is giving that to us, asking for nothing in return except maybe a follow.
The fact that we’re at the moment where Marty’s about to wake up in Lorraine’s room is almost beside the point. What matters is that someone cared enough to do this. That’s worth more than any TV show.
You don’t interrupt a graffiti writer while they’re working. That’s how you get a spray can to the face. Thilo learned this at the BVG. You let them spray, you document it, you move on to the next tag.
The arms race is real and constant. Writers upgrade their techniques and materials, Thilo’s crew finds new removal methods. Neither side particularly cares about outcomes—they just both show up and do their thing on parallel tracks, rarely intersecting.
Then someone from his crew gets stabbed. Not a writer, just someone violent. Four weeks before this interview, and suddenly the whole thing stops being quirky urban culture and becomes actually dangerous.
What struck me was Thilo’s tone—not righteously angry, not bitter. He respects the skill even as he’s professionally obligated to erase it. There’s something strange about documenting an art form that exists specifically to be covered up.
I see fresh tags on the trains now and think about that whole chain. Someone painted it. Someone documented it. Someone will paint over it. Thilo’s somewhere in there, moving on to the next one.
Berlin’s standard transit map is everywhere — the BVG one that hangs in every apartment, half-destroyed from parties, the thing you glance at for directions and then ignore. It works, which is why nobody needs to look at it twice.
Jenni Sparks made something different. A handdrawn map with small details woven through it, the kind that make you stop and actually look, that mean something to someone who knows the city.
That’s the line between something functional and something worth keeping on your wall. The difference between a map you consult and one you return to.
Freshness Burger created the Liberation Wrapper—just a wrapper with a woman’s face printed on it. When you eat, you hold it up and hide your actual face behind the printed one. Instead of watching someone demolish a burger, the people around you see a calm, composed image. They gave it a design award.
The problem is straightforward enough. Eating a burger is a disaster. There’s no way to do it without looking feral—the grease, the mess, your hands destroyed, your face covered in toppings and sauce, you’re just demolishing something. If you’re eating in front of someone whose attraction to you isn’t automatic, that’s something you’re aware of. The way you look when you eat. The distance between who you want to be and who you are with your mouth full.
So you buy the wrapper. You hide. You eat behind the mask.
It’s only the kind of thing that happens in a specific place with specific ideas about how women should behave. Japan has a version of femininity that’s very controlled, very performed—cute, poised, untouched by appetite. But the anxiety the wrapper is actually solving? That’s not Japanese. That exists everywhere. The gap between your composed self and your eating self is universal. Japan just put it in a product.
I don’t know. There’s something funny about it, and something depressing. The fact that someone made this and other people thought it was a good idea. The fact that it probably works—that somewhere a woman is eating behind a mask and feeling more okay about it. That’s the thing that gets me. Not the absurdity of the product, but the reality of why anyone would need it.
Russell Brand was mostly known for bad American comedies and his relationship with Katy Perry. Then he went on Jeremy Paxman’s show and started talking about international politics—how everything’s fucked, what needs to change. The thing that got me was that he wasn’t half-assing it. He’d thought about this stuff. The post suggests he should write a manifesto, make it formal, structured. Whether Brand has the depth for that is debatable. But there’s something there, some restlessness with the way things are that actually sounded sincere.
So Miranda Kerr and Orlando Bloom are done. They split quietly a few months before making it official — three years of marriage after six years together, which is how these things usually go. She’s back on the market, he’s back to whatever Orlando Bloom does when he’s not married to one of the world’s most recognizable supermodels.
There’s something deadening about watching celebrity relationships collapse in real time through official statements from publicists. The careful language, the “amicable separation,” the maintenance of dignity that mostly just highlights how little we ever really knew about them in the first place. We follow these people obsessively and then find out we knew nothing at all.
I’m not sure why this particular breakup lodged in my head. Maybe because they seemed stable enough, or maybe because Orlando Bloom is handsome in a way that makes his ordinariness disappointing — like he should be more interesting than he apparently is. Or maybe it’s just that when you’ve been reading celebrity gossip for as long as I have, the separations start to feel less like actual human events and more like the inevitable mechanics of a machine you’re watching turn.
Heard ’Perlen vor die Säue’ and it hit like remembering why he’s Germany’s best—no comeback narrative, no bullshit, just a man who never really left making hip-hop that still beats almost everything else. There’s something giddy about it, the kind of dumb energy where grass-smell jokes land. Twenty years in and he moves like that.
Merkel found out the NSA had been listening to her phone. She called Obama about it. He called back with this promise: “The United States does not monitor and will not monitor your communication.” Beautiful. Not a word about the past, just a very formal assurance about the future. If you read it carefully—and apparently everyone did, even the laziest reporters—you could see the actual message hiding in the gaps. Yeah, we did it. We’re not planning to do it again. That was the whole conversation right there.
The thing about official language is that it’s built from true pieces arranged so carefully that lies just disappear into what doesn’t get said. You can be technically honest and completely lying at the same time. Obama probably slept fine. Merkel got her call, the intelligence agencies kept doing their thing, and everybody went home. Well done, ’merica.
Hiroji Kubota went to North Korea thirteen times between 1978 and 1992. He brought back photographs. Good ones - the kind where the light is right and the composition works and you’re drawn into looking. Mountains, buildings, people going about their day like everything is normal and fine.
Photographs don’t lie, exactly. Kubota shot what was there. The regime just controlled where “there” was - they showed him certain cities, certain landscapes, certain crowds arranged in certain ways. Everything in the frame is real. The frame itself is just selected, constrained, edited before the shutter clicked.
What gets to me is knowing what I know about that country - the camps, the executions, the fear machinery - and these photographs still work on you. They’re beautiful. They make you want to see the place. That’s not a flaw in the photographs. It’s their function. The regime controlled what Kubota could see and he made good images of it and now those images do exactly what they were meant to do.
I’ve designed things. You know how it works - you layer elements until the surface looks coherent, functional, intentional. The regime did the same thing with geography and propaganda. The skill was in the curation, and Kubota’s photographs are evidence that it worked.
I wonder what he thought about what he was doing there. The photographs don’t tell you. They just show you the surface, which is all photographs can ever do.
You watch the LA BOO ad and there’s no question why Cara Delevingne is everywhere. The confidence, the presence, the way she moves through the frame like she owns it — it’s immediate. No ambiguity.
Fashion brands put her in their campaigns for a reason. She elevates whatever she touches. The Japanese minimalist aesthetic of LA BOO, the clean geometric vibe, the clothes — it all lands because she’s the one inhabiting it. That’s the whole idea.
Some people just have it. That quality where everything they do seems intentional and effortless at the same time. You know the type. The ones who know exactly who they are and don’t need outside validation for it. Cara’s in that category. It’s partly the genetics, sure, but it’s mostly presence. Taste. That confidence that only comes from understanding your own style completely.
I’m not immune to it. None of us are. You watch something like this and you understand why she’s on every set that matters — every campaign, every film, every shoot worth paying attention to. She just reads differently than other people. That’s the whole thing.
If you’re broke and out of connections, Kyary Pamyu Pamyu’s Mottai-Nightland will get you where you want to go. No chemical middleman—it’s all visual, happening inside your skull instead.
Kyary’s a Japanese pop artist who made her name with PONPONPON a few years back. That video was already this complete sensory assault—everything turned up to maximum, every frame overflowing with detail and color. Mottai-Nightland takes the same playbook and pushes it further. It’s angrier, meaner, less interested in being liked. It’s not trying to be beautiful. It’s trying to break through whatever you’re protecting yourself with.
Fullscreen it. A minute in and the visual overload is complete—colors bleeding into each other, too much happening at once, no moment where you can breathe and look away. Your eyes get tired. Your brain starts refusing. It’s like someone found the absolute limit of what your eyes can process and decided to just live there.
Might leave you weird after. Not the temporary kind either—the kind that sticks with you, that changes how you see things. But that’s the whole point when you’re looking for escape like this. Fair warning: don’t come back saying you didn’t know what you were getting into.
The whole “North Korea is going to destroy you through online games” premise has a perfect kind of absurdity. South Korea’s police caught a businessman trying to smuggle games developed in the North into the country — not for cultural reasons, but as a delivery system for malware. The games would collect IP addresses and player data worldwide, supposedly feeding North Korea’s cyber operations.
I can picture the pitch: “Our weapon is… a game.” But online games are actually excellent delivery mechanisms. Millions of players, sloppy security assumptions, easy to hide malicious code in something that looks legitimate. A cop quoted in the reporting said games and pornography are easy vectors for hackers, which is a bleak pairing that accidentally tells you everything about what people download without thinking.
The absurdity isn’t that North Korea would try this. It’s that it probably works. We’ve learned to be paranoid about email attachments and official-looking links, but a free game? Feels safe. Download it, install it, leave it running. Nobody thinks about what data a game quietly collects. North Korea’s general incompetence with basically everything — their Photoshop skills are stuck in 1993 — doesn’t actually matter if the delivery mechanism works.
Your kid glowing in the dark as a stick figure drawing.
A father rigged LEDs into a suit for his twenty-two-month-old daughter to make her look like a stick man — the kind of thing you’d sketch without thinking, except now it’s real. That’s the whole costume. Of course it works.
There’s a specific kind of eye that lands on that idea. Not too elaborate, not trying too hard, but sharp enough to turn nothing into something. Most people either overthink costume design or don’t think about it at all. This sits in the gap, where the simplicity feels obvious in hindsight but somehow never happens.
The execution was probably straightforward. Thread the lights, sew the seams, make sure nothing gets too warm. Constraints breed clarity — when you don’t have much to work with, the whole thing has to carry itself.
There’s something generous about making a costume for someone that small. She doesn’t care about being clever. She just wants candy and attention. But he made it anyway, which says something about the kind of attention he pays to small things.
I couldn’t drink whisky for years. Tried and tried—seemed like something I had to grow into, like an acquired taste that everyone said was worth the effort but felt more like penance. Then one day I stopped fighting it and just started drinking it neat in dim bars, and it clicked.
There’s a story behind Cardhu that beats most whisky backstories. John and Helen Cumming were making whisky on their farm, but it wasn’t quite legal at first. They ran the operation in secret for a decade before getting their license in 1824. Helen did most of the clever work. When tax inspectors showed up unannounced, she’d have her fermentation vats disguised as bread dough containers and she’d dust flour on her hands, play the baker’s wife, serve them tea while she was at it. If the visit looked official, she’d raise a red flag on the shed to warn the neighbors. Just a woman keeping her business running the way she knew how.
Helen’s daughter-in-law Elizabeth took over after her and actually became known as the Queen of Whisky. She turned Cardhu into a recognized single malt at a time when most people didn’t know what that meant. By the 1800s it had a reputation as one of Scotland’s best distilleries, and it’s held onto that. Jim Murray wrote about it in his Whisky Bible—said it was probably the most balanced, least overwrought pure sweet malt you could find. That’s a compliment that actually means something.
I drink it neat. No ice, no mixing, nothing that gets in the way. There’s something satisfying about respecting what someone took that much care to make.
Key Of Awesome parodied ’Royals’ and made something I’ve thought about more times than I’d like to admit. This was Lorde—Ella Yelich-O’Connor from New Zealand, sixteen years old—at that exact moment when the internet decided she was a thing. Songs like ’Tennis Court’ and ’Team’ that came from nowhere, sounding like she’d skipped ten years of the usual teenage-artist apprenticeship and just arrived fully formed. The parody was good because Key Of Awesome doesn’t punch down; they just watch and let you see what they’re seeing.
The Lana Del Rey comparison was inescapable. Same thing—young woman, sudden arrival, the immediate sense that it couldn’t possibly last, that she’d peaked before she’d even really started. It’s always the same story with the internet and young talent, especially women. You arrive that suddenly and completely and the only question becomes how long before everyone moves on to the next thing.
Lorde either figured it out or didn’t. Hard to know from where I’m sitting.
Robby Leonardi built his portfolio as a Super Mario World level. You jump through it in HTML5, navigate platforms, collect coins that represent skills. It’s playful and intricate and absolutely works as a statement: if you want a designer or programmer who can think sideways, here’s proof.
He was at Fox News looking to escape, maybe toward something in design or code where the work wasn’t just feeding the machine. The interactive portfolio was his shortcut past the noise — past the thousand PDFs and Figma links that all look the same, past the filtered photos and testimonials nobody reads.
Most people applying for jobs send exactly what they’re supposed to send. Something professional, acceptable, forgettable. The application process rewards that. It’s efficient. It’s also why most portfolios don’t stick with you. Leonardi solved it not by being more professional but by being less professional — by making something that felt like it came from someone who actually thinks about how things work, how they’re experienced.
Years later I still remember it. Not because it’s flawless design, but because it’s the rare portfolio that made me curious about the person. That’s all it needs to do.
I watched the Winter Soldier trailer the second it dropped. It’s got Evans and Jackson doing the serious superhero thing, but really I was watching for Johansson in that tactical gear. That’s the part that made rewatching it worth the time. The movie wasn’t coming until sometime in spring 2014, so I had months to sit with that three minutes on loop if I wanted to. And yeah, I did.
There’s people in some dingy room, dancing like they’re trying to shake something out of their bodies. Sweat on the walls, bad fluorescent light, nobody trying to look cool. OverDoz’s “Killer Tofu” is playing and they’re just moving because standing still would actually hurt. I watch it and I get it completely.
That’s exactly what you need when the day job ends. That moment when you step outside and the professionalism can finally fall away and you just want to move. Not dance, not in any real sense—just get your body out of this compressed state and do something, anything, that isn’t sitting at a desk pretending to be functional. OverDoz, a German band that makes this tight, wound-up post-punk that sounds like pure frustration with a beat, have figured out what that moment needs.
I’ve built a whole end-of-day ritual around a three-minute song. There are supposedly better ways to decompress—meditation, yoga, a good drink—but none of them work as fast. When you’re compressed, jaw locked, shoulders up by your ears, can’t remember what breathing feels like, three and a half minutes of this fixes it. Not because it’s clever. Not because it makes you feel like anything other than what you are. Just because sometimes you need something loud and fast and ugly to remind you that you’re still an animal.
I was scrolling Instagram like always and saw Rihanna in Greece, her body twisted into some kind of stretch—not a yoga pose, not quite dance, just the kind of thing you do for two seconds and then the shutter clicks. Bikini. Bad filter, actually genuinely bad, the kind of washed-out grainy light that Instagram somehow made everyone want. Three hundred thousand likes.
You watch celebrities online long enough and the pattern becomes invisible because you’re so used to seeing it. A name plus a body plus the right kind of unguarded moment, which is never actually unguarded, which is precisely calculated to look that way. She knows what works. She’s been testing this formula since before most people had phones. If she’s posting photos like this, that’s the choice she made about what her life looks like to strangers.
I scrolled past it. Probably everyone else did. The machinery works without anyone paying attention to what they’re actually looking at.
Tokyo hits different at night. The neon in the darkness, how it all moves—millions of people in tight streets, everything you could want within arm’s reach but nothing making sense. It gets into your head in a way that’s hard to explain. Most videos about Tokyo flatten it into postcard scenery, all those swooping drone shots. Kutiman’s doesn’t. He just lets it be itself: the sounds, the rhythms, what it actually feels like when you’re in it. No agenda. Just showing you.
I’m not sure why Tokyo never stops being interesting. Most places do. You spend enough time in them and they flatten out, become routine, lose their power. Not Tokyo. I’ve been enough times that I should be over it by now, but four minutes of phone footage and a beat is enough to light it all back up. It’s not rational. It’s the same as always: too much stimulation, too many people, never enough sleep, nothing makes sense, and you never want to leave.
The medley as a format is strange—you’re committed to nothing, everything shifts depending on which song comes next. Alex Gist does a run through Lion King, The Little Mermaid, Aladdin, all a cappella, and the thing that works isn’t novelty or ambition. It’s that she’s thinking about arrangement, about how to move the voice between these songs without losing anything in translation.
A cappella strips everything away. No instruments to hide behind, no production to smooth the seams. You hear the arrangement made visible—every choice, every silence, every moment where the singer either commits or hesitates. Gist doesn’t hesitate. There’s clarity in how she layers her voice, when she simplifies, when she pushes it into something weirder. She knows what each song needs.
Disney material is tricky because it’s everywhere, oversaturated, which means every performance is a risk. Lean into sentiment and it feels cheap. Play it ironic and it feels hollow. Gist seems less interested in either. She’s just solving the technical problem—how does this arrangement live in the voice alone, where are the seams, which song comes next. It’s almost clinical, except it isn’t, because the thinking is audible.
There’s something clarifying about watching someone work through music with nothing but their voice. Sometimes it’s the melody that matters. Sometimes it’s the space between phrases. Sometimes it’s just knowing which song should come next and why.
Dogs in Görlitzer Park and Treptower were showing up at vets with the same symptoms: trembling, disorientation, hearts racing. Vet Reinhold Sassnau at his practice near Südstern put it together. They’d been eating feces contaminated with drugs, leftovers from addicts using the parks like bathrooms. Most recovered after a sedative, but the real problem was harder. His advice: train your dog not to eat shit.
The Verge even covered it, which captures the absurdity—a tech publication reporting on stoned dogs in Berlin.
It’s a very Berlin situation. Everything gets documented. Nothing gets fixed. The parks stay broken, the addicts stay stuck, the dogs keep eating poisoned shit, and it becomes a story people tell about what the city’s like.
M.I.A. drops “Y.A.L.A.” and you want to care. She’s done the work—”Paper Planes,” “Bad Girls,” all that carried real weight. But this one’s too experimental in the way that doesn’t connect. It’s riding the Y.O.L.O. trend like everyone else, trying to make something stick, and it just doesn’t.
After everything that fell apart with her last album and the Madonna nonsense, you’d hoped for something that actually landed. This isn’t it. It’s good enough for a party, good enough to mention in passing, but nothing more.
She’s capable of better, though. I still think she’ll make something worth listening to again. But not this.
Flume remixed Disclosure’s “You & Me” and the video is five minutes of a naked couple absolutely going at each other—biting, touching, completely locked in. No cuts, no relief, just sustained intensity from start to finish.
Sat down to watch it and something about the sustained focus just got to me. The way they’re moving, the tension, five minutes without a cut, without looking away, just unbroken attention. Ended up sitting still for a minute after. Still thinking about it.
Anchorman 2 was just a reason to pack every willing famous person into one newsroom. Will Ferrell and the usual cast, but also Nicole Kidman, Jim Carrey, Sacha Baron Cohen, Amy Poehler, Tina Fey—a ridiculous list of people showing up for a few minutes each. The movie didn’t need a story; it was just an excuse for comedy cameos. There’s something great about that kind of ambition, even if it’s completely ridiculous.
You hear that the city will save you, that you just need to get there and the loneliness will dissolve into something manageable. More people means more connection, right? You arrive and find yourself more isolated than ever, pressed against millions of strangers who aren’t looking at you.
Paul Riccio made a video about New York that shows this perfectly. He lives there, in this place where so many of us go looking for rescue. What comes through is that specific kind of urban loneliness — the subway platform full of faces that don’t see you, the crowded bar where everyone’s alone together, the street at night bright with lights and motion and absolutely empty of recognition. You’re at the center of everything and invisible.
The mistake is thinking crowds will fix it. Enough people, enough noise, and the emptiness gets swallowed. But it doesn’t work that way. Loneliness in a city is its own thing — maybe worse, because everyone around you seems to have found something you haven’t. You’re supposed to connect in a place like this. Instead you’re just surrounded by millions of people who feel just as far away.
Tyler and Animation Domination High-Def made a short where he just talks about the weird shit in his head. No bits, no armor — just him being strange. He’s always been that way, genuinely, not as an act. Animation lets him be unguarded in a way he doesn’t usually allow.
Tyrion Lannister in Simpsons yellow is still Tyrion. That stopped me when I first saw Adrien Noterdaem’s Game of Thrones work. I expected the specificity to disappear the moment you flatten someone into four fingers and yellow skin and those simple Simpsons eyes. But it doesn’t. Daenerys reads as herself. Jon Snow is unmistakable. The bone structure survives.
Noterdaem’s been translating TV shows into Simpsons style for a while — Breaking Bad, Mad Men, Sherlock — and they all work fine. But Game of Thrones is the interesting one because the show is built entirely on production design. Every frame costs money. The costumes, the armor, the medieval aesthetic — that’s what’s supposed to make it feel epic and weighty. But strip all of that away and you’re left with just the faces. And they’re still compelling.
It’s a useful thing to notice about character design. The production design, the costuming, the cinematography — all of that matters. But underneath it, the actual face is doing more work than you’d think. The Simpsons style is so minimal that it forces the character to survive on bone structure alone. And apparently most characters can.
Facebook left the video up—a man in a mask beheading a woman in Mexico—because it didn’t quite clear the threshold for removal. But post a photograph of a breast, even in the context of nursing, and you’re out. The rules work differently depending on what’s in the frame.
When pressed, Facebook offered the explanation they always do: context matters. They allow documentation of violence because people need to share what’s happening in the world. Only when violence is glorified or weaponized do they step in. It’s a distinction flexible enough to protect almost anything from moderation.
But the actual asymmetry is obvious. A nipple is more obscene to them than a corpse. A moment of feeding a child is a worse violation of their standards than someone’s final breath on camera. This isn’t a flaw in their system—it’s the design. It shows you what they’ve chosen to protect, and what they’ve decided is safe to expose.
I spent way too much time in Microsoft Word making WordArt—tweaking gradients and shadows and 3D bevels, doing ridiculous things with rotation and outline thickness. The interface had this gravity to it. Realizing what I was making was terrible never stopped me from clicking into the next option anyway.
So I’m looking at iOS 7 and something feels oddly familiar. Vaclav Krejci posted about how you could basically recreate the whole design language in Word—same typefaces, same flattened look, same vague sense that something got deleted. Jony Ive apparently took the same path I took with WordArt, except he had teams of people and unlimited money, and it ended up on a billion phones.
There’s something almost funny about that. The most carefully designed operating system ever made looks like something I would have made in study hall, before I knew anything about design. That bothers me in a way I can’t quite explain.
You’re on his couch, some movie playing, and he’s turning toward you slowly with that look. This is it — the thing you’ve been waiting for. His face is coming close and you’re about to finally kiss him and your stomach decides right then to do something unholy. Not now. Not when you’re supposed to be desirable and present and transcendent. Your body’s got no interest in romance narrative — it’s just physics and biology and the worst possible timing.
It’s the thing nobody tells you about desire: you’re always also just a sack of functions trying not to betray itself. He’s probably thinking about how he looks, whether he’s doing it right. You’re thinking about not being disgusting. That’s the real moment — not the kiss, but the second before, where you’re both human enough to be anxious about being human.
I don’t think you ever get over that anxiety. You just get better at laughing at it, at remembering that the other person is equally mortified by their own body. Everyone’s standing there hoping they don’t fart. That’s the actual intimacy.
Someone spray-painted SCHWARZFAHRER-WAGEN—fare-dodger car—on a Stuttgart train in letters sized to look official. The kind of tag that makes you do a double take, makes you wonder for a half-second if there’s actually a free-ride car you missed, if you could have been gaming the system all along.
The joke works because of that moment of uncertainty. The artist knew exactly what they were doing: render something legitimate-looking enough and people will believe it before they think. How many passengers saw those letters and had to mentally reorganize what they were looking at?
Street art at its best operates like that—not announcing itself as graffiti, but presenting as fact. There’s respect in it, a kind of faith in the viewer’s ability to get the prank. And then there’s the image of the artist stepping back from the final letter, knowing exactly how people will react, before the city decides whether it’s funny or a crime.
Tottie the pug won twenty-five thousand dollars at a costume competition. Her owner McKenna dressed her as Miley Cyrus on a wrecking ball — the music video, the full commitment. A Barbie doll, some fabric, a pug with no idea what’s happening, and suddenly we have a winner.
The internet is very good at two things: finding the dumbest possible idea, then making it real. Dog costume as pop star wasn’t new before this, but this version hits something. It’s harmless and stupid in exactly the right way. Miley in her wrecking ball phase is old enough to be funny again, recent enough that everyone gets the reference. The pug doesn’t care. The pug is just a pug.
What’s genuinely funny is that Tottie’s face reveals nothing. Dogs don’t experience the humiliation we’re projecting onto them. She’s standing there with a Barbie doll, about to win more money than most people make in a month. No shame, no awareness of the cosmic joke. Just a small dog being a small dog.
There’s something satisfying about that. The idea is stupid, the execution is committed, and the dog remains completely indifferent. That’s the internet at its least harmful.
Apple’s pushing the iPhone 5s in gold now, like that’s the move everyone’s been waiting for. And I look at it and genuinely wonder: what is wrong with wanting a gold phone?
I have an iPhone. Black. Works great. It’s last year’s model and I don’t care. But watching people actually want the gold version is its own kind of painful. It’s like watching someone buy a gold-painted car or order a gold debit card — you can’t look away from the bad taste.
The weird part is that it doesn’t look expensive. It looks cheap. Gold on a phone just screams “I paid more for this” which is, ironically, the cheapest possible reason to want something. It’s desperation playing dress-up as luxury.
I realize I’m being a snob about it. Some people probably like how it looks and good for them. But the appeal of gold as a status symbol only works if you’re announcing the money, and the second you have to announce it, the whole thing falls apart. That’s not luxury — that’s performing luxury.
My black phone doesn’t perform anything. It just is.
I wrote about BuzzFeed in early October 2013, and I came in hot. I don’t think they ever saw it, but I remember posting something like “BuzzFeed is successful because it’s designed for the dumbest people on the internet” — and I meant it. I went on about how most articles are barely three sentences long, how they blow up the font size when they don’t have enough words, how you get headlines like “This woman can’t get married until she makes her husband 300 sandwiches” or “19 reasons why iOS 7 is the apocalypse” or just “Nacho lasagna!” Mixed in with photos of terror victims and brave feminists, all designed for an audience that thought every other website on the internet was too thoughtful.
Frank Schmiechen, some editor at Welt am Sonntag, shot back. He accused me of being one of those annoying German moralists wagging my finger before BuzzFeed had even landed. He said my piece was embarrassing, that I was performing superiority and using words like “grenzdebil” (brain-dead) like everyone else was beneath me. He wasn’t wrong.
The thing is, I lose interest in whatever I write about almost immediately. Everything bores me eventually. But BuzzFeed and the whole remix-blog concept kept hitting me over and over in my daily internet wandering, and you couldn’t ignore what it meant for how people consume content. It was impossible not to be curious about it, especially in the middle of all this hand-wringing about the future of journalism.
So I decided to find out. I spent a week running this blog like BuzzFeed — borrowed the design from an online magazine I’d shut down the year before, and made one rule: interesting, discussable, attention-grabbing. That was it. I grabbed everything from my feed readers that killed on Mashable or Reddit or HYPEBEAST, or anything that made me laugh so hard or got me so mad I knew it was gold.
What came out was stuff like “Here’s China’s creepy copy of Paris,” “Every woman needs this period-stained t-shirt,” “Kim Kardashian’s ass is bigger than your bedroom.” No holding back on the superlatives or the exclamation points. The text was supposed to be accessible, the images and videos immediate and easy to process. I noticed on day one how easy this was to do.
The whole thing became a competition with itself almost instantly. In that one week, I got way more traffic than magazines got in a year. I ran out of ad space by day three. But here’s what actually surprised me — it was fun. Like, genuinely liberating. Just putting out whatever you felt like, without filtering it through some idea of what a publication should be. It’s not a constraint, it’s a privilege.
The first article did okay, something about Banksy’s cheap street sale, got under 500 likes. Brazilian cops showed no mercy, cracked closer to 600. A Game of Thrones video barely broke 400. Before all this, I probably wouldn’t have published any of those. But I was wrong about them.
So I decided to keep some of that energy. I know not everyone cares about dads dressed as Batman or Japanese fashion girls or whatever. But between all that dumb stuff, there’s room for the other thing too — interviews with successful bloggers, pieces about Hamburg fighting for refugees, questions about the future of blogging. This blog is about the young internet — bloggers, YouTubers, Twitter people, as much as music and games and fashion. Whatever’s interesting.
What all this actually taught me is that this style of publishing can be a blast if you’re actually living in that world of memes and WTFs and viral chaos. It’s not the future of journalism. It’s just a part of it. The access to that casual energy can actually pull people who normally only care about funny GIFs into heavier, harder material.
So I didn’t take back what I said in October — but I’m not as certain about it. There are different ways to reach people with information, and not every publisher should be chasing German BuzzFeed. But a little more openness about what counts as worth publishing might be what was missing all along. And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find the next dumb-looking cat. This stuff works.
You watch them on cardboard, moving like their joints are made of something else. The music shifts and the whole body becomes an instrument — arms rotating, head spinning, spinning again. The commitment required is absurd, but that’s the point. It’s not elegant. It’s athletic and sometimes sloppy, but the dedication to it is complete.
I never got the spinning right. The windmill, the helicopter — my body wouldn’t cooperate. But I understood why people did it. There’s something about watching someone break that hits different than other dance. You’re throwing yourself at the ground over and over, trusting momentum and repetition. It’s not about being graceful. It’s about the willingness to look ridiculous a thousand times until you get it.
This was the 80s, early 90s maybe. Every kid wanted to break. There were videos, instructional tapes, local competitions. Someone’s older brother who actually knew how to do it became legendary. The thing that started in the streets became commodified pretty quickly — instructional videos, public television segments, formal training. That’s how culture works. You can’t keep something underground forever.
I never tried it seriously. The falling, the hours drilling basic moves, the failure required — I didn’t have that in me. But watching someone really get into it, seeing them disappear into the motion, there was something there. Not envy. Just recognition. That’s what it looks like when someone loves what they’re doing.
Someone remade the opening of Attack on Titan with cats. The whole sequence — all that apocalyptic dread and momentum compressed into an intro. But it’s cats.
I found it hilarious. A small group of people who’ve spent weird amounts of time thinking about anime openings found it hilarious. Everyone else will miss it entirely, and I’m not going to worry about that. This is comedy that only works if you’re in on a specific kind of niche — the kind where applying heavy dramatic framing to a cat just sitting there becomes absurd enough to be funny.
Attack on Titan’s opening is genuinely great. There’s real craft in how it builds dread. So the joke lands because someone took all that intentional weight and directorial care and applied it to something that fundamentally doesn’t care about any of it. A cat can’t bear the weight of apocalypse.
The video for ’Unconditionally’ is Aya Tanimura’s choreography made visible—careful, composed, dancers moving around Katy Perry like she’s the still point everything orbits. But the song doesn’t need any of that. It’s heartbreak stripped down, which is maybe the only way a song like this survives anymore. There’s no irony, no distance, just someone saying ’I love you exactly as you are’ and meaning it completely. That kind of earnestness kills you.
The UN made posters from Google autocomplete results about women. You know that thing where Google guesses what you’re about to search? They let it finish sentences like “women are…” and “women should…” and printed what the internet suggested. All the usual stuff — women are inferior, women can’t be trusted, women should stay home. The real shit people type.
Seeing those posters was strange because they were both completely expected and weirdly unsettling. Of course those searches exist. Of course millions of people have typed them, alone and anonymous, fishing for something to confirm their contempt. But there’s a difference between knowing this happens and having it printed out, arranged into a campaign, made visible. It forces you to reckon with how ordinary this is — how casual the misogyny is, how it just sits there under the surface of everything.
I don’t think it changed anything. The campaign probably didn’t shift many minds. This is still what the internet is — a place where you go to be honest about the uglier parts of yourself, where billions of small cruelties accumulate into something that just feels like normal life. But the campaign was at least direct about it. No framing, no interpretation, just Google showing its face.
Eighty euros gets you Windows XP running on actual NES hardware. Not some emulator—the real thing, booting on thirty-year-old circuitry, moving through windows and menus with a kind of patient stubbornness. Games work. The calculator works. Nothing moves fast or clean, but it works.
There’s something genuinely appealing about this purposeful incompatibility. Two completely different eras forced together not because they need to be, but just to see if you can. I’ve watched enough bloated operating systems fail and enough ancient hardware outlive them to recognize something honest here.
The whole trajectory of modern software is bloat—more processing needed just to boot, everyone waiting for the next redesign that’ll make sense of it all. And then someone just sidesteps the entire thing. Gets 1985’s circuitry running software from 2001 and makes it work.
Maybe it’s meaningless. No one actually needs this. But it proves something: the gap between incompatible systems isn’t as fixed as the manufacturers want you to believe. It’s just a choice. Someone chose otherwise.
Toby Sheldon was a composer in LA who decided his face was the problem, so he spent seventy thousand dollars to look like Justin Bieber. Five years of procedures. Nose work, jaw surgery, hair transplants. He talks about it methodically—”Justin’s smile makes him look so young,” he explains, like smiling is something you can solve with surgery.
The recovery was rough. Couldn’t open his eyes for a week after the eye work. A month to heal from the smile surgery. He lists these like they’re accomplishments, proof of something, though what isn’t entirely clear.
His friends supposedly called him Tony Bieber after. Compliments, supposedly. The original story doesn’t ask what came next, whether anyone actually cared, whether he felt like a different person or just like himself with a borrowed face and a drained bank account.
He’s still just Toby—same life, same job, same whatever was there before. Just with a different nose and seventy thousand fewer dollars.
Some guy got hired as a production assistant on a Katy Perry music video set, and apparently this qualifies as the best job in the world. Doesn’t matter what he actually did—move lights, grab coffee, whatever. The context is the whole point. You’re on set with Katy Perry. That’s genuinely the job that hits every fantasy requirement for a certain demographic.
I’m not going to pretend I’m above this. It’s a funny fantasy, obviously. The appeal is pure proximity: you’re in the same space as someone beautiful you normally only see through a screen. That’s it. The actual work could be tedious, but who cares. You’re there, and everyone who hears about it immediately hates and envies you in equal measure.
There’s something weirdly human about wanting to be near something you find beautiful, even in the most delusional way possible. Even as a production assistant moving sandbags. Especially then, maybe—because you get to be close to it while also having the excuse of work, some kind of legitimate reason to be in the same room.
I have no idea if this guy actually existed or if it’s just one of those internet jokes that everyone accepts as true because the premise is too perfect. Either way, he’s immortalized now. Not for anything he actually did, but for the lucky accident of being in the background of the right moment.
There’s a half-finished Paris sitting in farmland outside Hangzhou. Tianducheng—developers saw the Eiffel Tower and thought, why not? They got the proportions mostly right, built the streets in that same grid, the apartments, the shops. Then not much happened. Two thousand people live there now, maybe. The tower isn’t as tall as the real one, but it’s still this copper-colored thing poking up above rooftops that were supposed to feel French.
What gets me about places like this isn’t the fakeness. It’s the confidence. Someone looked at Paris and decided they could copy it, paste it, make it work for people who wanted something romantic without leaving home. There’s something almost beautiful about that kind of ambition. And also something unsettling about a whole city that nobody wanted. The streets are empty most days. The apartments sit empty. You could walk around Tianducheng and feel like you’re visiting a stage set someone forgot to strike.
I think about it sometimes when I’m designing something, and I catch myself reaching for something I saw somewhere else. The impulse to just take what works and rebuild it is so natural. And so obviously doomed. Tianducheng didn’t fail because it’s a copy—it failed because you can’t copy what makes a place actual. You can’t copy the history, the accident, the thousand small decisions that accumulated into why Paris is Paris. You can only ever get the shape of it. And the shape on its own is just empty.
Blake Wilson’s BatDad worked because it solved a problem: what if you tried to be Batman but you were also a parent?
The premise is simple. He’s in the suit, ready to fight crime, and then someone leaves a light on or his kid needs something or he’s just tired. The costume doesn’t help. Batman doesn’t fix any of it. He just shows up exhausted, dealing with normal frustrations while dressed as a vigilante.
That’s where the humor lives. It’s not clever observation or wordplay. It’s honest. You’re trying to be competent and in control, and small failures break you. The cape just makes it visible.
The Vine videos worked because Wilson played it straight—no winking, no performing difficulty. Just a man in a bat suit having a bad day. The kind of day where you’re too tired to be dramatic about being tired.
I watched these and couldn’t tell if I was laughing at the character or recognizing myself in him. Both, probably.
You know that thing in horror movies where someone invites everyone to the haunted house and they just go? No questions, no 911 call, just straight into the basement where they die one by one. I’ve watched it enough times to have the pattern memorized.
Hell No breaks that. The haunted house invitation gets a hard no. Ghosts show up, someone calls the military—actually calls them. The characters think.
Which sounds right until you realize it kills the entire film. Without people walking into traps, there’s no tension, no story. Just reasonable people making obvious choices, and that doesn’t sustain anything. The movie gets thin.
But here’s the thing: nobody dies. In a horror movie, that’s a win I didn’t expect.
Hamburg got caught in a question it couldn’t answer. The Lampedusa Group—West African refugees who’d made their way to Italy before getting shuffled north—had papers that were technically expired. So the police started pulling them off the streets. And the supporters started showing up to stop them.
I followed it through the blogs. Dominik was documenting it in real time—the police lines, the reizgas, the horses, the people in black. Veronika, 25, in a blue rain jacket, saying it was inhuman. Jens, 37, coming back to protest again and again because you can’t just sit with it. The politicians explaining, very patiently, why laws had to be laws.
The whole thing was this impossible conversation where you had to choose between law and humanity, like you couldn’t hold both at once. The government: enforce the rule or you’ll get flooded. The protesters: choose people or you’re complicit. Neither side had an answer for doing it differently.
I didn’t go to Hamburg. I read about it instead—the documentation, the quotes, the police statements. That weight of knowing without doing anything. As a blogger myself, I recognized what Dominik was doing, the work of capturing what was actually happening against the official narratives. Good work. Didn’t change anything. The papers were still expired. The policy didn’t shift.
There’s something about that distance that stuck with me. You can document something completely accurately and have it change nothing.
Petra Collins released “Period Power” through The Ardorous - a white t-shirt printed with a hairy vulva, fake blood spattered across the chest. It was deliberately, unambiguously obscene, and the fact that you could actually buy it felt impossible.
This was when feminist art was still figuring out how to exist in the mainstream, when nobody quite knew what to do with someone who refused to soften the edges. Collins didn’t make menstruation inspirational or educational. She just printed it on cotton and made it look brutally, unapologetically sexual. American Apparel distributed it - the company that had made a whole brand out of sexual provocation - and somehow this felt like the most transgressive thing they’d ever done, because it was sincere.
I think about the architecture of shame around menstruation. The discreet packaging, the blue liquid in tampon ads, the entire apparatus built to make you hide something your body does without asking. And here’s Collins, just printing it, making it impossible to look away or pretend it’s something else. Not clever. Not subtle. Just a refusal.
The design itself was crude in the best way - anatomically blunt, indifferent to whether you wanted to look at it. There’s something in that refusal that matters, not because menstruation is a political statement, but because we’ve spent so long hiding it that showing it plainly feels dangerous. And you could buy it. Available to anyone.
I never wore one. Still don’t know if I would. But I got it immediately - the gesture, the clarity, the refusal to soften it into something palatable. It was about the simple fact that bodies do what they do, and pretending otherwise costs something.
Clicked on a video from some group called Children of Poseidon—no idea who they are, probably just kids with a camera and the idea that pain equals views. One minute of footage and I felt something twist in me, not sympathy exactly, just the exhaustion of watching the same dumb loop play out again and again. Someone gets hurt, someone films it, someone uploads it. The format hasn’t changed in twenty years.
I remember the Jackass warnings. MTV would flash something at the start of every episode: don’t try this, don’t send us your copies, this is dangerous and stupid. That meant nothing. A whole generation watched and thought yeah, that’s the move—hurt yourself, get famous. The difference was MTV had production values and some weird craft to it. These guys just have phones.
YouTube gave everyone the platform Jackass needed the network for. You don’t need MTV, no TV deal, no editor deciding this is too far. You just film yourself or your friend doing something that might break you, upload it, hope the algorithm feeds it out. There’s no gatekeeper. Just bodies hitting things and people watching.
What got to me was watching that quarter-second before the pain hits—his face knows something’s wrong but his body’s already committed. Then the crack, the sound. You don’t unhear that. And then it gets uploaded. Shown to strangers. The damage traded for views.
I don’t know what Children of Poseidon get out of this besides maybe a few thousand views and the kind of attention that makes you smaller not bigger. The whole thing makes me tired. Not angry, not disgusted—just tired. The internet figured out the cheapest content is someone else’s suffering, and now everyone knows they can sell their own.
I watched Fashion Hero and nearly fell asleep. The mentors didn’t know what they were talking about—just celebrities with no real sense of how the industry works. Jessica Weiß, who runs Journelles, saw it the same way. Germany has no real infrastructure for young designers the way Scandinavia does. You can’t find emerging labels in German stores. Television occasionally remembers fashion exists, but Fashion Hero was just empty spectacle without substance.
Journelles works by doing something simpler. She mixed career interviews, home design, beauty, personal style—new things every day, always deliberate. Three million visitors in the first year. About 10,000 daily readers by the time I talked to her, which is the threshold where advertising becomes actual money instead of pocket change. Below that, you’re doing it because you genuinely love it.
She won’t go international. The English-language fashion blog space is already thick with copying, and Germany is enough for her. The blogs that actually matter are all specialized: Little Years, Ohhh Mhhh, Fabian Hart, Kooye. Deep in something specific, not trying to catch everything. Internationally, Refinery29 is still the machine—more scope, more money, more reach. Chiara Ferragni turned outfit photos into fame, which seemed impossible until it wasn’t.
The part that matters is how unsentimental she is about the whole thing. Most people dream about blogging for the fantasy: free products, PR events, followers, the appearance of it. The reality is startup work, all of it done by one person. Editor, photographer, designer, social media manager, business development, everything. She works weekends now. The invisible work—emails, partnerships, rate cards, sponsorships—takes most of the time. Either you’re genuinely obsessed or you shouldn’t start.
She took a year away from Les Mads to reset something, then came back to Journelles with new clarity about why she actually cared. Built it back up from zero. She was getting married that year, still spending afternoons in pajamas at the laptop, still thinking about clothes and style and what people want. The gap between what blogging looks like from the outside and what it actually costs you is wider than most people will admit.
Sido’s putting out “30-11-80” as the warm-up to his November album. It’s got basically everyone on it—Bushido, Eko Fresh, Nazar, Frauenarzt, Smudo, Erick Sermon, Moses Pelham, Afrob, and a bunch of others I lost track of. That many features usually means either the track is incredible or it’s trying to do too much. Could be both.
What interests me is that he can even pull this off. Sido vanishes for a while and everyone apparently just waits for him to come back. That’s a thing you have to actually earn—most artists disappear and the world moves on without them. But Sido built something solid enough that it doesn’t stop mattering when he’s gone.
Haven’t heard it yet. It’ll probably be one of those tracks that’s half genius, half bloated. That’s what usually happens when you get that many people on one song.
You’re looking at a painting that’s hung in museums for centuries, and suddenly a superhero is standing in it, rendered in oils, like they always belonged there. Worth1000 ran a competition called “Superhero ModRen” — modern characters, renaissance technique — and the ones that landed understood something crucial: the idea is worthless without the skill. You need the technical chops to paint convincingly, to make the collision feel natural rather than clever. The best pieces in the collection had that, the kind of execution where you forget you’re looking at something inherently absurd.
It’s the thing I always come back to in these mashups. Anyone can have the idea. But pulling it off, actually making it work, requires craft. That’s what separates the ones that stick from the ones that don’t.
There’s a video of a girl thinking her dad’s stealing a car when he’s really just using Car2Go. It’s obviously marketing, but filmed so it doesn’t look like it — the Mercedes version of something that just happened to be caught on camera. Maybe genuine luck, maybe genuine skill.
Doesn’t matter. The observation is true. Car-sharing is weird enough that a kid reads shared access as theft. That’s sharper than most advertising gets. Everything else is just framing around something honest.
Kim Kardashian posts an Instagram photo and somehow it’s the thing that finally kills Twitter. I don’t usually care about Kim K — she’s just one of those people who exist in the background of celebrity culture, fine to ignore. But that photo. She’s posing in a white bodysuit, head barely visible because her ass is literally the size of her entire torso, and she captions it #NoFilter like she’s asking us to believe this is real. It’s not, obviously. It’s geometry. It’s physics that doesn’t exist. But it doesn’t matter because the photo is already everywhere, being screenshot and memed and discussed by millions of people who also didn’t care about Kim K five minutes ago.
I’m not jealous. Okay, I’m a little jealous. Not of her, but of the fact that you can do one thing — take one photo — and have it completely consume the internet for a week. Everyone’s angry or turned on or both, and it’s all because of this image. Kanye probably got texted a congratulatory message by someone. He didn’t deserve it. She did the work.
So I go home and stand in front of the mirror for a while, which does nothing, and then I seriously consider buttering my own ass like it might somehow help. It won’t. But the absurdity of it, standing there with a tub of butter, that feels appropriate somehow. That’s the only honest response to any of this.
I own three pairs of sneakers. One’s basically dead. That leaves two.
Julia from Berlin owns 800.
I get the obsession. Sneakers are good shoes, and once you start paying attention there’s always another one calling. But 800? That’s not collecting. That’s a whole life decision.
Adidas flew Julia and a few other true believers to Herzogenaurach to live out that dream for a day. Part of me resents her for it. The bigger part understands completely. There’s something clean about that level of commitment — no excuses, no performance, just someone who loves shoes more than is reasonable and built their world around it.
At my current pace I’ll hit 800 in about thirty years. By then Julia will probably be deep into something else equally absurd. Knitting. Weird chips. Climbing mountains in animal costumes. The world’s full of rabbit holes, and some people are just better at finding them.
Walking through Harajuku and Shibuya, the fashion girls are actually trying. They’re wearing brands like DEADMAN, MUZE de ACV, C’EST PAS GRAVE — strange names you’ve never heard, clothes that shouldn’t exist in combination but do. The colors are hard to describe because there’s no logic to them. Just individual choices piled on top of each other until they make sense.
Compare that to what most people wear in Germany: black leggings, a bun, Air Max in whatever safe color matches the three outfits you have. It’s not that it looks bad. It’s that it feels like someone decided these were the correct uniform, and everyone agreed. No preference, no accident, no personality. Just options chosen off a list.
The difference is stupidly simple. The Tokyo girls are shopping for things they actually want. Not things that represent taste or trend or status. Just things they like the look of, the fit of, the weight of. When someone stops them on the street to comment on what they’re wearing, they don’t seem embarrassed or flattered in some desperate way — they seem pleased that someone noticed they weren’t just blending in.
I spent years in design watching the same pattern: the moment something good happens, everyone steals it until it becomes invisible. Tokyo’s solution is just people who won’t steal the safe version. They’ll hunt for a small brand because the fabric feels right. They’ll color-clash deliberately. They’ll wear something no one else is wearing and not frame it as bravery.
German fashion is smarter than this. More efficient. More agreeable. I just wish it had more color.
You’re in black space. Nothing moves. You breathe, and you’re alone in the most absolute way a person can be. Then Felix Baumgartner opens a door and steps out.
It had been a year since he did it. A whole year of replays and clips and talk. And then Red Bull released the footage proper—high resolution, pristine, the full jump.
What they captured in 2012 was momentous, but seeing it rendered sharp and clean, frame by frame, is something else entirely. Baumgartner falls through the sky for nearly ten minutes. The video doesn’t cut. No music, no editing tricks. Just the sound of his breathing, the hiss of his suit, the nothing above him, and then the roar as he breaks the sound barrier and the world comes rushing back.
What gets me about watching it isn’t the speed or the height or even the technical achievement—though all of that is there. It’s the silence before it, and the absolute fact that he made it back. At that altitude there’s a jet stream, crushing temperatures, pressure that would kill you before you could process what’s happening. And he just stepped out into that.
There’s something unsettling about witnessing a human do something that extreme. We’re not built for it. Our bodies aren’t designed to survive what he’s doing. But he did it anyway, and someone filmed it, and now it’s available in perfect clarity—proof that it was real. The stunt isn’t the jump itself. The stunt is the documentation.
I remember watching it the first time, probably on my phone, some video in my feed. A few minutes in, you realize you’re watching something that will probably never happen in quite this way again. You’re part of the smallest audience for the biggest moment. Millions of people saw this at once, on screens, alone.
The jump still holds up. Baumgartner’s calm is still unsettling. The footage is still crisp enough to watch the earth swell as he falls toward it. What Red Bull proved—aside from demonstrating that a human can survive it—is that some feats don’t need anything else. Sometimes documentation is enough.
Watched a taekwondo match between two women and couldn’t look away. Not because it was the most epic thing ever — that’s the kind of thing people say when they don’t know what else to say — but because everything they’d trained for was happening right there. Years of discipline and muscle memory compressed into a few minutes of absolute commitment.
You can see it in how they move. No hesitation, no pulling back. They know exactly what they’re doing and they’re doing it anyway. That’s rare to watch. Most people spend their time protecting themselves, hedging, leaving themselves an escape route. These two just went at it.
I kept thinking about the opposite of this — all the careful, measured ways we move through life. All the energy we spend second-guessing ourselves. Then here are two people who trained for this moment and when it came, they didn’t waste any of it on doubt.
I’ve never been that into cosplay. The whole scene feels performative—the social media moment, the convention circuit, the obsessive labor toward validation from strangers. But I watch people sink months into a single costume, nail the construction, understand the design from the inside out, and something shifts. That stops being fandom.
Game of Thrones had the good luck of being dressed by designers who cared. The costume work on that show was obsessive—nothing was generic, nothing was shortcut. A cosplayer tackling a Game of Thrones character was studying actual design, learning how the original builder solved each problem. How the pieces fit together. Why that fabric and not another.
At Comic-Con, someone brought it off completely. Not just accurate to the show—technically sound. The construction held. The proportions worked. You watched them move and understood how much engineering was underneath, how much research, how much problem-solving.
That’s when cosplay clicks for me. Not the moment, not the photo op, not the validation—just the work itself. The thing made real.
The concept designs for Avatar Land at Disney World look incredible. Floating Pandora trees, bioluminescent plants, creatures everywhere, the entire blue Na’vi world rendered in full. The opening’s still years away—2014 at the earliest—but the designs are enough to imagine what it’ll actually feel like walking through those spaces.
I’ve always been drawn to immersive environments like that. You want to step inside them and stay there, exist in that logic for a while. Theme parks try to do it with physical space, but usually they’re thin when you get close. Something like Pandora could feel different though—close to actual transportation, stepping out of the real world into another one completely.
But if I’m being honest, if I could somehow take the whole thing once it opens, dismantle it completely, and haul it to some empty Earth-like planet, I would. Just rebuild it somewhere remote where no one else would ever find it. Keep the entire experience to myself. Live there, explore everything at my own pace, end up with one of those blue Na’vi and settle down, build a whole life in that world together. No tourists, no crowds, no schedules interrupting it. Just me and my private Pandora, and wherever that would lead.
During his ’Better Out Than In’ show in New York, Banksy installed a life-size Ronald McDonald in the Bronx with a real kid underneath it, polishing the clown’s already-spotless shoes. The image hits you the wrong way—the corporate icon pristine and grinning, the child bent at work, grimy and somehow permanent-looking.
You don’t need an art degree to get what he’s doing. Kid shines shoes of famous corporate clown. That’s the whole thing, and the whole thing is enough. The discomfort is the point, and it works because he doesn’t give you anywhere to hide from it. A child doing labor that shouldn’t exist in a rich country, serving a plastic icon of consumption. The contrast is so direct it almost feels cheap, but it isn’t. That directness is the only way to actually make people look.
I don’t know if the kid was an actor or a street kid, if Banksy paid him, how long it went on. He never explains. You see the image and you sit with it, and what you do with that feeling is your problem. Some people see a comment on capitalism. Some people just see a dirty kid and move on. Banksy probably thinks you’re a coward if you choose the second one, but he’s not going to tell you that either.
That’s what I’ve always liked about him—the work stands and he walks away. No interviews explaining the concept, no artist’s statement, no TED talk about the meaning of shoes. Just the image, and you have to figure out what it means to you. It’s the opposite of everything in the art world, where every piece needs context and theory to justify itself. This doesn’t need anything but your eyes.
The statue’s probably gone now, torn down or painted over or disappeared into whatever happens to street art in gentrifying neighborhoods. But the photograph exists, and the memory of it exists, and somewhere a kid once shined a plastic clown’s shoe while the world took pictures. That’s the real work—not the installation, but what stays with you after.
She made Playmate of the Month in July, which should have been the whole achievement. For Alyssa it was just the start. Next I see her in a Terry Richardson shoot for French Lui Magazine called “Alyssa”—her with a cigarette, tongue out, that casual confidence. In the outtakes she’s wearing Terry’s “I’m on Terry’s Diary” shirt, one of those things that only works if you actually have the presence to carry it.
What I notice in these photos is she’s completely unbothered. No calculation, just there. Makes you curious about who she actually is. Which is probably the point.
You could go a lot of ways with a pregnancy photo project. Sophie Starzenski chose to point a camera at her body from the side every thirty days for nine months and not do much else with it. No narrative, no artfulness, no emotional permission slip. Just the documentation.
What appeals to me is the refusal to perform. Most people who take these kinds of photos are already selling you something—beauty, wisdom, the sacred feminine, whatever cultural story gets the most reach. Starzenski’s just looking. Month to month the changes are barely perceptible, which means you have to trust the sequence. Watch it long enough and it becomes something you can’t argue with: time does this to a body, it takes nine months, it’s worth looking at.
I think I respect that more than I respect most “art” about pregnancy. It’s not trying to convince you of anything. There’s no performance and there’s no apology. Just evidence.
Street Fighter II shows up twice. It’s just there, solid, in two of these top-three lists—not at first glance, but once you see it, you notice it’s the only game both developers picked. Somehow that’s more interesting than if they’d agreed on everything.
Famitsu asked four of Japan’s most respected game developers for their all-time favorites. Daisuke Yamamoto made Puzzle & Dragons. Kaname Fujioka made Monster Hunter. Keiichiro Toyama directed Siren and Gravity Rush. Yasumi Matsuno made Ogre Battle. Just their top three each—no scoring, no context, just what they thought still mattered.
Yamamoto went straight to the fundamentals: Street Fighter II, Pokémon Red and Blue, Tetris. Games that pretty much invented their categories. Fujioka landed on the same wavelength—Mega Man, Street Fighter II, Castlevania. Games made for machines you fed quarters into, games you had to *learn*, not games that held your hand. Toyama didn’t even pretend modern gaming had anything to offer him. Space Harrier, Xevious, Virtua Fighter—three arcade cabinets, three games about reflex and nothing else.
Matsuno was the outlier. He listed Zelda, which made sense, but then jumped straight to Ultima Online and Red Dead Redemption. He’s the only one who let his taste wander past 1995. He’s saying something different.
I’ve never actually made one of these lists. It would be different every month. Deus Ex definitely, maybe Ultima Underworld. Dark Souls. But the thing about lists like this is they’re not trying to be right. They’re just what you carry with you when someone asks.
GQ had become invisible to me. The kind of magazine that was either Playboy for people who needed an excuse to buy it, or a catalog of things nobody actually wants. I hadn’t thought about picking one up in years.
Then they put Emily Ratajkowski on the cover. Photographed by Terry Richardson. Suddenly I got why the magazine still exists.
She’s forever attached to “Blurred Lines,” that song people still won’t let her forget. Most people would be tired of it by now, but she’s got this perfect cool indifference about the whole thing—like she knows exactly what you’re thinking and doesn’t care. The photos work. For the first time in what feels like forever, GQ felt like something worth holding.
Wes Anderson builds worlds that are so controlled, so precisely composed, that they become a kind of sadness. His new film, The Grand Budapest Hotel, is set in a hotel—or maybe several versions of it across time, nested inside each other. You watch the trailer and something about it pulls you back to watch it again.
Anderson isn’t making these films to show off. There’s genuine longing underneath, even with all that deliberation. The symmetry, the perfect colors, the way every frame lines up—it makes loss sharper. The Grand Budapest Hotel is about memory fading, a world disappearing. He’s got an incredible cast for this one—Jude Law, Adrien Brody, Bill Murray, Jeff Goldblum, Owen Wilson, Edward Norton, Jason Schwartzman, Léa Seydoux—but the cast is almost beside the point.
What hooks you is that feeling of looking at something beautiful that’s already gone, even while you’re watching it. That’s what Anderson does.
August 26, 2032 is the date Ukrainian astronomers flagged for an asteroid called 2013 TV135—a 410-meter rock with a 0.0016 percent chance of hitting Earth. Almost certainly not, then. The almost is what sticks.
If those odds somehow flip: 2,500 megatons of TNT. Fifty times the largest nuclear bomb ever built. Extinction event. Everything stops.
What gets to me is the specificity of the date. We handle the abstract knowledge of asteroid threats just fine—rocks in space, some of them pointed at us, no big deal. But August 26, 2032 is real in a way that statistics aren’t. It’s close enough to matter and far enough away that nobody’s losing sleep. I found a post about it that joked about pooling money for a laser defense system, or maybe hiring Bruce Willis. The absurdity is perfect—there’s nothing we’re going to do, so we’re betting on luck. Statistically that works out. But a specific date makes luck feel like something you have to choose to believe in.
There’s a guy named Edward Smith who claims to have had sex with over a thousand cars. Not in a metaphorical way. Actual cars. The number is specific, documented somewhere in the internet’s deeper corners, the kind of fact that exists because someone was committed enough to keep count.
The thing that gets me isn’t the act itself—people have always had weird fixations, objects they’re drawn to in ways that don’t make sense to anyone else. The thing is that he felt the need to document it, to make a public record of it, to turn his particular obsession into something that could be shared and marveled at. And it worked. The internet found him, the story got passed around, and now here’s a guy who’s famous for loving cars in a way that’s unambiguously beyond reason.
There’s something almost pure about it. No irony, no winking at the camera. Just a complete commitment to a single desire, so total that it became monstrous and therefore kind of impressive. You can’t fake that kind of dedication. You can’t perform that. You either have it or you don’t.
I think about obsession a lot—the kind that warps a life in a specific direction and doesn’t let go. Most people never know what that feels like, because most obsessions are social. You obsess over someone, or a band, or a career, and at least there’s an ecosystem around it. But Edward Smith’s thing is solitary. It’s just him and machines, over and over, a dialogue with objects that can never talk back.
The internet made him infamous, which is its own kind of reward for the already unhinged. But I wonder if he cares about the fame or if he’s just relieved to finally be left alone with what he actually wants. The exposure doesn’t change the thing itself. The cars don’t care what anyone thinks. And maybe that’s the only part of his life that makes any sense.
I had a thing for redheads. Specific ones. Cintia Dicker. Lily Cole, the English model and actress who showed up in The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus and Snow White and the Huntsman—though that wasn’t really the point. With Lily it was worse because she had some quality that made you want to understand her, which meant staring at her constantly, which meant thinking about her in ways you don’t talk about.
POP Magazine ran an autumn-winter editorial with her, and I got a copy. She was mostly naked, which was the point, but what stuck was that she looked completely at ease—not performing sexiness, not doing the work of being desired, just existing in her own skin like she wasn’t afraid of any of it. Most models understand nudity as theater. She understood it as fact.
I spent more time with those pages than I’d want to admit, which probably says something about me and maybe nothing at all. There was an ease to the images, a quality of not being calculated for, that made them feel different from the usual editorial spread. Like catching someone at the one moment they weren’t thinking about being caught.
It’s been years and I’ve moved on to other redheads, other fixations. But I still think about that issue sometimes, that particular ease, that indifference to being desired. That’s the thing I haven’t quite gotten over.
Skyrim was perfect for isolation but terrible for showing off. You built houses, slashed bandits, threw horses down mountains—all alone, with no one there to see it. The Elder Scrolls Online is supposed to fix that. It comes out next year. They released a character creation video and people are already complaining about breast size customization. I mean, okay. But what I’m actually curious about is whether they can make Skyrim work with other people. Whether that world gets better when you’re not alone in it.
Roman tested a theory with a borrowed Lamborghini. The premise: the real reason anyone struggles with dating isn’t personality or looks — it’s not having the right car. So he parked it somewhere visible and waited.
Women who wouldn’t have looked at him twice suddenly noticed. The car did all the work. He just stood there.
It’s almost too obvious to mention. We all know status matters more than personality. We know we’re just animals responding to signals — wealth, power, the external stuff that promises resources and safety. But knowing something and watching it play out are different. Watching a Lamborghini make someone attractive is like seeing the whole mechanism exposed.
The weird thing? Nobody minds. Roman wasn’t bothered. I wasn’t bothered. We’ve all apparently decided that a half-million-dollar car is a perfectly reasonable way to become interesting. And it works so well that we’re not even pretending it doesn’t anymore.
I still can’t unsee it. Every time I watch someone’s interest spike at the sound of a designer label or an expensive car, I just see that Lamborghini again.
When I found out Avril Lavigne married Chad Kroeger, I felt something collapse a little. Not devastated—more like watching mythology turn into ordinary life.
She was the skatergirl everyone wanted to be. The one who made rebellion seem effortless. And then this. Married to the guy from Nickelback, of all things. A band that became shorthand for everything bloated and false about mainstream rock.
They made a duet called “Let Me Go.” I listened once. It’s exactly as soulless as you’d imagine—two people from completely different musical worlds trying to connect over a ballad that sounds designed to fail. All the edges sanded off, all the personality gone.
Part of me wants to feel betrayed, like she gave up something that mattered. But the truth is sadder: the rebellion was always just something I heard in her songs. She was never mine to lose. She married someone she loved and made music with him, and it happens to be boring and weird and impossible to explain to anyone who doesn’t already know both of them.
I won’t be listening to it again. Not because I’m mad—just because there’s nothing there.
People talk about sea monsters their whole lives. Giant squid, whales so big they don’t seem possible, crabs the size of… I don’t know, houses. You hear it and think, sure, whatever. Cool story. Probably fake. Then scientists in California, including Jasmine Santana, pull a five-meter oarfish out of the water. Dead, which is how we got to see it. Now it’s in a freezer or on display or something at a research institute, and I have no idea what they do with a fish that big. Eat it? Mount it? Bring it back to life through the power of science fiction?
The thing that gets me is the reminder that it was down there. It existed. It’s still out there, those things are, right now. Which means when you’re in the ocean and you think you’re alone, you’re not. There are things down there, impossible-looking things, and we only find them when they wash up dead. What about the ones we don’t find? What about the bigger ones?
Paris Hilton hasn’t changed since her tape came out in 2001. Same face, same body, same glassy eyes. The footage was barely even hot—mostly night vision and unconvincing moans—but everyone wanted it. I remember getting a burned copy from someone’s older brother back when that’s how you got porn, before it was all free and endless online.
She and Nicky showed up for a photo shoot with Terry Richardson at some point. Black bikini, her trademark blank stare, pictures that existed if you cared to look at them. She released ’Good Time’ with Lil Wayne around then, which was forgettable in every way. The tape is still her high point. Everything since has been a long, slow fade.
Found a video of this tattooed girl doing things with her tongue that I don’t know how to feel about. The control she has is legitimately wild—shapes and movements that seem impossible. I can’t stop watching it, except I also can’t stop wanting to look away.
That’s the whole thing for me: I can’t decide if it’s hot or disgusting. Half of me is into it, genuinely attracted to the wrongness and the skill and whatever boundary it’s crossing. The other half is turned off, thinking yeah okay this is basically gross. One frame it’s sexy, the next it’s grotesque. One second I’m locked in, the next I’m cringing.
I don’t know who she is or what she does or how long she’s been doing this. Doesn’t matter. The pure mechanical fact of what her body can do—that’s what gets me. And I still can’t decide if I like it or if it repels me, which I guess is the point. The fact that I can’t decide is the thing I can’t get over.
Japan’s population is doing something no other developed country is really doing—it’s actually shrinking, and fast. More old people than young people. Fewer births each year than the last. The kind of decline that doesn’t reverse itself.
You can blame economics, and you should. Recessions that never fully recovered. Wages that haven’t budged in decades. A kid costs money you don’t have, in a city where rent keeps climbing. All real. But somewhere around the 2000s, Japanese people—men and women both—seemed to make a different decision. They looked at the whole system: marriage, kids, the traditional family apparatus. And they said no.
So what fills the void is obvious if you pay attention. The sex industry explodes. Love hotels. Hostess clubs. Call girls mostly controlled by yakuza. An enormous market for video game girlfriends and virtual relationships. Sex dolls getting more elaborate every year. Men and women buying companionship and pleasure directly, no partner required, no waiting for someone to eventually provide it within the approved structure.
People blame the sex industry like it’s the disease instead of the symptom. Like Japan is declining because sex workers exist, or because guys are jerking off to video game characters. No. The sex industry exists because people had already decided they weren’t going to follow the script. That industry is what happens when you opt out. It’s the actual infrastructure of saying no.
There’s something almost honest about it. Most cultures feel this tension quietly, never articulate it. Japan basically admitted that the traditional system doesn’t work for everyone—maybe doesn’t work for anyone anymore—and then built an entire economy around that admission.
Whether that’s sad or just mature, I don’t know. Probably both. But once you see it clearly, you can’t unsee it.
The Air Max 1 keeps cycling through colorways and I keep noticing them. This JD Sports exclusive landed in a bone-black-gray mix with cherry red hits, and it actually works—there’s a restraint to it that a lot of the newer drops miss. Not screaming, just sitting there clean.
I’m not the kind of person who hunts exclusives, but I understand the pull. It’s that mix of specificity (you can only get it one place) and craft (someone actually thought about that cherry red against the bone). The Air Max 1 is old enough now that it doesn’t need proving anymore. It just exists, and every few months there’s another reason to look at it again. This is one of those reasons.
Fashion week in Tokyo after dark feels different—the light is better, neon bleeding into darkness, the city geometry at its best. You see it on a bridge in Shibuya: Rumi Neely in Alexander Wang and Isabel Marant, styled and photographed with complete intention. For that one frame, the clothes become something else—a statement, an image, a moment. That’s what I love about fashion photography: that commitment to making something that feels inevitable when you see it, where every element (clothes, light, angle, the subject’s presence) conspires to create this single perfect image. The effort disappears. What remains is intention.
Square Cash was one of those fintech ideas that shouldn’t have existed. You could send money by writing an amount in an email subject line. Not through a banking app or some sleek interface—just email. The simplicity was disarming.
My first thought wasn’t “how convenient.” It was “what if I borrowed someone’s phone and sent myself a few hundred dollars across multiple transactions?” Completely implausible as a crime, would fail instantly, would get me arrested. But the fact that my brain went straight to theft instead of thinking about actual utility tells you something. Remove enough friction and people don’t think about legitimate use cases first—they think about how to game it.
The app only worked in the US when it launched, which added another layer of absurdity. Certain people got access to nearly frictionless money transfer while everyone else waited for lawyers and regulators to figure out whether it was legal. They did eventually approve it, probably by which point the novelty wore off and was replaced by three other apps doing the same thing with more conspicuous safety measures. People trust safety theater more than genuine simplicity.
What stuck with me was how honest it all was. Fintech usually wraps itself in nice interfaces and makes you feel like you’re doing something sophisticated. Square Cash just said: you already have email. That’s enough. All the other infrastructure I’d accepted as necessary was just habit made comfortable. The moment someone proved you could move money through email, it became clear how much of what I assumed was mandatory was actually optional.
I never had the chance to actually use it—it wasn’t available where I lived. By the time it might have been, I’d moved on to whatever else the market was promising. But that moment of realizing email was sufficient, that all the infrastructure of banking apps was optional? That stayed with me longer than the app itself.
I watched The Walking Dead for years because stopping halfway feels like quitting, and by the time I knew it was going nowhere, I was too invested to leave. The farm went on forever. The dialogue went on forever. Every character—the kid, the woman, the sheriff—built with surgical precision to irritate. Every week I’d sit there convinced I could write this better, direct it better, do something to make it land. Probably couldn’t, but the show had a way of making you believe you could.
Someone made an honest trailer that basically just told the truth. Everything in it was factually right. The show was exactly that aimless, exactly that perfectly calibrated to keep you watching without ever delivering anything surprising. By the time you’d admitted it to yourself, you’d already given it years.
The version that won’t leave me alone is the one that could have existed. Different people from the beginning. Different writers, different directors, different everything. The comics had real momentum. The story had actual stakes. You change a few variables and you get the show you actually want to watch. But that’s not what happened. What happened was something that nailed the exact formula of being interesting enough to hold your attention while giving you basically nothing.
I think about that sometimes and feel this anger I can’t quite name. Not anger at what the show was, but at what it refused to become.
Came across this Game of Thrones parody called Medieval Land Fun-Time World and immediately got why people found it so funny. The idea alone is stupid in the best way—what if GoT was a medieval theme park? Everything is wholesome and cheerful, all the same characters but completely neutered.
It’s the kind of fan video that only works if you actually understand the original material well enough to flip it. GoT was so aggressively dark and serious about everything that you can’t even parody it without addressing that tonal contrast. Make it earnest instead of portentous and suddenly it’s hilarious. The video gets that. The execution is clean, which helps—bad editing ruins the joke.
I’m not sure why this took me so long to find. It feels like the kind of thing that should’ve been everywhere during the show’s peak, but maybe it was and I just missed it. Either way, it works now.
I watched Alison Gold’s ’Chinese Food’ and I’m still not sure why. If you thought Rebecca Black’s ’Friday’ was the bottom, the nadir of manufactured pop culture disaster, you weren’t paying attention. Patrice Wilson—the architect of that whole catastrophe—apparently decided the formula worked and went looking for another kid to throw into the machine. This time it’s Alison Gold, singing about Chinese food. Fortune cookies. Subtitles the whole way through.
The video is a fever dream someone decided to fully produce and release into the world. There’s a panda costume. A guy in that costume pillow-fighting with a child. Then he rides away on a rainbow. I’m not being poetic or exaggerating—that actually happens. It’s the kind of thing where you can’t decide if someone has no self-awareness or too much confidence in their own vision.
What bothers me is how systematic it all is. Wilson saw what happened with Rebecca Black—the viral backlash, the memes, the mockery—and thought: I can do that again. Not learned from it. Repeated it. Found another girl, applied the same formula, kept the production value just north of embarrassing. It’s not even trying to be good anymore. It’s just a template now.
The first one felt like an accident, or at least a miscalculation. This second one feels like a business model. Someone figured out that if you take a kid and wrap her in enough absurdity, people will watch it, and mockery equals visibility. Why would you stop?
Pokemon X/Y was when the series went genuinely 3D, and I remember it feeling both inevitable and slightly off. Kalos, based on France, had this cleaner aesthetic than previous regions—less wild, more designed. Walking through Lumiose City actually felt like being somewhere, which was new.
The starters did nothing for me. Fennekin’s evolution into Delphox is still weird in my brain, a choice I can’t quite forgive. But the 3D shift worked. After fifteen years of grid-based movement and flat sprites, the games suddenly looked like the elaborate world they’d always been describing. It wasn’t revolutionary, and the battles played out the same as ever, but there was something satisfying about the technology finally catching up to the ambition.
I’m not sure I’d call it a favorite, exactly. But it marked something—the moment Pokemon stopped trying to recreate what worked on Game Boy hardware and just became what the franchise probably always wanted to be.
A pizza delivery guy showed up and danced to “What Does The Fox Say” with these people instead of just handing over the box. Maybe he was asked, maybe he read the room. Either way he fully committed.
What gets me about it is he could’ve performed it wrong, made it awkward, forced it. Instead he just did it. No hesitation, no performing reluctance. Someone in a job that usually requires nothing except showing up and not spilling marinara decided to actually be present for thirty seconds and that was everything.
You keep expectations low for service workers because you know they’re clocking out mentally. So when a stranger just reads what you want and does it—no transaction, just participation—it sticks. Sets the bar for every order after.
The song is stupid, the video isn’t particularly funny, but the fact that he watched something he probably didn’t care about, understood these people wanted him to join, and just said yes—that’s it. That’s kindness dressed up as silliness.
I won’t get a delivery that good. But I hope this guy keeps doing it for everyone.
Victor Mosquera works for a design studio called Volta, making concept art for games that haven’t been announced yet—if they’re even real. Colombian artist, absurdly talented, the kind of work that makes you immediately wonder what it would feel like to actually play the thing. Nameless characters, grotesque enemies, these cavernous atmospheric spaces that pull at you.
The appeal is obvious. These are worlds clearly designed to be experienced from the inside, and the artwork proves it. Every image suggests a game that would be worth playing, a space worth exploring. But most concept art never becomes a game. It exists in this liminal space where it’s simultaneously finished and incomplete.
I used to find that frustrating. Design something this beautiful and it might never see life. But I’ve spent enough time making things that don’t exist to know that completion isn’t the point. The image is the work. Whether it becomes a game is almost incidental.
Still: you look at what Mosquera’s done and you want the game to be real. Probably it won’t be. But the work stands regardless.
WordPress used to be the thing. Then it became this sprawling empire of plugins and options, built for publishing operations rather than people who just want to write posts quickly. John O’Nolan, who actually knows what he’s doing in this space, launched Ghost yesterday to fix exactly that problem.
The software is genuinely beautiful. The interface is fast and intuitive, and you’re publishing within minutes. You can pull your posts from wherever you were before and start immediately. It’s free, open-source, and you can either host it yourself or wait for them to offer hosting. Wired called it exactly right: “Ghost is trying to reboot blogging with user-focused design, open-source code, and a nonprofit structure.”
Ghost isn’t trying to be everything. It’s not for sprawling content operations or complex content management needs. It’s just here to make writing and publishing feel good and happen fast.
I’ve been blogging long enough to know that the platform matters less than the habit of actually writing, but there’s something about tools that don’t get in your way. I’m going to try it on a private project, just to see if it changes how I think about throwing words together. Maybe it will. Maybe it’ll be replaced by something else in two years. But right now it feels like someone finally remembered what blogging is supposed to be.
I’ve had a thing for Daniel Radcliffe for a while now, even back when he was still working out how to hold the wand without looking uncomfortable. But something happened. He showed up on the cover of some magazine I’d never heard of—Flaunt, I think—and he’s just there looking like he’s finally figured something out. Not trying, not performing. Just present in a way you can’t fake.
What gets to me is how completely he’s moved past the whole Harry Potter thing without ever making a scene about it. He didn’t go on talk shows complaining about typecasting or write think pieces about being trapped. He just left. Started doing stage work, weird indie films with people who actually challenge him, stuff that matters to someone interested in acting instead of managing a brand. He could have coasted forever on that character. He chose not to.
There’s something quietly radical about that. Most actors who get famous that young either ride it out forever or become bitter about it. He just walked away. Figured out who he wanted to become after Harry Potter and made it happen, slowly and without fanfare. That’s rare enough. It’s also more interesting to me than anything a carefully managed celebrity ever does.
Maybe I’m reading too much into a magazine cover. But there’s something genuinely compelling about watching someone grow up in public without becoming either a cautionary tale or a self-parody. It’s not the simple kind of attractive. It’s the kind that comes from actual respect for what someone chose to do with themselves.
The Yamanote Line isn’t what anyone pictures when they think about getting married. It’s a crowded loop through Tokyo, packed during commute hours, full of salarymen and students and vending machines and the accumulated smell of a hundred thousand daily commutes. You picture it the way you picture a parking garage or a dentist’s waiting room — a place where romance goes quietly to die.
But Nobuhiko and Sayaka did exactly that. They got married on the Yamanote, and I was ready to mock the whole thing until I found out why. They’d been taking that train to their dates for years. Every time they went out, they rode the Yamanote. It wasn’t some random impulse or a stunt for an Instagram story — it was just the train they knew, the train that was theirs.
Suddenly it clicked. The place that seemed mundane and forgettable to everyone else was loaded with their memory. All those rides between stations, all those times sitting next to each other in a crowded car surrounded by strangers, that was their geography. When they said their vows in that car, they weren’t just getting married — they were marrying the specific shape of their own lives.
I still think it sounds weird. But there’s something in it that’s genuinely beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with rose petals or sunset photography. They made a vow in a place that was real to them. That’s better than romantic.
“You have to change your name to Klaus or Heidi.” That’s the sentence that sits wrong, the one that keeps you clicking back to the video. Lufthansa ran this campaign offering a year in Berlin—flights, apartment, bicycle, the whole thing paid—but only to Swedish citizens, and only if you legally renamed yourself. Not a joke. A real brand campaign.
I watched it three times looking for the angle, the moment it becomes ironic. It doesn’t. That’s the most unsettling part. It’s just straight-faced surreality dressed up as generosity. Here’s a new life, here are the keys to an apartment in Kreuzberg, here’s your stipend for a year in Berlin—also you can’t be yourself anymore. Your name is Klaus now. Go live.
What’s weird isn’t that someone thought of it. It’s that a major airline looked at this and said yes, this is our brand moment. This is what we’re putting out into the world. The genius of a truly bad idea is sometimes how far it commits. No winking, no irony in the ad itself, just the premise doing all the work for you. The absurdity sits naked on the screen and nobody apologizes for it.
I kept thinking about what kind of person would actually do this. Not for the free year—that part’s nothing. But the renaming. You’d have to want it in a specific way, want to leave something so badly that becoming Klaus felt like freedom instead of erasure. Or you’re just game, which is its own kind of person. Either way, Lufthansa found a filter that selected for something real.
The real cruelty is that it only applied to Sweden. Everyone else got to feel the specific sting of not being chosen, not even being eligible to make this terrible beautiful decision. Which is probably the point. The scarcity makes it a story. The impossibility makes it art.
You’re scrolling through screenshots of GTA V trying to remember if they’re from the game or just photos of LA. The detail’s too clean, the lighting too precise, the chaos too recognizable. Rockstar caught something about how cities actually feel—not the monuments, just the texture. The wet pavement reflecting light differently, random parked cars, graffiti, shadows that make sense because light actually works that way. It’s all designed but it feels honest in a way most games don’t.
There’s this moment when you’re driving through the city at the right hour and you forget you’re playing anything. You’re just looking. That’s when you know something worked. Most games remind you every few seconds that you’re in an artificial space, show you the seams. But GTA V got far enough that sometimes the seams disappear.
I’m not going to do the thing where I say it’s better than real life or whatever. It’s not. But it did make me look at Los Angeles differently when I was actually there—made me see the visual noise I’d been walking past for years.
Game of Thrones was basically soft-core porn already. All those lingering camera shots of breasts and ass, the show’s obsession with finding reasons to get people naked, entire plotlines that existed just to justify nudity in the credits. So when the official-unofficial porn parody “Game of Bones” got announced, it didn’t feel surprising. It felt like the natural endpoint.
The tagline made me actually laugh: “Winter is cumming.” Genuine wordplay. Someone at the production got paid to think that through. The whole thing probably follows the porn-parody formula — Daenerys gets fucked, Jon Snow fucks something, dragons maybe involved, the entire complicated plot of the show reduced to whatever narrative justifies the next sex scene. And that’s fine. Nobody’s watching for the story.
But here’s the weird part: Game of Thrones spent ten seasons trying to be both prestige drama and a showcase for nudity, and it never figured out how to commit to either thing. This parody probably has more integrity. It knows exactly what it wants. It’s just fucking, end of story.
There’s this moment in ’Rap God’ where Eminem gets so fast the song almost falls apart, like he’s seeing how compressed he can make language before syntax breaks. It’s technically impossible—syllables stacking over each other, barely a breath between them. I’d forgotten why people were terrified of him. Not because he was cool or edgy, but because he could do something that felt physically superhuman.
The song’s from a new album coming in November, and everything I’m hearing suggests he’s still that hungry. Which is strange, because Eminem didn’t disappear or fail—he just stopped being the center of things. That shift has to be weird for someone who owned his genre so completely. Coming back now isn’t really a comeback so much as a statement that he’s still the fastest gun alive.
I don’t know if it’ll matter culturally. Comebacks are odd that way—the world moves on regardless, and there’s always this strange competition with your own mythology. But technically he’s still showing everyone that no one touches him—that speed, that bar density, that compression of meaning into pure sound. That’s not a comeback story. That’s just a skill that doesn’t age.
In 2013, Banksy set up a table in Central Park and sold original pieces for sixty dollars each. They were worth maybe two hundred thousand. Most people walked past. Some stopped. A few bought them, not knowing what they had.
It’s easy to laugh at the people who missed it. Those are the people you could hate-follow on social media, the ones who never got the good stock tips or showed up to the restaurant after it closed. But that stunt was meaner than that. Banksy wasn’t making fun of the tourists. He was saying something about value itself — about how much of what makes something precious is just recognition, attention, being in the right place with eyes open. The art didn’t change when people didn’t recognize it. The artist didn’t change. What changed was whether someone had decided it mattered.
I think that bothers people more than they admit. The idea that you could have had something and didn’t know. Not because you were poor or didn’t have access, but because you weren’t paying attention, because you were thinking about lunch, because someone needed to tell you first that a thing was worth wanting.
The table got cleared. The moment passed. There’s something almost cruel about that too — you can’t go back and fix it. The people who walked past stay the people who walked past.
The combination shouldn’t work—Disney characters wandering through Japanese RPG worlds with anime mythology underneath. Somehow it doesn’t collapse, though, and that’s mostly because of Yoko Shimomura’s soundtrack. The music is genuinely exceptional, all orchestral sweeps and synth drama, the kind of score that makes the plot feel like it matters even when it’s completely lost you.
I never made it far into the actual games. The story kept spiraling, too much anime dialogue, characters appearing from nowhere, the lore compounding itself. But I’d keep coming back just to listen, the way some people watch movies on mute because they care more about the sound than the dialogue. The HD remixes polish everything up, sharpen the visuals, and the music hits harder against that clarity. It’s hard to explain why something this weird works, but Shimomura’s score is the explanation.
Comic Con in New York. I’m waiting in line to see the voice actors from GTA V, not expecting much beyond a handshake. When I get to Trevor’s table, I ask if he’ll yell at me like he does in the game. Full character, full rage. Just do it.
He pauses for a second, then does. The voice is exactly what you hear through your speakers—the same psychotic edge, the same contempt—but now it’s coming at you from six feet away, and you’re the one who asked for it. A few people laugh. I feel stupid and strange in equal measure.
There’s something disorienting about hearing a fictional character suddenly materialize in person. The separation between the game and the real world collapses for a moment. He’s not performing anymore; he’s just Trevor, and Trevor is furious. It only lasts a few seconds, but the strangeness of it stays with you longer than you’d think.
There’s this IGN project, Museum of Mario, that walks you through every major form of the character across fifty years of games. Designed clean, well-organized, the kind of thing that makes you realize someone should have done it years ago.
What’s interesting is that Mario never actually evolved. The technology exploded, the games got weirder and more complex, the world changed three times over, and he just stayed Mario. A little man with a mustache who jumps. The games around him transformed, but he stayed mostly himself.
There’s something almost honest about seeing it documented like that. Not turning him into art or history, just laying out what happened. Here are the games. Here’s how they looked. This is the archive.
People have started posting memories to it, #MarioMemories, which feels exactly right. He’s been around long enough now that he’s not really Nintendo property anymore—he’s shared cultural infrastructure, something you inherit. The museum just makes that clear.
The “What The” sneaker concept is basically controlled chaos. Take everything you like about a shoe’s design language, throw it all into one colorway, and hope it works. Most of the time it doesn’t. You end up with something that looks like a focus group exploded on the upper. But when it lands, like this Nike Kobe 8 System Premium version, you’re looking at something real.
This one pulls from the Kobe 8’s entire history—multiple colorways, multiple eras, different design moves—and just goes for it. It’s bright and dense and genuinely busy in a way that most sneaker releases won’t touch. The design team either had conviction or didn’t care what people thought. The shoe doesn’t apologize for existing.
I’ve been into sneakers for years now, and the actual appeal of the “What The” thing isn’t about owning some rare variant or flipping it later. It’s about the design philosophy underneath it. You’re looking at someone’s idea of what a shoe could be if you removed the market constraints and focus-group testing. It’s almost outsider art, except it’s happening inside Nike. That contradiction is the entire appeal.
The Kobe 8 itself is already a solid shoe—good proportions, thoughtful engineering. The System version pushes it further, feels like actual craft. And then you color it like this. I don’t know when these are dropping exactly, but the waiting is part of the ritual anyway. The rumor phase, the speculation, the eventual release where resellers claim everything within hours.
When these show up, they’re going to sit weird in a lot of collections. Too loud for anyone who cares about matching or fits. Too intentional for people looking for a clean casual shoe. Perfect for anyone who actually wants to look at their feet and think about something.
The three stripes are impossible to miss — almost too recognizable to see anymore. Mark McNairy did this collaboration with adidas Originals and 84-lab anyway, working with Kazuki Kuraishi on a fall/winter collection that’s just minimal and clean. Retro sneaker language, nothing flashy, no irony. There’s real discipline in that kind of restraint, especially in footwear design where it’s so easy to pile on details and textures. Just simple shoes that know what they are. They’ll be everywhere, probably. The kind you stop noticing because they’re so clean.
The Booka Shade video for “Love Inc” is just people making out. Dark space, couples locked together, hands everywhere. They bite. It’s crude — the opposite of romance. Just bodies pressing while the track runs underneath, entirely unbothered about the horniness of it.
Booka Shade make music for 3am club spaces where nobody’s pretending to be anything else. That’s their world. “Love Inc” is different than their usual sound — cleaner, less dark — but it still sits in that exact moment. Not for your bedroom. Not for background music. For when you’ve stopped noticing anyone else is watching.
The video understands that. No story, no concept, just the fact of it — wanting something, getting close, the music while you do. That’s all of it.
I watched a trailer for a Hercules film called ’The Legend Begins’ and it’s exactly as bad as the title suggests.
The cast is unknowns playing unknowns. Unless Twilight warped your brain enough to memorize every side character, you’re looking at a film that had no stars and proceeded with that fact unchanged. Just pressed forward into a void.
A YouTube comment I found described it perfectly: ’It’s like a porn parody of Spartacus, except without the sex.’ Which is to say it’s nothing. A parody that forgot its own purpose. The only achievement is that it exists.
I genuinely don’t know who this is for. But someone made it anyway, and that’s either courage or delusion, and I’m not sure which is worse.
I’ve watched enough Brazilian dashcam footage to understand that motorcycle theft works very differently down there. Someone steals your bike at gunpoint in São Paulo and the police response is immediate and physical—no court hearing, no appeals, no suspended sentence waiting.
In Germany, the same crime dissolves into bureaucracy and you probably never hear about it again. There’s something about watching the two systems play out that’s almost unsettling, the clarity of cause and effect without all the legal machinery in between.
We’ve all built the same zombie apocalypse story in our heads. You’ve absorbed it from a hundred films, shows, books, games. In your version, you’re the exceptional one—not the first to die or the one who cracks under pressure, but the one who makes it because you’re fundamentally different. Smarter. Faster. Ready in a way the crowd isn’t. You move through the ruins with a weapon and a purpose and someone at your side.
The fantasy assumes time. It assumes you’ll learn as you go, adapt, make the clever choices that separate the survivors from the rest. It assumes you’ll understand what’s happening before it’s too late.
Reality doesn’t give you that much. You’d be infected before you understood what was happening. Maybe hours if luck breaks your way. More likely minutes. No slow burn, no proving ground, no moment where you finally get to show everyone how capable you really are. Just the moment before and after.
A short film called “Perished” came across my watch-list recently—it premiered at SXSW a while back. It doesn’t play the fantasy game. It just drops you into a collapse that moves faster than anyone can react to. No time for strategy, no moments where you’re in control of anything. Just the brute arithmetic of proximity and chance. It was brutal in a way that the entertainment usually isn’t: not because of what happens, but because there’s no time to be human about it anymore.
I think we tell ourselves the zombie apocalypse fantasy because we need to believe that in a truly broken world, our competence would finally matter. That if everything else fell away, we’d be left with just ourselves and the chance to prove we were right about ourselves all along.
But that’s not what Perished shows you. It shows you that catastrophe doesn’t care about your potential or your self-image. It doesn’t build narratives around your capability. It just ends things, and you don’t get to narrate your way through it.
Maybe that’s why we keep coming back to the story anyway. Not because we believe the fantasy anymore, but because we need something to believe in that feels more manageable than the real answer.
I talked to four girls who make money by taking their clothes off on the internet, and the first thing that surprised me was how unsurprised they were about it.
Jasmin’s eighteen, from Berlin, studies computer science, waits tables. She found the sites through a blog and thought: why not. Men will pay to see you naked. Mostly they’re fine. Sometimes they want weird shit (pee videos, watching her use a tampon) and she says no. Most of the money’s in the chat anyway, just talking. She made twenty dollars once sending a photo to one guy. Her boyfriend didn’t know. She tested his reaction once with a hypothetical and he was so disgusted that she never told him. She doesn’t want her family to know, doesn’t want some future employer finding the photos. But on camera she’s fine. She’s confident in her body and smart about what she will and won’t do.
Sophie from Würzburg is nineteen, pansexual, training to be a care worker. One of her friends got her into it. She sells photos and videos—five to thirty euros depending. What’s interesting is she has no real shame about it. We live in a sexually repressed country, she said. Of course companies think it’s unprofessional. But she’s learning actual business skills, negotiation, persuasion. Things you don’t learn at a register. Some requests are strange, but the clients are usually nice, and if they’re not she blocks them. She’s building something here, even if it’s strange to call it that.
Julia from Bielefeld, nineteen, studies business, is figuring out her sexuality with women. She likes the power angle, gets off on men paying to see her naked. She’s cold about the economics. Bulk produces videos (film a bunch at once, send them around, it’s efficient) and prices things based on how she feels that day. She’s keeping it from classmates and coworkers because that would actually matter. But her flatmates know. One brought her into it. She doesn’t feel bad about it.
Sadie from Portland, eighteen, lesbian, saving for a streetwear business in New York with her roommate. What she got excited about was the humiliation work. They made forty dollars once making a guy stuff raisins up his nose and eat them while they laughed. That was the story she wanted to tell. Not sex but shame, sold to men who’ll pay for it. In regular life she can’t tell creeps to fuck off the way she wants. Online, she gets paid for it.
The money isn’t huge—rent money, book money, escape money—but what struck me wasn’t the money. It was the absence of shame. They’re all genuinely afraid of being found out by family and employers and people who matter. But they’re not ashamed of the work itself. They’ve made a calculation and moved on. Some of them even seemed to prefer this to straight jobs, seemed to actually like the power of it, the clear transaction. I was just projecting. They seemed fine. More than fine, some of them.
I’d drifted away from James Blake at some point without really noticing. Not because anything went wrong, just one of those drift-offs where an artist you liked falls out of rotation and you don’t think about it. Then this collaboration with Chance showed up and it’s one of those moments where you realize you’ve missed someone.
The track sits in this weird space where Blake’s production is all restraint—minimal, cold, built from nothing—and Chance comes in with actual warmth, actual presence. There’s something disarming about how it works. It shouldn’t be as affecting as it is for something this stripped down.
It made me want to go back and sit with Blake’s older material again. Sometimes that’s all a collaboration needs to do.
There’s this predictable moment at every convention: a woman shows up in a cosplay, and within ten minutes some guy thinks he’s got permission to say whatever he wants. I’ve seen it enough to know it’s not random awkwardness — it’s a pattern. A couple years back BuzzFeed had cosplayers write down the most offensive stuff men said to them at Comic Con, and the consistency was depressing. Same jokes, same entitlement, same assumption that if you’re wearing something revealing, you’re implicitly inviting comment.
What bothers me is that a lot of these women are legitimately skilled. They’re doing design work, 3D modeling, sewing, building things. They show up to be around people who care about the craft and the characters. Instead they get treated like they’re there to be watched and commented on. The point is supposed to be about passion and obsession. Instead it’s just another place where women can’t exist without being made into objects.
Geek spaces used to feel like refuges. Places where you could be weird and obsessive without apology. Now they’re just mainstream enough that all the assholes have moved in with their regular entitlement. Same problem at anime cons, gaming expos, Comic-Con — everywhere.
I don’t think anything changes at this point. The women cosplaying know what they’re in for and do it anyway. The guys never face any consequences. The organizers look away. So it stays broken, the good people get tired of it, and everything gets worse. I’m not sure what the fix is. But I know that the people actually making these spaces interesting are the ones leaving.
I’m driving deeper into the storm bearing down—dark, roaring, thick with blue streaks and scattered light. No way out now, no choice but to push straight through and hope for the best. Up the mountain roads, down the slopes, with the weather war trailing behind. Then suddenly I’m in the eye. Everything goes quiet. Peaceful. Bright. Just Lorde, V V Brown, Only Real in my ears. Maybe I made it through after all.
It happens in seconds. The wall cracks, a roar, and they’re pouring through—massive, naked, grinning things—blood everywhere, limbs, screaming. One of them plucks Eren’s mother off the street like a doll and snaps her in half, then eats her while he watches. He’s maybe ten. He screams a vow right there. That moment is the show.
My girlfriend had to catch up on some German soap, so I fell into Attack on Titan instead. This anime about humanity compressed into one last kingdom somewhere in a warped version of Germany, trapped behind three massive walls—Maria, Rose, Sina—that somehow got built centuries ago and nobody knows by who. Outside the walls are these things. Regenerating, relentless, completely impassive except for those grins. They don’t eat to survive. They just seem to enjoy tearing people apart.
The military trains kids to fight them with this ridiculous rig—essentially grappling hooks and wires and swords—because the only way to kill a titan is a deep slash in the back of the neck. Everything else bounces off. So kids strap in and swing through the air like spiders and hope they’re fast enough.
At first it’s just gore. Constant gore. Bodies bursting against walls, blood fountains, bones snapping, people screaming. The animation goes hard on it, relentless frequency of death that’s genuinely shocking. But the more you watch, the more you realize each of those deaths belonged to someone you’d started to care about. They don’t give you time to mourn the important ones—sometimes they’re dying at the edge of the frame while the orchestra is still swelling over the “real” hero moment. A lot of them get maybe two episodes of character building before they’re paste.
Anyone who watched Game of Thrones knows the appeal of that arbitrary bloodshed, and this show doesn’t pull back. It goes harder. People in the middle of their speeches die. You think someone’s clearly the main character and they’re gone. There’s no narrative armor here. All that matters is survival of the species, and they’re losing.
I binge-watched like five or six episodes straight because each cliffhanger just made me angrier and more confused. Every mystery you solve opens up three new ones. There’s talk of keys and fathers and faces and some kind of weapon, but nothing makes sense. The German words get repeated over those Japanese orchestras—”Jäger,” “Zerstörer,” “Schöpfer”—and it should sound ridiculous but it just sounds ominous.
If Evangelion did anything for you, this will too. Same futility wrapped around a kid convinced he can change things, same slow realization that everything is much worse than stated. It all happens so fast.
Miley Cyrus swinging naked on a wrecking ball was kind of ridiculous, but that was the whole point. Sinead O’Connor didn’t see it that way—she had a very public issue with it and told Miley she was throwing away her credibility. They ended up taking shots at each other in the press for a while, this weird generational feud that neither of them really seemed to want.
But then someone made a mashup putting ’Nothing Compares to You’ over ’Wrecking Ball’—Robin Skouteris did it—and it actually works. The two songs shouldn’t fit—different eras, different sensibilities—but they do. There’s something about the juxtaposition that just makes sense.
I wasn’t invested in the drama, but that mashup stuck with me. Sometimes the best thing about celebrity feuds is the weird art that falls out of them.
Esquire gave Scarlett Johansson the title “sexiest woman alive” twice. Most people win once, cash the check, and move on. Johansson got to wonder if it meant something—was there a protocol for repeat winners? A ceiling on how many times you could win? She asked it playfully, like she already knew the answer was no.
It doesn’t mean anything. It just means the magazine looked good twice. Or looked once and got lazy the second time. Either way, Johansson seemed unbothered by the whole thing, which is the correct response to any magazine ranking about your face.
Lost in Translation is still a perfect movie. That’s what lasts. Esquire naming her something twice is just noise.
I’m walking through Monte Carlo late one rainy evening. The streets are lined with boutiques and hotels and restaurants, places designed purely to extract money from anyone foolish enough to think they belong here. We duck into a casino—one of those rooms full of desperate people in nice clothes and beautiful women who are definitely not here for the gambling. My friend Jörn moves through it with the ease of someone who actually fits, talking about the bay’s history: pirates, monarchs, casinos, the usual Mediterranean mythology that haunts a place like this.
But that’s not really why we’re here. The real draw is the harbor, where the Monaco Yacht Show has opened again to people wealthy enough to spend on a boat what most people spend on an entire life. It’s a festival of the beautiful and the rich, sailors and salesmen and people who design boats for obscene money. The ticket costs 240 euros. If you can’t afford that, you definitely can’t afford the design furniture for your dream yacht.
The next morning Mercedes-Benz is rolling out their new toy—a 14-meter “silver arrow of the seas” called the Arrow460 Granturismo. Price tag around 1.25 million euros. Order now and you get the limited edition. In 2015, when it arrives, you’ll have a designer boat with almost 1000 horsepower and a top speed of 40 knots in calm water.
By afternoon, Antonella and I are burned out on the champagne and the small dogs and the surreal opulence of it all. We make a break for the actual city, thinking we’ll find real people, real life, some version of Monte Carlo that exists outside this machine for extracting money from the wealthy. Instead we find more boutiques, more restaurants, more casinos—which, in hindsight, we should have seen coming.
We end up at a McDonald’s by the harbor. The place is mostly empty. We buy cheap food and sit by the window, watching the water, watching the occasional family or couple pass by. This is probably as close as we’re getting to the actual Monte Carlo, to whatever exists here beyond the boutiques and the yacht shows. An hour later we’re back in the thick of it, drowning in champagne and glitter.
Monte Carlo is a strange machine. The people who run it at night seem barely connected to the actual world, to anything beyond this bubble of money. Wine flows in the restaurants, sushi arrives in silence, laughter echoes off the walls. The women are expensive, the men are generous, the staff knows how to be invisible. You feel the money in every moment—everyone’s money, the city’s money, the money that built this place. You can disappear into it without trying.
The trip ends the way it started: in a helicopter. From the hotel to Nice, then Munich, then Berlin, trading the sun and heat for autumn cold and gray. It doesn’t feel fair. I would have stayed longer, wanted to dig deeper into all of it—the pirates, the monarchs, the whole mythology that makes Monte Carlo seem like something more than what it is. But entry costs more than money. It costs style, willpower, connections, and yeah, ideally a yacht. At least that one you can buy your way into.
MTV put out this Miley documentary called “The Movement,” as if MTV still signified what mattered to anyone under thirty. An hour of quick cuts and dramatic strings. Miley talking about Pharrell, Pharrell talking about Miley, a nod to Britney, some dancing. Mostly just MTV proving to itself it’s still part of whatever’s current. You’d get more from the Terry Richardson photos, the ones from New York where she’s posing to show everyone what she wasn’t allowed to show while Disney still owned her.
Everyone’s decided what happened to her, what it means. Disney girl to scandal. Depending on who’s doing the talking, she’s a slut or a genius or a girl finally free from American hypocrisy or someone dying for attention. The music doesn’t really matter anymore — it’s just the opening for people to watch something real come apart in public.
Maybe she’s got a plan we’re not seeing. Maybe she reads the headlines and laughs. Maybe she just figured out what you learn eventually: that what people think about you stops mattering the instant you stop needing it to matter. That there’s something clarifying about being young and messy and loose in front of everyone, about doing exactly what you want without the performance of regret.
So if that’s what it looks like — posing for a photographer, performing without restraint, making choices she’ll reverse in six months — then that’s just what it is. MTV can’t touch that. No scandal machine can.
There’s something exhausting about Instagram—all the work to make a single moment feel documented. Pull the phone, find the app, take the shot, pick the filter, write the caption, tag people, post. By the time you’re done, the moment’s already dead.
Narrative is this tiny camera you clip to your shirt and forget about. It shoots all day automatically, posts the photos for you, and later you can search through your day by location or date. No decisions, no performance, just life getting recorded whether you think about it or not.
I like the idea. But it also feels like the beginning of something bad. There’s a Black Mirror episode about this exact thing—everyone with their lifelogging cameras, life becoming this total documentation. And the thing that gets me is how pleasant that sounds when you’re pitching it. Just automatic. Just convenient. Just remembering. That’s how you sneak into the panopticon.
Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe in five years we’re all wearing these things and I’ll look back at this worried about nothing, the way someone in the 1800s worried about trains. Or maybe we’ll realize that forgetting was the feature, not the bug, and by then it’s too late. Narrative’s pricing around 250 euros, so someone’s betting on the former. I’m not sure which I want to bet on.
Everyone’s right: The Simpsons haven’t been funny for years. Maybe five, maybe ten—I’ve lost count. But the Halloween specials still work. This year’s “Treehouse of Horror” couch gag was done by Guillermo del Toro, the guy behind Hellboy and Pan’s Labyrinth. And it’s genuinely good. Good enough that I’d watch it again and again if I had the time. But it’s Friday, and I don’t.
Scarlett Johansson stumbled on set of Under the Skin and the internet lost its mind. Not in an outrage way, just the way it does when someone untouchable does something clumsy. There’s something about that moment that gets replayed and riffed on forever. Sad Keanu on a bench. That absurdly handsome guy in the coffee shop. The needy girlfriend meme. Johansson falling became another one of those.
People photoshopped her into everything. She’s falling onto a dolphin. She’s falling down a mountain. She’s falling with a lightsaber. Someone had her as Skrillex at the DJ booth, hands up mid-fall. The creativity was kind of impressive, just the commitment to the bit across a hundred variations.
This wasn’t her first time becoming a meme. A few years before, some nude photos leaked and the internet immediately turned her into a trend. “Johanssoning,” they called it — people taking weird mirror selfies trying to recreate her weird poses. That one had a meaner edge to it. This stumble was just physical comedy, someone beautiful in an awkward moment, captured and spread before she could do anything about it.
Maybe it’s just about recognizing something human in someone who’s usually untouchable.
I’ve ended up surrounding myself with agency people over the years. PR, design, press, social media types—the whole ecosystem. It wasn’t planned, it just happened somehow, and I’m not complaining. There are definitely worse fates. But the benefit is that you get a direct line to what’s actually going on in those worlds, and what I’m hearing lately is making me genuinely angry.
I’ve spent years telling people to build something online. A blog, Twitter, YouTube, whatever works for you. A lot of you listened. You developed a voice, scattered yourselves across the internet. Fashion bloggers figured out their formula quickly. Little blogs about cars, tech, music started gaining real traction. But travel bloggers—that’s the group that’s slowly losing its mind.
For years I had no complaints about what you were doing. You made friends with PR agencies and tourism boards, formed collectives, you wrote and shot photos and made videos. It was all legitimate work, and I was genuinely happy for each of you getting to visit the most beautiful places on Earth while earning something on the side.
Then I started hearing stories from people inside the industry. PR people, tourism board employees. And these stories are hard to believe. Some of you have started making increasingly insane demands just to get on a plane. Suddenly you need five-star hotels, business class flights, appearance fees, room service, per diems, admission costs, shuttles, expense coverage. It’s gotten obscene.
The stories keep coming and I don’t know what to do with them. One travel blogger ordered five appetizers at a Michelin restaurant just to taste each one. The bill went to the tourism board. Another one sent a list of demands so absurd that even Vogue journalists wouldn’t ask for it—sent it to everyone in her group, copied a government tourism official, a day before the flight, without even letting the PR agency know. Then there’s the blogger who was invited to a South Pacific island for a week, ignored the entire itinerary that was built specifically for him, and basically disappeared except for the flight home. I keep hearing these stories and I can’t even process how entitled some of you have become.
What kills me is the disconnect. Most of you have maybe a handful of followers, blog traffic that barely registers, a site that’s barely a few years old. And then you call a PR person and actually ask, “Do you not know who I am?” Like that’s supposed to mean something. You have twelve Facebook fans. The gap between how important you think you are and how invisible you actually are is hard to even process.
What really bothers me is the fallout. The PR people have to constantly justify to their clients why they sent you anywhere when you’re acting like a nightmare. The tourism boards that finally took a chance on bloggers, that actually spent money on this, now they’re gun-shy. Nobody wants to repeat that experience. You’re blacklisting yourselves—I know enough of you who are already on the do-not-contact list in major countries. And you’re poisoning the well for everyone else. These companies are still figuring out how to work with bloggers. When they see what it costs and what they get back—a handful of likes, maybe a share—they go back to what they know. TV. Magazines. Print. And suddenly the opportunities that might have gone to better, smarter, more respectful bloggers just disappear.
Here’s what needs to happen: stop acting like this. You’re not Tavi Gevinson or Susanna Lau or Yvan Rodic. And even those people handle it with more grace than you. Figure out what’s actually being offered and what’s expected of you before you say yes. Talk to the right people. Business class flights and five-star hotels are nice, but they’re not a requirement. Some tourism boards can’t afford that. If that’s a dealbreaker for you, just say no and let someone else have the opportunity. Don’t say yes to everything and then renegotiate at the last second. Either you can deliver on the agreement or you can’t. If you can’t, step aside.
You need to understand something: nobody outside the internet knows who we are. Nobody. We’re minor figures in a small universe, barely even that. If you’re letting this go to your head, you’re living in a fantasy. And you should be grateful that nobody’s actually figured out how completely disconnected from reality you’ve become. Blogs matter. But only if you don’t keep shooting yourself in the foot because of some short-term payoff that you’ll regret anyway.
So I’m sitting in a bar in Kreuzberg with my agency friends, drinking wine, and we talk about pretty students and vodka and the homeless guy outside my apartment, and we let all of this fade for a while. We forget about the travel bloggers acting insane. And I realize maybe it’s not such a curse after all to be surrounded by people who actually understand how the industry works. You get to see clearly how things really function, and how easily some people can destroy it all for themselves and everyone else.
You can always tell when a photographer gets it. Not the technical stuff—anyone can learn lighting. I mean when they understand what nakedness actually means, what it’s willing to reveal if you’re paying attention. Most fail at this. They get precious about it, or cold and clinical, or they’re just trying to provoke. Ryan McGinley isn’t any of those things.
He started in Manhattan in the late ’90s, shooting Polaroids of the kids he knew—skaters, graffiti kids, queer kids, people from his world. That work got compared to Larry Clark and Dash Snow and Nan Goldin, which means something. Museums bought it: Guggenheim, SFMOMA, places like that. But the museums aren’t the point. The point is what you see in his pictures: total trust between photographer and subject. No exploitation, no performance, no distance.
What makes his work stick is how it collapses the gap between document and intimacy. You’re not observing. You’re inside it. You feel the hope and the fear and the pure fact of being young, all at once, unfiltered. No gloss, no interpretation, no narrator standing above it all.
“Yearbook” is exactly that: youth without apology. Skin, sweat, freedom, the knowledge that none of it lasts. His camera doesn’t judge any of it, and neither should you. There’s something about his pictures that doesn’t let you go.
BuzzFeed was never going to matter. I knew this after a while—the clickbait, the listicles, the whole ecosystem built on making you scroll without thinking. I scrolled anyway for years, holding out hope for actual writing underneath the colors and outrage. There wasn’t any. Just the same formula: strip it down, make it easy, make them click. I’m done now. There’s too much real writing out there, too many people who actually care about language, to waste time on content made for people killing five minutes at a stoplight.
Breaking Bad ended and I kept waiting for something to feel wrong about it, but it didn’t. Everyone had their takes ready—spoilers and analysis and plot breakdowns—but none of that was the story. The story was always about a man who wanted to matter finding the one thing that would make him dangerous, and then paying for it over five seasons.
Walter was a high school teacher. Comfortable, forgettable, stuck in a life that never felt like it was supposed to be his. His old friends had gone out and built companies, careers, legacies. When they offered to help with his cancer treatment, he couldn’t take it. Admitting it would mean he’d failed somewhere that mattered, chosen wrong at some crucial moment. So he cooked meth in the desert, and for the first time in his adult life he felt dangerous, felt alive, felt like he actually meant something.
The show was merciless with consequences. Every death—Emilio, Gus, Mike, Hank, Jane—traced directly back to that first choice, that moment he decided his pride mattered more than anyone else’s safety. Each betrayal compounded into the next. Each rationalization led to another body. By the end, everyone he touched was dead or shattered, and he was still standing in his lab, finally substantial, finally the thing he’d wanted to be all along.
What I respected about the ending was that it didn’t try to redeem him. He got exactly what he wanted: to be feared, to be remembered, to matter. He walked through his creation one last time, touching the equipment like he was saying goodbye to the only thing he’d ever built that felt entirely his. That was always the point. He succeeded completely. The cost was everyone else.
Wanting to watch a music video online and hitting geoblocking – that’s the kind of frustration that makes you understand why people lose it. You want to see Miley Cyrus being explicitly sexual on that wrecking ball and instead you get a black screen and a smug message basically saying fuck off, you live in the wrong country.
Then VEVO finally gets to Germany. No more proxies, no more sketchy workarounds, no more banging your head against the wall. You just click and watch.
Except VEVO’s algorithm immediately steers you toward Katy Perry and Robin Thicke and whatever else is hot with teenagers. The usual streaming garbage. But go digging in the archive and there’s stuff you haven’t seen in decent quality in years – videos from before all this regional licensing bullshit started. Videos you’d actually want to watch.
It’s weirdly both a relief and a letdown. The geoblocking finally breaks and you realize how much of what you actually want is still locked behind some other wall.
She set up cameras in the office early one morning and filmed herself quitting. Not an email, not two weeks’ notice left on the desk. Just dancing out the door. Over four million people have watched Marina do it.
Next Media Animation. That was the place. A Taiwanese company that turns news into animated videos for clicks. The boss wanted views and nothing else — quantity was all that mattered. Quality, impact, purpose — none of it paid. Only the count. You make content, chase the metric, make more if it fails. That’s the whole operation.
She wrote about it afterward. On her blog she explained what actually broke her. Journalism was already dead before she even tried. Tragedies would light up the office — a building collapse, a disaster, and you could feel the energy shift. But if nobody died, the disappointment was palpable. She asked a colleague how he managed covering nothing but depression and catastrophe every day. His answer: “Why do you think so many of us drink?”
That’s the real resignation. Not quitting a company. Quitting the deal you tell yourself — that the work mattered somewhere, that there was a point. You show up, you make content, you chase numbers, and everyone around you just finds ways to cope with it. Marina just stopped pretending.
I’ve been running through airports the last few days, grabbing whatever magazines are sitting at the kiosks. Most of them didn’t survive the trip, but the ones that did are all English-language tech stuff — you know, the Silicon Valley startup obsession — because that’s what you pick up when you’re tired and bored and the magazine rack is right there.
WIRED UK, October 2013. You shouldn’t really buy the British edition unless you live there, but that’s what happens when you’re sprinting toward the gate at the last possible second. WIRED is the voice from Silicon Valley, the actual creative class — not the MacBook café people you see everywhere in Berlin. David Robertson had this long piece on LEGO, going through the whole history of the company, all the bad decisions, the products that never should have existed, the way they’d softened every edge to hit market segments. Lots of factory photos, nostalgia, the kind of thing that reminds you of being eight and just making whatever you wanted with plastic blocks. The rest of it didn’t grab me. Some pieces on British tech that I have zero interest in. Other articles about machines and architecture that seemed fine, but I was too tired to actually focus. So I slept.
TIME, September 30, 2013. It’s supposedly the last real magazine left, and the writing is genuinely good, but the paper is so cheap it crinkles the second you touch it. Half the pages are watch ads. The main story was “Can Google Solve Death?” which sounds ridiculous until you read it. They’re profiling Google and this new company called Calico that’s basically about extending human life — talking about all the moonshots, Android, Google Glass, Project Loon, which is balloons that deliver internet to remote and poor places. The whole thing builds to this question of whether Google can actually beat death. It’s fascinating and deeply unsettling. Everything else in there was either topics I knew nothing about or people I’d never heard of. TIME can’t afford bad articles — their whole model depends on those watch ads keeping them alive.
Offscreen, issue 6. Kai Brach is this guy in Australia who started the magazine because he’s obsessed with technology. It’s funded by Dropbox, GitHub, Behance. About 150 pages of interviews with people actually doing things in the industry. One with Joshua Topolsky, talking about his childhood and his vision for digital culture, before and after starting The Verge. Another with Jenna Brinn from Tumblr, who was in Berlin at the time. Real people, interesting lives. The whole thing is made with obvious care — you feel it in every page. Photos of famous startup desks, diary entries from designers and writers. Essential reading if you’re thinking about technology and where it’s going, same level as WIRED.
I’m going to see The Desolation of Smaug in December. The trailer made it inevitable.
Tolkien made a world that actually matters to people in a way that’s almost impossible to fake. Peter Jackson knows this. He doesn’t always get the execution right, but when he does, you feel the difference between a film and something that feels real.
I know what I’m hoping for. More dragon fire. More elf women, obvious as that is. And more dwarves singing — which sounds dumb to admit, but that moment in the first film got me. All those short, hairy men sitting together drinking and belting out rough songs. It felt like actual comfort. Like home.
Will the new film deliver all of that? Probably not. But I’m going anyway.
I want to take someone’s hand and actually leave. Next flight, next ship, next city where nobody knows us. Find a club at 2 AM playing something the rest of the world hasn’t heard yet, dance until sunrise comes over water, until you genuinely believe you’re never going back. Because there’s no reason to. Nobody’s waiting.
That’s the whole fantasy. Not about travel or tourism. It’s about reaching that place where you can stop pretending the life you left behind matters. You’re just gone, and you don’t care, and someone else is gone with you. The same mechanism works in music—a good song gives you three and a half minutes where nothing exists except sound and movement. The permission to stop thinking. The exact same permission.
But you always come back. You wake up. The feeling fades. What lingers is that you believed it for a moment, that vanishing was actually possible, that the right song or the right companion could make you disappear completely. Maybe next time. Maybe the next song.
Red wine. That’s what pulls me through the nights when everything is too much thinking and not enough resolution—something that tastes like the people who made it actually cared. Sometimes smooth, sometimes sharp. Both do the job.
Three guys—Michael, Sedat, Kolja—figured out they felt the same way, so instead of just drinking cheap corner-store wine and complaining about it, they built something. An online wine shop, but the kind where you can tell they’re not trying to sell you something, they’re trying to share something. They named the wines like they were forming a band: Mouth Bomb, Blutsbruder, Flying Pig. Just from the names you know they’re not taking themselves too seriously.
The internet is full of wine shops now. Thousands of them. It’s supposed to be this great thing—everything available, infinite choice, the consumer’s dream. But most of it is dead inventory, spreadsheets moving product, nothing that points back to an actual person caring. This is different. These three guys came from completely different lives and found something they wanted to build together. The wines come from small producers who actually put work in. The descriptions are thoughtful, sometimes funny, never trying to sound like a magazine article. The prices aren’t a con.
There’s something you taste when people actually care about building something instead of just moving product around. That’s what I notice here.
I kept seeing her face all over Tokyo. Harajuku, Shibuya, the magazine racks at every bookstore, the convenience stores, the fashion shops. Kiko Mizuhara, everywhere at once, smiling from posters and covers in this blur of commercial imagery that made up the visual language of the city.
I didn’t know who she was at first. Just another face. But then I found out her real name was Audrie Kiko Daniel, that she was from Texas, half Korean. There was something about that combination that made seeing her face everywhere seem less random—like she’d arrived from somewhere else entirely and somehow become the symbol of Tokyo’s visual culture, the girl you’d see a thousand times without knowing anything about her.
She’d acted in things—Murakami’s Norwegian Wood, that violent manga adaptation Helter Skelter. She modeled and sang and had all these magazine covers. There was a photo series she’d done called “Dandelion Flower” for Union Magazine, though I never really understood why a dandelion mattered.
Her Twitter was strange in the way celebrity Twitter could be—she wrote about music and shows and her life in these short bursts that felt weirdly personal even though 300,000 people were reading them. It made her feel less like the girl on the walls and more like an actual person, which somehow made the whole thing more unsettling.
By the end of my time in Tokyo, I couldn’t walk through the city without seeing her. Maybe that’s the whole thing about being a celebrity in a place like that—you become part of the city before anyone even knows who you are. Your face is everywhere, doing the work, and all you have to do is exist.
Listen to “You’re Not the One” and you understand why pop music is the only thing that matters right now. Everything else exhausted itself — indie rock going in circles, hip hop needing pop just to survive, drum and bass a backdrop to watching people fall apart. Pop’s the only place where anything’s actually happening.
Sky Ferreira showed up in the middle of it all. She was twenty-one, from California, model-pretty, caught with drugs, a topless photo making the rounds. All the rockstar clichés delivered at once. Which could have ended her career or turned her into a tabloid joke, but instead she just kept moving forward. No apologies, no hiding, no leaning into the drama either.
The song is what matters. It’s stripped down — melodies that catch you without announcing themselves, lyrics that land without sentiment. Nothing extra. In an era where every pop track is engineered to death, this one feels like someone just saying something true. That’s harder than it sounds.
I don’t know if she’ll sustain it. Could go anywhere from here. But she found something most people never find — the actual thing she had to say and the exact way to say it. That’s the work.
Hours disappear into Los Santos. You’re in there and the outside world stops mattering. The entire map is interactive. Every street, building, person is something to interact with. You can steal, drive, shoot, explode. You can die in a thousand ways—cliffs, crashes, gunfights, drowning, gas-station explosions, falling debris. The game is built on this. You fail constantly. Dying is entertainment.
That’s the actual appeal. Dying costs nothing. You jump out of a helicopter expecting to die, and you do, but you respawn in seconds and try it again. The game rewards stupidity because stupid things are the most entertaining failures. Someone made a parody of “Dumb Ways to Die” with GTA characters dying instead—same song, same format, but pixel gangsters dying in ways that only exist in this game. It went viral because people recognized themselves: hours of dying stupid and loving it.
GTA V figured out something simple and true: people want permission to be reckless without consequences. Real life doesn’t allow that. This game does. You can die like an idiot and there’s no cost, just respawn. Most games are designed around avoiding death. This one is designed around making death entertaining.
You come out different. Your relationship to failure changes while you’re inside. Nothing costs anything. Every stupid impulse is encouraged. You’re not strategic or careful, you’re just chaotic. The game is built so chaos is entertaining, so stupidity is freedom. That’s the phenomenon—not the crime story or the production values, but the permission it gives you to be completely, catastrophically dumb.
Pop music spent years being uncool. Not controversial, just beneath you - the thing record labels pushed on kids while real music happened elsewhere: indie bands whispering in dark rooms, or drum and bass, which at least had the decency of being too loud to think about.
But something shifted. Artists like HAIM, Sky Ferreira, Icona Pop started proving you could write a hook meant to stick without needing to apologize for it. That a great melody didn’t have to come with self-consciousness.
Charli XCX is 21, British, and she never learned any of that. “Nuclear Seasons,” “Stay Away” - they exist to be remembered and she doesn’t hide from that. “True Romance” takes the best of Spice Girls and S Club 7, cuts the dated production, and makes something that holds. It shouldn’t but it does.
“SuperLove” has a video in Tokyo, which fits - Tokyo understands that pop doesn’t need permission. Just color, motion, no apologies. It’s basically a fever dream of neon and it knows exactly what it is.
I’m not sure if this is a pop renaissance or just pop finally existing without an excuse. But there’s something genuinely good about music that wants to make you feel and move without making you feel stupid for wanting those things. Charli’s part of that - young enough that the self-consciousness never even reached her.
Robert Downey Jr. had a moment to explain what HTC actually stands for. Not the official answer—High Tech Computer Corporation, the one in the manual. The real one. Hungarian Tuba Concert. Hot Tea Catapult. Hot Tempered Cheerleaders. Happy Telephone Company. He made this clear while holding cats, standing near ships wrapped in foil, watching Hawaiians dance. The campaign’s whole point was freedom: buy HTC and you’re buying rebellion, buying the right to ignore everyone else’s rules and chart your own path.
I get the strategy. Phone companies live in constant panic about seeming too corporate, too mainstream, too boring. So they spend millions on celebrity endorsements proving they’re the cool alternative. “We’re the rebels. We’re not like the soulless corporations.” There’s a funny contradiction built into that—using a famous actor and a massive ad budget to convince people you’re against conformity.
What made it work, barely, was the complete commitment to absurdity. No winking, no ironic distance, no acknowledging how dumb it all is. Just pure unhinged stuff. Cats and aluminum ships and wordplay that means nothing. It’s stupid, but it’s *honestly* stupid, and there’s something almost respectable about that. More honest than the usual brand performance.
Rick Owens has always been the designer willing to do what fashion wouldn’t. Black, architectural, deliberately ugly in a way that makes you look twice — his clothes aren’t trying to please you. They’re trying to make you uncomfortable, to challenge what you think a body should look like draped in fabric. That’s why Fashion Week notices when he does something unexpected. In a world of incremental tweaks and seasonal trends, Owens moves like he’s dismantling the whole thing from the inside.
He’s never cared about being likeable. The collections are often austere, sometimes genuinely difficult to wear. There’s something punk about it, except he has the resources and the restraint to actually pull it off without the theatrical desperation. He builds clothes like architectural statements, and the body wearing them becomes part of the structure rather than the point.
That’s probably what made whatever he showed worth noting — not because it was beautiful or commercial, but because he did something that made people feel like fashion wasn’t entirely calcified. When a designer that serious moves, people pay attention. Even if they’re not sure what they’re looking at.
I’d spent years trying to move past the Japan stereotypes — that nothing there makes sense, that it’s all neon fever dream. I wanted to believe in the real artists, serious musicians, designers doing actual work. Normal people doing normal things in a country mostly reduced to cartoons. Kawaii, vending machines, tentacle porn.
Then you run into Little Pebble. A preacher running a sex church — a twisted Catholicism where disabled women are filmed during sex, where yogurt rituals happen under crucifixes, where the Pope watches from the wall. A journalist named Yuka Uchida went for VICE and came back with all of it documented.
The stereotype confirmed. Years of trying to escape that first impression, trying to believe in something deeper, and suddenly it’s right there. Exactly what you were hoping wasn’t true.
Paris Fashion Week, and FEMEN showed up topless at the Nina Ricci show, chanting about exploitation and the machinery of the fashion industry. I love breasts—genuinely, their weight and variety. But this gesture has been hollowed out by repetition. The shock is gone. The meaning burned off somewhere around the fourth or fifth time.
They bare their chests, cameras flash, security moves them, and the industry continues its churn unchanged. It’s become a scheduled scandal, predictable enough that the fashion houses probably have a protocol. FEMEN used to feel like a threat to that machinery. Now they’re part of how it works.
I think of the animal rights activists in the 90s who crashed fashion shows with fake blood and confiscated furs. Same moral clarity underneath, same sense of urgency. But the industry absorbed those protests so thoroughly that they became invisible. FEMEN is heading the same way—from provocation to routine, from shock to schedule.
I don’t know if anything actually moves systems this large. Maybe sustained witness is enough. Maybe the point is to keep saying something matters even when the machinery proves indifferent. But I’ve watched this script play out long enough to know the ending.
The breasts are still there. The industry is still there. And the distance between them hasn’t moved.
I’m standing in front of another blank wall. Two framed drawings hang on it—stick figures with blank eyes, a sun in the corner, some grass at the bottom, all in black and white. The one next to it doesn’t offer much more. The gallery owner sits bored on a wooden chair, tapping on her iPad. Around me, connoisseurs and collectors mill around. And I want to scream.
Art makes me angry.
Julia and I spent the weekend at Berlin Art Week. Small and large galleries all over the city, one cheap ticket gets you into a whole other world most people never see. So we drove to art berlin contemporary, the Opera Workshops, Kunst-Werke, Hamburger Bahnhof. Coffee in between. And my anger, deep in my chest, kept building.
I saw everything. Boulders on the floor. Fat sculptures by pillars. Fists hanging from ropes. Newspaper clippings behind glass. Brains on tables. Memes printed on cardboard. I waded through a sea of Justin Bieber posters and when I looked up, some guy was beating off another guy on an old color TV. I wanted to grab the next pompous art lover walking past and scream: “What am I supposed to feel? What am I supposed to think? What the hell are you trying to tell me?”
“You have to figure out what the art means to you,” Julia says as we walk to the next gallery somewhere in Berlin-Mitte. “Nobody can tell you how to feel about it.” Right then I felt stupid. Just stupid. Because in front of every painting, every installation, every sculpture, people stand with other people, talking about what they see. Discussing, praising, criticizing. What the artist was thinking with that color choice. That material. That angle.
The thing is, I love the art world. I love these well-dressed people, better dressed than anyone at fashion week. I love the big, bright buildings that used to be train stations and factories and now sit apart from the world breaking under war and hate and poverty. I love the magazines, the wine, the all-night philosophy in student bars. I love all of it. But the thing it’s all supposed to be about—the art itself—it doesn’t reach me.
That’s when I feel like I’m failing some fundamental test of taste. That if you don’t get art, you’re missing the point. Maybe I am. But I’m also watching other people watch art, and I’m feeling something—the absurdity, the reach, the way this world suffers and hopes anyway. The sharp cuts between money and nothing. I notice it all.
I love the anger the whole thing stirs up in me, the wondering if they’re fucking with me. Two thousand euros for this garbage, I tell myself, like I could do this in kindergarten. But I already know that’s not the point. I know it intellectually. It doesn’t matter. I laugh at the art and the bullshit it generates, and it’s all true at once—the bullshit and the real thing are the same.
The weird part is that despite 99 out of every 100 things I see making me furious, they flood my thoughts afterwards. They give me energy. They wake up memories and joy and a lot of anger. And the few that actually land, the few that stick with me—I chase those. I think about them at night. I want to know everything about them. Why, I ask myself. How. Where. And most of all: what the hell are you actually trying to tell me?
There’s this impossible space where everyone knows the system is broken but the machine keeps operating. France banned beauty pageants for children—everyone cheered—and then nothing changed because the pressure doesn’t care about pageants specifically. It just needs kids thinking about their bodies all the time, whether that’s through magazines or social media or what their friends are doing. The form keeps shifting. The content stays the same.
I learned about Michelle Sank’s work through photographs of young people who’d decided to stop waiting and just modify themselves. Not someday when they’re older. Now. Jade, twenty, got tattooed eyebrows and hair extensions. Amy had breast implants at eighteen. Hannah got Botox at seventeen. Ben shaves his legs. Jason built muscle like it was a project. Some of them transitioned—Jack, John, Campbell, Matt, and Jaye all decided their original body was the wrong assignment. Others developed eating disorders. Some had liposuction before they could legally drink. Sank documented all of it, and you look at the collection and feel the weight of the repetition—how many young people are simultaneously convinced that they need fixing.
What gets me is that you can’t actually parse intention from pressure anymore. Where does coercion end and genuine desire begin? Marc Jacobs sends minors down runways because there are child actors in Hollywood, so logically—but you can feel it skip a beat in your chest when you hear him defend it. Some of these kids probably felt better after their procedures. Some definitely felt worse and just buried it. Some were performing recovery from something that isn’t curable by surgery.
I grew up before phones had cameras and social media had algorithms. You could be strange and actually get away with it. There weren’t constant images of perfected bodies in rotation. The pressure existed but it had gaps. Now these kids are bathed in it. By the time they’re old enough to recognize what’s happening, they’ve already learned that their body is a problem to be solved. And that lesson doesn’t unlearn.
The club is dark, nothing but flickering weak lights and bodies moving to something that sounds sad even when it’s trying to be loud. Everything’s consumption and exhaustion. You’re in it and realizing slowly that you’re invisible here, that what you came for isn’t going to happen. You call out. Nothing. You scream. Nothing. Then you go quiet, which is somehow worse, because at least the screaming was something.
Then Yumi and the Weather or Lulu James or HAIM starts playing, and it shifts. These songs know the actual feeling—not the club failure, but the loneliness underneath it, that hunger for something real in a place that can’t have anything real. They won’t save the night, but they move you through it. They take you outside into actual air, actual light. The sun’s coming up. You can breathe again.
You end up on a swing somewhere, swinging yourself high, and you’re not thinking about being heard anymore. You’re just moving, just free.
After a photo shoot for Purple, I asked Inga Weisz about Hamburg. She’s not from there—grew up in Lower Saxony, in the countryside—but the city has hooks in her deep. The salt smell, fresh fish, that clear wide air all point back to childhood, to her brother, to feeling small and safe.
She lives in Berlin now. Acts, paints, models. But Berlin is relentless—doesn’t rest, so you don’t rest, and after a while it wears you down. That constant anxiety that something’s happening without you, that you’re missing something real. Hamburg is the opposite. Big but contained, walkable, knowable. You’re not anxious there. You can think.
She described autumn on the Elbstrand like she was tasting it: rain, empty, salt and freedom, a melancholy that just sits there. She’s a daydreamer, she said. Hamburg gives her room for that. Berlin gets in the way.
What struck me was her lack of sentimentality about it. Not a romantic getaway or a postcard memory—actual medicine. She needs Hamburg to stay intact in Berlin. She’ll keep moving between them because she’s figured out what she needs: Berlin for the work, Hamburg for the breathing. One makes sense only because the other exists.
You hear people talk about cities like that sometimes, but most of them sound like they’re performing. She just sounded real.
I confused Lorde with a Finnish hard rock band when she first started getting attention. Hard Rock Hallelujah, which makes no sense, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Turns out she’s a 16-year-old from New Zealand who spells her name with an E, and when I finally heard “Royals,” it was obvious why everyone was talking about her.
No production tricks, no affectation, just her voice and the song. What Lana Del Rey’s been chasing for years, Lorde was already doing at sixteen. Her debut “Pure Heroine” drops in October, and from what I’ve heard, it’s going to be harder to ignore than the usual 16-year-old prodigy albums. She played Berlin in September, probably to get the word out before the album dropped. Billboard’s calling her the new queen of alternative, which is the kind of hype that usually means nothing, but in this case I think they might actually be onto something.
There’s something about her that makes you listen differently. Not because she’s young or talented—plenty of people are both. It’s because she sounds like she knows what she’s doing, like she’s not trying to prove anything. That’s rare in a debut, especially at that age.
You opened your phone and everything looked wrong. Not broken—just completely different. Fluorescent colors, animations that zoomed in from everywhere, icons that looked like plastic toys. The internet had been losing its mind about the redesign for weeks, but nothing quite prepared you for how disorienting it actually was in your hand. Some people online were calling it beautiful. Others said it looked like a Hasbro toy designed by someone on acid. Most people fell somewhere between panic and grudging interest.
I wasn’t immediately sold, but I could see what they’d done. The whole thing had been rebuilt from zero, which usually looks rushed. But Jony Ive seemed to have figured out something about how your thumb actually moves through a phone—navigation in three dimensions instead of just left and right, backward and forward in space as much as up and down. Once you stopped panicking about the colors and the lightness of everything, you could feel that thinking underneath. iOS 6 suddenly looked bloated and ancient in comparison. This was clearly the foundation for something. It just wasn’t finished yet.
The problem was the pacing. The animations looked good but moved like they were underwater, everything too slow and slightly wrong. And the brightness was exhausting—pastels everywhere, all the visual weight drained out of the interface. Marcel had been deep enough in app design to appreciate the intentionality behind it all, but he also saw the rough edges. The animations needed tightening. Some decisions that felt bold now would probably get toned down. This was just the skeleton of what iOS would become.
Elena nearly lost her mind over it. She actually had panic attacks trying to decide whether to update, because iOS 7 had no going back—not yet. To her the whole thing looked like a toy, all those bright colors, too childish. But even she had to respect what the Control Center did, giving you real quick access to settings you actually needed. And if nothing else, at least Siri wasn’t a woman’s voice anymore.
The real question was whether any of this mattered compared to Android. Paul had been thinking about leaving for a while. Android was cleaner, more interesting in a lot of ways, gave you more control. But the camera on the iPhone was still unbeatable. Everything else—the ecosystem, the way your devices talked to each other—made switching feel like starting from zero. You’d put up with a lot of design decisions you didn’t love for that kind of integration. The Nokia 1020 looked promising until you remembered it was Windows Phone.
So iOS 7 would be here to stay, and in a few months or a year you’d stop noticing how weird it looked. The colors would probably mellow out. The animations would speed up. Someone would fix the things that felt broken now. This was just the moment they’d torn down the old design language and started again. It looked strange. But strange meant they were actually trying something.
’Cash, Diamond Rings, Swimming Pools’ was everywhere last summer. D E N A, this Bulgarian artist who’d recently landed in Berlin, seemed to become the sound of the city overnight — the kind of track that works in a club at the right moment, when everyone’s already moving and the beats just feel inevitable.
Now she has a new one coming. ’Guest List’ is built on Balkan rhythms, the kind of music that sounds like it’s pulling from somewhere specific and real. D E N A shot the video back in Bulgaria, which made perfect sense once I understood what the song was actually about. The track is obsessed with guest lists as status symbols, and she wanted to film it against something that would underscore that obsession. What she landed on was Bulgarian prom culture — these graduation balls that are genuinely extreme. The kids there get dressed up like it’s the Oscars. For one night they’re trying to be the most important people in the world. There’s something almost absurd about it, this teenage excess and performance happening against Bulgaria’s economic reality, but the kids don’t care. Getting onto that guest list, being seen as someone worth inviting — that’s everything.
It’s not just Bulgaria, though. In Berlin, guest lists to the right parties have become exactly the same kind of currency. You know the ones — the openings at gallery spaces, brand events, club nights that matter. Being on them means something. You’re someone people know. Everyone else is just… everyone else. The people who’d show up if they could but can’t, because nobody invited them. D E N A’s song is poking at that whole mechanism, this weird economy of access and exclusion that young people have built around nightlife and social visibility.
There’s something genuinely funny about taking it seriously, but also genuinely sad. Apparently the video explores what happens to the people standing outside, watching the door close.
The Huffington Post was launching a German edition, and they wanted writers. Free writers. The same model that had somehow turned Arianna Huffington’s operation into a multibillion-dollar enterprise—just ask talented people to contribute without payment and see what sticks.
Kai Petermann got one of those recruitment emails. He ran Stilsucht and Heldth, two actual blogs, and years back had made the decision to live off the internet—not as a side gig, as his real income. So when he was asked to write exclusively for HuffPo with nothing in return, he said no. And then he said it publicly.
His response spread through German social networks. What resonated was how clearly he’d named it: if you’re a profitable company asking creators to work exclusively for you at no cost, you’re not offering opportunity, you’re extracting labor.
Kai wasn’t against the Huffington Post as an idea. He’d seen it as genuinely good—fast, full of actual voices and opinion, less sterile than traditional online journalism. But there’s a line. He’d work unpaid on projects he believed in, things driven by passion. A massive operation that had already proven the business model works, now scaling it into a machine that values his time at zero? That was asking him to subsidize their growth.
The other thing he pointed out was just true: exclusive content doesn’t drive traffic the way people claim. You don’t discover someone’s blog because they published something on HuffPo. You read things that interest you. And a company taking your exclusive work while paying nothing—at that scale, there’s no pretending it’s not exactly what it looks like.
Still, he was realistic. Germany had plenty of bloggers who’d do it. Enough people making content as a side passion, enough hunger for visibility, enough lingering belief that it might eventually lead somewhere. HuffPo would populate their German edition without much trouble.
When asked if he’d at least read the new publication, Kai said sure. Bundled, edited German content had merit. He just wasn’t going to feed it.
Sky Ferreira was always too weird for mainstream pop. The others — Miley, Taylor, Lana — they understood the math. You can be provocative as long as you’re also easy to like. Sky had the songs, she had the look, but something about her stayed genuinely unmanageable. Chaotic. Genuinely strange in a way that doesn’t map to a demographic.
So she got arrested this week. Her and Zachary Cole Smith from DIIV, caught with drugs. Fans are calling them the new Cobain and Love, which is both absurd and maybe not entirely wrong. There’s something in that refusal to stay in control, to maintain the image, that feels closer to actual rock and roll than whatever careful shit everyone else does.
Then the GQ shoot — Alasdair McLellan photographed her topless for the British edition. It’s the kind of image that either kills you in mainstream pop or proves something true about your relationship to the image. For Sky, it probably just locks the whole thing in place.
She’s playing Pitchfork in Paris in late October with Hot Chip, The Knife, and Panda Bear. That’s the audience for her — people who don’t need her to be likeable. Whether the arrest stops her from showing up, I don’t know. But she’s not performing rebellion the way everyone else does. She’s just living it, and there’s something real in that. It’s weird to find that refreshing, but I do.
I still read magazines on paper. There’s a ritual to it—the kiosk, the flip through, the decision. You hold something in your hands, smell the pages, feel the weight. It’s not romantic. Print just dies slowly, and what survives says something about what actually matters.
NEON is what BRAVO becomes when the readers don’t drop out after high school. Still about sex and celebrities and looks, but the writers assume you’re smarter than you were. “Helene Hegemann: Four Years of Reading Nietzsche Stoned” instead of “What Boys Really Think of Your Jeans.” The basic themes repeat every couple years—love, friendship, money—but there’s an intelligence in how the magazine keeps finding new angles. They did a frankly shot photo essay about masturbation once, no soft focus, no pretense. Just people doing what everyone does and being weird about it. The weak part is the electoral voting essay that keeps getting recycled, the argument that voting is pointless that somehow every magazine believes it has to run. I skip that every time.
VICE used to be genuinely strange. Now you can feel the money. There’s still good documentary work—a long piece about ghost rapes in a Bolivian village, the kind of writing that actually justifies the magazine’s existence. But the headlines are all designed to sound incredible, and then the subjects turn out to be novelty instead of knowledge. “Cambodia’s Child Spider Hunters.” “Sweden’s Shit-Sludge Debate.” I’m too lazy to open half of them, and I don’t know if that’s me or the magazine itself. The stories feel so far from anything in my life that reading them doesn’t change anything. You close the page the same as you opened it.
Kinfolk costs about twenty-five euros and is almost impossible to find. Volume Eight was about Japan without clichés—no Harajuku, no kawaii, just the country treated as something worth real attention. Black sesame cherry blossom macarons. Japanese proverbs for living better. The wasabi harvest. Four hundred pages of design and photography and thinking that makes you realize you’re rushing through everything. I wish I could absorb it, become the person who reads this and actually changes. It’s quiet. It’s an island in a world that’s basically screaming bright nonsense for money.
I wasn’t expecting to laugh at a politician. But there was Peer Steinbrück on Circus HalliGalli, a German late-night show where two comedians run guests through absurdist bits, and he was funny. Not performing funny. Just funny.
They did a fake debate where they asked ridiculous questions—legalize hashtags, who’s swag between Obama and Putin, did he preorder the PS4. He dodged every one with actual wit instead of the usual nothing-answer shuffle. No desperation, no reaching. Joko and Klaas looked genuinely surprised, like they’d walked in expecting a cautious politician and got something else entirely.
But the real moment was when the show stopped performing at him and he stopped performing back. Just hanging around, doing random bits, laughing at himself. That’s when you saw the difference—not a guy managing an image, just someone who could take a joke.
There’s something impossible about the whole setup. Politicians have to be superhuman and untouchable, which makes them robotic, which makes people mad, which means any moment of humanity gets punished. Nobody wins that. But watching Steinbrück crack jokes and give answers that sounded like actual thoughts—not press-office text—it struck me that this is just asking people to do the impossible. That doesn’t mean he’s right about anything. It just made me willing to believe he might actually care about trying.
The show itself held up fine, even on mainstream television. Still felt chaotic and silly and like it might fall apart, which is exactly what made it work.
I remember him laughing at his own answer to one of the questions, this completely unstudied moment where the politician fell away and there was just a guy who found something funny. I walked away from the show wanting him to win, which wasn’t part of the plan. I don’t know if that means anything.
Someone showed me pictures of Takayo Kiyota’s sushi work and I couldn’t stop looking. They’re these elaborate designs made from colored rice and seaweed—detailed anatomically explicit content, basically. Pornographic sushi. The precision is incredible, which is what makes it work. She’s not doing this as some punk statement or conceptual art exercise. She learned actual sushi technique, spent real time with the medium, and then decided to make her art about explicit sexual imagery.
I think about the discipline that requires. In Japan the sushi tradition carries weight—you apprentice, you learn respect for the craft, you understand that it means something. She did all that. You can see it in the work. The way the colors transition, the technical control of the rice, the care in the arrangement. It’s all there. And she’s using it on pornography.
This reminds me of what a lot of traditional craftspeople do the second they feel confident enough to break their own rules. You spend years learning the orthodox way—the “right” way—and then the moment you’re good enough, you get to decide that the rules were optional. I remember watching a documentary about calligraphers where the old masters were all saying the same thing: learn the traditional stroke, understand why it matters, then you’re free to develop your own style. It’s not rebellion. It’s just the natural endpoint of discipline. You learn to be competent at the thing, and then competence gives you the freedom to point it somewhere else.
She teaches classes now. That’s the part that gets me. People pay to learn from her. They show up, she teaches them the actual technique, and by the end of the class they’ve created something they probably never thought they’d make. Beautiful and crude at the same time. You learn sushi and leave with pornography. There’s something complete about that cycle.
There’s something right about all of this. You learn a tradition, you respect it, and then you get to decide what it means. She picked explicit art. Why not. The skill is real. The vulgarity is real. Neither one cancels out the other.
New York breaks your sense of scale. Everything is too loud, too close, everybody reaching for something that never quite fits. It should be unbearable. Mostly it just is.
I spent a few days crashing with friends, riding the subway at odd hours, sitting in their apartment with a cat and watching the light move across buildings outside. Nothing special about it. The quiet moments that don’t register for anyone but you, which is when they matter most in a place like that.
What gets to you is that nobody there is impressed anymore. The ambition, the constant sense that something important is happening—it all becomes just Tuesday morning, just another thing to survive until Wednesday. Most cities don’t teach you that kind of honesty.
I haven’t been back. Not from hate, but because it felt complete. You can’t do that place halfway. It demands everything and doesn’t care if you crack a little in the process.
What I remember most is the cat walking across my chest in the dark, the city outside the window, nobody looking at anybody on the train. The small real things. Those stuck longer than the idea ever could.
The tuk-tuk bounces hard over the cobblestones, and Jennifer’s next to me throwing her arms up. She’s the producer on this trip, dark hair whipping in the wind. A few minutes before we were talking about Taiwanese food, Beijing, Berlin. I was countering with Tokyo subway lines, landscapes around Toronto, the usual comparative geography that happens when you travel with someone who’s lived in three countries. Then the tuk-tuk hits something and she’s laughing, really laughing, the kind where you forget to be self-conscious. Her oversized black sunglasses are sliding down. The city’s moving past us in streaks—painted tiles on the buildings, old women hanging laundry, a restaurant sign in blue and white.
We’re here because someone decided it was a good idea to fly out a group of people to see something new. The logistics are elaborate and strange. There’s a rooftop at a hotel called Memmo Alfama, wide views of the Atlantic, too much money in the air. But the actual moment is simple: sun in your face, cold drink in your hand, the knowledge that you can just be here without the weight of anything else. No Berlin winter waiting. No ramen budget. No refresh of email. Just this.
What I remember most is the relief of it. That sounds dramatic but it’s true. We’d been living on practically nothing that fall—financial miscalculation, the kind that stretches across months and becomes a thing you’re just managing. You don’t realize how small it makes you feel until someone says yes, we’ll fly you to Portugal for a weekend. Then suddenly you’re eating real food, tasting wine that doesn’t come in a box, sitting in restaurants where the light is warm instead of fluorescent. The city doesn’t care about your circumstances. It just is—messy and old and beautiful in that European way where nothing’s been erased.
Lisbon itself is a labyrinth. The streets wrap around each other in a way that makes no map sense. You can see the water from almost everywhere but you can’t figure out how to get to it. There are tiles everywhere—geometric patterns on buildings, scenes from history, the whole city is a surface you could read if you had the language. The maritime past is still alive in it. You can feel the trade routes, the people who left, the sea captains, the whole weight of a city that used to send ships everywhere and now just sits on a hill and lets tourists find it.
The people we were with were interesting in the way travel companions sometimes are. Mostly strangers, some of them people you knew slightly from the internet, all of us thrown together. There’s a particular kind of camaraderie in that situation—you’re not close enough to have pretense, but you’re trapped together by circumstance in a way that makes you honest. Conversations drift between food and travel and work and nothing at all. Someone’s taking photographs. Someone’s drawing on their laptop. Everyone’s noticing the light. It’s the feeling you get on school trips when you’re old enough to actually like the people around you.
We went from restaurant to restaurant. I kept ordering fish because it tasted like actual fish, not like something that came from a frozen box. There was wine. There was bread that had crust. These are stupid things to be amazed by but they made me realize how much the previous months had been a grind, how you adjust downward without noticing until suddenly you’re back up. The beach was there if you wanted it. The clubs on rooftops. The narrow restaurants where everyone knows each other. Portugal has this lightness to it—a different pace. People don’t perform as much. There’s less anxiety in the air.
And then it’s Sunday and you’re at the airport and the gray sky of Berlin is waiting. You know the moment the plane lands and you walk out and feel that cool air. The relief is gone. You’re back in the system. The city doesn’t care about you anymore. It was fine before you arrived and it’s fine after you leave. The warmth drains out of your face. The memories start to feel like they happened to someone else. By Tuesday you’re back in the rhythm and the trip is already becoming a story you tell rather than something that happened to you.
What stays with you from something like that is odd. A particular moment in a restaurant. Jennifer’s laugh. The specific angle of light through a narrow street. A taste you’re trying to remember. The actual texture of the trip is already gone. You can’t get that back no matter how many photographs you took. What you’ve got is the knowledge that the city exists and that you were there and that it was good. And that’s probably enough. You don’t need to have changed. You don’t need a moral. You just lived for a few days in a different frame and then came back. The thing is that it never lasts—the freedom, the ease, the sense that something has shifted. But while it’s happening, it’s real.
Mallorca is Germany’s seventeenth state—the running joke, at least, the island boiled down to sangria buckets and the worst version of German tourism, the kind of place that makes you dumb just thinking about it. RTL2 with beaches.
Then I saw some photographs by Quentin de Briey from a trip he took there, and the whole thing inverted. Empty paths through the landscape. Houses built into hillsides. The sea at some rocky end, just blue. Gardens growing. Real light. Fruit on trees. Nothing performing anything.
That’s the Mallorca these images caught—not the invented one, not the cliché, just the place sitting there the whole time before anyone made it stupid. You see work like that and the noise stops being real. It becomes background. What’s left is clean.
I haven’t been there. But looking at those photographs, I finally saw Mallorca as something other than a punch line—as an actual place someone could walk through and notice.
There’s a version of this song where the question is the whole thing. Not rhetorical—an actual question. How long will I love you? And instead of an answer, there’s just her voice asking it into the dark, like she’s wondering the same thing. You know that feeling, the one where you’re lying there thinking about someone and you’re already tired from loving them, and you just want to know if it’s ever going to stop. Goulding’s got that in her voice. Not dramatic about it. Just tired and honest.
Miley Cyrus spent the better part of a couple of years proving she wasn’t the Disney kid, and a lot of that proof came down to underwear and provocation. The deliberate shock value was loud, but it was masking something simpler—someone suffocating in a role and needing to blow it up to escape.
I remember it reading as necessary at the time, though you could see the desperation underneath it all. The shock wore off eventually, but that clarity didn’t—the understanding that sometimes you have to burn something completely to become something new. By the time people stopped being scandalized, she’d already moved on to whoever came next.
Tyler dropped a trailer for a film called Wolf. Bicycle, kid getting his ass kicked, that’s the whole thing. Nobody knows when it’s coming out or where you’re supposed to watch it. The Odd Future crew probably doesn’t know either.
It’s the most Tyler move possible now — maximum mystery, genuine weirdness, no corporate handler in sight. He makes something strange and just lets it float there, refuses to explain it, and people stay interested because he’s actually talented and actually weird, not just doing the algorithm version of weird.
There’s something almost restful about it. No discourse queue building up, no think pieces preparing to launch, just a film suspended in time that may or may not eventually exist. I’m assuming it will. I’m assuming it comes out before everyone forgets who he is, but I’d honestly respect him a little more if it didn’t.
Ran into this shirt somewhere — maybe saw someone wearing it, maybe just lodged it in my brain from the internet. Either way it won’t leave. Twerking’s been dead for a while, which is exactly the point. A graphic tee with a reference that’s already half-ironic doesn’t feel desperate. It just sits there, stupid and self-aware, the way clothes you actually want to wear tend to be. Not trying. Not reaching.
She posed without clothes for V Magazine, which is basically her permanent default now. The nudity cycles through different eras but the commitment never wavers. If provocation is your whole strategy, you lean into it completely.
I don’t get the devotion people have. They love her with genuine intensity, treat her like an oracle, and I understand why the willingness to be ugly or explicit appeals — most pop stars won’t go there. But shock loses power when it’s the permanent state. She’s not breaking boundaries anymore, she’s just living inside the ones she built.
Still, you have to respect it. Most people would get tired of their own act, would soften or get bored. She just keeps going.
There’s a documentary that played at Venice about Femen, the Ukrainian group known for topless protests and all the feminist street theater. It shows Viktor Sviazko, who started the whole thing, running it like a military operation: scripting protests down to the word, yelling at activists on camera, reminding them how much he’s paying them. The control is absolute. You can see it all on film.
The women say it themselves. They use the word “slave.” They talk about Stockholm syndrome. Not as some clever metaphor—they mean it literally. Trapped, afraid, dependent on a man who claims to be liberating them.
So you’ve got a movement founded on the principle of women’s freedom built entirely on women’s control. The ideology says one thing; the actual power structure says the opposite. It’s the kind of thing you’d recognize immediately in a cult, but when it’s dressed up as political activism, the rhetoric gets in the way of seeing what’s actually happening.
None of this was hidden, either. The hierarchy, the money, the one person calling every shot—it was all there. Either we weren’t looking hard enough, or he was just better at selling it. Either way, watching a feminist movement get exposed as a vehicle for male control confirms what you already suspected about how power actually works inside these things.
Vice is releasing Lil Bub & Friendz on YouTube, rolling it out slowly. That face. That tongue hanging out. Everyone loves Bub and I get it.
There’s the guy who manages everything Lil Bub-related and he genuinely freaks me out. Something off about the whole operation. But then I found out he opened a Nyan Cat shop and suddenly I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s stupid enough to be fascinating. Might actually get me to America.
Pick up any menswear lookbook and you’re seeing the same three silhouettes on repeat — t-shirt, hoodie, jeans, done. Women’s designers are having conversations about proportion and texture and what clothes can actually do. There’s a freedom in women’s streetwear that men’s wear just won’t touch.
I looked at Mishka’s fall collection and couldn’t stop noticing the construction. The fabrics had weight, the color sense didn’t play it safe, the proportions trusted the wearer instead of playing conservative. I didn’t want those specific pieces. The thinking was just clearly somewhere else. The design work was visible.
Working in design, you notice where the actual thinking is. Women’s fashion takes risks. Men’s wear is still hedging, still afraid someone might look too closely. That’s worth noticing. Not because of envy. Because of where the work is.
Peer Steinbrück looks completely worn out, sixty-six, former minister-president, standing against that pale blue background trying to land a blow against Angela Merkel, the Teflon woman. Black suit, striped tie, sweat on his forehead. He’s visibly wrestling with his own face—should he smile or stay serious? Either way feels like it might scare off the swing voters. His words just bounce off her like nothing. Then Stefan Raab comes at him from nowhere with something about Oliver Kahn and Scottish kings and suddenly the ninety-minute debate is over. Are we any smarter? Maybe a little.
While supporters and Twitter users are arguing about current events with terrible spelling and zero actual knowledge, I’m lying on my freshly made bed in my new apartment in Berlin-Kreuzberg, drinking orange juice straight from the bottle, trying to pay actual attention, genuinely trying, to figure out the one thing I need to decide in the next three weeks: I don’t know who to vote for. Or what. Or even if I should.
Politics could be simple. You figure out what you believe in, you find people who believe the same things, and you send them off to the Bundestag to act in your interest. Except it’s not that simple. From experience, I know that politicians promise everything before the election and deliver almost nothing after. Sometimes they can’t help it—coalitions, compromises, the economy shifts—but when you bring it up years later, it’s never actually their fault somehow, which doesn’t matter because there’s already another batch of aging men in suits ready to do the same thing all over again.
Can you blame young people for being completely exhausted by all of this? Nothing actually changes. Some taxes down, some taxes up. Spending shuffled here, funding cut there. It’s always the same pattern. And programs that actually tried to do something different—student fees, Hartz IV, smoking bans—they turned into disasters that people still complain about. So who am I supposed to vote for? The two big parties look like beached whales to me. You can’t miss them but they can barely move. The Greens are too green, the FDP too yellow, Die Linke is just nostalgia for East Germany. The Pirates came in as real rebels with tech ideals and now they’re just a basket of people arguing about everything with no experience and no actual direction, jumping from one public embarrassment to the next.
Then there’s the far right screaming about deporting criminals. I’m on the U-Bahn through Kreuzberg—Turkish families, Spanish tourists, German construction workers all crammed in—and I catch myself thinking that their stupidest slogan isn’t even entirely wrong. If I beat someone up in Japan they’d probably kick me out of the country forever. Fair enough. Then I remember Anne Frank and book burnings and children sent off to die in some pointless war and I shake the thought out of my head before I become a person I don’t want to be.
I’m kind of jealous of my friends who know exactly who they’re voting for. Did they think about it more or less? Are they just in a different life situation where different things matter? Tax brackets, daycare spots, minimum wage? Would a basic income just shift the zero line higher? Do women need corporate quotas or is that something they even want? I genuinely don’t know.
Maybe I should just focus on what’s good for me. I’m twenty-nine, self-employed, doing okay financially but not great, living on the internet, no kids, no one to take care of. So what party is even fighting for a guy like me? Actually, I just want world peace. Everyone to have food and shelter. And for the NSA to stop reading my mail. Okay, that’s concrete—maybe the Pirates? But the SPD wants that too, right? So do the Greens? Can I even demand that when there are so many bigger problems? Syria, for instance? Can’t I just vote out Obama or something?
Then I’m sitting in this café in Berlin-Mitte on a Thursday afternoon, coffee and water in front of me, waiting for a warm croissant with ham and cheese, and it hits me: if my biggest problem right now is slow WiFi, my life is doing pretty well. Can I throw away my vote? Or should I just vote for whoever puts the most money in my pocket? Just care about myself, just Marcel in the café. But that doesn’t feel right either.
To vote at all you have to be selfish or naive or good-hearted. Because even if I find the perfect party for me, what are the odds anything I actually want will happen? What if the whole political climate turns into a storm and it breaks right over my head? Maybe I should’ve gone into politics so I could arrange everything the way I wanted it. But then I wouldn’t be sitting in this café either.
The debate ends. The candidate looks at me through the screen and says “You have the power. You decide the future.” I want to believe that the way I want to believe detergent can wash my shirt whiter than white. But one thing Peer Steinbrück doesn’t have to worry about tonight—he doesn’t have to figure out who he’s voting for.
Cold rain in my face, and I’m thinking about the umbrella I left inside somewhere, dry and warm. Summer’s dead. With it gone the short dresses, the ice cream, that will to live you only get when the sun’s on your head and beer’s in your chest.
So I’m pulling them back out. The melancholic thoughts. Memories of a broken love. A better past. Some difficult future. Or the reverse of all that. I charge the iPod, load it with quiet songs and deep bass, mix the existential stuff with the last pulse of that season. Gregor Schwellenbach, Brolin, Kodacrome—they drag me back. Back to forbidden kisses in summer rain, night screams, red mornings that made you feel like you were losing it. A time that was just weeks ago but might as well be years. Might as well be another life entirely.
Norman Röhlig was on his vacation terrace in the sun, drinking something cold, and he felt the truth he’d been avoiding: he lived in a tolerant German bubble. Berlin was gay-friendly, liberal, safe. But Russia was just one country, and homophobia was global, and he was sitting in his comfort doing nothing about any of it. He thought about writing something, calling it out, but figured he’d just yell into the void like everyone else.
Instead, he actually did it. His friends Julian Laidig and others took the call seriously. They organized a protest in Berlin aimed at the Sochi Olympics, at McDonald’s and General Electric and Panasonic, all the sponsors pretending those games weren’t backed by a state that had criminalized homosexuality. Russian law banned discussing gay people around minors. Public hand-holding could get you arrested. Mobs hunted LGBTQ+ people online and hurt them, and the state did nothing to stop it, or worse, encouraged it.
Thousands of people showed up to protest in Berlin. Most were ordinary people who’d seen Norman’s call and decided they couldn’t stay comfortable anymore. The march was loud and colorful, moving through the city to the Russian embassy. Norman had said something about being real people with hearts in the right place, not just a target demographic. And people listened.
This is what happens when someone gets off the terrace. The stakes become real enough that other people move. Whether the corporations and governments actually listen is separate from the fact that something moved, that the comfort zone got smaller, that the margin between knowing and doing got thinner.
Rainbows don’t bite. Neither do people. The Russian laws act like they do. The protest said otherwise, and thousands of people moved.
Miranda Kerr in V Magazine styled as Cicciolina. Sebastian Faena shot it—black and white, then color, the photographs alternating in mood the way Faena does.
Cicciolina, Elena Staller, made pornographic films through the eighties and nineties: “Wet Teens and Hot Jeans,” “Yellow Emanuelle,” the usual catalog. But the porn was never actually the story. She ran for parliament on an actual platform—anti-nuclear, pro-legalization of everything (drugs, sex work, whatever), against animal testing, against the death penalty. She won. She sat in Rome from 1987 to 1992 representing the Radical Party, refusing to compartmentalize herself, refusing to apologize for any of it.
Then you’ve got Kerr. Victoria’s Secret. The kind of beauty designed to be aspirational but not dangerous, purchasable but not challenging.
The shoot itself is good—Kerr positioned in Cicciolina’s world for a moment, older and rawer than she’s usually allowed to be. The photographs work. For a beat, the contradiction exists in the frame.
But it’s still a photoshoot in a magazine. It’s still fashion. The radical becomes a reference, an aesthetic, something beautiful and unthreatening. Cicciolina gets turned into a look. And Kerr gets to wear her for a moment before moving on to the next campaign, the next version of herself.
That’s the distance between radical and image: how easily one becomes the other.
You see Chio Chips in German supermarkets and there’s this moment where you realize someone in a marketing meeting actually signed off on flavors split by gender, explicitly designed so men and women would buy different ones. It’s stupid enough to be funny, except it’s not the exception—it’s the rule. Axe ads, H&M lingerie billboards, surprise eggs for boys and girls like their DNA requires different plastic toys. The whole advertising landscape is built on the idea that women should be decorative and available, and men should want what they can’t have while also being soldiers or whatever.
Stevie Schmiedel from Pinkstinks has been calling this out for a while. She organized a demonstration in Berlin against sexist advertising, and her point is simple: we see about five thousand ads a day, and the sexist ones stick because they’re the loudest. A woman in lingerie looks at you like she’s asking you something. A man in lingerie looks at you like he’s doing you a favor. The difference matters, especially because kids absorb this without any irony shield—they don’t get that it’s meant to be clever or post-ironic. A kid just sees a headless woman on a billboard and internalizes that the head part is optional.
The petition they organized mentioned something that’s hard to unsee once you think about it: one in five kids in Germany shows signs of an eating disorder. You can draw a direct line from that to advertising that reduces people to whether they’re fuckable, to whether their body matches some photoshopped fantasy. And the advertising industry keeps pushing irony as a defense. Kids don’t know irony. Neither does anyone’s unconscious.
Sookee, the rapper who was involved, talks about something else that connects here—how capitalism and patriarchy teach you to compete instead of cooperate. If there’s a sexually liberated woman, you can point at her and call her a slut, which makes you seem virtuous by comparison. If there’s a feminist woman, you can call her a shrew, which makes you seem reasonable. It’s comfortable, staying in the lane you’re handed. Hip-hop’s been through the same cycle—a decade of shock value and misogyny normalized as art, and slowly, incrementally, people getting tired of it. From the US you get out gay rappers in the playlists now. From the UK you get women MCs actually making it into rotation. It’s visibility that shifts things.
The weird part is knowing all this and still moving through a world built on these assumptions. You see the advertising, you know how it works, you can trace the psychological mechanics and the profit motive underneath it, and it still lands. The system wants you to feel like you’re not enough—too weak, not enough hair, wrong shape, not the right product away from being acceptable. It’s so routine that challenging it reads as uptight or humorless, and conforming to it reads as just being normal. The demonstration wanted to make it public, to ask out loud whether this is actually okay, whether these are stories we want to keep telling ourselves about what men and women are supposed to be. I don’t know if it changed anything. But at least someone said it out loud.
I spent part of the week looking at products. Nothing I need, just things that made some kind of sense.
There’s a Nike Dunk Low Pro SB Shanghai edition dropping in September. I don’t usually care about shoes, but this one works—white leather, wine accents, a gold swoosh that knows not to be louder than it is. Limited production matters. A shoe designed carefully and made in smaller numbers doesn’t disappoint the way mass production does.
TheQ is a camera built for Instagram people. 3G built in so you upload straight to their servers, edit from your phone or computer. Around 180 euros. I’m not the audience, but I get the impulse—a tool made for that specific moment when taking pictures and sharing them started becoming the same activity. It probably arrived at the exact wrong time to sell, but as a concept it makes sense.
Oris made a limited Air Racing Edition III watch. Black with white and red accents, only 1000 made. I don’t care about watches, but I respect what this is: something built with actual care, functions properly, won’t be mass-produced junk. That covers most of what matters.
Someone finally solved the reusable coffee cup problem. Australian company, Charlwood Design, calls it the UpperCup. It’s such a basic problem to fix—why we’re still using paper cups with plastic lids every morning—but it takes forever for someone to actually do it right. Crowdfunded, which is how sensible ideas happen now.
LEGO and Belkin collaborated on iPhone cases. You can snap building blocks onto them. Master Builders line. Twenty-five euros. It’s the best kind of stupid: you’re hitting the nostalgia nerve but the execution isn’t cheap trash, and that’s the difference between something that lands and something you regret.
Snuck to the kiosk in Neukölln and bought three magazines because The Spiegel is out there arguing print isn’t dead, so I figured I’d contribute. Three dead trees. Three different visions of what matters.
Spex is the magazine for music people who think. Casper’s on the cover—a German rapper promoted from person to myth, credited with making hip-hop matter again. He has a blog that runs on their website or they cover him because of his blog—the cause and effect aren’t clear, and it doesn’t matter either way. The Sofia Coppola piece on “The Bling Ring” is actually good. Esther Buss doesn’t do the usual magazine thing. She moves through the film, writes about what Coppola does, gets an interview, ends. Clean. But then there’s the Arctic Monkeys interview, and it hits different because this was a band I listened to when they mattered. “The View from the Afternoon,” “I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor,” “When the Sun Goes Down”—songs that were genuinely good, songs that meant something in that moment. And then one day they didn’t anymore. They know this. They’ve known for years. But they keep touring the old festival circuits, keep releasing albums, keep showing up in magazines like zombies of a generation that’s already gone. The magazine doesn’t explain why it published the interview, and I’m not sure they had an answer either.
ZEIT Campus is the student magazine. This issue is about finding somewhere to live, which apparently is the only question students ask besides “where do I drink cheap” and “who will sleep with me.” Makes sense. There’s practical advice about roommates and landlords. Veronika Widmann writes about celebrity memoirs—Miley, Bieber, Küblböck—and it would be forgettable except someone ran an enormous kitten photo across half the page. That choice is worth more than weeks of reporting. Obviously. Then Simon Hurtz has a five-step decluttering guide that assumes students have money to donate their stuff instead of selling it. Weird, because a few pages back the same magazine is writing about student debt.
Mädchen is the girls magazine, the thing for teenagers between childhood and adulthood. This month it’s all cheap makeup under five euros—lipsticks, eyeshadow, nail polish, good quality on no budget. You only live once. I grabbed a copy out of curiosity. It works. There’s a Sally Fitzgibbons surfer poster that captures something real about summer and freedom and the feeling of having waited too long to learn this. The rest is the same: a photostory about an exchange student falling for two boys on a South African beach, a diary entry from a girl who rides horses every day, a firsthand account from a girl who stopped four sharks. Every page is bright and generous, full of photos and short pieces. Nothing tries too hard. The One Direction movie ad on page 15 oversells. But otherwise it just works.
I watched a fashion blogger quit her PR job one autumn morning. She’d been managing airline accounts and clothing brands for a Berlin agency—the kind of work that wears you down. Then one day she posted something that brought in as much money as two months of that grinding corporate work. Within a year it wasn’t the only time.
It’s seductive. A couple of solid brand deals a month and you’re looking at real money. No commute, no meetings, no pretending to respect people who got ahead through anything but competence. You’re making what you want, on your own schedule, doing something you supposedly love. It’s the dream that keeps people blogging deep into the night.
But I’ve watched what happens after the leap.
The first problem is the money. You get a check that lands in the four-figure range and think, this is it, I don’t need that job. Then the lean months come—nothing for three months straight. You’re back in panic mode, wondering if you just made a terrible mistake. The money’s never regular enough until it is, and by then you’ve already quit.
Before that, there’s tax. In most places, you’re paying roughly a third of what you earn to the government, plus VAT. That four-figure check? You keep maybe half. If what’s left seems enough to live on, you can proceed. If not, you’re not ready.
But money isn’t even the real issue. A hobby becomes work, and work stops being fun.
I know bloggers who could do this full-time. Their audience is there, the deals come in. What they discovered instead is that blogging twelve hours a day, five days a week, because it’s your only income, is not the same as blogging two hours at night because you love it. When it’s the job, the joy drains. You stress about metrics, deadlines, renewal dates. You’re obligated now instead of inspired.
Then there’s the flexibility issue. A regular job, as much as it sucks, gives you stability. You know you’re getting paid. You can take a long lunch if something’s happening. You leave at 5 and don’t think about work until tomorrow. As a full-time blogger, you need flexibility—screenings during the day, travel for product events, showing up when something’s worth covering. The stability you gained by quitting is the same thing preventing you from actually doing the work.
And the part nobody wants to face: you’re not running a business, you’re dependent on other people’s businesses. Nike cuts their influencer budget, that’s your problem. The algorithm changes, you feel it in your bank account. You need a Plan B—freelancing, photography, writing, something. And if you need a Plan B, are you really a full-time blogger, or just someone who quit their job?
The question isn’t whether you can make money blogging. You can. The question is whether you’re ready for it to stop being yours.
Lying in bed with the sheets tangled and the pillows useless. Blanket bunched up. You haven’t even undressed. You’re just staring at the ceiling while your brain refuses to settle. It throws thoughts at you like vultures, and you can’t organize any of it into something that makes sense.
What you need is clarity. But instead you’re stuck with this noise—the coworker who hates you, the money situation, what comes next in your career and your love life and your actual life. No one can untangle these for you. No one can pull them out and sort them. So you lie there.
You know other people have it worse. You know that knowing this doesn’t help. It never has.
So you put on Zola Jesus, then A$AP Rocky, then Disclosure. You listen because it’s the only thing that feels possible. Not a fix. Not even close. Just something to do while your head keeps spinning.
You know how backpacking through Southeast Asia used to feel like the opposite of tourism? Like you were doing something real because you weren’t following a tour group or staying in a resort. You had a guidebook everyone had, but at least you weren’t paying for the illusion of authenticity—you were just living it.
That’s over. The backpacker trail is as standardized as any resort destination now. Same hostels, same towns, same Instagram locations, different people convinced they’re the first to discover them. The alternative to mass tourism became mass tourism, just with cheaper hotels and a better story.
Heineken figured this out. If backpackers want to feel like they’re doing something real, why not sell them that feeling directly? Drop some random people in random countries with a camera, call it adventure, wrap it in sponsorships and prizes and limited-edition merchandise. Make them feel like they’re not tourists because they won the right contest.
It’s a clean paradox: the more you try to package authenticity, the more obvious it becomes that wanting to feel authentic is its own kind of tourism. But most people want the story more than the experience anyway. The trip matters less than the proof that you took one.
I don’t know what real travel looks like anymore. Maybe it’s not about the place at all. Maybe it’s about not needing to tell anyone you got there.
Nina opens a package that arrives on her bed one afternoon and can’t believe what she’s looking at: a new black handbag, worth maybe seventy euros. She didn’t order it. A handwritten card explains: “A small thank you for having such a great blog.” She’s thrilled, takes photos of herself with the bag in her bright bedroom, posts them with a link to the company. Everyone wins, right? Not really.
Within a couple hours she’s being added to an Excel spreadsheet somewhere in an agency office—another line item for the publicity person to track. One blog post traded for seventy euros of merchandise. The math is not subtle. Looking at it, Nina has already decided what she’s worth, and she’s not going to bump that number up for a while.
I’ve been making my living from this for three years now. Rent, food, books, records, the things that cost money in Berlin—it all comes from writing about whatever I find worth writing about. It’s not hard, really. You just have to remember a few things, which is what I’m laying out here. Or at least, things I try to remember. Most of the time.
Start by not being a blogger. There are blogs everywhere—fashion blogs, tech blogs, music blogs, blogs about food, about travel, about cities. The thing is, if you want money from this, you can’t just have a blog. You need to become something people actually want. Nerdcore, Stil in Berlin, Journelles—these places exist everywhere in different forms, different audiences, different degrees of success. They stand out because they have a recognizable voice, they work hard, and they own their niche so completely that when someone wants to know about that thing, they come to you. And when they come to you, the agencies come too.
Figuring out who you are in this space is the first move. What do you actually have that’s worth reading? Are you unusual? Write about yourself and what happens to you. Are you beautiful? Flood people with photos. Do you care obsessively about one thing? Make that your whole thing. The pattern holds. You become an institution by being so completely yourself that you become the place people have to go for that particular flavor of mind.
The worst thing that can happen is being ignored. Mix boring writing with no personality and nobody’s going to show up. The agencies—they book the superstars or the people who are convincing enough to pass for superstars. So the thing you’re actually building is not a blog. It’s a version of yourself that people want to know.
When you’re talking to agencies and clients, you need to sound like you belong in that conversation. Learn the vocabulary—TKP, Expandable Super Banner, Unique Visitors. If you don’t know these things, you’re giving them permission to lowball you. Put together a media kit in a professional design. One page, maybe two. Who you are, what your blog’s about, who reads it, your numbers, your social reach, some past work. Make it look like you take yourself seriously, because if you don’t, they won’t.
But don’t disappear into the professional part entirely. Nobody’s a robot all day. Be charming when you need to be, but keep some space between the people at agencies and actual friendship. When it’s business, you’re charming but firm. They want you to write about their thing. You want money. That’s the whole conversation.
The mistake I see all the time is bloggers trading their work for nothing. A gift, a coupon, a vague promise of “collaboration” later. And they’re grateful just to be noticed. They don’t realize they’re one line in a spreadsheet created by an overworked intern at some agency. The rule is simple: if someone’s using you to make money, they pay you. The agencies turn every article and every link into dollars. So you do the same.
How much? If you’re small, maybe three hundred euros an article. If you’re medium-sized, maybe five hundred. If you’re big, maybe nine hundred or more. Links on your social accounts cost extra. Products that don’t fit your audience, you turn down, even if the money’s good. When you feel like they got a deal because of who you are, you can charge more. Give discounts to people who book multiple posts at once, or agencies that come back month after month. But don’t let yourself become their permanent sale item. Every so often it’s fine to write about something for free if you actually want to—just don’t pretend you want to when you don’t.
The deeper thing is that the more time you put in, the bigger it gets, but only if it’s something people could actually care about. If your angle is too weird or you’re just kind of boring, you can work until your eyes fall out and nothing happens. Some people should probably just grow vegetables instead. But early on, before the money comes, you have to invest your own. A real domain, real hosting, good software, a decent camera. The tools matter. Not because they’re magic, but because trying to build something serious with garbage tools is like trying to make a good painting with a cheap brush—you’re fighting the material before you even start.
Social media is where the traffic multiplies and where you talk to people. Post on Facebook, engage on Twitter, show your life on Instagram, archive interesting things on Pinterest. The numbers matter to agencies, maybe more than they should. The higher your count, the more you can ask for. So you grow your audience by being engaged, being weird sometimes, being honest. But also build relationships with the people who work at agencies. Meet them for lunch, go to events, become a familiar face. Unknown bloggers with great work sit in a pile. Known bloggers with decent work get booked.
I don’t always follow my own advice. Sometimes I don’t answer emails because I’d rather drink wine and play Civilization. Sometimes I undercharge because I know the person asking or I wasn’t thinking. Sometimes I disappear from social media because I’m having a crisis and wondering why any of this matters. That’s fine, probably necessary even. What matters is not losing sight of the goal when you get back, and figuring out what actually works for you and what doesn’t. What your real niche is. How you actually like to write. Whether you want to do this alone or with other people. Whether you’re hunting for cool things to link to or making your own stuff.
Nina learned something from that handbag. Yes, it felt nice to be noticed. But what actually happened was someone calculated that they could get a blog post and SEO links cheaper by sending a gift than by negotiating a rate. The internet is a market like any other. You’re the one who gets to decide what role you play in it.
Breakup pain hits different when you’re in it. There’s no winning an argument about suffering hierarchies—in that moment it just doesn’t matter. There was someone who was supposed to be solid, the one person who could navigate you through the everyday disasters and the 3 a.m. panics. Then they’re gone. No support. No love. Just waiting for the hurting to ease up.
I found HAIM’s “The Wire” at some point while I was stuck in exactly that. Three sisters from Los Angeles who’d absorbed every great pop record of the last few decades and decided to build their own thing from it. Their debut album was on the way and people were getting excited in that way they do when a band seems to have cracked some code.
What got me was how directly the song described that specific moment—when you stop pretending and just accept it’s actually finished. The person who mattered most becomes the person you can’t have. The song doesn’t offer anything about healing or time fixing things. It just lives in that wreckage, which is more honest than most music bothers to be.
Sometimes you don’t need to hear that it gets better. You need someone to articulate exactly how bad it is right now. Not in a month or a year. Right now, in this room, with this exact feeling pressing down. HAIM did that. It helped.
Starting over costs everything — your habits, your routines, sometimes people who seemed permanent. You shed years of accumulated safety and doubt. The friends who stick around aren’t just good; they’re proof you got something right.
I made a mixtape for this. Not because music fixes anything, but because there’s a specific gravity you need when you’re caught between who you were and what’s next. Dream Koala sounds weightless, like nothing’s fixed in place. Forest Swords is all rust and pressure, the sound of something breaking. Tei Shi moves through space like someone who already decided.
Once you break the seal, there’s a momentum that carries you. The hard part isn’t the leap or the courage — those come cheap once you accept it’s happening. It’s the days before, when you’re still deciding. After that it’s physics. You’re already gone.
A crystal-clear lake in front of us, blue sky bearing down like a smile. Kids laughing as they jumped into cold water. Sailboats in the distance, green wilderness all around—a few colorful summer houses completing the scene. Someone next to me said something about how perfect life must be to live in a place like that. I just nodded. In that moment, Canada was the most beautiful country in the world. No question.
We’d driven up for a weekend in Toronto, moving between neighborhoods in a nice Mercedes sedan—the kind of car that just disappears once you’re behind the wheel. We passed through Chinatown, past the old theaters, along the lakefront where Toronto actually felt alive. That’s where the cultural weight was, right there on Lake Ontario’s shore.
Early on, someone who picked us up—a former cop who liked to talk—told us about the city. Which teams mattered, which companies ran things, where the supposed best strip club in the northern hemisphere was. All the small and large secrets hidden in Toronto. By the time we got to the hotel, I felt like I knew the place better than some people who actually lived there. I caught myself almost saying that out loud. Too presumptuous.
In my hotel room, I did what I’ve done for years: clothes off, MTV on, bathtub running. I stole something from the minibar and sank into the steaming water with a cold Red Bull, watching kids break both their legs on skateboards. Some version of Jackass was apparently still a trend here. A hip-hop-costumed DJ made fun of the kid wailing on the floor while some blonde in gold chains and neon Nikes laughed in that distinctive way that made it clear MTV was just as much a shadow of itself here as everywhere else.
I fell for Toronto because of the people’s kindness, partly, but mostly because of the moments we lucked into. The small boutiques on Queen Street West where you could actually talk to the person running the place. The barbecue at a wooden villa on an island you could only reach by motorboat. An artist market in the middle of the city with people from everywhere showing their work. These tiny, specific things that made the city feel real.
Kai and Teymur drove while I sat in the back with a touchscreen to myself, browsing the internet like I was home. The car was quiet enough that you couldn’t really hear it working. Everything was smooth, like the asphalt was the problem, not the machine. It was brutally hot outside, and the climate control kept up without struggling. For a moment I wondered if this was the future—just sitting in a car, online, while other people handled the actual driving.
My actual favorite thing from the weekend wasn’t the car or the driving. It was a weird drink called Clamato, served ice-cold in a can. Clam juice mixed with tomato juice, spiced up. It sounds strange. But it tastes better than it sounds, and it goes with everything Canadian food throws at you. I have no idea if there’s even a Canadian food shop in Berlin, but if you ever run into this stuff, drink it. Stock up. You’ll need it.
The weekend disappeared fast. But it left a mark—a deep one. Toronto is a small world you have to see once. American confidence mixed with European calm, shot through with its own easy inspiration. The best part was being there with people I liked more each time we traveled together. Street musicians in Pokémon costumes doing Gangnam Style in summer rain. The things you don’t forget.
And someday, maybe—at least in dreams you forget by morning—we’ll drive back to that lake. The sky will be smiling down the same way. Kids will be laughing in the cold water, that green paradise still waiting. Maybe we’ll stay longer that time. You don’t know what happens if you stay long enough.
I used to flip through Der Prinz back when it had personal ads in the back, and you’d see everything: couples advertising themselves, lonely women, men who needed to lick feet. You’d wonder what happens to someone to make them fixate on one specific thing.
I get Ronn and Behzod’s Tumblr now. Ladies in Flyknits is exactly what it sounds like. They call it a creative collaboration about things they love. I call it a fetish. But I mean that respectfully.
Women look better in Flyknits than in anything else. Not heels, not flip-flops, not whatever. There’s something about how the shoe wraps around the foot, the mesh, the engineering of it. That’s the kind of thing that takes over, that makes you want to collect photos of it, that becomes its own complete world.
I’ve always been the type to pretend I know exactly what I’m doing when I have no clue about it at all. Travel to a new city and I skip all the obvious tourist stuff. Rome, Toronto, wherever—I pass right by the monuments and crowded squares and go straight to whatever restaurant I’ve decided has the best som tam, completely sure and probably wrong. My friends ask for directions and that’s when they realize I don’t even know which way is north. Same thing with games. Load up something new and I click straight to inferno or hardcore or whatever the cruelest setting is. Quit in frustration twenty minutes later. But that’s what professionals do, right?
Except at actual work. When it comes to the one thing I actually get paid for—the closest I get to being a real professional—I do the complete opposite. I act like an amateur. You can see it in what I use to do the work.
I switched to Apple in the early 2000s and never quite sank into the whole thing. My friends in Berlin’s media world, the ones who turned hobbies into websites and somehow ended up at startups, they move through their apps like concert pianists. On MacBook Airs they navigate through menus I’ve never seen. When I mention I still use Mail they look at me like I’m damaged. “You don’t know about Sparrow?” they ask. “You’re supposed to be a professional.”
So before we went public with this newsletter, I went through the App Store like it was a shrine. Read The Verge, Mashable, Wired, downloaded everything. I was going to become a real pro. Spotify for music because they gave me free months. Skype and Twitter for talking. Airmail because it looks better even if it doesn’t work quite right. Feedly and Fluid for feeds—I’m one of the early Feedly Pro people because RSS is basically what I do. Coda for web work. Pages, Keynote, Numbers. Things to remember what I’m supposed to do. Doo for invoices. Evernote for actual thoughts. Pocket for articles I tell myself I’ll read. Chrome. And the full Creative Cloud suite: Bridge for organizing, Photoshop for editing, InDesign for keeping our media kit current, Premiere Pro because I keep talking about making a live-action CatDog 3D feature and some test animals didn’t survive the casting process.
Now it’s just this chain. Email comes in, Airmail handles it. Invoice arrives, Things reminds me. A photo looks flat, Photoshop’s already open. This mechanical handoff where each app passes the work to the next one and nothing really requires me to think. And maybe that’s the whole thing. I’m surrounded by expensive tools and subscriptions, and they let me keep pretending I’m a professional. In restaurants I’ve never been to, in games set to brutal difficulty, in the actual work. Whether I actually know anything or I’m just hiding behind a wall of applications that do my thinking for me—well, that’s not something I spend time wondering about.
Sandor Clegane in a Simpsons t-shirt, Daenerys trailing ferrets like a 90s It Girl, Bronn in a three-stripe Adidas tracksuit. Mike Wrobel, the French artist who blogs under the name Moshi-Kun, took Game of Thrones and dropped it straight into the decade of dial-up and slap bracelets.
By the time that wedding went nuclear on television, the whole thing had already consumed everything. People who didn’t own a TV suddenly cared about Westeros. The books were everywhere. You couldn’t wait four years for the next season, so you read five hundred pages of George R.R. Martin in the original English if you could, then started again just to make sure it stuck.
Wrobel makes a lot of illustrations—Soprano, Vader, Gollum, the usual suspects from film and television. But the Game of Thrones series caught something different. Taking these bloodthirsty medieval characters and rendering them as children of the 90s works because the aesthetics are so violently opposed. A warrior burned half to death doesn’t wear a vintage Simpsons shirt. A dragon queen doesn’t trail ferrets. You look at it and for a second you’re laughing at the pure wrongness of it, but then something else happens. It just sits with you.
There’s something generous in the whole thing. He’s not saying Game of Thrones is silly, or that the 90s were great. He’s just holding them up next to each other and letting both things stay exactly what they are. Power and tragedy in Adidas windbreakers. That’s the joke and it’s also not a joke at all.
You spend enough time designing things and eventually the difference between precious and functional becomes obvious—precious suffocates you, functional just sits there doing its job and you forget you’re living inside it. A hat that’s cut right doesn’t feel like a hat anymore, it’s just your head. A white bike is just a bike. A case for your phone that doesn’t try to change the phone’s shape, doesn’t add personality to something that already is what it is.
I’ve been paying attention long enough to know what sticks around. A handmade screenprint of a koi, someone spending hours on something with no reason except that it’s beautiful and they couldn’t not make it. A book about making work when you have nothing—no money, no time, no institutional permission—the kind of thing that gets dog-eared because you keep returning to it. A magazine with someone’s face on the cover, cheap paper, you read it once and then it sits there being a magazine and that’s fine.
None of these things are rare or precious. There’s a shirt with breasts on it, crude and straightforward. A decision-making tool for people stuck in their own head, which I understand. A rosé mixed with lemonade, which isn’t an object but tastes like summer and sitting still and maybe those are the same thing. And a skateboard you can’t buy anymore, which is just how it goes—you find something perfect and then it’s out of production and you remember it as better than it probably was.
You accumulate these things not because you’re acquisitive but because they work. After twenty years of looking at how people live and making things, these are the ones that stick—not because they’re precious, but because they integrate so completely you stop noticing them. That’s when you know they’re working. They make the space around them feel less like a performance and more like somewhere someone actually lives.
I don’t understand fashion the way most people seem to. Collections pile up endlessly, color palettes get recycled, models cycle through. I watch the runway presentations and I see something that always looks the same: blank faces, expensive clothes nobody could actually afford, a strange choreography of beauty and emptiness. It’s a con. A machine that runs on itself.
Scarlett Johansson showed up in Carine Roitfeld’s new portfolio.
Roitfeld has spent decades running fashion magazines—French Vogue, then Harper’s Bazaar. For this latest series, she had Karl Lagerfeld photograph celebrities against a black backdrop. Dakota Fanning came. Grimes. Scarlett, the one everyone in Tokyo seems to have feelings about. The images are running in every version of the magazine—29 editions across 45 countries, starting in September.
It made me realize something basic: fashion only becomes interesting when there’s a famous face attached to it. A beautiful dress is just fabric until Scarlett Johansson wears it. Then suddenly it exists. The models themselves disappear. They’re just surfaces for the real commodity, which is recognition, the weight of a familiar face. Maybe that’s how it has to work. Maybe that’s the only way beauty gets seen. But there’s something sad about it—the clothes and the women equally radiant, equally beside the point.
“Young Blood” hit different. I was scrolling through something, not really paying attention, and it started playing, and there’s this moment where the synth opens up and the drums come in and you just feel — stupid as it sounds — like everything’s possible right now. Like you’re invincible in the way you can only be when you’re young and haven’t learned to manage your expectations yet.
There’s this plague in modern indie where everything’s so self-aware that it eats itself. Pale boys in dark rooms apologizing for melodies. Swedish guys stacking synths on ennui. German bands that sound like they’re afraid someone will call them earnest. The Naked and Famous broke that rule. Alisa Xayalith and Thom Powers actually believe in what they’re singing, and you can hear it. That kind of sincerity is out of fashion, which is probably why it feels like a relief when it shows up.
“Hearts Like Ours” is the album where they made that feeling stick around. It doesn’t do irony or pretend to be clever. It opens something in you. Makes you feel less permanently stuck. The things you’ve been postponing feel possible again. You know those albums that play at the moment right before your life shifts, that you forever associate with that time? This is that album. The band and the moment get tangled up in memory.
I don’t know where youth goes after you’re done being young. But it’s good that there’s music that remembers how it felt, that doesn’t apologize for trying to move you. That’s getting rarer.
I’ve spent years wondering what happens to passion projects you eventually outgrow. You can sell them. Delete them. Or just stop touching them. Then they’re still there, but also not. Like abandoned people. Or a dog left on the highway. Goodbye, buddy.
For 2,300 days—or maybe more, I never actually counted—my personal obsession was called AMY&PINK. I fed it. Alone, with friends. Eventually it consumed me, dragged me across the world, and I stuffed it with everything I had. More in, more out, I thought. And I was right.
It didn’t take long before AMY&PINK became my job. If you can call sitting in front of a computer all day writing, digging up videos, and copying images from artists a job—hoping they’d be happy about it instead of suing. And that’s where the problem started. It grew. And grew. And grew. We’d built up this reputation for provocation and nudity that gave us a free pass to do things that barely qualified as defensible, but that same image kept us from doing anything real. We couldn’t push the things that mattered. Every time we fought ACTA or mocked the GEMA or defended privacy, we were on the frontlines, but our reputation as the hipster tabloid, the second-rate BRAVO, always pulled us back. “Privacy rights, sure, but where are the tits?” I could fight that at first. But as I got older, I just got tired. I felt us spinning in circles. My perfectly structured day was making me fat, gray, and stupid.
The last year was just about keeping the lights on while trying to figure out how to lift this thing above ground level. I was abusing it. Without limits. And when we started competing with BuzzFeed and Reddit to see who could throw garbage at people fastest, something inside me died. How many posts can you write about cats or squirrels kicking men in the nuts before you want to walk into a school with a gun. The answer is four.
There I was. Twenty-nine years old. Fractured. The site made money. Advertisers kept paying. We could’ve gone on forever. If AMY&PINK hadn’t been the thing I’d poured myself into, the thing wrapped up so completely in my own life that it had become another name for who I was. It had to end. Now. Because even if it had gotten bigger, more successful, more important, my misery would’ve grown alongside it. But how. This wasn’t just about me—other people would pour themselves into whatever came next. I needed to be careful with how I killed it.
I’ve learned that quick decisions blow up in your face. Always. So I sat with it. I thought about what mattered, what direction made sense, what we actually believed in. It couldn’t be a 180-degree flip or scorched earth. It had to be a natural evolution. A logical, strong chapter.
The biggest problem was that I’d stopped being able to write. When you spend years not reading actual newspapers or magazines and instead absorb whatever garbage teenagers and failed dropouts are spitting out—apostrophes everywhere, commas in all the wrong places, pure tabloid thinking—your mind gets foggy. I was rotting.
So I went out and bought a stack of newspapers, magazines, books. I read on the balcony, in bed, on the toilet, on the floor, on the train, while eating, while drinking, in cafes, while walking, while fucking. I filled my moldy brain with interesting information, well-written sentences, actual structure. I learned real things. Useful things. I joined a gym. Started working in a new office. Ate less meat just because I preferred fish and fried tofu anyway. Small changes that added up to feeling less dead inside.
The new project needed to capture that mental freedom and intellectual challenge. It needed to be about depth instead of mass, real opinion instead of cheap provocation. It couldn’t abandon beauty or pleasure—just refuse to let those be the only reason to publish. It needed to be the voice of a generation tired of being treated like idiots, that wanted substance alongside style. Less shit. More meaning.
So after TOKYOPUNK and AMY&PINK comes NEUE ELITE. A magazine for young people creating themselves through the internet. A culture magazine for anyone who’d rather think than scroll, an opinion magazine for anyone wanting to change things and refuse to be mediocre. No more cheap provocation. Yes, but smarter provocation. No more shallow personal details. Yes, but personal details that mean something. No more nudity for shock value. Yes, but nudity that matters.
I just want to be proud of this thing. We all do. I want to say “I’m Marcel from NEUE ELITE” and have it mean something. I want to be the king of words, the defender of the genuine. And maybe someone will give me a cookie. This date marks when we reclaim the internet and make it better. When we say no to more listicles. When we choose freedom over money, meaning over security. Usually that’s when everything falls apart, but this feels different. It feels right. Logical. AMY&PINK is now NEUE ELITE. And we’ve got a lot to do.
We showed up at Kottbusser Tor in the worst heat of the afternoon. 90 degrees, maybe worse. This was the NSA protest, the surveillance thing, Snowden, all of it. Two thousand people had gathered at Heinrichplatz in Kreuzberg to say something about it, and we figured we should be there too.
The street was already a mess. Sweating faces everywhere, a few people wearing V for Vendetta masks that were already soaked through. An open truck was blocking traffic, covered in signs, some old ravers grinning like it was 1999, handing out free protest merchandise. Cops were shouting directions. The whole thing looked like a time machine had crashed.
A young guy with long hair, dark sunglasses, and an Edward Snowden T-shirt grabbed the mic. He started welcoming the crowd, saying things I’d already heard on the news. I wasn’t really paying attention—I was focused on the mechanics of sweating without looking pathetic, which is harder than it sounds. “That’s Stefan Aumueller,” someone said behind me. The crowd clapped. I thought we were about to march somewhere important, that maybe we’d actually accomplish something. I had no idea what was coming.
A fat Pirate in a cowboy hat took the microphone next. Then a tall guy. Then an American woman—probably a civil rights activist, probably well-meaning—who spent a good fifteen minutes talking about the long history of her country, the Cold War, making sure everyone knew that not all Americans are idiots. The crowd groaned. A kid started crying. I glared at the parents. What were they thinking, bringing a child to this in this heat? They looked back confused. Apparently data protection was worth risking heat stroke for.
Edward Snowden T-shirt guy came back. “We’re going to listen to a ten-minute audio piece,” he said, “and then we’ll march.” The crowd booed. “Let’s go now,” someone yelled. Quick huddle with the old ravers. Yeah, okay, we’re going now. Everyone cheered. A man waved a Die Linke flag. A woman held up some books—probably relevant, but I wasn’t checking.
I was already done with the whole thing. It was clear that most people here had confused ideas about what we were actually doing. We were supposed to show the German government and the world that we didn’t want the NSA spying on us. That was it. But instead we were getting party advertisements and history lectures and who knows what else. My head was throbbing.
The truck started making dull electronic sounds and ran over about a third of the crowd when it turned around. Then we started moving. I took a few photos, but my companion and I drifted toward the back. “You actually want to march with these people?” they asked. I shook my head. While dutiful parents and sweating Pirates and the American woman made their way into central Berlin, we pushed our overheated bodies toward the nearest U-Bahn. The rest of the afternoon was cold drinks on a balcony. Someone had to celebrate the 60th anniversary of the end of the Korean War. Nobody else was going to.
Friday night at Ferropolis and it’s chaos. Three Dutch guys in sailor drag sprint toward the main stage. A couple’s tangled somewhere laughing, shouting about freedom and techno and fucking. A topless girl with just pasties is crying in the middle of the path. Staff pull her away. Fire shoots across the sky. Bass hits. This is the Melt running—dancing till sunrise if you make it that long.
By the time I’m setting up the tent in the press camp the heat is trying to kill me. Turns out it matters to stay away from the toilets and open pisser setup, except it doesn’t matter because they’re everywhere. The ammonia smell becomes part of you. What choice do you have.
25,000 people made the trip to Gräfenhainichen that weekend to a former mining site. Woodkid and Disclosure delivered. Azealia Banks tore into it. But it’s not really why people come. A blogger named Nike I met there later admitted she was feeling old and burnt out—couldn’t dance three days straight anymore. A girl from a bread company was handing out cookies for kisses with a bodyguard-friend enforcing the no-tongue rule. Julia was chasing musicians with a dying phone battery. Someone doing social media coverage had notes: standouts were Woodkid, Azealia, Disclosure. The Knife and Modeselektor looked like they were having shit days. Mount Kimbie was fine. James Blake was a snore. Babyshambles and Kettcar were just old rockers drowning in electronic color and kids on pills.
The honest fact is people don’t come for the music. Some survey data made the rounds—45 percent said the lineup mattered. The rest came for drugs, sex, booze. A quarter said they slept with strangers. Thirteen percent got into fights. Nearly half said they did something they’d never do at home. A guy named Georg working in software said something true: high and commerce don’t work together, but that’s fine. The second you decide you’re above it all, you just end up annoyed at people instead of enjoying anything. So stop worrying about the glitter and the stupid costumes. Just have fun. Fair enough.
I didn’t last past 4 a.m. either night. Too exhausted. Too old for it maybe, though that doesn’t change anything. You’re just tired. Your body hurts. You want your own bed. Without pills you’re at a disadvantage—that was the deal we made with ourselves both nights, stumbling back to camp feeling less alive than numb. By Sunday noon we were gone. Two hours back to Berlin in a packed car. Vietnamese food. Sleep in a real bed. The weekend didn’t stay with me. Not much did.
The Melt is borrowed autonomy. You pay and you get to be loose and weird and chemically free around people worth looking at while noise keeps your body moving. You can throw yourself into it. But every year the novelty shrinks. The formula doesn’t change. You’re getting older. Whether I’d go again—sure, maybe. It’s good for remembering you’re alive. But there’s a limit. At some point you have to wonder what’s outside it.
What keeps it going is the people. The three Dutch sailors. The couple laughing themselves stupid. The girl in pasties crying in the road. Take them away and Ferropolis is just metal. Them’s the thing that works. Friday night I’m walking through it again and fire’s up and bass is moving through everything and it’s happening. For a little while longer. Dancing till sunrise if you can hold it. If you care enough to try.
I spent a good chunk of time talking to MC Fitti, the Berlin rapper who’s figured out how to conduct an entire conversation without saying anything real. He showed up with the grin of the Cheshire Cat, sunglasses and baseball cap fixed in place, ready to deflect every earnest question into something else.
I asked him about his song “Penn’ in der Bahn”—was DMX an inspiration? He stares at me. “Isn’t that a Philips soundsystem?” Of course he’d know a soundsystem before he’d know a rapper. That’s the kind of guy he is. Another time I asked about the video he’d shot for that song—three countries, Dubai to Bangkok to Nairobi, thousands of euros, a real film crew. When I asked where the locals were coolest, expecting some story about cross-cultural moments, he just said everywhere was cool and thanked everyone. No texture, no detail, just gratitude and a smile.
When I asked what he’d write in his diary from the last three days, instead of anything introspective, I got a list: girls at the video shoot, a merchandise box that arrived, interviews. He collects moments like postcards and hands them back unexamined. The specificity shifts enough that you’re never sure what’s genuine and what’s the next joke. He won’t give you the sincere answer because the sincere answer isn’t part of the game.
Ask him about his influence or his taste, and he’ll compare himself to Alexander Marcus and decide Marcus has more style. Ask him something vulnerable—who’s a real lady, what do you believe in—and he pivots to a neighbor with a good car, or his favorite flower (cornflower, very decorative), or that one time he fell asleep on a train. Everything gets defused into nothing.
There’s a moment where it all becomes clear. Someone asks if he’s embarrassed watching other artists, if he never wants to become a certain type of person. “Some of them I’m ashamed about,” he says. “But I don’t name names. Doesn’t matter anyway.” You get nothing. No beef, no substance, just the refusal to engage. Then someone gets to the inevitable celebrity question: we all lie more as we become more famous, right? What’s your lie? He smiles. “When people ask how long I’ve had the beard, I always say something different. But maybe I’m lying about that too.” That’s the whole interview right there. He’s built his thing on refusal. Surface. Deflection. The persona is the complete answer and you’re never getting past it.
The final question, inevitably stupid: tips for staying fit and sexy? “Be fit and sexy,” he says. “Beauty comes from outside.”
That’s MC Fitti right there—understanding perfectly that surfaces are enough, that you don’t owe anyone the real thing, that good sunglasses and consistent deflection can be a whole personality. Hard to argue with it.
The weather actually worked out, so three people left the city to go swimming. Just clothes that move—sandals, dresses, nothing that stops you. The kind of day where you turn your brain off in the water and let everything else disappear for a few hours.
Agnes Linn made a mixtape for it. She gets music in a way that matters—house, indie rock, disco, whatever she’d been into. That’s the part that stays. Not the clothes or the lake or the sun, but the song playing when you went under.
You’re always surrounded by sounds you don’t quite hear—the hiss of subway doors closing, the ambient chaos of a park, some drunk laughing outside your apartment at three in the morning. Yellofier, this app by Boris Blank and Håkan Lidbo, is built on the idea of catching those moments and turning them into music. You sample whatever’s around you and it converts to elements you can actually use in production.
It’s a sampler and drum machine at heart. The interface is clean—designed so you’re not wading through menus while you work. Most creative software seems convinced that complexity proves depth. This one doesn’t bother with that.
What interests me is the basic premise: all your raw material is just happening around you constantly, and usually you’re not listening. The app doesn’t create anything—your actual environment does. It just makes it possible to do something with the listening. Whether you end up with anything you’d want to keep is beside the point. The point is getting comfortable with the idea that sound is everywhere and it’s material for you to use.
Karen O’s voice hits different when you’re not expecting it. Hearing Yeah Yeah Yeahs for the first time felt like permission to make noise that didn’t have to be beautiful or controlled—just raw and loud and yours. They came out of New York in the early 2000s when indie rock was still figuring out its language, and they said no to most of it. The guitar was angular, the songs were short and violent, and everything felt like it mattered in a way that made sense only to people who got it.
What felt sacrilegious about them wasn’t shock value. It was that they didn’t care if you thought they were good. Just that they existed and meant something. That kind of indifference to approval is rare. You either felt it or you didn’t.
I found his super-8 films in someone’s apartment once—grainy, explicitly sexual, casually violent, the kind of thing that made you feel complicit just watching. Richard Kern made work on the assumption that the point of art was to make people uncomfortable, and he had the technical skill to pull that off consistently. He composed shots and lit flesh with the cold eye of someone who understood exactly how far he could push. Most artists spend their careers apologizing for what they make. Kern seemed to think apologies were for people with nothing to say.
Walking into Tokyo International Anime Fair was stepping into visual chaos held together by genuine enthusiasm. Costumes everywhere — meticulous pieces that clearly took months, others basically spray paint and commitment. Dragon Ball merchandise still filling one whole corner because the people who grew up with it are still devoted. Younger fans crowding the Miku booths. Stalls packed three deep with figures, posters, every possible variation on the same characters.
A j-pop dj in one corner trying to keep the energy moving while people drifted past in their own orbits. Everyone was there because they wanted to be there, which was visible in every direction. Not nostalgia exactly, more like permission — the space where you’re allowed to care openly without hedge.
I was mostly watching the costumes. The range was the thing. From absolutely meticulous to someone who painted their face and committed to it anyway. No hierarchy between them. All coexisting without anyone policing the investment level. That kind of spectrum without gatekeeping is rarer than it should be.
Spaces like that matter in ways that don’t need explaining. Just noting it.
I notice fashion bloggers doing this thing where they’ll have an outfit that genuinely works, the light’s right, camera’s ready, and then they just look at the ground. Not the camera. The actual ground. Studying pavement like it’s going to reveal something important while the photographer waits.
First time I saw it I thought something was wrong. But it happens constantly. Same setup, same person, and they just look down. Like they agreed to be photographed but not to actually be in the photo.
I get that facing a camera can feel vulnerable. But you’ve already decided to do this. You’ve already put on the outfit, picked the location, hired the photographer. So what’s the strategic value of looking away? It doesn’t read as effortless or cool. It reads as uncomfortable. Like you don’t actually believe in what you’re wearing.
The ones who’ve figured it out just look at the lens. Some smile. Some are stone-faced. But they’re there, and the photo feels like it’s of someone rather than just clothes that happen to be on a body.
This will probably die out the way these things do. But right now it’s everywhere—excellent outfit, person looking at dirt. It’s such an easy fix that watching it persist is almost funny.
Sigur Rós has always been the band you play when you need to feel something without anyone asking what it is. Jónsi’s voice—that falsetto folded into Icelandic and English and pure sound—turns emotion into texture, something you can almost touch. I’ve never looked up what most of their songs mean and I never will. The specificity doesn’t matter. What matters is the shape of the feeling, the way it sits in your chest and refuses to move.
There’s this photographer in Berlin, Zoe, who started documenting a man named Ali’s daily outfits. They met last summer—she asked to photograph him, kept running into him around the city, and eventually started a tumblr called What Ali Wore. Simple concept. Just Ali and what he’s wearing on a given day.
Ali is Turkish, been in Berlin for forty-four years, has eighteen kids from five different marriages. He’s not a stylist or a designer or anyone who asked to be documented. He just dresses himself every morning and Zoe photographs it.
What’s strange is how consistently good he looks. Not in a showy way. One day he’s in camouflage and it works. Another day it’s a casual denim situation. Then a tailored suit. Then a leather jacket. The range shouldn’t add up but it does—there’s a confidence there that carries everything. He knows what fits him, what moves right, what feels true to wear. The kind of thing you can’t teach.
I’ve been looking at this project for a while now and I keep coming back to it because there’s something honest about it. No styling notes, no commentary, no performance. Just a person wearing clothes he believes in. In a time when the entire internet is performing taste and expertise and collected aesthetic, there’s something almost radical about documenting someone who simply gets dressed and doesn’t care if you’re watching.
Amina Tyler was nineteen and living in Tunisia when she decided to post two topless photos to a Femen Facebook page. One said “Fuck Your Morals” written across her body. The other was just her with a cigarette. Simple statement. She wanted to be part of something that mattered.
The response was immediate and apocalyptic. A Salafi preacher named Almi Adel, who ran the national morality police, announced she deserved to be stoned to death. Not as a metaphor. As an actual outcome. He called the photos an epidemic, a catastrophe—the threat that other women might see her and start thinking they had rights to their own bodies. Which, apparently, required her to be murdered by men who got off on the idea.
Her parents panicked and locked her in a psychiatric hospital. The state added criminal charges—prison time on top of the extrajudicial killing that was being openly discussed. The logic was airtight: one woman claiming her body couldn’t exist, or it would spread. Female autonomy was contagious.
I kept coming back to that word. Epidemic. They weren’t calling it immoral or offensive or provocative. They were calling it a disease.
Femen’s founder, Inna Shevchenko, talked about losing contact with Amina—they’d been discussing ideology, then her phone went dead, her account vanished. Her parents claimed she’d had a breakdown, that she was unstable and overly emotional. Nobody really knew what was happening inside the systems she’d landed in.
But by then the internet had already exploded. Thousands of women posted their own topless photos in solidarity. Hashtags trending. A petition with seventy thousand names. It felt like it might matter, like enough witness and noise could actually change something. I’m not sure it did.
What I couldn’t shake was the gap between what Amina did—a girl taking control of her own body—and what it triggered. The absolute panic. The willingness to kill to keep the world arranged a certain way. I’d known about honor killings and religious oppression in theory, but seeing it respond to one teenager taking a photograph made it concrete in a way I couldn’t unsee.
After that, she just disappeared. I never learned what happened—whether she escaped, whether she’s still alive, whether she got out or stayed trapped. The story just stops. You read about her and then you move on because there’s nothing else to do from where you are, nothing but keep her name as something that actually happened.
Finished Heart of the Swarm yesterday. Took a while, which is what happens when you have a life that occasionally requires attention, even though strategically speaking, I’d rather be melting faces off with insect acid full-time.
If you need an intro to StarCraft, I can’t help you. The original basically destroyed an entire generation of South Korean childhoods and turned some of them into celebrities. That’s the precedent.
The campaign is essentially a very long tutorial that teaches you everything before throwing you to multiplayer wolves—teenagers with unlimited free time who will dismantle you with surgical cruelty. I’ve learned to quit before it starts.
But here’s the thing: the entire game exists around Kerrigan. She’s the Zerg queen, hideously mutated, covered in chitin, and somehow she’s the only thing in the game that looks like she belongs. Everyone else is locked in massive armor suits, terrified, compensating. She just walks around in a rubber suit like it’s nothing, like her own skin is enough. That’s the entire appeal—not some bullshit about female representation, just the simple fact of a character who isn’t apologizing, who wants what she wants and doesn’t hide it.
I’ve noticed that in most games, the anxious ones are the ones in the armor. The ones who built the biggest machines, the heaviest guns, the most metal. It’s all fear. Kerrigan’s the opposite. She’s grotesque and she doesn’t care. That’s compelling in a way that has nothing to do with politics and everything to do with basic human attraction to confidence.
The campaign missions are actually great. Real moments, real momentum. Didn’t need to replay any of it because the first run landed. Sometimes that’s all a game needs to be.
Mass Effect’s universe is more interesting to me overall, but I’d grab this expansion regardless. Not for the metagame or anything strategic. Just for Kerrigan. For the specific texture of playing someone who’s completely unselfconscious about power, about desire, about just taking what she wants and moving on.
The Tutor Crowd is a British learning platform that apparently decided to just start correcting London’s graffiti. Not removing it — just marking it up. You spray something with bad spelling and these people circle it, leave notes, edit your vandalism like it’s a homework assignment. It’s what every frustrated English teacher has fantasized about and never had the guts to do.
Which means if you’re going to risk jail time spray-painting something, you better spell it right. That’s what gets me about this. The audacity of it. You’re committing a crime at night with your crew, you’re taking actual risk, and you can’t even spell the words correctly. It’s commitment without follow-through. You’ll break the law but not check your spelling.
There’s something perfectly cruel about it. The graffiti artist wakes up and finds his tag marked up. Not removed, not buffed, just corrected. Someone else’s hand on his work. Someone pointing out that he’s not just a vandal but an illiterate one. Getting arrested at least makes sense. Getting marked down in English while committing a felony is humiliation that cuts different.
I think about some English teacher finding this online and feeling that mix of rage and jealousy. Years of watching students tag desks wrong, spray-paint slogans with missing letters, wanting to fix it themselves. Now some website is doing exactly that. Living the dream. Making vandals look stupid for actually being stupid. That would drive you insane.
I wasted an afternoon on this Tumblr account because every single post is perfectly calibrated. It’s one of those blogs where someone pairs a Berlin stereotype with a reaction GIF, and the combination is so exact that you can’t look away. I was making these horrible wheezing sounds and everyone around me was genuinely concerned.
This Tumblr, called “When You Really Live In Berlin,” is basically a catalog of everyone who moved to the city and thought they were about to become a different person. Someone showed it to me, though I’m pretty sure it was everywhere on Facebook and Twitter at some point—one of those things that makes the rounds because it’s too specific not to. The format is stupid simple: a sentence about a very particular Berlin scenario, then a GIF that captures exactly how that moment feels.
Most of it is about transplants and the gap between who you think you’re going to be when you move there and who you actually turn out to be. There’s one about Americans who fucked up in their home country and are trying to leave Berlin with at least some dignity intact. Another about people who won’t stop talking about Bread & Butter like it fundamentally changed them. Your roommate announcing he’s done with raving, which will last until next weekend. The chasm between what tourists imagine Berghain will be and what they actually find. That feeling when you come home from Fusion completely destroyed. Your girlfriend starting a fashion blog. The incoherent things people say to each other at six in the morning in some basement bar when they’ve been awake for two days.
The reason it works is because Berlin is so fertile ground for this kind of thing. The city operates on a pretty thin myth—reinvention, freedom, being an artist or a raver or a photographer or whatever. People show up thinking they’re going to become someone, and the city has a way of making that fantasy very visible, very quickly. This blog just documents that without being cruel about it. It’s just observing what’s actually there.
I can still feel myself wanting to go back and read the whole thing again.
There’s something odd about seeing Beyoncé’s name plastered across H&M racks. The clothes are fine, minimal and clean. What stays with me is just the strangeness of it all — a superstar at the mall, treated like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is now.
I went to this event in Frankfurt last week. Chic Outlet Shopping and GQ put on some kind of fashion thing about accessories. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the crowd was interesting and the food was good, so I stuck around longer than planned.
The whole night was about falling head over heels for the details: shoes, bags, scarves, belts. Models came through in different looks - dresses, jeans, leather jackets - and every conversation kept coming back to what you wore them with. How a belt changes everything. How the shoes matter more than the pants.
Shermine Shahrivar was there saying accessories are a genuine passion, something she can’t live without. Hardy Krüger Jr. made the point that accessories define character - they’re the part of your outfit that’s actually you. He likes experimenting through those choices, seeing what works.
It reminded me of something I’ve noticed doing my own work. When you’re designing anything, you spend most of your time on the skeleton - structure, proportion, the bones of it. But what people remember is the texture, the finish, one small decision in a detail. The unnecessary thing that signals someone was thinking. That’s where the care shows.
What struck me about the whole night was how obvious it became. Accessories are where taste lives. Clothes are just the base. You can play it safe with the foundation and take every risk at the wrists and ankles, or combine things in some weird way. It’s the only part of an outfit that’s truly yours. Everything else is made somewhere else.
I left thinking about how much it matters - that willingness to spend time on small choices. Not luxury or labels, though there was plenty of that. But actually caring what you look like, which is harder than it sounds.
Curtis Kulig’s bottles feel exactly like something he would do. You know his aesthetic—those crude, cheerful declarations he spray-paints on walls, always LOVE ME in that blocky hand, repeated until you stop questioning it. He built his whole practice around insisting that affection is worth the risk.
He designed a limited series for Disaronno, fifty of them carrying his mark in glass and meant to be left in the world. They came with stickers. Objects to give away, not to sell.
What gets me about it is the simplicity. No campaign. No metrics. Just something crafted with care and faith that someone will find it and feel something. There’s no way to guarantee that. You just have to believe the making was sufficient.
I’ve left enough of my own work in cities to understand what that costs. When you put something in the world, the rest happens without you. You can’t control it. You can’t measure it. You just have to trust the gesture was good.
I had *NSYNC posters up in a way that felt essential at the time, and I’m still not over it entirely — those songs still land when they turn up. “Bye Bye Bye,” “Tearin’ Up My Heart.” Something about them was exactly right for that moment.
Justin Timberlake solo came next, and there’s nothing wrong with it objectively. The guy’s magnetic, technically skilled, the whole package. But the distance opened up somewhere between then and now. The earnestness of the boy-band version gave way to something more controlled, more beautiful, less human.
“Mirrors” is from The 20/20 Experience, and it’s the perfect example — introspective, lush, produced to the limit of what you can do. The video is mirrors and reflections, which is on the nose but works. It’s genuinely impressive. But there’s something cool and polished about it that I can’t quite reenter.
Sky Ferreira’s face isn’t beautiful in the conventional sense. Her features are strange and unconventional, weirdly precise in all the wrong ways. But she’s genuinely hot.
It’s the cool, piercing stare. It’s the style—that whatever-generation aesthetic that knows how to seem like it’s not trying.
The real work is in making it look effortless. She’s made it look inevitable.
Found myself on Public Shaming again last night — the site that just collects the worst tweets, organized by stupidity and hatred. It’s like scrolling through humanity’s worst impulses, catalogued and permanent. Racial slurs, misogyny, people defending assault, all with names attached, all available for anyone who wants to know that things are worse than they feel.
The thing that gets me isn’t even the hatred. It’s how unafraid they are. These people posting this stuff as if they’re right, as if they’re part of the majority, as if they won’t be forgotten. No embarrassment. No second thoughts. Just conviction in their contempt.
I’ve been reading the internet for twenty years and I recognize every argument. The exact same arguments in slightly different words. The same need to punish anyone outside the line. The same certainty. It doesn’t change. The platforms change, the audience changes, the people involved get older and sometimes die, but the stupidity is unchanging.
At some point you stop expecting better and you just accept what you’re seeing. You close the tab and try not to think about it.
There’s that kind of afternoon—nothing to do, no one around, and time hangs on you. Lukewarm cola, magazines falling apart in your lap, hands on yourself out of pure boredom.
Victor Demarchelier photographed Maryna like this for 25 Magazine, and what’s strange is how it works. No narrative, no angle, no performance. Just the actual weight of a few hours alone. Fashion photography usually sells you something, but this one just shows what doing nothing looks like, and that’s harder to pull off than it seems.
Facebook spread from college kids to everyone else. Twitter seemed important. MySpace vanished. I watched it all happen between blog posts, wondering what shape we were actually building here.
There’s something funny about how we thought we’d have a hand in it, that these spaces would be whatever we made them. Now it’s obvious—just real estate getting divided, attention getting mined, the same old story. At the time it felt inevitable, like we were watching history happen. Maybe we were.
Jürgen Domian posted something on Facebook about Pope Francis. Nothing incendiary—just speculation about whether this new pope might surprise us, might be worth giving a chance to. Generic optimistic hedging. But enough people reported it as blasphemy that Facebook’s algorithm deleted it. Post gone. Conversation ended.
Domian, understandably irritated at being censored by a machine, posted again—this time directly calling out Facebook. Who exactly gave them the right to decide what counts as acceptable speech? Twenty thousand people clicked like. Facebook apologized. And then nothing.
What caught my attention was watching people realize, slowly, that they didn’t actually own anything on these platforms. You could build years of content, connections, photographs—all of it—and some algorithmic combination of reports and moderation could vaporize it whenever. Post an image someone objected to, criticize the wrong thing, link to a competitor—deleted. Your choice didn’t matter.
The platforms had always been clear about this. Their space, their rules. But most people just accepted it because the alternative was irrelevance. Everyone was there. The algorithm fed you things. It felt like the natural order of the internet.
Except I’d lived long enough to remember when it wasn’t this way. When the internet actually meant building your own thing on your own terms, with your own rules. Somewhere in the last decade I’d let that slip—I was posting to Facebook and Twitter and Instagram not because I wanted to, but because they’d become mandatory distribution channels. The places where an audience existed. So I fed the machine.
Which meant accepting that these companies could delete my work whenever some policy shifted. That everything I posted existed at their pleasure, subject to their algorithms and whatever they decided violated their terms. I hated it and I used it anyway.
The option still exists to rent cheap server space, install an open-source CMS, own your own platform completely. No middleman. No algorithm. No one who can delete you on a whim. And I keep thinking about it every time a platform does something stupid—censors something fine, bans someone without cause, tweaks the algorithm in some absurd direction. It was always possible to just leave.
But the inertia is too strong now. Everyone’s on these platforms. The audience is there. The convenience is too ingrained. Domian’s apology came through. His post was restored. And nothing about how the internet actually works changed at all.
Kawori Inbe photographs girls she finds on the street and shoots them in trashed apartments, abandoned forest paths, inflatable kiddie pools. Deliberately unglamorous spaces. She’s been doing this for years. The pictures don’t have any conventional beauty to them—they’re just strange and magnetic in a way that bypasses all of that.
Her exhibitions have traveled to Japan, Spain, South Korea, the States. Real reach for someone working at this scale. Her website looks like it was built with a Game Boy, which is funny and also kind of fitting. Underneath that design failure is a painstaking archive she’s been building for years—pregnant women, musicians, people wearing Pikachu masks, East Asian women in every unglamorous state.
I respect that she doesn’t try to sell you on the romance of any of it. You stumble onto her site, lose hours in the archive, and somewhere in there you realize you’re looking at something real. Not polished, not designed to impress. Just work.
You step from a screaming arcade into temple silence and thirty seconds later you’ve moved from one extreme to the next—that’s Tokyo. The whole city’s built on collisions. Neon and wood, crowds and quiet, bass bleeding into shrine bells, everything hitting at once. It should be unbearable but there’s something true about the chaos. Not overstimulation in disguise but honest chaos, the kind that doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is.
Someone made a website that shows which of your Facebook friends signed up for Bang With Friends, an app that let you discreetly ask people you know if they wanted to have sex. Supposedly anonymous. Turns out it wasn’t.
Bang With Friends existed because meeting people for sex is hard. Genuinely hard, especially if you’re not spending every night at clubs or built like a model. The app promised to cut straight to it — browse your friends, flag the ones you’re into, and if they flagged you back, you could just go have sex. No pretense required.
Then Bang With Friends Exposed appeared, which just lists who signed up. So you can check your friends and see exactly who’s actually out there trying to hook up. Your boss. Your girlfriend. Your mom. Whoever. The mystery’s gone.
I could tell you who I saw on there, but most of them probably don’t care. That’s the whole thing with hookup apps — everyone’s horny, everyone knows everyone’s horny, the only real secret is just not having to say it out loud. And if my name shows up on your friends list, I’m telling you right now it was research. Obviously.
The Berlin U-Bahn is falling apart at exactly the right moment in its life. Seventy-five years old, tired, creaking in tunnels under neighborhoods that have all decided to become expensive again. Tiles missing. Escalators giving up. Delays that feel personal.
I loved this city partly because of the decay — there was something honest about it. But now the decay is starting to feel like negligence. The U-Bahn announces renovations the way someone in midlife announces they’re finally getting in shape. Full of conviction, no follow-through.
Berlin’s got this problem where everything’s half-built or falling apart or both. The U-Bahn is the perfect symbol for it. You need it to move around. It needs serious money and serious time and nobody wants to give it either. So we all just ride it anyway, complaining about the smell, waiting for delays that feel like character development.
Sometimes I think the city itself is in a midlife crisis — too old to be young and scrappy, too young to have figured out what it actually wants to be. The U-Bahn’s just the obvious casualty. Everyone’s taking it because there’s no alternative, and everyone’s frustrated, and nothing changes fast enough. It’s the perfect representation of Berlin right now: essential, broken, probably fixable, definitely getting worse before it gets better.
My fourteen-year-old self would be so fucking proud right now. I just bought my first real gaming console in a Tokyo shop—a PlayStation Vita—and I’m not even sorry about it. People in the industry are probably having a stroke somewhere, screaming that this thing is dead, that it’s more dead than dead, that I’ve made a terrible mistake. Whatever.
I was looking at the Nintendo 3DS first. But the 3D effect bugs me, the dual screens annoy me, and most of the games bore me out of my skull. Nintendo isn’t Nintendo anymore, and that’s the least of it—if I’d bought it here in Japan, it would be useless back in Germany because of regional locking. Fuck that.
Everyone keeps saying I have an iPhone, what do I need a handheld for anyway, all the good games are on iOS. Right. The screen is tiny, most of the iOS stuff is disposable casual garbage, and anything genuinely great comes along maybe once a year if you’re lucky.
So: the Vita. Why? The price just dropped, the thing sold out all over Shibuya, and I grabbed a discounted display model in black with WiFi only. But what got me was the PlayStation Network—all these old RPG classics at ridiculous prices. Final Fantasy, Breath of Fire, Vagrant Story, all the stuff that used to eat up months of my life. It’s all there, it’s all cheap, and I nearly cried in the store.
I grabbed Persona 4 Golden too, which seemed right since the two high school girls next to me were buying it as well. Emotionally damaged kids in Japan killing monsters and playing basketball. Exactly my speed. Yeah, Sony’s probably going to abandon this console before the next PlayStation comes out. I don’t care. I’m going to squeeze every last game out of this thing until it’s completely drained.
Sorry, Nintendo. I actually loved you once. But the Wii U? Really? No thanks. We’re done.
I sit down with cereal every morning and Google Reader is open before the milk even hits. That’s the routine. I’ve got around 1,200 feeds in there—blogs, YouTube channels, Tumblr, whatever—and I scroll through new stuff that published overnight. It’s how I find most of what ends up here. It’s how everyone who does this kind of work finds their material.
Tonight Google announced they’re killing it. July 1st, it’s gone.
Anyone who doesn’t curate content for a living probably doesn’t even know what RSS is or why this matters. But it’s been essential infrastructure for people like me. You subscribe to feeds from different sources, and anything new that gets published just aggregates into one place instead of you having to visit a hundred websites hoping you haven’t missed something. Google Reader ended up being the standard way everyone did this. It was simple, fast, reliable. You didn’t think about it—it just worked.
The announcement has the blogging world in a panic. Where does everything go? Feedly’s trying to set up some kind of migration deal. There’s NetVibes, NewsBlur, Bloglovin’. But they’re not Google Reader. They’re not the thing that everyone already uses.
Marco Arment wrote something smart about this. He said Google Reader’s dominance kind of suffocated the whole RSS market. Once Google made their version good enough, nobody else bothered trying to compete or innovate. They had closed off product development by just being the canonical solution. Now that it’s gone, maybe that opens things back up. Maybe something better emerges. But that’s not helpful right now.
I need to figure out where to move my subscriptions. Feedly might work. I could go back to manually visiting websites. I could just lean harder on Twitter and Facebook for news, though that feels worse than before. Or I could let some of it go—just keep the feeds I actually care about and delete the rest. That might not be a bad outcome.
Google Reader was invisible. You never thought about it. It was just there, and you trusted it to do its job. And now it’s gone, and suddenly you realize how much you relied on something you never even had to think about.
Iggy’s always struck me as someone less interested in spectacle than she gets credit for. There’s a patience in her approach to production, a commitment to a sound that doesn’t need you to understand it immediately. She makes work that rewards listening carefully, which probably explains why so many people got her wrong—they were waiting for something louder, something that proved harder how much effort she was putting in. But that’s not her style. There’s an economy to her delivery that you either hear or you don’t.
I can’t think about Pretty in Pink without thinking about what everyone wore—Andi’s thrifted, customized presentation, Duckie’s jacket like a philosophy he couldn’t articulate, even Blane’s clean-cut blandness as a pure class marker. The film’s not subtle about its themes, but the real work happens in the costume design. You understand these people entirely through what they chose to wear.
An old woman opens the door at Mr. Kanso in Tokyo and that’s when you realize there’s no menu, no pretense, nothing except a wall of tins and permission to pick whatever you want. They range from three euros to twenty, depending on what’s inside—tomato soup, pickled beans, bear meat, honeyed bees, things with no label we had to ask about three times and still didn’t understand.
We went in a group, the kind of group where everyone’s in a mood, and we started grabbing. Champignon soup, olives, chicken, mussels, ham, seal. My companion pointed at the beetles—three euros—and the woman asked if we were really sure. We said yes. She clearly didn’t believe us, but she handed them over anyway.
They tasted like sewage. I mention this because the woman had warned us, and we’d ignored the warning, and now we knew exactly what sewage tastes like. It’s a specific kind of terrible—not spoiled or rotten, just wrong in a way that takes up residence in your mouth and won’t leave.
I kept thinking about the sushi place around the corner, the kind where you get fish that actually makes sense for the money. We’d dropped a hundred euros on cans. But there’s a logic to eating something deliberately bad when you’re in the right frame of mind—it feels like freedom, or at least like proof that you can make stupid decisions and survive them. The beer was good. That helped.
The next day we drove out to a plum blossom festival somewhere beyond the city with a couple of Oxford students, which is a different story entirely. What I remember most is coming back to the beetles, how they tasted, how the woman had asked twice if we were sure. There’s something in that about not listening to warnings that feels too obvious to spell out.
After that I found some cats to pet, which seemed like the only reasonable thing to do with the rest of the afternoon.
The Knife never made it easy. Caroline and Olof Dreijer built something alien out of Sweden in the early 2000s—electronic but never glossy, provocative but never sensational, queer and gothic in ways that most electronic music wasn’t even trying to be. They had this way of making you uncomfortable that felt necessary, like they’d diagnosed something rotting in pop culture and decided to make it visible. The videos alone—all flesh and surgical precision, bodies moving like machinery—seemed designed to annoy the right people. They’ve mostly disappeared from public life now, which somehow feels right for a band that made their best work by refusing to perform in any conventional sense. They were ahead of everything and also absolutely of their moment, which is the hardest thing to pull off.
The only memory I have from three years at gymnasium before they kicked me out for having genuinely the worst grades of any student ever is sitting in Latin class absolutely desperate to get home and play SimCity on the Super Nintendo. Which is still the best version of this game. Ever. No question.
So when the new one came out I bought it, despite hearing nonstop complaints about servers crashing, online requirements, and the price being insane. I wanted SimCity. If they’d screwed it up I would’ve lost my mind.
It hasn’t crashed on me once. Well, Windows decided to update itself without asking once, which it does constantly because I hate Microsoft with a purity I reserve for almost nothing else. Their entire philosophy is “doing something important? Too bad, rebooting now.” Contemptible.
The new game is a watered-down version of the old ones. No water lines or power infrastructure, everything just has to connect to roads or the game won’t build it. The map is way smaller than it used to be, so within an hour or two you run out of space—can’t fit the airport, the casino, your hideous mansion. It’s cramped.
Then you hit moments where you genuinely want to throw the computer out a window. You paint yourself into a corner with zero undo. You try to delete one street and lose an entire neighborhood. You run out of room to expand your hospital or fire station. Just pure frustration.
But it’s still probably the best city-building game out there. You tinker, you watch what happens. Plant a library, set up police, add solar panels. Your citizens protest outside city hall or move away because there are too many bodies. Some criminal becomes your best ally. The aquarium thing is actually cool.
It’s fun, but not seventy-dollars fun. Especially when they keep hitting you with in-game purchases that never stop. If you had fun playing the original or the earlier versions, you’ll have fun with this one. It’s SimCity. You build. You watch. You build some more.
Someone asked what lesbians think about dicks. It’s crude but fair. I’ve never understood the wanting when it points in a different direction. You can think about it, you can do the math, but you’re not feeling it the way you feel actual desire. There’s this gap between understanding something intellectually and being unable to imagine it from the inside, and nothing bridges it. Everyone’s wandering around wondering what everyone else actually wants, and we’re all just making guesses.
Everyone makes fun of how spoiled kids are these days with their PlayStations and phones. I was completely, unrepentantly spoiled — two Barbie dream houses, their ugly motorhome, stacks of GameBoy games, Lego I could disappear into. I treated my toys like private property.
Gabriele Galimberti, an Italian photographer, spent time around the world asking children to show him their possessions. Then he photographed them with whatever they owned — sometimes a lot, sometimes barely anything. It depends where you are. The series is called Toy Stories.
What gets you looking at these photos is how they render childhood both completely universal and totally arbitrary. There’s this girl with the exact same Minni Mouse I had. Seeing it in her collection somehow made it feel like it was never really mine, just something all of us were supposed to have. The real story isn’t about the objects though. It’s about what kids decide matters, what they’ll pose with, what they’ve claimed as theirs. That’s identity forming in real time.
I think about the ones with almost nothing and the ones buried in stuff. Galimberti doesn’t judge. He’s just showing you what childhood actually looks like when you look at it — the weight of small objects, the way we decide they define us. Maybe they do.
Pauline’s been in this universe longer than most people remember. The original arcade cabinets, perched on her platform, waiting to be rescued—that was the whole point of her for decades. But somewhere along the way, the games stopped treating her like a prize and started treating her like an actual person. She showed up in Donkey Kong Country with an attitude, in Mario games with a career, in the recent movie with a voice and something close to agency. There’s something oddly satisfying about watching a character stop being decorative and just exist. She’s not fighting for the spotlight anymore. She’s just there, doing her thing, which is maybe the most revolutionary thing a supporting character can do.
Earl’s always been good at making music that sits wrong with you on purpose. WHOA isn’t any different, except it is—the production is thinner, more direct. He’s not burying himself as deep in the mix. Some of the tracks almost sound bright, or at least as bright as Earl gets, which isn’t saying much. It’s still mostly about isolation and distance, but there’s less of that desperate quality to it now. He’s not fighting the feeling anymore, just describing it.
I kept waiting for something to happen while listening, for the album to build toward something or flip into a different gear. It never does, and I think that’s the point. He’s done with the drama. The work gets done in small moments—a shifted tone, a weird vocal effect, a beat that lands differently than you expected it to. The restraint is what makes it work.
There’s something to respect about an artist who’s been doing this long enough to know what not to do. Most people confuse that with being lazy. With Earl it’s the opposite. Every choice he’s made not to add something means he’s thought about it first.
Three minutes in and it hits you why this was a bad idea, so you close the tab and get back to League. That’s the Stoya I know—xHamster clips, very explicit, nothing hidden, and you never quite make it through to the end. That version of her.
But there’s not enough money in it anymore, especially not in Los Angeles. So she’s modeling for The Pop magazine now, which makes perfect sense. She’s got the body, the photographers—Sean & Seng—are solid. It works. Same fundamental transaction, different frame, better lighting. Less of that grim feeling about the whole thing.
The third Hangover was supposed to be the finale, and you could tell the filmmakers were trying hard to make it one. Trouble was they’d also decided the trilogy needed to get serious — the jokes got darker, the plot got messier, like they weren’t sure if this was still a comedy. I watched it feeling that specific awkwardness of a film that’s lost its way, trying to be something it was never made for. By the end I wasn’t moved or amused, just aware that something essential had shifted.
The weekend’s almost here and that’s the only reason nobody’s thrown themselves under the U-Bahn yet. Here’s what I think the weekend should be: find those t-shirts with crude slogans and slip them onto some kid before their parents notice. Read an article about happy facts and see if it actually makes you feel better. Grab your pet, drive it to another city, trade it for any random animal, come home and swear you’ve always owned a striped pony named Bello.
Have anal sex and genuinely enjoy it. Sneak poppers onto your mom’s shopping list. Tell every person you know a completely different wild secret—one thinks you’re pregnant, another finds out you’re gay, someone else gets the story about having two dicks or your dog raping you in your sleep or that you watch My Little Pony reruns or that you like pissing in little kids’ shoes. Watch who cracks first. Eat nothing but blue food all weekend. And somehow, this weekend also: convince a total stranger to send you nudes. Not the creepy forty-five-year-old perverts from chat rooms.
Scribble all over every plant you find with a black marker. Find the most disgusting guy on the train, give him your real phone number, lean in and whisper “See you later, stud.” Send me pictures of cheesecake.
Harajuku in August and everyone’s in layers and platforms despite the heat, sweating through Takeshita Street like weather doesn’t matter. The crowd’s packed so tight you’re barely moving anyway. You watch kids in thrifted cardigans and careful styling move through the mass without hesitation, like being seen a certain way matters more than breathing. In Harajuku it does. The outfit is the point. The sweat is collateral.
Frei.Wild—South Tyrolean rock band, sells tons of records to rural teenagers—got nominated for the Echo Award last year. Turns out they’re right-wing. Kraftklub and Mia withdrew. Echo kicked them out. Story over.
What happens next is jaw-droppingly stupid. A crew of Frei.Wild fans attacked Mia on Facebook, not at a protest or anything, just underneath a music mix she posted for a Kenzo collab. One: “You’re disgusting! Ignorant fascists with red paint on your hands! Pathetic bourgeois trash!” Another: “Actually it doesn’t matter if Frei.Wild is right-wing as long as you’re not as undemocratic as them.” Then: “You’re so shit, you pseudo-moralists, you have no clue but you just run your mouths! Are you scared of the competition???”
Frei.Wild’s whole thing is peace and anti-racism. Kids from small towns believe it. They really do. Then the moment anyone criticizes the band, these same kids explode online with aggression and name-calling. They’re not even smart enough to see what they’re doing. The music doesn’t just point them toward right-wing politics—it literally makes them dumber. Dumber and incapable of noticing that by acting this way, they’re admitting the other side was right about everything.
Since I was a little asshole, moving to Tokyo was the dream. The capital, the brightest and most dazzling city in the world. No question. Spending entire nights in some smoky manga café getting obliterated on beer and video games. Watching schoolgirls in uniform at secret rock clubs — thin ones, cute ones. Getting off on the neon signs and ramen shops and shopping centers.
Wait, remember when I wrote that hugely provocative thing called “Goodbye Berlin, Go Fuck Yourself,” where I basically screamed “Adios, bitches!” and got on a plane with all my stuff to spend the next year of my increasingly short life in Japan? Yeah? So here I am now. In Tokyo. And I’m thinking: “Hm. Yeah, okay.”
This dream had been so deep in me for so many years, through so many phases, that I probably never actually thought about what moving here would mean. Moving to Japan at almost 30. Whenever I heard “Tokyo,” I’d get so hard I could cut steel, drooling all over the AKB48 fan magazines I’d bought months earlier and still couldn’t read a word of. But honestly, what’s there to understand about singing girls in bikinis anyway.
The excitement dies the moment you’re sitting in your tiny apartment. I used to think: “Who cares how small it is, I’m never home anyway — out, out, partying in Shibuya, this is it, best life ever!” Now I’m thinking: “For this much money I could rent a three-bedroom in Kreuzberg and actually have furniture that doesn’t look like it came from a fire sale. God, this fridge is loud.”
I used to think: “I want to be a Japanese teenager, they all save the world with giant robots while doing homework and flirting with the cute red-haired girl week after week!” Now I’m thinking: “99 percent of people here have no idea what I’m saying. I wanted my soup hot, HOT, not lukewarm. HOTTO. ATSUI. Fuck, I’m going to starve to death here.”
I used to think: “I don’t care what anyone else is doing, I’m happy just sitting in the Starbucks in Harajuku breathing in that loud, intense fashion-music world. Breathing it in real deep.” Now I’m thinking: “Does nobody sit next to me because I’m foreign? Are they scared of me? Do I smell? I would genuinely trade a testicle right now for a proper almond-marzipan pastry from a real bakery.”
I’m 29 years old. And I feel exactly like I did when I first showed up in Berlin. Building an entire new friend group from scratch? Vegetating in a tiny hole? And why do apples cost five euros? Look, maybe I’m just too old for this shit. Maybe you’re supposed to do this at 18, not now. This doesn’t feel like incredible freedom — it feels like exile. And I’m missing everything that’s actually happening back home.
Since I was a little asshole, moving to Tokyo was the dream. The capital, the brightest and most dazzling city in the world. But I haven’t stopped to think in years whether that’s still my dream. Whether my priorities have shifted. Whether it makes sense to keep burning everything down and starting over every few years.
So I sit here and imagine all the things I could do with the money I’m throwing out the window. All the people I’ve grown attached to. Real apples, not whatever these overpriced imposters are. Tokyo is wild. No argument. But every hour I feel less convinced this is where I’m supposed to be.
Am I about to be the world’s biggest idiot? The guy who threw everything away, cried for two days, and went running back to his mother? Will they put my picture next to “irony” in the dictionary someday? First dissing Berlin like crazy, then crawling back on his hands and knees? Nope, not happening.
Maybe this is just homesickness talking right now. Maybe in a few months or years I’ll look back at these words and think “what the fuck was I writing about.” Maybe the city will eventually swallow me whole and the love I felt last summer will come roaring back.
Or maybe I’ll be on a plane back home in a few days. See the wasted money as tuition in figuring out what actually matters. Go down in history as the ungrateful Tokyo enthusiast who had his shot and blew it. Either way.
What I did learn: Think sometimes. Even about the things that feel like they’re hardwired into you, like they don’t need a second look. Don’t just charge headfirst into every option that shows up just because it’s there. Think about it. Actually use your brain. Tokyo: Yeah, probably. But maybe not for a whole year. Maybe.
I was supposed to write something epic about leaving Berlin. One of those sweeping, comprehensive, brutally insightful articles that would make every other piece ever written about the city look like garbage. A text that would destroy every song, every poem, every previous goodbye.
Instead I’m in a friend’s bed with the flu, trying to write this legendary farewell, and all I can think is: I’ll puke on the TV tower if I have to read one more grand, comprehensive, brilliant reflection on Berlin. Honestly, Berlin can fuck off.
Five years of emotional chaos—anyone who’s been reading this place regularly knows. Broken relationships, late-night acid trips, trauma that changes you. I squeezed every drop out of this city, and I’m grateful I was here with these people at this time. But something died.
I realized late that none of us ever found the real Berlin. Didn’t want to, either. We lived in a fantasy surrounded by hipster markets and fashion weeks and after-parties and transplants chasing something they read about. A world of MacBook people outside Saint Oberholz on Tuesday afternoons, coding the next startup. We were locusts with iPhones, pouring ourselves into projects that meant nothing and would vanish completely. Social media consumed our ideals.
Most of the people I started this adventure with have already left. Gone to other cities or found some version of real life in the Kreuzberg apartments and corner stores. I’m still here having seen through it all and feeling bored.
I had relationships and experiences that matter. I fucked redheaded Berliners and blonde music bloggers, learned the kebab stands by which ones made me sick, fought drunk Nazis at the station. Things that were supposed to mean something. But Berlin never grabbed me the way it grabbed others. The fascination wore off into something ordinary. It’s finished.
So I’m leaving. Walked out of my apartment laughing, didn’t look back. I’ll miss the people who kept themselves together. I’m happy knowing this goodbye isn’t forever, just necessary. Maybe someday with different eyes.
An email lands while I’m thinking about this. The airline confirming my flight in four days. To Tokyo. I’m sitting here free, smiling, because I didn’t write that epic, comprehensive, brilliant piece about Berlin. I just said goodbye.
Winter kills you. You’re stuck inside with friends, someone’s girlfriend, the neighbor’s dog, whatever. Gray, cold, nothing to do. You could pretend to care about small talk but you’re already half-dead.
Boot up Star Wars: Force Unleashed on Xbox and you’re Galen Marek for the next six hours. Vader’s apprentice, throwing people around with the Force, tearing apart walkers. The graphics fade eventually but the game doesn’t care. You’re deep enough that winter stops being real.
The giveaway bundled it with shower products, which was funny in a way nobody meant. Like the cure for winter gaming haze includes a shower. Maybe it did. But for those hours in the dark, that was the whole solution right there.
Found Karolina Szymczak in my feed yesterday, never heard of her before. Polish model — pieced that together from image tags and forums, because the internet doesn’t announce these things, just presents them. David Bellemere photographed her, Playboy ran it, and now she’s everywhere, which is the mechanism: the right photographer, the right magazine, and someone who didn’t exist in your world becomes real.
She showed up the way anyone shows up online now — algorithm, timing, being in some weird corner when things align. One day nobody knows her name, the next she’s a small obsession, one beautiful face among infinite beautiful faces, but new ones still hit different. There’s a brief window before she becomes white noise.
This used to keep me up, refreshing for new pictures like they might matter. They won’t. I know they won’t. But you do it anyway, because there’s something about being early, about cycling through someone before the novelty collapses into familiarity.
I’ll forget her in a week. That’s the cycle. But right now she’s the muse, the reason to keep scrolling.
Pretty in Pink came out in ’86. It works because of this constant visual tension — Molly’s thrifted, remade wardrobe against the gloss and certainty of the prep-school world. Her clothes aren’t trying to convince you of anything; they’re just honest. That pink prom dress, whatever the movie does with its ending, remains this perfect object — something made from nothing into something that’s unmistakably you. I think about it sometimes when I’m working on something and feeling like the materials aren’t good enough. They always are if you’re paying attention.
ZDFkultur was supposed to be the proof that they understood their own medium. A digital channel that had figured out how to make something for people who wouldn’t otherwise bother with public television. Not by chasing trends or dumbing down — just by giving young people who worked in media a space to make the kind of programs they’d want to watch. I saw the same faces across different shows, a core group of hosts who seemed like they actually cared, and because of that, I cared too. Building that took time.
Thomas Bellut shut it down this week. Budget cuts, he said. What he actually did was prove that public broadcasting’s commitment to people under thirty-five lasts exactly as long as money is easy.
Peer Schader laid out what happened: Bellut had already fired younger employees while keeping everyone with old contracts. So he destroyed the audience those people had built, while they watched from their untouchable perches. The one thing that might have justified their jobs to a new generation just got deleted.
The Facebook reaction was somewhere between mourning and resigned disgust. People asking why ZDF dumps millions into crime dramas nobody asked for. Why they’re paying for this. The questions I’d been asking too.
What comes next is the usual salvage operation. Shows get scattered to other channels, time slots, networks. The coherence that made it work dissolves. You can’t rebuild that when the thing is already dead.
Right now, public broadcasting is arguing why Germans should keep paying their fees. Relevance. Cultural value. Why they matter. They just destroyed their best argument for it. They proved that the second money gets tight, they’ll kill the one thing that actually works. Everyone watching learned the lesson: stability is just slow death with a different name. Might as well switch channels.
Rihanna and Kate Moss are separated by everything—decades, genres, continents, the shape of power itself—but they’re the same person twice. Kate came up in a world that wanted her to disappear into the image; Rihanna came up in a world that wanted to consume her and spit out the version it preferred. Both of them said no. Both understood early that image isn’t something that happens to you, it’s something you architect. Kate was the void that made you look harder. Rihanna is the force field that makes you look away and then look back. Different tools, same control. That’s the thing nobody really talks about—how much work it is to be that untouchable, how little of it shows.
The genius of the song is that it doesn’t pretend you don’t already know. Someone hasn’t said it yet, but you can feel it — the softness in how they treat you, the distance they’re keeping. Darwin Deez gets that moment where you’re both just waiting to acknowledge what’s obvious.
What gets me is how he plays it. The production is all jangly and bright, which should feel fake against lyrics about things that can’t happen, but it doesn’t. It’s not ironic. It’s just honest — the way you can feel awful about something and still keep moving, still put on the song and think about someone you know doesn’t want you.
There’s something true in that gap between the sound and the meaning. Life is mostly that gap, isn’t it. Carrying on with the knowledge that things won’t work, but not letting it flatten you into silence.
That point on Friday where your brain stops working and you start thinking about the most pointless ways to spend the next 48 hours. Here’s what I came up with back around 2013.
One: Get everyone you know to make a Harlem Shake video. Your whole office, your friend group, everyone. We all knew by video three hundred it was completely dead, but there was something about participating in something that stupid on purpose. Two: Buy Google Glass. Drop fifteen hundred dollars on glasses that made you look like a cyborg and that absolutely nobody wanted. Three: Spend Sunday mainlining Red Bulls and watching the Oscars ceremony, then power through every Best Picture nominee back-to-back until your brain completely short-circuits.
Four: Call your exes drunk at 4 AM and ask if they want to fuck. Keep dialing and statistically someone will say yes. Five: Start eating lasagna again. No reason. Just lasagna. Six: Get in some kind of stupid confrontation with a stranger and hope they teach you something useful. Seven: Get a meme tattooed on your body. Something from 9GAG that will look worse every year. Grumpy Cat. “That’s The Evilest Thing.” Something eternally idiotic.
Eight: Track down everyone who was naked in Bravo magazine back in the 90s and call them up to see what they’re doing now. Maybe invite them for coffee. Nine: Completely unlearn how to read. Then all the garbage coming at you from billboards, the weird letters, the pointless articles—none of it would touch you anymore. You’d be free again, like kindergarten when everything was just shapes and colors and nobody expected anything from you.
Ten never existed. By then I was already too tired to think of a tenth thing.
Sony announced the PlayStation 4 last night in New York and the internet lost its mind. New controller with a screen built in, a share button for streaming, graphics that make the current generation look quaint. The console itself? Nobody actually saw it. Just the controller, the promises, the usual corporate talk about innovation and the future.
At this point in gaming you’ve got maybe four real options. Spend serious money on a high-end PC and keep upgrading forever. Buy a Wii U and pretend that’s fine. Wait for Microsoft’s next move. Or start saving for whatever PlayStation is coming. The PS4 felt like the thing worth waiting for.
The controller is the thing that stuck with me. A touchpad built in, a button dedicated to sharing. That’s the real announcement underneath all the PR. Sony’s betting that what gamers actually want now is to broadcast what they’re playing—the headshots in Call of Duty, the endless grind in Diablo, the weird hacks you’re pulling off in Watch_Dogs. Not in a twitch-stream way, but just instant, built-in, frictionless. Send a clip to your friends before you even stop playing.
The rest of it was standard presentation stuff. Simplicity, seamless gaming experience, instant access, all developers on board, the death of the current generation, all of it. The real question nobody could answer was price. Speculation ran at around 400 euros, maybe more, maybe less. Basically anyone willing to wait a few months for a December launch.
What got to me wasn’t the specs or the promises. It was the sense that something was actually shifting in how gaming worked. Less about solo achievement, more about showing someone what you just did. The console itself felt almost secondary. It was the start of turning gaming into something more social by default, even when you’re alone in your room. Whether that’s good or not, I wasn’t sure then. Still not sure now. But it felt like it mattered.
I’ve been listening to Bat for Lashes long enough that it’s just part of the background of how I understand electronic music. Natalie Droog’s voice and those gothic synth arrangements—it’s hard to explain why they work, except that they do. Lilies is another piece of that world, and I return to it the way you return to places that feel like home even when they’re unsettling.
I ended up in the photographer pit at the Berlin premiere instead of wherever we were supposed to be. The passes didn’t work out, the crowd was insane, and honestly it was better this way. Photographers are the only people at these things you can actually talk to. Everyone else is either screaming or getting paid to stand somewhere specific.
Harmony Korine made Spring Breakers. He wrote Kids, so there’s a pedigree to consider. But this isn’t Kids. It’s Selena Gomez, Vanessa Hudgens, two other girls, and James Franco doing… well, it doesn’t matter. The plot is window dressing. Gomez and friends rob a diner, go to spring break, Franco plays a cartoonish gangster who enables them. Selena Gomez disappears halfway through the film because apparently her Disney handlers were freaking out about the swearing and nudity. The whole thing is so thin it’s almost not there.
What’s there instead is visuals. Endless visuals. Red sunsets, pools, beaches, bodies. Korine films everything like he’s obsessed, because he is obsessed. And the dialogue repeats itself — spring break, spring break, spring break — like an incantation. The transformation from high school girls to criminals happens so flatly you barely notice it. The film doesn’t pretend to care about narrative. It’s just scaffolding for images.
And the images work. That’s the weird part. I sit there knowing it’s empty, feeling it’s empty, but Korine has arranged everything so carefully that the emptiness becomes seductive. It pulls me in. A film with nothing to say, saying nothing, but with such style and confidence that I keep watching anyway. Each shot is framed like it matters even though nothing about the story matters. The visuals are enough.
I’d buy a massive TV just to watch this on mute. When the Skrillex dropped over a violent scene, I realized where I’d landed with this film — somewhere between knowing it’s hollow and being completely into it. That’s the whole thing. There’s no depth to excavate, no message to decode. Just the look of things, the feel of it, the sheer confidence in being completely without substance. And somehow that’s the only argument it needs.
Three sisters from LA making music that feels timeless without trying. There’s something about the way they layer voices and let songs breathe that pulls you in without announcing itself. I’ve stopped trying to figure out if they’re intentionally retro or just naturally drawn to songs that take their time and don’t need a gimmick to work.
In 2013, Hooters held a beauty pageant in Japan. It’s the kind of specific fact that lodges itself in memory without much reason — American franchise culture exported, meeting whatever local sensibilities and marketing dynamics were in play. I never saw the actual thing, but I remember it existing, which is maybe the whole point.
A meteor came down in Chelyabinsk and caught everyone unprepared. Hundreds of people got hurt, mostly from windows exploding inward when the blast wave hit. The scientists had their attention elsewhere that day—watching asteroid 2012 DA14, which passed within 28,000 kilometers of Earth. Close in cosmic terms, but it missed. The one nobody was tracking hit first.
The dashcam footage went up on YouTube and the usual prophets arrived in the comments. John Lennon quotes, apocalyptic visions, divine judgment. Someone wrote “In Soviet Russia, you hit Meteorite!” like Russia had finally found its cosmic purpose. End of the world stuff, which is always funnier when it almost is.
I’d spent most of that year living with Lars von Trier’s Melancholia. A film about a rogue planet the color of a swimming pool hurtling toward Earth while a naked Kirsten Dunst watches the inevitable arrive. Nothing to do about it. No last-minute solution, no heroic deflection. Just the clear, beautiful knowledge that everything ends and you can’t change that. It sits in you because it doesn’t lie about control. And then a rock fell out of the sky.
Russia’s deputy prime minister decided they weren’t going to accept this passively. Dmitrij Rogosin wanted technology developed to destroy dangerous asteroids in space—lasers, missiles, whatever works. Someone’s job would now be “blow up asteroid.” It’s absurd until you realize there’s no actual system in place.
The technology wouldn’t stop a planet named Melancholia, wouldn’t save the fathers in stables or the children in shelters that can’t shelter anything. But knowing someone somewhere was thinking about the possibility, making plans, shifted something small inside me. Not much. Just a bit. Enough to feel slightly safer, or at least less alone with it.
Tyler’s always been good at capturing a moment in time that doesn’t need to mean anything beyond itself. Domo 23 is just him in the booth, voice clear and a little distant, over production that lets the space breathe. No flex, no chorus, just a guy thinking out loud about whatever was on his mind that day. That’s become the thing I go back to his records for—not the production flex or the concept albums, but these smaller moments where he’s just in there, present. It’s the kind of song that disappears until you need to hear someone else’s thoughts moving at the speed of your own.
I’ve been listening to The Weeknd long enough now that watching him age into his late twenties feels like watching someone you know gradually become a different person. Not better or worse—just different. There’s a point where an artist stops being an urgent new voice and becomes something you live with, and you notice the shift not in critical essays but in how his songs hit you when you hear them by accident.
He built something huge out of distance and production, out of being technically alone in a room with machines while the world thought he was everywhere at once. There’s a specific melancholy to that—the kind that doesn’t announce itself as sad but wraps around you when you’re not paying attention. Twenty-eight is too young to have earned much wisdom, but old enough to know what you’ve sacrificed for the things you wanted. That gap between where he started and where he’s landed now—I don’t know if he feels it the way fans do from the outside, but it’s there in the records.
Snoop’s been everywhere so long you stop noticing it. King of rap, reggae, porn—call it what you want, and Snoop owns all of it without flinching. That shamelessness is part of it. The weed, the money, the women, the cars. Other people spend careers hiding that stuff or turning desire into a performance. Snoop just lives it.
VICE did the inevitable spread a while back, Terry Richardson shooting him for their music section. Just portraits, clean background, Snoop at different points in his life. Nothing fancy. The piece that ran with it traced his whole arc—early days through his reggae era, the Snoop Lion thing. People thought he was reinventing himself but he was just doing what interested him at that moment.
There’s a confidence in that. You can follow his trajectory from now back to the beginning and it all connects, not as narrative but as a man who did what he wanted and somehow it was always cool. Most people either get locked into one lane or they chase every trend. Snoop never looked panicked. The reggae thing didn’t feel desperate. He just moved on to whatever came next.
I think about that whenever I see him pop up somewhere. He’s not selling you a transformation, not performing authenticity. He’s just the same guy across decades, living the same way, and the world caught up or it didn’t. Twenty years in and he’s still a presence. Not a comeback story, not a legacy act—just continuously, effortlessly there. That’s a kind of power most people never get.
Curtis Kulig writes “LOVE ME” on walls. You’ve seen the photos—big letters on the side of a building somewhere you’ve never been, or maybe somewhere you have. Just those two words, over and over, in cities all over the world. It started as street art and became something larger, a movement, the kind of cultural thing that gets documented and discussed and eventually commercialized.
The work is direct in a way most art tries not to be. No metaphor hiding it, no irony putting distance between you and the feeling. Just someone asking out loud to be loved. There’s something about that directness that works—seeing vulnerability spelled out in letters big enough to read from across the street hits different than it should.
That’s what happens to things that feel true in public space—someone figures out how to monetize them. A brand does a campaign, limited editions, the whole apparatus. You can strip all that away though. The work is still what it was before anyone tried to sell it.
I think about the repetition of it—Kulig just writing the same thing again and again in different cities, different walls. Not elaborating, not explaining, just repeating the ask until someone listens. It’s either beautiful or completely desperate, maybe there’s no difference. Either way, it stays with you.
Lana Del Rey built her whole thing around a specific feeling—the luxury of sadness, wanting something that will never be yours, mourning it before it even leaves. You either get it or you don’t. For years I didn’t, then suddenly I did, and now there’s no going back. Her records don’t try to convince you of anything. They just exist in that space where everything is beautiful and broken at once. No irony. No performance. Just commitment to that feeling, which is why people who connect with her work come back to it obsessively. It’s not comfort exactly. It’s more like validation—proof that someone else sees the world this way too.
The warehouse at night: temporary workers from Poland, Spain, Latvia, packed seven to a room in prefab bungalows. Then the dawn bus to Amazon’s sorting facilities. Underpaid, monitored, guarded by contractors wearing Thor Steinar hoodies. Far-right stuff, worn openly, by people in charge of your packages. The documentary doesn’t make speeches about it—it just shows you: the light, the faces, the routine humiliation of people broken enough to accept it.
I finally watched it yesterday. Directors Diana Löbl and Peter Onneken actually rented rooms in the worker housing, filmed it in a way that lets the rhythm and the light do the talking instead of narrating the obvious. You see the dormitory ceiling. You see the face of a guy trying to keep his job. You understand, through texture, what living in that particular hell actually means.
And then the thought that ruins everything: Amazon knew this. H&M knew. Apple knew. Every tech company, every fast-fashion brand, every supply chain I’ve been part of as a consumer has someone at the bottom of it living worse than I can imagine. My sneakers have that baked in. The phone I’m typing on. The coffee. The cheap chicken. There’s probably blood somewhere in the genealogy of everything I own.
Which triggers the familiar cycle: you watch the doc, you feel clear-eyed and moral for about six hours, you think “I’ll just stop ordering from Amazon” like that’s a sustainable position, and then… you get tired, or you need something fast, or the price is too good, and the guilt evaporates and you’re back in the old patterns. I know myself well enough to know this is what’s going to happen. Some blogger cut all Amazon links from his site. Clean break. Genuinely admirable. I’m also pretty sure I know how my version ends: with good intentions and a shopping cart.
Ken Yokoyama is 43. His bandmates describe him as “the guy who shows up for work last, tells us all what to do, then leaves early. He also plays guitar sometimes.” He runs Pizza of Death, a Japanese hardcore label. That description covers the vibe.
When people think Japanese music, they picture cute girls in uniforms, hearts and dreams, kawaii overload — pink, sparkly, completely unthreatening. Ken’s label is the other thing. Bands like Garlic Boys, Comeback My Daughters, BBQ Chickens sound like they’re trying to blow the building apart. Real punk, real hardcore. You see women smoking cigarettes in corners or soaked in sweat jumping around like the music might hurt them.
Ken himself moves between running the label, playing music, and drawing comics — sometimes Beatles-style, sometimes American political commentary but weirder. His playing is probably the best thing Pizza of Death releases.
I like that a whole label exists to prove Japanese music doesn’t have to fit one narrow lane. It’s not some underground scene either, just real and uncompromising, distinctly Japanese in a way that has nothing to do with idol culture or otaku fantasies.
Ken Yokoyama plays better than probably anyone from this corner of music.
I remember when everyone wanted to move to Iceland. It was the digital frontier, where internet culture could flourish freely. That was before the government started closing strip clubs and now they’re pitching a plan to ban all pornography online.
The Icelandic interior minister Ögmundur Jónasson has been pushing this recently, and apparently he’s convinced every political party that digital pornography should be illegal. Full network-level blocking. Credit card companies cooperate. You buy porn, you can get arrested.
The reasoning is familiar: protect the children. Kids see this material and it breaks something in them—teaches them that violence and degradation are normal sex. Halla Gunnarsdóttir, the minister’s advisor, says it plainly: teenagers don’t know what’s right and wrong anymore because of porn. It makes moral sense if you don’t think about how the world actually works.
What’s genuinely funny is that if this passes, Iceland would be the first Western democracy to successfully implement this kind of ban. Suddenly every other politician floating the idea has a template. And I’m picturing external hard drives flying off shelves as Icelanders download everything before the cutoff.
The thing is, you can’t actually block the internet this way. The technology doesn’t work. Teenagers have VPNs. But what gets to me is the moral certainty—the real belief that prohibition works, that you can legislate desire, that the answer to something complicated is to make it illegal and let enforcement figure it out.
Iceland already closed every strip club and survived. So maybe they’ll do this too. And maybe it’ll work, or maybe it’ll just be an elaborate and expensive way to prove that you can’t engineer society through bandwidth restrictions. Either way, that dream of Iceland as a digital haven is dead.
That moment when you know someone’s leaving and you ask them to stay anyway, not because it’ll work but because what else are you going to do? Rihanna and Mikky Ekko getting smaller and smaller in the mix, voices layered and distant, the production all claustrophobic and underwater. You put it on thinking it’ll be background noise and somehow you’re stuck there again, in whatever that song is describing. It doesn’t fix anything. It never does. But you play it anyway.
The voting award at Berlin: six filmmakers you’ve never heard of, and you pick which one matters. Döndü Kilic, Jan Krüger, Claudia Lehmann, Myrna Makkaron, Meggie Schneider, Jan Soldat. I don’t know their work - just names and titles - but that’s the whole thing. You’re voting for people before they’re people. And one day one of them is the name everyone knows.
Brooke Candy came through a Terry Richardson photograph first—twenty-two years old with her father’s Hustler magazine background and borrowed money in her hands, the kind of lineage that made people read her sexuality as part of the package before she even opened her mouth. The photos were unpolished, deliberately raw, nothing softened for respectability.
What made an impression was her complete disinterest in fitting into anyone’s comfortable version of her. Most artists spend years learning to embrace the parts of themselves that make them interesting. She showed up already knowing. By the time these images were circulating, someone had already recognized what they were looking at.
Got maybe two real emails asking about the Tokyo move. I like to imagine 176, but two feels more honest.
The whole thing started because I was that Sailor Moon kid. The one who spent lunch money on anime magazines and somehow got convinced Japan was this mythical place at the end of the world—all impossible TV and weird machines and culture doing eight things at once. Unreachable. That’s what it felt like.
Then at some point I thought: actually, it’s not that unreachable. I work online. I have enough money. I’m not yet at the age where I’m too embarrassed to leave the house. Flights, paperwork, finding a place—none of it’s impossible. So why not.
Turned out that knowing people there made everything possible. I’d already been in touch with other bloggers, photographers, and artists online, and met them when I visited before. Real connections matter because the practical stuff is impossible without them. Japanese has three writing systems. I barely speak any. Bank accounts, subway cards, ordering from a chain restaurant—you need someone for that. Worth building relationships first.
I was German and between 18 and 30, which meant I could get a Working Holiday visa for a year. Just needed proof of money, travel insurance, and flights. Took about a week from application to approval.
I sold or got rid of most of my stuff before I went. The Terminal was the place I’d work sometimes—a coworking space and café wedged above a clothing store in Harajuku. Three euros an hour, ten a day, and I could just sit and work without anyone bothering me. Free coffee, tea, juice. Food if I wanted it. Exhibitions sometimes, the occasional talk. Clean, expensive-feeling place, everyone genuinely nice.
I ended up at Sakura House, the outfit that rents to foreigners and temporary residents. Hannah had done the same thing years earlier. My apartment was in Setagaya, apartment 203, a small one-room, and with a discount I was paying around 700 euros a month. More than Berlin. Everything costs more than Berlin.
Tokyo’s expensive if you’re eating at restaurants every night and paying for nice hotels. But eat lunch instead of dinner—way cheaper. Learn to cook a little. Use the transit smartly. Skip the places that charge you just for showing up. The convenience stores are absurdly cheap and open 24 hours. Fresh fruit is another story. That costs like an entire month’s rent. Not exaggerating.
Japanese: I barely spoke it. Had years of lessons, somehow learned exactly three sentences that all say the same thing about my blue umbrella having asthma. I grabbed a travel phrasebook before I left. The basics matter. English doesn’t work anywhere except the Apple Store.
The whole thing about Tokyo vending machines selling used women’s underwear—yeah, that exists. Wouldn’t waste money on it though. Probably smells weird. Better to talk to actual women. Better smell. Better everything.
I started posting updates every week once I got there—Tokyo Diary entries with photos and whatever was happening. Also started a separate blog, Friends in Tokyo, which was more like a real journal. Pictures from Akihabara, conversations with artists, weird music videos. The whole thing suddenly felt possible in a way it really hadn’t before.
I don’t know anyone who listens to James Blake during the day. It’s always late, alone, the kind of listening where you’re not really listening—just letting it happen in the room. Retrograde fits that perfectly. It’s about being stuck, about time going backward, about the person you keep becoming. I put it on once at 3am after too much wine and too much thinking, and it did what Blake does best—made the room feel emptier and fuller at the same time.
The Pirate Bay: Away From Keyboard is this quiet observation of what happens when smart people build something that threatens the wrong industry. The Swedish founders just wanted to make a file-sharing site, and somehow ended up in an actual legal war. Most of the film is them trying to live their lives while the case drags on — work, relationships, the weight of it all. There’s no dramatization, just the slow machinery of the legal system grinding down on kids who thought they were solving a technical problem. Very gradually, they understand that being right about the internet means nothing to a court. By the end, there’s resignation. That’s what the film is about: what it costs to build something that makes powerful people angry.
Selena Gomez in Spring Breakers was surprising mainly because she was in it at all. Harmony Korine’s film is neon and strange and it doesn’t apologize for what it’s doing. She’s just there, unguarded, not worried about her image. You don’t see that often from people in her position. The fact that it happened, even once, matters.
The thing about hipsterism is the vigilance—the exhaustion of performing not-trying, of calculating which signals read as honest. I’ve watched it evolve over twenty years: the indie posturing, the craft cocktails, the whole machinery of distinction dressed up as genuineness. What kills me is that the moment you’re aware of being authentic, you’ve already lost it.
I don’t have any feelings about Miranda Kerr—not one way or the other. She’s Australian, a Victoria’s Secret model, married to Orlando Bloom. When Terry Richardson shoots her for Purple Fashion, suddenly she’s in the conversation again. That’s how this works. Someone with a camera and pull decides to photograph you, and you matter.
Two Door Cinema Club makes indie rock that doesn’t let you settle. There’s a restlessness to it—the guitars are tight but urgent, and songs feel like they’re always driving somewhere. I’ve been wondering what comes next from them, whether they’ll push further or circle back to whatever first grabbed me. Either way, I’m waiting.
There’s something about the way Woodkid builds a world around his music — the visual art, the short films, the whole package — that makes the actual listening feel like stepping into someone’s head. I Love You is a good example. He makes art rock that doesn’t feel like it’s trying to prove anything to you. Just a guy with design taste and something to say, and he says it plainly. That’s rarer than it should be.
Astronauts are the one thing capitalism can’t quite ruin. You can slap any product on them — deodorant, cars, energy drinks — and they still somehow represent something real. Space travel is the last frontier we haven’t completely turned into content and engagement metrics.
What gets me is the simple math of it: you’re ordinary, you get selected, you go to space, you come back extraordinary. Not because anyone made you famous but because you actually did something most people never will. You have real stories, real photographs, real evidence that you’ve been somewhere else. That matters in a way that’s hard to articulate in an age where everything’s a performance.
Buzz Aldrin and the whole space program mythology built something that still has weight. Everything else capitalism sells us — money, status, influence — these things we’re supposed to want but nobody actually believes will make us happy. Space is different. Going to space might actually be worth something.
Those Oxford students with their signs about needing feminism. Direct gesture, forces you to pick a side. But the binary bothers me. Not because I’m skeptical of gender equality but because there’s no room anymore to think carefully about it without someone assuming you’re avoiding the issue.
The German debate everyone was wrapped up in for weeks split predictably. Women naming what they actually deal with — less pay, more danger, constant harassment. Men responding that they didn’t create the system and shouldn’t be personally blamed for it. Both sides had a point. Both sides angry. Neither really listening.
Here’s what I keep coming back to: the world genuinely is shaped by male interests and defaults, and that creates real disadvantages for women. Also true: you can’t fix that by heaping guilt on individuals. You need actual change — policy, hiring practices, legal stuff. Personal guilt helps no one.
But saying that makes you the guy in the middle. The signs probably needed to exist precisely because the middle stopped working. You broadcast your position or you’re invisible. I don’t know if that’s how change actually happens, but that’s how it happens now.
There’s a video of Obama singing the Pokémon theme, full commitment, no irony. Just him in a suit belting it out. What gets me is how human it makes the whole thing feel—not because he’s good, but because he’s actually unguarded for once, caught being dumb on camera. You don’t get to see that from people in his position. That’s what makes it work.
I bought a Wii and hated it. That was about four years ago. All the casual games and motion control gimmicks depressed me so much I actually cried about it—like, real tears—and then I quit gaming entirely. Steam’s the only reason I came back to it at all.
But I kept thinking about the big stuff. Final Fantasy, Dragon Quest, Persona—games that demand a hundred hours and destroy your sleep schedule. I loved those back when they existed on real hardware, but they don’t work on a phone screen. They never will. I’m not playing Chrono Trigger on an iPhone just so I can say I’m playing Chrono Trigger.
So I started wanting a PS3, but by the time I got serious about it, the machine was already half-dead. The rumors about a new console were everywhere. And you don’t buy a dying platform. So I waited, and now Sony’s announcing the PS4 on February 20th, 2013, and I’ll be watching.
If the hardware is actually interesting, if there are games that hit the way those old RPGs did, then maybe I’ll bite. Maybe I’ll get a real console back in my life. Maybe I’ll buy the 4K TV Sony’s hawking too. Maybe this whole thing starts again.
Or maybe I’ll just buy a yacht after. And a castle made of gold. And liquid eternal life. Seems about right.
I’ve spent an embarrassing fortune on concerts over the years. Festivals, basement gigs, my cousin’s school nativity play—whatever. I’ll pay money to stand in a crowded room for hours, soaked in my own sweat, listening to people I barely know play songs I’ve already heard, usually while someone spills beer on me. It’s a stupid tax on the feeling that something real is happening in front of you.
Matthias Willi found a better angle. This Swiss photographer worked his way backstage at major festivals and captured artists in that narrow window right after they stumbled offstage—drenched, fried, before the mythology could click back into place. That moment after the show, when the person behind the persona is just standing there, trying to remember how to breathe.
He photographed Iggy Pop, Matthew Bellamy, Josh Homme, Peaches, Cee-Lo Green, Farin Urlaub, Kid Rock, Juliette Lewis, Brian Molko, Robert Trujillo—I could keep going. All these artists in that raw, exposed second. And what gets you in those images is that you can’t fake what you’re seeing. The exhaustion. The relief. Sometimes the quiet disappointment. The person walking back there is a completely different person than the one who walked out.
It’s the moment nobody buys a ticket to see, and maybe that’s the whole point.
Ellie Goulding’s voice has always done this thing where it arrives quietly and then pulls the ground out from under you. There’s a precision to it, a control that makes the moments she lets go feel genuinely dangerous. That tension—between the held-back and the untethered—is probably what keeps me listening to her work. She’s been making music long enough to know exactly when to release the pressure, and when to hold it. That’s a kind of craft you can’t fake.
You’re broke, your head feels like weather, the one decent club banned you years ago and your favorite spot doesn’t exist anymore. So what do you do? Proteus. Ed Key and David Kanaga made this game where you land on a colorful island and walk through the forest. Full stop. That’s the entire thing.
The colors shift and blur. Tiny pixeled rabbits and bees and birds move around you. The sun’s shining. Music drifts in the air. After a few minutes it goes dark—glowworms gathering at the beach like they’re in the middle of some insect orgy, meteors raining down in waves, you hiking up a mountain to look at the moon, then suddenly it’s light again. Everything resets. You do it over.
It’s basically the “Catch the Dragon” episode of South Park—the masturbation one—except there’s no dragon. Or maybe there is and I just never found it. Hard to say. Costs ten euros on Steam. Also available for Mac if you need that.
The whole thing is weirdly hypnotic. You’re not playing in any real sense, not solving anything, just moving through these color shifts and listening to the music and letting it all happen. It works.
The wardrobe in Pretty in Pink was the whole argument. Andie’s not wearing these pieces—she’s constructing them. There’s a designer’s logic in every layer, the math of making nothing look like everything, the refusal to just buy the answer. That DIY sensibility, that proof that constraint isn’t a problem but a tool. Looking at it now, I see what the film was doing: showing someone who understands style in a way the girls with trust funds never will.
The pink dress gets the fanfare, but it’s built on everything before it. The thrifted pieces, the afterschool chemistry of fabric and scissors. That’s where the real intelligence lives. She’s not waiting for money or permission. Just taking what’s at hand and proving something about style that most people never learn.
There’s a woman in Tokyo, Takako Iwasa, who makes clothes for her cats Piru and Kotaro. She sells them in her shop to other people doing the same thing. The video about her is meditative — you watch her work on these little garments, the cats posed in them, and it feels oddly peaceful.
Then you realize what you’re actually watching. Not some distant future. This. You, alone, in front of a screen with fingerprints all over it, and the only living thing that acknowledges you is a cat that only cares because you fill its bowl and clean its box. And it looks at you all day like it understands exactly how you got here — not mad, just clear-eyed about what you are.
Disappearing is invisible now. You go from everywhere to nowhere so quietly nobody even notices the moment it changes. One month he’s in everything, next he’s forgotten, and the world just keeps moving. That’s the fade. That’s Gastón.
The Lonely Island got me with ’I’m on a Boat’ and ’Dick in a Box’ — SNL digital shorts that worked because the music was actually well-made underneath the stupidity. They’d get real musicians to play straight man to the joke, and it was this weird collision of competence and absurdity that shouldn’t have worked. YOLO came later, after they’d exhausted the novelty of the formula, and I think the moment had passed. They’re still there doing the thing, but the thing got smaller somehow.
I leave in just over a month. A year in Tokyo. That’s already been said. What’s been grinding on me is everything before—the visa bureaucracy, the forms, the documents, the photos, the embassy appointments. The Japanese government doesn’t make this easy. Every day it’s another window, another person looking at your paperwork with that particular expression of mild concern.
Then there’s the apartment situation. Everything I’ve accumulated sits in these rooms and I have to figure out where it goes. Sell it, give it away, dump it on my parents’ place? Some of it I barely remember owning. The DVDs, the Wii, years of small accumulations that add up to a life you don’t even realize you’re living.
And that’s just the physical stuff. Taxes, bank accounts, contract cancellations, finding a dentist while I’m here. I’ve got maybe thirty days to get functional enough at Japanese that I won’t be completely lost. That’s the real pressure underneath all of this.
I’m also splitting my travel project into its own thing—separate blog for the Tokyo dispatches, so I’m not drowning regular readers in constant Japan content. Which means media kits for tourism boards, pitching sponsorships, the whole machinery to fund it properly. It’s the kind of thing you don’t think about until you’re doing it and realizing how much work it actually is.
Mostly I’m writing this to explain why things are quiet here right now. Everything’s in suspension. In a month I’ll be on a plane heading east. After that, we’ll find out what happens.
Politics is basically reality TV if anyone actually had power. They don’t, not really. Just enough authority to make headlines before everyone moves on. Front pages, news cycles, Twitter. The standard loop.
Rainer Brüderle ran the FDP caucus in the German parliament, which was already kind of a joke. He became briefly notorious when journalist Laura Himmelreich published in Stern that he’d hit on her during an interview. Whether that’s actually what happened is anyone’s guess. Either way, something cracked open. Women started posting their stories everywhere. #Aufschrei. An outcry.
For days the posts kept coming: the same catalog of things that happen when you’re a woman in public. Hands grabbing asses, hands on breasts, men exposing themselves on trains. Things everybody knew about but nobody talked about, until suddenly they did.
Someone made a Tumblr called “Rainer Brüderle Looking at Girls,” riffing on those “Kim Jong-Il Looking at Things” memes. Except the women he supposedly looked at—Angela Merkel, older women, beauty queens—weren’t girls at all. The joke was just how off his taste apparently was.
What stayed with me was how the parody became part of the actual moment. The meme and the movement got tangled up together. The joke and the rage became one thing. Maybe that’s how change works now. Maybe it’s just performance. Hard to tell the difference anymore.
Stefan was this quiet kid who showed up in second grade from Belarus or somewhere, parents renamed him, he was just… polite. Soft-spoken. Had an accent that made us laugh. He laughed with us. We were friends in that thoughtless way kids are.
By secondary school something had shifted in him. He was tougher now, running with a different crowd. I was on the academic track and he’d dropped off that path, but we’d cross paths sometimes at the park by the big concrete buildings. He’d be there with his friends, drinking something mixed in an old cola bottle that smelled wrong. Still had the accent, still looked like he was wearing someone else’s clothes.
I was twelve when Dana and I found them there one afternoon during the break. Stefan in his cheap black leather jacket, already into whatever they were drinking. The conversation turned the way it did when boys wanted to prove something to girls—sex questions, testing what you’d admit. Had I done it? Been with someone?
I said yes before thinking. Dana gave me this look like I’d just passed a test I didn’t know I was sitting for. Stefan grinned. Someone had a girl he could fuck, he said. Maybe I wanted to join.
I went with him behind the building. The girl was already there, looking as trapped as I felt. I was twelve and terrified. My body wouldn’t cooperate. There were people watching like this meant nothing, like I meant nothing. When it became clear nothing was going to happen, Stefan’s voice cut through: “What’s wrong with you?”
The mocking came quick. Maybe I was gay. Maybe I was broken. Maybe I just needed to grow up. The girl left, embarrassed for me. I got dressed while they laughed. That shame was mine to carry.
I spent that winter convinced I was fundamentally wrong. That my body had failed some test of masculinity I was supposed to pass without question. I didn’t tell anyone. Just swallowed it and made it internal—not something that was done to me, but something I’d failed at.
Stefan’s face comes back sometimes, usually at the worst moments. Years later I saw him once and he just nodded like nothing had happened. By then I’d learned to fake it, to make my body do what it was supposed to. But that first failure, that public humiliation, it stays. Even now, if something doesn’t work the way it should, I’m twelve again in that park, wondering what’s wrong with me, wondering if I ever actually had a choice at all.
King Krule makes music that doesn’t announce itself. The songs are all shadow and restraint, asking you to sit in the dark for a while before they reveal anything. There’s an intelligence to the production—the way he layers things so they’re complex without being showy. I keep coming back to his work because it doesn’t demand anything except attention. That’s rare.
Mariah Carey’s voice is technically impossible and she knows it, but she never sounds like she’s bragging. Just uses those five octaves like they’re obvious. The early albums especially—’Vision of Love,’ the entire 1995 run—are built on this architecture where everything serves the song and the range just enables it. She got less interesting after that but those records held up. Not many pop stars built on a gimmick age as gracefully.
Crystal Castles made music that sounded like something breaking. Alice Glass’s voice—thin, distant, a little destroyed—floated over these harsh, brittle synths that sounded like metal folding in slow motion. There was nothing warm about it. The aesthetic was deliberately bleak: the compression, the glitching, the way they built these pop songs out of the least pop-like sounds possible. You’d hear them on headphones late at night and it felt like the music was happening in a cold place, in a room with broken light, someone staring at nothing. That’s what the sad eyes were about—not melancholy exactly, but a kind of beautiful refusal. The refusal to make it easy, to make it pretty in any conventional way. They turned that refusal into their whole sound. That takes a certain kind of vision, a certain kind of stubborn commitment to not giving you what you expect.
Growing up, you hear the same warnings over and over. Drugs will kill you. Cigarettes will kill you. Sex will kill you. Cheeseburgers will kill you. Your phone will kill you if you answer it while driving. The messages come from everywhere — your parents, your teachers, television, magazines, the radio — and they’re all saying the same thing. Everything outside wants you dead.
Oleg Bagmutskiy made a series of Barbies for a magazine about this. Not about the warnings exactly, but about the threats they’re warning you about. Jesus, heat, knowledge — all the things that can kill you in modern life. Each one rendered in plastic, perfect and fatal. The series works because it’s not actually satirizing anything. It’s just documenting what we already know: that we live under a constant ambient threat assessment, and there’s nothing we can do about it.
The weird part is that understanding this changes nothing. You can’t live forever by avoiding everything. You smoke or you don’t. You eat garbage or you eat kale. You drive distracted or you drive carefully. And then something gets you anyway, or it doesn’t, and the specific cause ends up being almost beside the point. What Bagmutskiy captures is that the form is already set. We’re all just plastic dolls running toward the same ending, and the warnings are just narrative filler.
I swear this movie’s been in the works forever. Years of hype, years of waiting. Selena Gomez and Vanessa Hudgens in bikinis with a couple other girls, James Franco styled like an absolute lunatic, Harmony Korine behind the camera making the most excessive thing possible. Spring Breakers finally comes out and somehow over a thousand people have already rated it on IMDb. Is it out? Were there early screenings? Who knows. Doesn’t matter. I’m here for it either way.
I just want to see those Disney bitches go feral and reckless, which is clearly the whole point. If Miley Cyrus had signed on too, my entire childhood would be comprehensively fucked, and I’d be fine with that.
Winter weekends are dangerous. You get drunk somewhere alone, pass out in the cold, maybe don’t wake up. So we invented missions—little absurdities to justify the two days, to give some shape to the blank space.
I wasted years watching this show on Bavarian TV, Space Night, just planets spinning and synthesizer drones starting at midnight. I’d sit there at four in the morning unable to move, transfixed by literally nothing happening. It became my entire ritual—an excuse to stay awake and alone when I should have been sleeping. That’s the first mission right there: find the one dumb thing that will colonize your entire existence and commit to it fully.
The others follow naturally. You pick a face—shock that you’re still alive, permanent disgust, whatever armor works—and you wear it the whole weekend. You fuck someone you normally wouldn’t look at twice, tell yourself it’s good for their ego or your karma or that it doesn’t matter which. You eat peanut butter straight from the jar. You go into your roommate’s room while he’s out, clean it perfectly, and leave him an invoice on his desk. You buy a kids’ prank book and execute every single thing—flour in the salt shaker, water bucket balanced on the door, toothpaste under the door handle. They all work. They’re mean and they work.
You forget your alarm. You say shit at parties you shouldn’t say. You pass around information about friends that they’d paid money to keep private—their insecurities, their measurements, the fact that they’re texting at three in the morning from a bad place. Drunk girls with father issues will call. They’re looking for an excuse and you gave them specifics. It’s callous. It works.
The weekend isn’t about improvement or growth. It’s about permission. Once you give yourself that, everything else cascades—the small cruelties, the bad sex, the pranks, the hours burned on nothing. The missions aren’t a plan. They’re just what actually happens.
Bloc Party always felt like the smart kids’ band—all angular guitars and lyrics that hit different at night. I remember drives with A Weekend in the City playing, the way they built songs made everything feel sharper, more specific. There was this refusal to soften, to make it pretty, that felt like honesty even when I didn’t know what they were actually saying. Years later I realized they were always after the same thing: some kind of truth, though probably not the kind you can actually name.
Most days I’m too lazy to keep up with what everyone’s posting online, so I grab magazines from the newsstand instead. These are the ones that stuck.
Megan Fox gave Esquire an interview that Vice called their worst ever, shot by Sante D’Orazio. She was once the hottest thing alive—everyone’s moved on to Taylor Swift by now, different era entirely. But she still looks incredible. The interview apparently was a disaster, which somehow matters more than another perfect celebrity profile.
Bitch is a feminist pop culture magazine I found in New York and immediately kept a copy. This issue has cartoonist Gabrielle Bell, something on abuse in the gaming industry, American hipster culture. What’s good is they actually think about these topics instead of what German feminists do—screaming with a sledgehammer, destroying anything that even hints at sex or men.
Claudelle Deckert is everywhere if you watch German TV. Soaps, reality shows, crawling around in the jungle. Now she’s in Playboy with her tanned breasts. Whether you think they’re worth looking at is your call. I’ve seen better.
Fashion websites finally decided they need print magazines to be taken seriously, so High Snobiety is out with issue six. Larry Clark, Boys Noize, lots of photos and reportage. Fashion industry stuff mostly.
Forbes this month is depressing. All these people who became millionaires while you were still figuring out masturbation. David Karp, 26, invented Tumblr. Rachel Hoat loves the internet. Jennifer Fan does stocks. It’s a good way to feel completely useless.
Sarah Hyland did a Complex photoshoot and mentioned in the interview that she didn’t want to be a sex symbol, preferred musicians, never finished college. After playing Haley Dunphy for years, you’re figuring out who you actually are—not a character, just yourself.
Modern Family caught her young and there’s always that weird moment when someone you watched grow up on screen suddenly becomes a real person trying to live their own life. The photoshoot is just a marker of that transition.
HAIM feels like driving at night in winter, when everything’s still and the roads are empty. There’s something crystalline about the way the three sisters sing together, and their guitar work has this gentle precision that never tries to impress. Winter songs are dangerous—they’re sentimental by default—but HAIM avoids that trap by being honest. They make music that just sits with you in the cold without needing anything from you.
Vegas and LA had left me skeptical about whether America had any cities worth caring about. Manhattan and Brooklyn changed that immediately — the crash of high-rise glass against actual neighborhoods with history, people who moved like they belonged there, subways that actually worked. New York felt built rather than assembled.
I was surprised by how fast I fell for it. The relentless collision of wealth and grit, the way the city managed to feel both towering and claustrophobic at the same time, the sheer density of people who all seemed to know exactly where they were going. Four nights wasn’t enough.
I crashed in a hotel near Central Park for three of them, then in an apartment someone lent me near Times Square and Rockefeller Center. Ate the best pastrami I’ve had at Katz’s, though different places excel on different days. Wandered through a dozen Starbucks not for the coffee but for the space and the ambient energy. Stopped by the 9/11 Memorial and was struck by how matter-of-fact it had become — people using it as a transit hub, grief folded into routine. Ten years was apparently enough.
The subway figured itself out fast. What took longer was not reflexively wincing every time someone chirped “Awesome!” or “You’re welcome!” at me. The relentless friendliness was genuine, which somehow made it worse. I got lost the same way twice, running up and down the same street like an idiot trying to find a building number I’d written down wrong. Rain didn’t help. Being German didn’t help either.
One night in Brooklyn we wandered so completely off-course we ended up in what looked like a warehouse district pulled straight from a bad CSI episode. The kind of place where people get mugged and shot in television shows. Some exhausted taxi driver took pity on us and drove us out of there, which probably saved whatever version of this story would have been written about us.
If Tokyo wasn’t already locked in, I’d have seriously considered a year there. New York had that Berlin quality — the sense of a city that actually matters, that was built by choice rather than accident. But harder, bigger, less apologetic. Vegas and LA had let me down twice. New York didn’t.
t.A.T.u. was scandal first—two teenage girls in school uniforms kissing on MTV, the easiest way to make people nervous in 2002. But Lena was never just the image. Even when Julia was the pretty safe one, Lena had something harder to look at, a real voice underneath all the careful artifice they’d built around her. She could’ve stayed a pop puppet forever, reading scripts and showing up to performances, but somewhere around the third album she got tired of it, or angry. Then the solo work came, and the band dissolved in that messy way nobody really discussed after. She’s still around, still making things, and I think about her sometimes when I see young artists trying to be shocking in exactly the same way, not understanding that shock without something real underneath it just becomes sad.
Wildfox makes clothes that look like genuine thrifted finds—pulled from somewhere real, worn soft from actual decades—except they’re manufactured fresh. White label extends that thinking: if your pieces are strong enough, they don’t need a logo. You make something beautiful, hand it off unmarked, let another brand take the credit. There’s something I respect about that faith in the work itself, though I’m aware someone else owns the profit while you collect a paycheck and move on. Still, it’s an honest way to work if you actually care about the object rather than performing a brand.
Santigold’s always had this weird genre-bending thing going where nothing sits still long enough to get boring. She moves between reggae rhythms and electronic production and pop hooks without any of it feeling calculated, just like she’s following wherever the sound wants to go. There’s always been something brash and confident about her work, the kind of thing that gets in your head without asking permission.
If you’re somewhere normal right now instead of at Berlin Fashion Week, you actually won. I know this because I’ve spent the last five years being dragged to enough of these events to understand what’s really going on.
The truth nobody admits: nobody actually wants to be there. The designers are frustrated because the front rows are full of TV extras instead of real buyers. Those extras are frustrated because nobody’s photographing them. The models are frustrated because they can’t throw themselves naked onto the catering table. The agency staff are exhausted from overtime. The event managers are furious because every asshole with a press pass thinks he’s suddenly some legendary fashion authority.
The vendors are dead inside from standing and smiling. The journalists are annoyed because all they’re getting are interviews with fashion bloggers. The bloggers themselves are annoyed because it’s snowing. And I’m annoyed because I can’t be home in my underwear eating croquettes and broccoli in cream sauce while watching Adventure Time and Regular Show.
The pattern is straightforward: the less important you actually are, the more you perform importance, the better time you’ll have. Get one invitation to some forgettable runway show—doesn’t matter if you’re a tiny blogger—and something breaks. Suddenly you’re walking around in sunglasses and whatever you grabbed at H&M, completely convinced you’re Anna Wintour’s personal representative.
Then all those Facebook group tips come back to you. The ones about camping outside the white tent so maybe a street-style photographer notices you. The ones about stacking every goodie bag so you don’t miss a single deodorant sample. The ones about writing down every moment because your 52 followers are supposedly waiting on you for exclusive information.
From far enough away, Fashion Week is just an inflated machine spinning twice a year—a reason to justify the industry’s existence. If magazines and blogs didn’t write about these designers, nobody would care about them. Without readers, companies wouldn’t invest. Without investment, the publications would collapse. So everyone holds hands around the circle and keeps dancing.
Maybe you don’t get to choose whether you participate. But if nobody in Berlin’s fashion world cares about what you actually do, be grateful for it. The alternative is shuffling between freezing industrial courtyards in the snow, nursing cheap champagne at promotion parties, smiling at people you don’t want to smile at. You get to stay home in your underwear with your croquettes and broccoli, watching what you actually want. Everyone at Fashion Week right now would trade places with you. Guaranteed.
Ten years in this swamp and I’ve watched it metastasize. I came in through whatever was popular at the time and got dragged deeper with each new platform. I told myself it would get better. That people would figure out how to use this stuff for something real. But that was just denial.
Here’s what I can’t unsee: everyone thinks they matter. Everyone’s convinced that their breakfast, their traffic jam, their feelings about whoever’s on TV right now—that this is content. That the world is waiting to hear it. And the platforms have engineered it so the second you post, you get proof that you were right. Likes. Comments. Shares. A little hit of validation that says yes, you matter, keep going. It’s a perfect machine for making people dumber and more convinced of their own importance simultaneously.
The thing that actually made me want to scream was watching smart people get pulled in. People I respected, whose actual thoughts I wanted to hear—I watched them learn the game. Stop saying something interesting because it won’t perform. Start saying whatever gets engagement. Kill the thoughtful stuff because it’s slow. Lean into the hot takes, the outrage, the performance. And I realized it wasn’t weakness. It was contagious. Stay in that environment long enough and you start to optimize for it without even noticing.
The system is designed to destroy anyone who uses it. And the worst part is it works. We’re all becoming worse versions of ourselves, and the platforms are getting richer, and nobody seems to mind because at least we’re all doing it together.
I could just leave. Log off, delete the apps, opt out. But that’s not actually an option either—then you’re just outside of every conversation, every connection, every piece of information that actually matters. You become a ghost. So staying in is poison and leaving is isolation.
Some mornings I think the only sane move is to just stop fighting it. Accept that this is how people communicate now. Stop trying to maintain some standard and just post like everyone else. Become part of the swamp instead of standing at the edge of it, horrified. At least that way I wouldn’t have to watch anymore.
But I know where that ends. And the only thing worse than being in a swamp is knowing exactly what you’re swimming in and deciding to do it anyway.
You watch someone get hunted and slowly disappear into paranoia. Gottfrid Svartholm Warg created The Pirate Bay and actually changed how millions of people accessed culture, and then governments decided to make him the example. The doc follows what comes after—the moving between countries, the encryption, the isolation. There’s no redemption, no clever escape. Just someone who can’t actually hide from something this big. It stayed with me because it’s bleak in a way most internet documentaries aren’t. There’s no comfort in it. No victory, no solution. Just the slow realization that you can’t win this game.
There’s something about watching her that makes you understand why presence matters. She’s been doing this for twenty years and it feels like she’s still figuring something out with each album. That’s why people pay attention—not just because she’s talented, but because she seems to actually know something about desire and power that most of us are still learning.
Buzz Aldrin showed up at the American Museum of Natural History to open something called the AXE Apollo Space Academy. I still don’t quite believe that happened. This is what happens when a brand has infinite money and no shame: you get an actual astronaut, a room full of people with nothing in common, the promise of a real space program (or at least a very expensive facsimile), and surprisingly good snacks.
Kendrick Lamar performed and the crowd lost it—people who probably had no business knowing the words were suddenly rapping along without a hint of irony. There was something weirdly perfect about the whole thing, the way the spectacle of it all erased the fact that we were at a corporate event for deodorant.
It was the kind of night where you’re not sure if you’re being marketed to or if you’re just having fun. Maybe both. Probably both. I’ll remember it because of how weird it was, which probably means it worked.
Kate Upton became a cover girl the standard way, and like most cover girls she cycled through the usual magazines. But something about her made people care longer than they typically do. It wasn’t the obvious stuff—the look, the figure, whatever works for a magazine cover. It was how little she seemed to be trying. There was an actual disinterest in how she carried herself, no performance, no attempt to seduce you into thinking she mattered. Most women in that business seem desperate for you to pay attention. She’d already decided you probably wouldn’t, and seemed fine with that. That refusal to perform, that casual indifference—that’s what actually made her interesting.
Here’s what I think I figured out about twenty years ago and have been pretending not to know since: most of what guys do, they do trying to get laid, or married, or noticed by someone they want to get laid or married to. Everything else is just the architecture we build around that core fact.
You know the professions we’re supposed to want, the ones that supposedly make you attractive? Doctor, lawyer, firefighter, cop. They’ve got status. They’ve got uniforms. They’ve got the promise of financial security or heroic virtue or both. And I get it—those are good reasons to want to be those things. Except they’re not really the reasons. The reason is always the same. We think being a doctor will make someone want us. We think rescuing people from a fire will make someone want us. We think having a badge and a gun will make someone want us.
But somewhere in the haze of male fantasy, someone realized there’s one profession that beats all of them. Astronaut. These are guys who don’t just help people or look impressive in uniform. They literally leave the planet. They go to space. They’re not bound by anything down here anymore. And apparently, to the female imagination anyway, that’s the hottest thing a man can possibly be.
You see it in every movie that matters. In Armageddon, the astronaut gets the girl—gets Liv Tyler, no less. In Mass Effect, the astronaut seduces literal aliens. In Toy Story, Buzz Lightyear, who’s basically an astronaut, is the guy every toy wants to be around. The astronaut doesn’t have to prove himself. He’s already beyond all the normal hierarchies. He’s already won.
So that’s what we’re actually chasing, I think. Not the job itself, but what the job represents—transcendence, otherness, the confidence that comes from having already been somewhere no one else has. The astronaut is the fantasy because he’s the one who doesn’t care what anyone down here thinks. He’s already been somewhere better.
Which is funny because most of us will never be astronauts. Most of us will stay on the ground—designers, writers, teachers, insurance adjusters, whatever. And we’ll spend our whole lives trying to become the thing we think will make us attractive, knowing the whole time that we’re lying to ourselves. That’s the joke. That’s the trap. That’s being a guy.
I never watched Twilight. Deliberately. It looked like the kind of thing that swallows your entire brain for months, some mass fever dream where nothing makes sense but everyone insists it’s serious. Kristen Stewart was everywhere as the girl everyone had an opinion about—mostly that she couldn’t act, that her face was locked into permanent blankness, one expression and nothing behind it. Fair enough as a reading of what she did in those movies.
Then there was this V Magazine shoot with photographers Inez van Lamsweerde and Vinoodh Matadin, and Stewart talking about theater, about Chucks, about people and loving them. In the pictures she looks alive. Different angles, different light, something readable in her face. A face that moves. Not some grand revelation of hidden depths, just proof that whatever that vampire role had frozen into place was only part of the story.
I’m not saying the photoshoot made her a great actress. But I’m done with the idea that what you see in Twilight is all that’s there. Sometimes a person gets defined by one moment or one role and it just sticks, even when there’s clear evidence of something else underneath.
Jennifer Lawrence looks at cameras like she’s waiting for them to stop being stupid, and I fall for that every time I see her in something. If Scarlett Johansson ever does Cat on a Hot Tin Roof on Broadway while I’m in New York, I’m going. Not because it’s theater. Because she’s in it.
The Christmas detritus is still in a bag in the closet. Throw it out or give it to Mrs. Reuscher upstairs if I ever feel charitable and she’s in a receiving mood. Probably not. The weather has been so gray and relentless that I’ve spent serious time imagining a weather cannon — just something to clear the clouds for one day. I know it’s stupid. I think about it anyway.
There are too many cats around here. I joke constantly about getting another one. This might actually happen. The off-hand masturbation research continues — maybe there’s something worth exploring there, maybe I’m inventing excuses for novelty. Both feel true. And then there’s the neighbor without curtains, and I’ve spent an embarrassing number of hours at the window like some kind of creep, which is exactly what I am.
Everyone’s a travel blogger now. Everyone’s a food blogger. It’s the same photos, the same narrative of discovery, nobody actually saying anything new. There’s a snack with some kind of pepperoni-meat flavor that keeps circling. I keep almost trying one. I won’t. The single time I tasted one years ago was enough.
I’ve always liked Ryan Hemsworth’s stuff — the kind of electronic music that doesn’t announce itself. There’s this patient quality to it, like he’s building something in the dark and you just happen to catch glimpses as it takes shape. Colour and Movement probably nails something about the visual nature of his work, even though it’s all instrumental. Clean, minimal, but never cold.
Terry Richardson photographs naked girls desperate for fame, already famous, or too strange to ignore—everyone knows this about him. But he also documents his own life with the same flat, unsparing eye. When his mother died, he posted her final hours on his blog, and suddenly the condolence messages from agencies and magazines started piling up like he’d done something generous.
This week he posted photographs from his book “Mom & Dad.” It would have been his father’s eighty-fifth birthday. Bob George Richardson was a photographer too, back in the old New York days, and he died in 2005. That’s more than twenty years now.
Photographers photograph everything, which means they end up with an archive of their own lives that’s every bit as unsentimental as their work with strangers. Maybe that’s the only kind of honesty that survives—not what you choose to show, but what you choose to frame.
That song was everywhere in 2012. Not because it was brilliant, but because it was sticky in a way that made you feel smart for noticing the red flags in other people’s relationships while completely missing them in your own. The production is clean enough, the chorus is built to get stuck in your head for three days, and there’s something about the way she sings “shame on me” that sounds like she’s already moved on even as she’s writing about it. It’s the kind of song that’s impossible not to like if you let yourself, and after a certain point, I stopped pretending I didn’t.
Rosie Jones is one of those comedians who just gets it—sharp, self-aware, doesn’t lean on shock value even though she could. There’s an ease to her stage presence, like she’s genuinely thinking through something out loud instead of performing a bit she’s rehearsed ten thousand times. She’s got the kind of confidence that only comes from not giving a shit if you’re listening, which of course makes you listen harder.
Skrillex’s wobble hits different when it’s compressed through club speakers. That sub-bass punch feels like it’s rearranging your insides. Sonny Moore figured out how to make aggression sound beautiful, or maybe the beauty is in the aggression itself. He hit his peak in the early 2010s when dubstep went from internet novelty to something visceral and urgent.
His production was meticulous, those builds hanging on the edge of collapse before dropping like a physical force. There was actual feeling underneath the technical mastery, which kept it from feeling sterile or cold. Even after the wobble became cliché and dubstep moved on, there’s something about his best tracks that hasn’t dimmed. He wasn’t trying to be cool—he just made the music he wanted, and that’s more punk than a lot of bands actually called punk.
Sky Ferreira makes music that sounds like it’s being played in the dark from someone else’s speaker in the next room—intimate and distant at the same time. There’s always something slightly off-kilter about it, like she’s decided to ignore how a song is supposed to work and do something weirder instead. The bedroom-pop thing isn’t an aesthetic choice for her so much as it is the actual terrain she operates in: small, controlled, deeply personal. You get the sense she could care less if anyone’s listening, and somehow that makes you want to listen harder.
Bar25 was a warehouse in Berlin where time didn’t matter. You’d walk in after midnight and dance until sunrise, and it would feel like an hour. No schedule, no prices on the wall, no sense of being rushed or ripped off. The concrete floors and the sound system and the crowd all reinforced the same thing: this place existed for dancing, and everything else could wait. I never made it there—the club closed in 2010—but I know people who still talk about it like it was the best money they ever spent and the best time they never noticed passing.
There’s this moment where Chaz Bear’s voice comes in like he’s barely there, just floating over the production, and you realize you’ve been holding your breath. Toro y Moi has always had this way of making the electronic stuff feel intimate, like he’s singing into your ear at 3 AM in an otherwise empty room. The arrangements are pristine but they never feel cold. It’s why I keep coming back—not for the innovation or the credibility, but because his records sound like they’re just for you, even though millions of people probably feel the same way. That’s the trick, I guess. Making something so polished it disappears and becomes pure feeling instead.
I watched Summer Wars the weekend before I left, trying to absorb as much Japanese as I could before moving away. Not that watching anime actually helps with the language, but I’d convinced myself it did. I wanted to hear those words again—Kawaii, Sugoi, Oishii—before they stopped making sense.
It’s about this awkward kid and the most beautiful girl in school, and through a series of events that barely need explaining, they end up in the internet—this sprawling virtual world that looks like Facebook crossed with a video game—where they’re trying to stop a computer virus from destroying power plants and the whole grid. Her family is enormous and insane. There’s an actual pervert uncle. A grandmother who’s cooler than anyone. So much food. Baseball. Math. Everything crashes together.
It’s not Miyazaki. Mamoru Hosoda made it at Madhouse, which means if you’ve seen The Girl Who Leapt Through Time or Tokyo Godfathers, you recognize his touch—that particular mix of mundane and impossible, intimacy and spectacle. A story about a family and a computer virus somehow feels like it matters.
I’d grown up on this stuff. Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, Evangelion. I knew the language of anime, the way it moves, what it’s saying beneath the surface. Summer Wars doesn’t break new ground, but it executes so cleanly that it doesn’t need to. The action is fluid. The design sharp. The kids believable assholes. The family real. By the end I was close to crying.
Maybe it hit different because I was leaving. Maybe I was just ready for something that good. Either way, it stuck with me.
Everyone’s standing in the supermarket right now in complete panic. Half the city had the same idea and nobody knows what to bring to a party that hasn’t even been confirmed yet. Or they’re on the phone with friends scattered across town trying to lock down plans that feel both inevitable and totally uncertain. Or they’re just going to stay home with the cat and hope nobody notices they’re not out.
I asked around about where people actually end up on New Year’s Eve and it’s basically a masterclass in how badly humans handle arbitrary deadlines. Oliver just hates the whole thing—stays in with friends, drinks, watches movies, treats it like any other night. He figured out that the real secret is to go out on January 1st instead, when everyone else has already exhausted themselves trying to have forced fun. That’s when the club actually works. He’s also got strong opinions about people who misspell it Sylvester and would move the whole holiday to February 29th in leap years just so he wouldn’t have to do it so often.
Jessica told me about New Year’s in Rio that was supposed to be all white dresses and flower boats and magic on the Copacabana, but it rained so hard the fireworks disappeared and everyone’s clothes got ruined and she almost got crushed at some David Guetta concert. She still loves it though, which is somehow beautiful. This year she’s just telling friends to show up at a hotel if they feel like it—no pressure, no planning. That’s when it actually works, when you stop trying to engineer the moment and just let people come if they come. She also mentioned Austrian ski towns where you can drink all day and then sled down the mountain at midnight if you’re still standing.
The one thing that keeps repeating with everyone is the same: either you hate it or you love it despite being disappointed every year or you’re just going through the motions. Angela loves it—she’s heading to Hamburg with a friend this year, though even she’s had those forced family nights where you’re just counting down to midnight while nothing happens. Everyone’s got resolutions they forget by January 2nd. The ones who seem okay with it are the ones who stopped trying to manufacture the perfect moment.
The sun comes up and you can barely stand. Feet wrapped in blisters, back screaming, the world tilting a little. But the music, the light, the smell of the air—it’s so good you physically cannot leave. You just stand there, weightless in your exhaustion, thinking about nothing.
Christine Neder went to forty festivals in forty weeks. Not to play, not to work a single event—to understand, systematically, what happens when you put people in temporary autonomous zones and let them abandon themselves for a few days. She traveled to sixteen countries, wrote about it, made a book out of it. When she talks about festivals, she doesn’t sound like someone who attended them; she sounds like someone who’d been studying a foreign culture from the inside.
Her first festival was Melt in 2011, which apparently is where all the cool Berlin people go to be beautiful and restrained. Then in March 2012 she started the real work—forty separate events, barely enough time to recover between them. By the twelfth one, Rock am Ring, she understood what the task really was: not to collect experiences but to see how a human being transforms when removed from normal life and placed in controlled chaos.
The details are good. At one festival someone took a shit directly in front of her car. At another, she watched a group of men roll their friend down a hill inside a portable toilet. She saw people so drunk they tried to steal into other people’s tents looking for whatever they were looking for. She also saw forty thousand people gather in a small Spanish village every year to throw tomatoes at each other for exactly sixty minutes, then leave. She danced with men in hand-knitted penis covers in Ukraine. She ran from actual bulls in Pamplona until she learned they were executed by bullfighters afterward, at which point she stopped going because she couldn’t unsee it.
The sex thing she treated straightforwardly: yeah, a lot of festival sex happens. People are drunk, lonely, together, anonymous. It makes sense. She catalogued the ugliest men she’d seen (KaZantip apparently perfects ugly men while somehow producing beautiful women, which genuinely confused her). She acknowledged the fantasy—ten percent of people are there purely for tent sex with strangers. She wasn’t judgmental about it, just observant.
The best festival was KaZantip in Ukraine, a semi-legal autonomous zone on a beach that requires a visa or a yellow suitcase signed off by a “luggage minister.” Everything there is a concept. The bathroom is a UFO. The bar is a chemistry lab. People gather every evening on a dock to watch the sunset together like it’s a mandatory ceremony. When she describes this, it sounds less like a party and more like a temporary nation-state that got the social engineering right.
Pamplona and its bullfights disturbed her philosophically—watching thousands cheer the execution of an animal, thinking about crowd psychology and what happens when collective energy goes ugly. She was more annoyed by the rest: shitty logistics, pain, the senselessness of it.
The bands that moved her—The xx especially—she could describe exactly. They multiplied whatever was already in you. Happy, you’d bounce. Sad, you’d cry. Horny, you’d makeout with whoever was nearby. The worst acts were unlistenable Germanic noise, which tracks.
What struck me reading through her account is that the project worked. By festival twenty, when most people would be dead inside, she was fully in rhythm. She’d learned how to pace, which festivals fit which categories, when to push and when to rest. The older crowds at the fancy Swiss ones. The hippies and their kids at Burgherzberg trading weed for air pumps. The young people just there to be destroyed.
She funded it by writing and photographing, trading labor for tickets and flights instead of money. Made a book from it not because she was chasing something to sell, but because she wanted to document what she’d learned—the moods, the people, the moments that made each festival distinct. She didn’t want to just list the lineups; you can look those up in two clicks. She wanted to capture what it felt like to move through these spaces.
The email she seemed happiest about was from someone’s mother who apparently watches RTL2 News and saw Christine featured, then wrote something witty. When she talks about why she does this, it comes back to: people writing to say the book made them feel less alone, that knowing someone else chose to live that radically made their own life feel more possible.
I don’t know if I’d do it. Forty weeks of festivals sounds like either enlightenment or a breakdown, probably both. But I get the impulse—to stop planning life, to show up repeatedly to the same situation, to see what changes when only your perspective is the variable. Most people never try that. Most people go to one muddy festival, decide they hate crowds, and never return. Christine kept showing up.
That’s the interesting thing about her. Not that she went to forty festivals. That she paid attention.
That dress. Molly Ringwald in that prom dress, the one Duckie’s mother made—hot pink, excessive, homemade in the way that screams love and desperation at once. The film’s entire aesthetic lives in that contradiction: the rich kids’ casual cruelty, the poor kids’ gorgeous, elaborate effort. What struck me rewatching it wasn’t the romance (though there’s something there about wanting what seems impossible) but how much care went into making broke look beautiful. The thrift-store cuts, the layered jewelry, the way Andrew McCarthy’s boyfriend haircut costs nothing but attention. Duckie’s outfit is the real proposal in this movie—not the prom but the commitment to looking like yourself when yourself is all you have. That’s what the whole thing is really about, I think. The clothes are where the class war actually happens.
Brodinski’s whole thing is rhythm working like it’s alive—not the human kind, the other kind. His beats have this mechanical precision that somehow makes you move anyway, like you’re being recruited by the machines he’s singing about. There’s something weird about following an electronic pulse so tightly that it feels natural, inevitable. I don’t know if that’s the point, but it works on me every time.
2012 was on its way out, and I had ten things that needed doing before it finished. Whether the year was good or complete shit was personal math—comparing highs to lows, meetings to endings. But there was the list.
Watch Rihanna naked on a balcony. Someone pure-hearted had wished for this at Christmas, apparently. Never ask the internet to Photoshop the sun between your fingers; that only ends badly. Find the trailer for another zombie apocalypse, spot Tony from Skins if you can. Move to a different country—staying felt unbearable. Book a flight east, locate the oldest man alive, ask him why he hasn’t died yet. He’d say it was the sun. Probably not true, but I liked the mythology.
Kiss anyone named Marcel on New Year’s Eve. Trip anyone named Paul, Thang, or Janos—girls only, which already tells you something. Stare at Lana Del Rey photos one more time before everyone forgot her by spring. Start a new blog or magazine on January 1st. Make it so good it destroys everything that came before. Drink only tap water on December 31st and January 1st. Only tap water. Then kiss Marcel one more time.
The specificity haunts these old lists. The named people, the Rihanna moment, the pointless water fast. I actually believed these small rules would matter.
Those videos are stuck in my head—Eliza Doolittle rollerblading through some sun-soaked British street, this whole aesthetic that had nothing to do with whatever the song was about. The disconnect was the appeal. You weren’t supposed to care; you were supposed to enjoy someone who clearly wasn’t taking any of it seriously. Late 2000s UK pop felt playful instead of desperate, and she embodied that vibe perfectly. Brown curls, bare legs, thrift-store shorts—it all read as effortless, like she’d figured something out the rest of them hadn’t. You can’t get that moment back, but you can dress like it.
Diamonds was inescapable for a stretch there — radio, streaming, weddings, funerals. Rihanna at her most crystalline, voice riding this minimal production like she’s just thinking out loud about lasting through hard times. The song doesn’t try to be complicated. It’s a ballad about holding on when everything’s fractured, and it connects because that’s the deal — you’re fractured too, sometimes. By the tenth time you hear it, you’re not rolling your eyes. You’re just sitting with it. That’s the test of a pop song. Does it still work when it’s everywhere? This one did.
She’s been good since That 70s Show, but Black Swan was the moment it clicked for me—watching her commit to something dark and physical. The magazine covers are fine but irrelevant. The work is what sticks.
No matter how far away I’ve gone—to the crowded streets of New York, the hot coasts of Australia, or beneath the high ceilings of old Berlin apartments—I always come back to my town at year’s end. Back to a place where time seems to stand still. And I feel superior. Because nobody there had the nerve to attempt even a fraction of what I managed.
The streets of my hometown are still the same ones I rode my BMX through as a kid. I know them inside and out. Every corner, every shortcut. I still dream about the days when these alleys ran through my veins. And every meter of them is marked with memories that, at the right moment, come flooding back.
I’m walking down the main street on a sunny winter morning—nobody around—and my mind starts to wander. It floats up above the town, making a map. Of houses. Of paths. Of fields. And suddenly these pins pop up everywhere, memories I can touch that pull me in and replay what makes me who I am.
The time we broke into a caravan when I was twelve and used stolen helium from the carnival to turn our voices into Mickey Mouse. When I was thirteen and we called an ambulance because Maria crashed into the pool fence on her sled and blood streamed down her face. When I was sixteen, sitting on the slide at the local playground with Chrissy while she yanked her white top up and screamed obscenities at the neighbor who tried to beat us with a shovel the day before.
When I snap back to it, I’m standing on a small bridge outside of town. Near some abandoned allotment gardens. The sun’s in my face, my scarf’s getting tighter, and below me a small stream makes its way to the next village. I stare into the cold water and something hits me all at once—a truth that makes my chest heavy and brings tears to my eyes.
We owned this place. We shook it, made it tremble. We were the ones who moved through its streets at night, kissing and eating and fighting and crying and coming and screaming and laughing and drinking. Loud. Fierce. Fearless. We wanted to last forever. We wanted our actions to still cause a stir a hundred years from now. We wanted to be immortal, even though we were already fading.
My graffiti has faded. My legends have gone silent. My marks have been deleted. The generation that runs these streets now has no idea what happened here years ago. What we risked. Who we touched. How many enemies we made and how many friends we had. They don’t care. My name means nothing to them. The places that mattered. My sadness. My songs.
And then I get it: I have no reason to feel superior. Because I didn’t accomplish anything. Because nothing lasts. Not here, not anywhere else. It doesn’t matter how far I go or what I experience. Who I’m with. How often or how intensely I live it. Because one day I’ll turn around. And none of it will be there anymore.
My memories are just vague shadows haunting this town now. They have no power, no pull. But they prove I’ve been replaced. By young people who think I’m irrelevant, writing their own legends in the places that served as the backdrop for my memories. Not the first time, won’t be the last.
But they’ll come back too, one day. They’ll stand on this bridge and they’ll cry and they’ll realize that none of their wild and passionate and dramatic actions lead anywhere. That their youth is a copy of a copy of a copy. That everything falls apart the moment they turn around.
All that’s left is the eternal dream: to do something nobody’s done before. So it pulls me to the crowded streets of New York, the hot coasts of Australia, the high-ceilinged apartments. I don’t think about what came before—I believe in something unique. It’s what keeps me sane. The only way not to lose my mind.
I keep going. I fill the empty legends of my memories with new adventures and images and smells and tastes and sounds. Maybe next year I’ll come back. Back to my town. Back to a place where time stands still. And I’ll feel superior again. Because nobody there had the nerve to attempt even a fraction of what I’ve managed.
I always notice when a brand commits to a single color across a whole season. There’s something stubborn about it, especially with adidas Originals — that minimalist streak they’ve always had. Blue for spring and summer is the safe choice, but when you see it everywhere in a lineup, it stops being a design decision and becomes almost a statement. You’re not thinking about adidas the sportswear company anymore, you’re thinking about adidas as a color, as a constraint that forces everything else into clarity. There’s something almost meditative about that.
Christmas arrives and somehow I’m still surprised by it, like I haven’t been bracing for this same evening since October. Here we are again, right on schedule.
Uncle Jörg will drink too much—there’s no maybe about it—and his greasy hands will start finding places they shouldn’t be. Erich, my sister’s friend who somehow keeps getting invited, will describe his Nepal trip like he’s the first person to ever travel somewhere and come back changed. Aunt Iris will try to sing. My mother will ask what I actually do for work, and I’ll explain it in a way that sounds both accurate and completely useless. The red wine is the only thing getting me through this evening.
Maybe the food will be decent. Maybe Paula texts something nice. Maybe nobody fights this year. Maybe Jörg doesn’t show up with some disgusting gift already sweating in his hands—something pink with hearts on it, something that makes you wonder what he’s actually thinking when he shops.
It’s always the same. I show up hoping for something different, knowing it won’t be, doing it anyway.
The world didn’t end. Christmas is still coming, and if you don’t have plans or gifts to worry about, you’re just sitting around. So you make a list.
Order pizza on Christmas Eve and cut it exactly the way you want—not some standard way. Give everyone you know a puppy as a gift just to see what happens. Charge people a dollar for every message they send you on Facebook since apparently it’s supposed to be free. Decorate your coworker’s desk on their birthday and then just leave it like that. Get high without anyone’s commentary on it, since marijuana doesn’t turn you into a zombie like alcohol does. Build actually funny snowmen with your little siblings. Watch old Pokémon episodes that hold up.
Go to church with your parents and kiss everyone on the forehead, tell them their sins are forgiven. Either they’ll appreciate it or they’ll flee screaming. Sleep with your hot cousin if you’ve been thinking about it since you were five—you probably have. Steal someone’s entire LEGO collection and mail it to me because I miss having LEGO. Just take it all.
It’s stupid and pointless, which is kind of what being around family at Christmas actually is anyway.
Berlin photographs well because it doesn’t care if you’re looking. The light is pale and even, the palette is all concrete and rust and weathered brick, and the whole city reads like exposed structure—no softness, no romance. That’s what makes it interesting. You can point a camera at almost anything and get something real back. Nothing’s trying to seduce you, which is exactly why you keep looking.
Bat for Lashes knows how to build something out of nothing. The production is minimal but it never feels thin—there’s room in each song for something to exist quietly. You listen and what stays with you isn’t the notes, it’s what sits between them. Whatever A Wall is, it probably does the same thing: solid enough to divide the space, but mostly it’s about what happens on either side.
Gaga mattered because she understood something most pop stars don’t: the audience wants permission to be weird. She dressed like she’d been assembled from a fever dream and dared you not to stare, and half the kids watching realized their own strangeness was maybe okay. The music was sharp and tight, the hooks were lethal, and underneath all the hardware and blood and meat dresses was someone who actually cared about craft. She wasn’t slumming in pop—she was proving pop could be sophisticated and nasty and vulnerable all at once. Twenty years into knowing her work, I still think about how fearlessly she swung between poles: the accessible banger next to something genuinely unsettling, the calculated provocation bleeding into real confession. She made people uncomfortable and that was the whole point. Whether she’s satisfied or not seems almost beside the question—she gave permission, and that rippled outward.
Half an hour ago I gave notice on my apartment. My landlord printed something out on his ancient PC, I signed it, that was it. By the end of February, I’m out of Wedding for good. A few days later I’m on a plane to Tokyo. That’s how fast decisions become actual life.
I always need three times as many hurdles as normal people to get anywhere, so usually everything takes forever. But this moved too smoothly. It’s starting to feel suspicious. Which is stupid—you don’t complain when things work out.
What do I do with all my stuff? Sell it, give it away, throw it out. Keep the actually important things somewhere safe. Standard collapse-of-a-life logistics. But first I have to fly home for a week and listen to Christmas dinner arguments about what an insane idea this is. “Do they only eat sushi there?” “Don’t bring home some girl in a school uniform.” “Isn’t it dangerous? Earthquakes, yakuza, meltdowns?” I’ve heard all the questions already.
I’ve lived five years in Wedding, this cheap Berlin neighborhood, secretly hoping the trends would finally reach it. The rents are low, artists show up, location’s decent. But probably people have died waiting. Since the world won’t come to me, I’m going to the world instead.
The thing about deciding to move somewhere on impulse is that for a while it feels fictional—something you’re telling people, not something that’s actually happening. Then one day you sign a form and suddenly it’s real. You’re committed. In two months I’ll be in Tokyo with a suitcase and no plan, which is either the best or worst position to be in. Probably both.
Everyone wants to know what I’ll do next, like I have an answer. I don’t. I’m just leaving. That’s usually enough for me.
Tavi Gevinson figured out something that everyone on the internet wanted to figure out: how to have actual cultural influence at sixteen. Fashion blogs were everywhere, but she became the one person fashion mattered in front of. Front row at Paris. Lunches with Anna Wintour. Magazine covers. It still feels remarkable, even now.
Someone asked me what I’d give her as a gift—this was during the Rookie Mag era, when she was publishing all these intimate essays and photo series that somehow reached millions of teenage girls. Not something off a luxury brand website. Something that would actually serve what she was making. I thought about the photographs she was using, the aesthetic she was building, and I kept coming back to a vintage Polaroid Sun 600 SLM from the 1980s. A used one, autofocus, flash intact, the kind of thing you find in estate sale boxes. Not “better” equipment, just different. Specific constraints. A particular texture and quality of light.
There’s something about hunting for a gift like that instead of just ordering something mass-produced online. You end up finding something with actual history—made and owned by people before you. It costs less. It somehow means more, even though it shouldn’t by any rational logic.
YouTube Rewind 2012 was the kind of pointless thing the internet did because it could. A highlight reel of viral videos from the year, as if the internet needed a corporate recap of moments everyone was already tired of. Rebecca Black, some gaming clips, whatever passed for a meme in 2012. It wasn’t good, it wasn’t particularly memorable, but you watched it anyway because it was there. There’s something almost innocent about YouTube even trying — the idea that they could curate the year, that this compilation meant anything. It didn’t. But looking back, that kind of earnest futility is kind of charming.
The internet was in a permanent state of low-level fury by then. Someone was always angry about something. People angry at people angry at the world. It was background noise. Outrage had become its own ecosystem.
Then Facebook, which owned Instagram, announced new terms of service. Starting next year, they could use any photo uploaded to their platform for advertising. No permission, no payment. Your vacation pictures, your lunch, your cat, your face—all of it was now inventory for Facebook to monetize however they wanted.
The internet exploded. Someone screenshotted the clause and called it “Instagram’s Suicide Note,” and that phrase went everywhere. People said they were deleting their accounts. Other people made fun of the people deleting their accounts. The usual choreography.
But I actually got this one. This wasn’t abstract internet drama. Facebook was claiming the right to take something you made and use it commercially without asking. That’s theft with legal language attached. And there was no opt-out—delete your account or accept the terms.
The worst part was that most Instagram users would never even know the change had happened. They’d just keep uploading, and one day they’d see their photo in an advertisement they never agreed to, or on a billboard promoting something they didn’t care about, and there’d be nothing they could do. That was the entire point of it.
Some people moved to alternatives like Vimeo or Hipstamatic, but those platforms never had the gravity Instagram did. You can’t really leave a platform when everyone you know is on it. So I just got more careful about what I posted. Nothing too revealing, nothing I’d regret seeing in an ad someday. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
The xx’s “Last Christmas” is just the sadness. They stripped away everything—the pop sheen, the production, most of the arrangement. What’s left is the actual song underneath, the part about something ending right when everything’s supposed to be joyful.
Two voices, some sparse electronics, all that space the band’s known for. The original Wham! song had melancholy in it from the start, just buried under the production. This version doesn’t apologize for that sadness. It leans into it.
I listened to it on repeat one December, after something ended in November. It wasn’t cathartic or anything. Just the right amount of quiet for the season, the right amount of sadness for that particular kind of loneliness you feel when everyone else is celebrating.
The band understands restraint. They know that sometimes the less you hear, the more you feel. Silence matters as much as sound. In “Last Christmas,” the space between the voices is where all the hurt lives.
It’s been a tradition since then. Whenever December comes around, I put this on instead of the version I knew growing up. Once you hear it this way, you can’t un-hear it. Can’t go back to the original. It solves something I didn’t know was broken.
Paz de la Huerta turned up in the feed again, some beach somewhere. There’s something about those semi-famous sightings—not quite paparazzi material anymore, but persistent enough that her existence registers as its own permanent cultural fact. You forget she exists, then suddenly there she is, and you remember that certain people just stay in the ecosystem forever, whether anyone’s watching or not.
Found a playlist from some people called PonyDanceClyde—no idea what the name means, probably doesn’t matter—and it’s genuinely good, which happens maybe once a month if you’re paying attention. The kind of thing where you realize someone thought about the order, about how the songs sit next to each other, about what comes after silence. That’s harder than it sounds. Anyone can pick ten good songs. Making them make sense together is different.
They’d gathered Kate Boy, Little Dragon, Bon Iver, Kitten—artists who have almost nothing in common sonically, but somehow work when you string them together like this. There’s a looseness to the whole thing, a summery feeling even when the songs get quiet. It doesn’t announce itself. Just someone’s taste, applied consistently across an hour.
I copied it immediately, saved it like it was mine, which would bother me if I gave it real thought. But the logic tracks: when something’s actually good, it should move around. If you make something for yourself and other people find it and keep it, you can’t be mad about that. You can’t try to collect credit for taste.
This is what I put on when I need to think about something or when an hour needs to feel like more than an hour. The right playlist can do that without trying—not through force, but through intention in the quiet spaces. You’re still in the same place, still in your own head, but something about the music makes it feel like you’ve gone somewhere. For a little while, that’s enough.
I went to see The Hobbit with someone who’d never really heard English before—or that’s what it seemed like, the way she kept leaning over asking “What does that mean?” at crucial plot points. Dwarves. Scum. Precious. My neighbor kept braying at all the wrong moments, these terrible laughs that made me genuinely wish 48fps would do something useful for once. That was the theater experience.
The movie is just popcorn entertainment dressed up as epic fantasy, which is fine. I’m a casual Lord of the Rings fan. I know the basic shape: ring, Frodo, Gollum, huge battles. Everything else dissolves within twenty minutes. Names, places, major events—all gone. I walked out of the last film having already forgotten half the character deaths.
But the logic keeps tripping me up. Stupid, avoidable logic. Every time I watch one of these, I hit this moment where nobody thinks around the obvious solution. Gandalf summons giant eagles constantly, so why walk anywhere? A magic inscription only shows under specific moonlight, and wouldn’t you know it, that exact moment arrives right when they need it. Massive magic waves incinerate thousands of orcs without a problem, but then ten wargs appear and everyone’s stuck in a tree yelling for help. If I’d been Tolkien’s editor, I would’ve had words.
Still, I liked watching it. I’m curious how it continues, though I haven’t read the book and never will—I’m too lazy. I just assume the dragon’s not actually the problem. The dwarves grew on me, and the humor worked, even when people said it shouldn’t. Bilbo’s definitely cooler than Frodo. Much cooler.
If you liked Lord of the Rings, you’ll like The Hobbit. It’s the same film basically, just cleaner and with more of everything. The only thing that would make me actually satisfied is a female character worth watching. Three hours of dwarves moving through forests gets old, no matter how much you like this stuff.
Ada Blitzkrieg just published her first book, “Dackelkrieg—Rouladen und Rap,” and she did it exactly how she wanted: self-published, dirt cheap, completely unfiltered. No publisher telling her to cut the crude parts or add more vulnerability. Her real name is Clara Carrera, but her older brother couldn’t pronounce it as a kid, so “Clara” became “Ada,” which then became Ada Blitzkrieg on Twitter, where she has about fifteen thousand followers who showed up because she never switched on a persona, never performed for the algorithm.
She talks about the internet as the place where people with no social life and people in war zones end up, and she means it. She’s been posting for years about frozen pizzas and fat Mario Kart drivers and Dr. Zoidberg’s anatomy in this flat deadpan that reads like someone thinking out loud at 3 AM. She doesn’t smile in photos. She’s clear about being a mess as a human being. Somehow this is exactly what people want to follow.
The book came together because she needed an outlet for all the war inside her. A publisher approached her, but she refused. Too many compromises. She wanted a 100-percent-Ada-Blitzkrieg project—a book where nobody tells her to cut anything or write more about her sex life, just Ada being Ada. It’s her autobiography, and the risk is her mother won’t talk to her after reading it. But at least it’s honest.
The follower count grew sort of by accident. She started tweeting with a friend in another city just to stay connected, but nobody cared at first. Then she met the rappers Casper and Prinz Pi, and they tweeted about her account being perfect, and suddenly it became self-sustaining. People stuck around because her humor felt real—because she never apologized for being a disaster, never pretended to have it together. Self-deprecation is usually a performance, but she makes it look like reportage. And there’s something almost radical about that in a timeline full of people curating their mess.
It’s not metaphorical for her. The internet is survival. She can’t pay rent or buy food without it. Her entire friend group came from Twitter first, then became real. She’s started recognizing people on the street in Berlin who recognize her back, and it still catches her off-guard every time. Her best internet memory is from a night when she and a friend ordered fried chicken from a new place during a launch sale and watched a Blaxploitation film eating crispy chicken parts. The internet made that moment happen. The worst parts are the stalkers who cycle through every few months, but she’s stopped fighting them. The pile of meaningless hate just made her numb, and she’s grateful for that numbness now—it’s easier than caring.
If there’d been no internet, she probably would’ve run a small butcher shop on a farm somewhere, knowing all her customers by name. But there is internet, and she’s built something real there. She published a book for about four euros and made it exactly the way she wanted. Nobody can take that away from her.
There’s something about The Killers that got me through the 2000s. Hot Fuss was everywhere, the synths felt like they were reaching for something better than where I actually was, and Brandon Flowers’ voice had this ache that made sense for no particular reason. I wore out that CD. Drove around listening to it. Wanted to be somewhere else, and the songs convinced me I could get there if I just understood them well enough.
Twenty years later they’re still playing, still pretty good, and I don’t need them the way I did then. That’s fine. Sometimes a band is exactly what you need at exactly the right age, and then you grow past it or grow into other things. I still think they’re better than people give them credit for. The Killers never got cool again after those first years, which is its own kind of honesty.
Dirty Projectors makes music that doesn’t want to be easy. The Socialites is all precision and density — intricate vocal arrangements, time signatures bent out of shape, everything layered until it feels almost fragile. Longstreth thinks about song structure the way an architect thinks about space. It’s rewarding if you’re willing to sit with it, exhausting if you’re not. The kind of album that actually punishes casual listening, which is probably the point.
Nitta’s work reminds me why clarity matters. No noise, no empty gestures—just the exact line weight needed and nothing more. I’ve spent enough time designing to know how hard that is, how much you have to kill to get to something that clean. His stuff has never felt like it was reaching for anything. It’s just there, doing its job, and somehow that directness makes it feel stronger than work trying three times as hard.
Pretty in Pink is really just about not fitting anywhere. Andie’s poor, she likes a rich boy, and that’s it—the world doesn’t move for people in her position. The homemade dress is her pushing anyway, trying to prove something that doesn’t need proving. John Hughes understood that particular sadness, the way you keep reaching even when you know better. It’s a love story that’s actually a quiet tragedy with great 80s fashion.
December 2012 was coming, which apparently meant the world was ending. Or that was what the internet jokes said—the Mayan calendar had had enough, and someone needed to write up ten last things to do before everything went quiet.
So there was this pony riding the Berlin S-Bahn that needed to be documented and shared on every platform. Take your pants off. Do it for no reason—Hollywood was doing it, so it had to be important. Run into a crowded reading room and yell that everyone needs to leave immediately, no time for explanations. Watch a soap bubble that had frozen solid. These were the opening moves.
The weird ones stuck. Write an essay about a killer beetle that uses its dead enemies as armor, then stand up in front of your class and read it. That’s not a suggestion, that’s a creative writing prompt buried in a joke. Wear a mask during sex—Dieter Bohlen, Freddy Krueger, Osama bin Laden, surprise her with it. Politely introduce yourself to trucks. To everything. The absurdity had a logic all its own.
And then there was the real instruction: if the world is actually ending, sleep with your best friend. Shit on your boss’s desk. Eat a cheeseburger and let the diet die first. These weren’t jokes. Or they were, but they meant something. We were all playing at what we’d do if there really was no tomorrow, and somehow that felt important to articulate.
Ali G was still the best character Sacha Baron Cohen ever made, even ten years on. This was a fact. Nyan Cat needed to be on a hoodie. You needed to buy them for everyone—your parents, your siblings, your grandparents, Ferdinand. The specificity mattered. The joke was that we all knew exactly what this was.
The whole thing was perfectly 2012. Viral meant something specific then. The internet was still a game we could all play together, full of stupid in-jokes and instructions you’d never follow and lists that served no purpose except to say: we’re all here, marking time together. Whatever happens next, we made this joke together. We shared this pony. We pretended we’d do these things. And that was enough.
You could fill a stadium with Emeli Sandé’s voice and half the people there would still be looking for something smaller to understand her by. There’s something about that kind of power that makes people uncomfortable. She just keeps singing anyway.
Toro Y Moi songs don’t give everything up at once. You listen and there’s another layer buried in the mix, some textural choice you missed before. That’s what draws me back — the idea that you can pack that much into a track and have it hold together, that you can be clever about production without it becoming noise. Chaz Bear’s good at that particular problem.
I never understood the hate for Apple’s Maps when it first came out. Looked fine to me, seemed like it would work. Then one afternoon I’m running through Charlottenburg like a maniac because I’m late for some business meeting, and the app just keeps loading and loading, keeps showing nothing but white space, keeps crashing. That’s when I got it. The thing doesn’t work.
By that logic, Apple ruined my life. I was supposed to meet some manager on Kantstraße, make real money, set myself up. Instead I’m standing outside an import shop ten blocks away, so I blew the meeting, so no fortune, no beach house, no woman who could have changed everything. All I have is a plastic keychain with a dragon on it.
I was too lazy to add Google Maps to my home screen either, so I spent months living with this background anxiety that my phone would either lose me somewhere or make me angry enough to destroy it. I was close to that. The phone seemed ready for it.
Then Google Maps came back. As an app on iOS. It’s beautiful and it works and I want to take it on a picnic, invite it on a date by the river, find some isolated cabin in the mountains and just ravish it completely.
Gearon photographs them the way nobody else gets to see them—off guard, unlit, sometimes vulnerable in ways that would never make it to the red carpet. Hollywood Heroines isn’t about the mythology; it’s about what happens when you take that away. The women she photographs are still interesting, still magnetic, but they’re also just people with skin and moods and the particular exhaustion of being watched all the time. There’s something quietly radical about that, the refusal to make them either villains or saints.
What I like about Jessie Ware is the directness. She sings about wanting, about desire, without hedging or cute deflection. Just says it straight. The production is clean and minimal—electronic, spacious—which gives her voice room to breathe. There’s something confident about that kind of simplicity, about letting the silence mean something. Not everyone can do it.
I get bored. That’s the thing about me—I get bored with pretty much everything after two and a half hours. Movies, games, projects, girls, doesn’t matter. Video games especially. I never finished Skyrim, quit Dead Space in the second room, and EVE Online is a conversation we don’t need to have.
The only exception was Mass Effect. That game grabbed me so hard I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t do anything but push forward to save the universe or whatever. That’s what I’ve been looking for ever since—something that lands like that.
Instead I found League of Legends, which is possibly the stupidest game ever made. Diablo 3, Call of Duty, yeah, sure, but League might actually win. Ten people bash each other in teams of five in the same map, same forest, same objectives, over and over and over and over. It’s the same game every time. Nothing changes except the names and the ranks.
And I can’t fucking stop.
I’ve been playing all night with Riven, trashing Spanish and Italian kids, and I’m good at it. Really good. A few beers and the Rocket Beans podcast crew in my ear to keep me sane, and I’m sharp, I’m reading the map, I’m making the calls. I scream when I get run down in a chase. I genuinely lose my mind when the Victory screen pops up. I’m not performing anything—it’s real.
I’ve written about League before. That’s what I do with things that get under my skin: I write them out, vomit them onto the page, and suddenly there’s space in my head for something else. Clean slate. But this time it’s not working. Either I’ve finally found the thing I didn’t know I was missing, or I just hate high school kids that much.
It’s four in the morning. The orange button asks if I want to queue again. I think about it for maybe half a second. A sip from the bottle. Yeah, okay. I click in and the map loads and suddenly I’m not thinking about any of this anymore. I’m just there, in the forest, waiting for the next fight.
I keep looking at this Raekwon bike. Wu-Tang collab with Affinity Cycles, the Ride4NY edition. Nothing I need, but I can’t stop circling back to it.
I had a bike like that as a kid. Nothing expensive—just black steel with the grip tape worn smooth. I took it everywhere. It wasn’t really a possession. It was more like a tool, or a hand.
Seeing this object now, sitting at the intersection of a rap legend and a bike brand and a New York charity, does something to you. You can’t buy your way back to being young. But you can look at the object and feel something old and tender moving inside you.
That’s what the holidays do. You see products and start thinking about time and wanting. A MEDICOM TOY x Nike sneaker. A Brooklyn Internets shirt with a joke only four people will get. A Mickey Mouse watch with a gold face. You’re older now and these things still move you, and that fact means something you can’t quite name.
My mom used to call every week wondering why I didn’t own winter shoes like a normal person. Now I want to spend money on a Bearbrick collaboration that makes zero sense. The logic never improved; I just stopped defending it.
Here’s what gets me though: most of this stuff feels like gifts I’d want to receive, not things I’d actually give away. And right now I don’t really have anyone to buy for anyway. The original post ended with a joke about that—if you’re single, go find a girlfriend at the Christmas market. As if the answer to wanting things is meeting someone and redirecting all that wanting toward them instead. Maybe that’s exactly how it works. Maybe I’m just looking at it wrong.
I keep coming back to the space in that song, the way her voice doesn’t fill it but lives inside it. There’s a pull that doesn’t ask, just moves you forward like it was always going to go this way. She’s always been good at that—knowing when to hold back and when to let something break. When it does, it lands.
The first time I stood on the Shibuya crossing at night, watching thousands of people cross at once like the whole thing was choreographed, something in me locked onto Tokyo. Three months there last summer and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The shops, the trains, the feeling of being part of something alive—everything pulled me back to one thought: I have to live there.
So I made the decision. March 4th, I was flying back on a working holiday visa. I told Berlin, told my apartment, told the life I’d built there. It felt reckless but also inevitable, the kind of thing that stops being a choice once you voice it out loud.
Berlin made me who I am. But Tokyo woke me up. There’s a difference between where you come from and where you need to be. I went back, stayed longer than planned, learned that the thing pulling you toward a place is maybe the most honest navigation system you have.
The Victoria’s Secret Angels holiday campaigns have this weird power—pure spectacle, completely artificial, and somehow still magnetic because every single detail is executed with absolute precision. The styling, the production design, the lighting, the whole machine is running at full capacity to seduce you into this fantasy of luxury and desire. You see the gears working and respect the craft of it even as you can see exactly what’s happening. It’s been the same formula for twenty years and it still lands because it’s so committed to itself.
Sigur Rós spent twenty years making music that sounds like it’s coming from inside a cathedral made of ice. Jónsi sings mostly in Hopelandic, a language he invented so the voice becomes an instrument rather than a vehicle for words, and the guitars get bowed like you’re listening from another room, underwater. Everything is patient and slow and building toward something that might never fully arrive.
When I finally listened to them properly, not as background, not as the safe indie-cred choice, I understood what people meant when they talked about music as solace. There’s no irony in their work, no winking at the audience. They seem to genuinely believe that beauty and care matter, that you can make something ornate and emotional without apologizing for it.
It changed what I thought music could do. I still don’t play them that often — they demand something from you, a kind of presence — but when the weight of everything gets loud, they’re the thing that actually helps.
I’m walking around the Imperial City, watching NPCs live their schedules in endless loops. The game is asking me to care about something that doesn’t care back. Everything here is pixels and code, but I’m still choosing to be the hero, still pushing back against the void. That’s the grip Oblivion has — it makes you matter in a place that can’t know you’re there.
The whole thing runs on this tension between the ordinary and the catastrophic. I’ve got my quests, my alchemy, my stupid waterfront property deals, and meanwhile literal hell is opening up in my backyard. The Oblivion gates are these ruptures where everything that matters gets threatened by everything that doesn’t — pure nothingness trying to swallow the world.
And I close them. I walk back into a reality that’s waiting for me to care about it, that won’t remember me, and I care anyway. That’s the point. The world is a memory worth fighting for because I decide it is, because I show up and make it mean something. Even when it’s just a game.
Festivals are basically a con. You pay for a ticket—never cheap—and then you’re locked into their entire economy. Beer at three times the price it’s worth. Food that tastes like cardboard and costs like steak. Merchandise marked up into the stratosphere. Meanwhile, the press people and anyone with an all-access pass just walks around getting handed everything for free. I’ve always resented that. Like they’re in on some basic truth about how the world actually works and the rest of us are just marks paying to learn it.
The truth is worse. The mark is who pays.
I’ve been to enough events to understand how this works, and it’s surprisingly straightforward. There’s basically a hierarchy of access that gets progressively more illegal the higher you climb. The simplest level is pure confidence. Wear a shirt from some obscure band—absolutely not whoever’s playing that night. Move like you’re late and pissed off about it. Don’t smile at security. Don’t ask anything. Just walk through like you’ve done it a hundred times and you’re thoroughly sick of it. You’d be shocked how far that gets you on its own.
But then there are the actual systems they deploy. Drink tickets come first. Little plastic chits, handed to crew and press, redeemable for free beer at the bar. You can order blanks online for nothing. Watch which color gets used that night, grab the matching stack, slip them to the bartender a few at a time. One ticket buys you a standard drink. Two or three together gets you the good stuff. I’ve watched this work so many times it barely counts as a trick anymore.
Wristbands next. Every major festival uses them—color-coded to separate the people who paid from the people who matter. You find out what color you need, grab a plain band in that shade, mark it up with a Sharpie to look official, stack it on your wrist with a couple of decoys, and just walk past security like you own the place. The key is that bouncers are looking for nervousness or excitement, not confidence. They want to catch people who want to be there, not people who think they’re too important to care.
Then there’s forged press passes. That’s where it actually becomes a real crime. You need a real pass to copy, a scanner, printing equipment, and genuine balls. Scan the real pass, change the name, print it on decent cardstock, slide it in a plastic lanyard sleeve, tuck it half-visible in your shirt, and walk past backstage security looking like you’re having the worst day of your life. If they don’t look too close, you’re in. If they do, you’re looking at actual charges. Fraud. Forgery. The kind of thing that ends with a conversation with the police.
So obviously only a complete moron does that last one. Which is why I don’t. I pay full price. I watch other people disappear into backstage areas I can’t reach, and I know exactly how they did it, and I know I’m not stupid enough to try. That’s the real trap—the system’s so easy to cheat that deciding not to feels like admitting you’re a sucker. Which I am. Whatever. The beer’s still cold.
Instagram updates always send people into a panic. Change the position of literally anything and you’ll get entire threads about the app’s death spiral. So when version 3.2.0 came out with a brand new interface, I figured we were in for the usual meltdown. Wasn’t terrible though.
The camera button was huge, centered at the bottom. A massive target so even the spaciest Instagram user couldn’t miss it. They’d added new filters, including one called “Willow” that’s black and white. Which nobody ever uses, but okay.
Everything else got shuffled around. Foursquare was all over now. You could tag where you were, except you’d be too busy arranging the sushi and the beer to let anyone actually eat. Photos got automatically saved to your library whether you wanted it or not.
Of course it was mostly just iOS. Android users were basically second-rate—bad cameras, bad luck, unworthy of Instagram’s precious filters. That was the message anyway.
Free to download. Topless photos were still banned. We tested that.
Rammstein’s ’Mein Herz brennt’ is the soft one, the one that makes sense to people who otherwise think the band is just noise and theatrics. It’s orchestrated, almost delicate, and the lyrics are about obsession and losing yourself in someone, which is a different kind of violence than anything they’d done before. The song appeared on Reise, Reise in 2004, and it sits there like a confession in the middle of all that fire and percussion. There’s something genuinely unsettling about it—the restraint, the minor-key beauty, Till’s voice doing that thing where he sounds completely wrecked and completely in control at the same time. It’s the Rammstein song that stays with you, not because it’s the loudest or the most memorable, but because it doesn’t try to be either of those things.
Can’t remember when I first saw Kate Upton, though it bothers me that I can’t. I’d been absolutely fixed on redheads—call it a phase, call it certainty, but it felt done and settled. And then there she was, and nothing else mattered anymore. When did it happen? Terry Richardson shooting on a beach? That Guess Lingerie video that blew everyone away? Ken Jeong’s dumb photobomb thing? Some page in a magazine I’ve long since thrown away? No idea. It’s all blur.
The shift itself is what matters: one day I was one thing, the next day I was something entirely else.
Alasdair McLellan shot her for Vogue at some point. She looked the way she always looked—which is to say, fantastic. Not in some airbrushed magazine fantasy way, but real. The proportions are right, the face is right, the way she moves is right. It’s not complicated to see. You look at it and you understand immediately why people lose their minds. I’m not going to dress it up or sound precious about what’s happening here.
This is what’s strange about obsessions like this: they’re total. They overwrite everything you thought you knew about what you wanted. I had a type, or so I thought. Kate Upton made that entire theory look stupid. She was the exception that became the rule. Even now I can’t explain it—can’t point to when, can’t say why her instead of anyone else. It just happened, and there’s nothing to analyze about it.
Michael Wolf photographed toy factory workers in China. Dolls, plastic guns, bubble machines — the ordinary stuff kids play with. His series is ’The Real Toy Story.’
The pictures show each worker holding what they made. That’s the whole thing. No explanation, no message, no names. Just evidence of labor. You don’t learn about them as people, only that they existed and they made something.
What stays with me is thinking about everyone not in the frame. The people too young or too sick or too exhausted to work in a factory. Those people exist but they’re invisible even to the camera — there’s nothing to photograph because there’s nothing there to document. That absence is what gets to me, more than the pictures themselves.
The backseat of a car is where some things become real. You know it’s stupid — the geometry doesn’t work, nothing good comes of it, you know how this ends. You go anyway. All hands and breath and someone’s jacket that still smells like them. It’s a specific texture of romance that sticks with you longer than things that were supposed to matter more. Years later you’ll remember the exact pressure of someone’s mouth in the dark before you remember their name.
The simplicity of it. Not “I’m a photographer” or any of the gear-talk bullshit, just the basic action. You see something, you want to hold onto it, you take a picture. Everything after that — the technique, the style, the years of learning to look — all of it serves that moment where you decide something is worth keeping.
People right now want apocalypse stories. Zombies, asteroids, aliens—doesn’t matter the flavor. There’s always another angle on civilization collapsing. The genre never exhausts itself because there’s always a version of the end nobody’s quite tried.
M. Night Shyamalan made one called After Earth with Will Smith and his son Jaden. They crash-land on Earth, only Earth’s been empty for centuries. Humans are gone. Engineered predators run the planet. You land on your home world and it’s completely hostile.
Will Smith fighting mutant creatures with his actual kid. The casting’s weird—Smith’s the action guy, the improviser, the one who survives. Here he’s just a father trying to keep his son alive against things that evolved to kill humans. It shouldn’t work but it does.
I mostly just wanted to see that. Smith fighting for survival on a dead world. The father-son thing is just the frame for that one image. A familiar face in the most hostile version of home. That’s the whole movie.
Drove to Cologne for a Red Bull Soundclash—K.I.Z taking on Kraftklub in front of thousands at the Palladium. The format was simple: two bands, two stages, a series of challenges, and absolute commitment from both sides. Songs, insults, the crowd eating it up like their life depended on it.
I wasn’t prepared for how real it would feel. These weren’t polished performers going through the motions. Everyone in that venue—the bands, the crowd—was genuinely invested. People were dancing like they were physically fighting for their side, screaming themselves hoarse. Standing upstairs, watching it all, I found myself just shaking my head at the respect these bands command. You see commitment like that maybe once or twice in your life.
When Sido and a few others joined in to amplify things, the whole event tipped into chaos. Fans from both camps were throwing themselves at each other, but it was joyful somehow—friendly fire between people who got why this mattered. The Palladium was shaking.
We ended up at a KFC around the corner after it all wound down, absolutely destroyed on whatever mix of Red Bull and cheap liqueur we’d been pouring into ourselves all night. Crashed at the hotel feeling like we’d actually been through something. Next morning we did the obligatory Cologne thing—the cathedral, some coffee, wandered through shops. The city felt good in daylight, calmer, like a place where people knew how to live. Worth coming back for, if only to see that crowd get wound up again.
Maylee Todd makes music that feels like it’s arriving from somewhere you can’t quite locate—not quite pop, not quite electronic, just her own frequency. The confidence in a title like this, the plainness of it, suggests something that doesn’t need to announce itself. You either feel it or you don’t.
M83’s “Wait” does that thing where the synths keep building in these long arcs and you’re not sure if something’s about to break open or just fade. Gonzalez’s production has always worked best when he’s patient like that, letting a single idea bloom across four minutes, the kind of song that makes you want to drive somewhere you don’t need to go, just for the excuse to sit in the car and listen to it again.
The sky above Aincrad turns red and Akihiko Kayaba, the programmer who built Sword Art Online, appears to announce he’s done something insane. No one’s leaving this. If you die in the game, your neural interface fries your brain. The exit is 100 floors down.
That’s the entire premise, and it’s clean. Kawahara doesn’t ask you to debate the ethics or sympathize with Kayaba. He just sets the trap and watches how humans respond. Thousands of players locked in a fully-immersive MMO. Some form guilds. Some try to solo. Some turn predatory. What emerges isn’t a puzzle to solve so much as a portrait of how people behave when survival is collective and stakes are final.
Kazuto, the protagonist, starts out thinking he can handle this alone. One episode in, he realizes he can’t. That’s when things open up. Not the combat or the leveling, but the social structures that form when everything’s on the line. Asuna, Yui, the other players—they’re not written as types. They’re specific in ways that surprise you. There’s a moment where Asuna does something that reframes the entire series, and Kawahara doesn’t stop to explain. He trusts you.
I watched the first ten episodes in one sitting. The writing feels like it was made by someone who actually understands what immersive virtual reality does to human attachment. The music doesn’t announce what you should feel; it just occupies the space. The characters don’t perform. There’s a clarity to it that made the hours vanish.
Then the first real twist hits. I won’t say what happens, but suddenly the show isn’t about clearing a dungeon anymore. It’s about what you’ll risk for someone else when risking for them could mean they actually die. That’s when it stopped being clever and became something that mattered.
There’s a moment in everything Pharrell touches where you realize he’s already thought three steps ahead of where you are. He’s been producing and designing and performing long enough that it’s become invisible—you just know something’s good before you know why, and half the time it’s because his name’s somewhere in the credits. He’s got that rare thing where success hasn’t made him sloppy. If anything he’s gotten more precise, more minimal, more confident in what doesn’t need to be there. Twenty years of doing this and he still looks like he’s not trying.
She was everywhere for a stretch—the blonde, the smile, the Sports Illustrated cover that somehow still mattered. There was an understanding built into how people looked at her, no irony required. You can’t separate her from that specific moment when beauty still had a kind of narrative to it. I remember not thinking about it much at the time, which is probably the point.
You’re on a regional train in Berlin when she starts: “Deutschland den Deutschen.” This look on her face like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever said. The bald guy from Thuringia gets it right away. They’ve found each other, and now they’re bold.
She doesn’t stop. Immigrants. Black people. She’s narrating some future where they don’t exist. Thirty people on this train. Nobody’s looking. Nobody’s saying anything. You can feel yourself going hot, your hands starting to shake because you can sense exactly where this goes.
She lands on you. Points. The words are specific, aimed. And something in you just splits open. You’re standing, and the voice that comes out doesn’t sound like you—shouting back at her about what she is, what all of them are, underneath this ideology they’re pretending is philosophy. Every obscenity you know. Every accusation.
The car goes silent. Everyone staring at you like you’re the real problem. Her face doesn’t even change. She wanted this. She wanted exactly this. She’ll do it again tomorrow, somewhere else, with someone else.
You can’t stop talking. Tears now. Raging at the people around you, about how they’ll get off this train and convince themselves they’re good because they know someone from somewhere else, because they didn’t say anything out loud so they’re not complicit, never mind that they were already thinking it. The rage and the shame are the same feeling.
The train stops. She gets off. Nothing’s different. She won. The small racism, the everyday kind, it’s not some historical atrocity, it’s just there in the city, moving through it like an infection. And you’re left sitting there shaking, knowing it’ll happen again tomorrow.
Sitting through another week of forgettable online content, I’d pretty much given up on print. Then I grabbed five magazines that actually understood something about the world right now.
Dazed & Confused dedicated an entire issue to Japanese and Asian pop culture. Everyone treats it like a passing fad — Kyary Pamyu Pamyu, AKB48, Tempura Kidz, all of it. They brought in the Korean couple from Eat Your Kimchi, the roboticist Shigeo Hirose, photographer and director Mika Ninagawa. It’s what you grab when Western mainstream culture starts feeling like the same thing recycled endlessly.
Cooler is for snowboarders and skaters, not for me. But it doesn’t try to reach everyone, and that’s why it works. Helena Long’s skating story, a long piece on Melbourne, Enni Rukajärvi grinning in photos. The obsession is obvious.
FRONT doesn’t pretend to be anything it isn’t. There’s celebrity content — Keith Lemon, Jack Whitehall, Roll Deep talking favorite party tracks, Ghostface Killah, Sheek Louch in the pages. But the real draw is seventy-three spreads of naked women, and you’re not pretending otherwise. There’s something refreshing about that level of honesty.
VICE sent people into Syria while everyone else was looking away. They came back with pieces on mutilated bodies under Assad, some hellish Disneyland someone built there, refugees scattered into Lebanon. The war doesn’t touch most people’s lives — you’ve got your own falling apart, school calling about attendance, the usual collapse. VICE went anyway and reported what doesn’t make the evening news.
Purple is Olivier Zahm’s magazine, which means it carries his slightly perverted sensibility through every page. I’ve read his breakup blog posts, so I recognize the voice — direct, beautiful, not trying to be friendly. The current issue has Rei Kawakubo, Peter Beard, Richard Prince. It stays with you.
What gets me about Karl Lagerfeld’s interviews is how unfiltered they are. Someone asked if fashion people are less stupid these days, and he didn’t give some diplomatic answer. He said yeah, they’re less stupid now. Then he said fashion is basically the only thing that works in France anymore, and drew a comparison about having a daughter in a profession politicians don’t want to acknowledge. He wasn’t trying to be funny. Just true.
I have nothing to do with fashion. It’s as far from my world as space travel is from his. But I read his interviews more carefully than anyone else’s—more carefully than I probably read anything, honestly. They feel like thinking instead of performing.
When they asked how he celebrates Christmas, he said nobody stays in Paris anyway. The work calendar in haute couture runs December through January, so he’s home working while everyone else is gone. No family, no obligations. He called it the height of luxury. Not wistfully. As fact. Someone pushed, asked if his staff ever comes by, and he said no. He doesn’t want that kind of dependence, doesn’t blur work and family. Everyone should have their own life.
This is why I hate standard interviews. The questionnaire format: ’What’s your favorite band?’ ’Which country did you love?’ ’When’s the new project?’ Non-questions built for non-answers. No one’s thinking. But an interview can actually be a conversation—something real comes out.
If he were sitting across from me, I don’t know what I’d ask. Not the easy questions. Not the ones that have been asked a hundred times. Just something real.
There’s something about Japanese design that doesn’t feel like design — it just looks like the only way something could possibly be made. The restraint, the details, the refusal to explain itself. You start noticing it everywhere: in tools you use every day, in what filmmakers and artists are reaching for. It’s not a discovery, but it comes in waves. Right now feels like one of those moments.
2012 pop music didn’t want to commit to anything. Gangnam Style proved the internet could make a song more inescapable than the industry ever could, and that became the blueprint — just mash everything together and see what sticks. Adele had 21. Drake was doing Drake things. EDM somehow started bleeding into songs that never asked for it. The whole year felt like a collage that worked by accident.
Looking back, that’s probably why I remember it. It wasn’t the peak of anything, just chaos in motion. The moment before the machinery figured out how to package the new rules. Everything felt raw and unfocused in a way that made it more real than the carefully coordinated stuff that came before or after.
I don’t care about celebrity gossip. Never have. The stories blur together—who’s sleeping with whom, who got caught, whose career survives the scandal. It all just passes by. But one detail stuck with me inexplicably: someone found out his girlfriend had been with twenty different people in a single year.
It was some tabloid thing. The guy went public about it, called it disgusting, said it was all for her career or whatever rationalization celebrities use. People chose sides. Someone posted a cutting remark. The usual digital theater. I didn’t care about any of them—the boyfriend, the girlfriend, the drama. But the number wouldn’t leave me alone. Twenty. In a year.
So I got a piece of paper and actually counted.
Jonas in January at my sister’s birthday party. Kenan in March, met him on a boat. Then Yasin and Steffen in April—Steffen I already knew. Denis in July, that started as a casual dinner date. Frank in August, someone I met online and didn’t particularly click with beyond that one night. Robert last month. Seven. Seven different people across twelve months.
When I wrote it down, it looked like more than it had felt like while it was happening. In the moment, each one seemed separate, disconnected from the others. Exciting or disappointing or just something that happened. There was no plan, no goal to hit a number. It just accumulated.
Here’s the thing though: nobody’s going to judge me for seven. If I told people I slept with seven different women in a year, the reaction would range from indifference to a knowing nod to maybe a dumb smirk. There’s no shame attached to it, no questions asked about my character. A woman with that same list gets a very different treatment—whispers, assumptions, moral inventory. It’s unfair and obvious.
But that doesn’t actually settle the question of what’s right or normal. Not for me. The lack of judgment doesn’t make the number feel any more or less meaningful. Seven still sits there on that piece of paper, and I still don’t know if it’s reasonable or excessive or exactly what someone does when they’re living their life without a particular plan.
Twenty felt like it belonged to someone famous, someone with a different kind of life entirely. Seven just felt like me. But I don’t know what’s supposed to feel like anything at all.
The New York Post is tabloid pure — the American BILD, built to sell scandal. When the real sensational stuff won’t fly, you angle the story until something horrible looks marketable. Newspapers need readers; readers need outrage.
Ki Suk Han was 58. A father. A husband. Last night he was pushed onto the subway tracks by a man nobody knew. A photographer named R. Umar Abbasi was standing there. He got the final seconds on film — the moment before the train came.
The Post put it on the cover.
Not a photograph of the man who pushed him. Not a photo of Ki Suk Han alive, remembered. Just those last seconds, documented and sold.
Twitter reacted the way it always does for something like this. People losing their minds. “Shame on you, you contemptible pseudo-humans,” someone wrote. Another said the Post wasn’t a real newspaper. Another pointed out that the photographer had time to take multiple shots but not to help.
And here’s where it gets complicated. Abbasi claimed he was trying to warn the driver with his camera flash, to force them to stop, because he knew he couldn’t pull the man up himself. The Post ran that explanation. Maybe it’s even true. But who can prove otherwise?
What it shows is how far newspapers are willing to push now that print is dying. They need that image, need that cover, need something raw enough to move papers one more time. So they use it. Then you wonder what the BILD or the Post will do next, when this stops working too.
I hate the cold. Everything about it — the dark months, the way ice crusts form on your face when you breathe, how your body just gives up. So Norilsk feels like a personal affront. It’s a Russian industrial city three hundred kilometers north of the Arctic Circle, built because there’s nickel and palladium in the ground and someone in Moscow decided extracting it was worth the cost. Right now it’s roughly minus forty Celsius. The people there aren’t hiding inside. They’re going to work, to school, moving through their day like the temperature is just weather.
The city sits on a plateau surrounded by mountains, in landscape that looks less like home and more like a test of endurance. It was founded in the 1930s as a Soviet industrial project, which is a polite way of saying the labor camps did most of the construction. Gorlag — one of the gulag system’s network. There’s history built into the bones of the place that you can feel even from a distance. Modern Norilsk is this strange thing: Soviet brutalism mixed with the everyday reality of people raising families, going to school, maintaining lives in a place that seems engineered to break them.
There’s something both grim and fascinating about that resilience. Humans adapt to almost anything. We’ll build cities in places that should be uninhabitable. We’ll stay in them. I can barely manage a snowstorm in a city designed for winter. These people are building lives at minus forty.
For a while, if you were curious or foolish enough, you could visit. See the Soviet architecture, walk through the industrial landscape, understand what it actually feels like to be that far north. But a few years ago Russia closed the borders to foreign visitors. They didn’t explain why. Maybe they wanted to keep the extreme places strange and unreachable. Or maybe they just thought: why let tourists come complain about the cold?
Kyouhei moved to Berlin because Tokyo wasn’t holding his attention anymore. He’s a photographer—women, dogs, trees—the kind of thing that could be a career if he wanted it to be. Right now he works at a restaurant called Smart Deli. He was born in Okayama in 1988, lived in Tokyo for a while, then decided to leave. I like that he didn’t overthink it.
I met him because I’m moving to Tokyo next year for a project called FRIENDS IN TOKYO, and I can’t speak Japanese. He needs German. So we made an arrangement: he teaches me Japanese, I teach him German, we meet up a couple times a week and sort out the whole language barrier thing together.
This is not working. We sit down with our coffee and within five minutes we’re talking in English about Berghain or cheeseburgers or Mount Fuji. Sometimes one of us remembers we’re supposed to be learning and asks “How do you say that?” and we both feel briefly productive. Then we’re back to conversation that isn’t going anywhere in particular.
I’m a bad student. He’s not a great teacher. Neither of us really understands what tandem learning is supposed to look like. We just meet up and let the afternoon happen. Ninety-nine percent talking, one percent language acquisition. Or possibly it’s the reverse and I’m just not noticing.
Maybe this is fine. We’re not getting fluent in anything, but we’re getting something.
Nick Hook doesn’t make much of anything. His electronic work lives in restraint—silence, space, precise placement, nothing wasted. Sirens carries that same DNA. Minimal, exact, demanding. It’s not background music.
CoverFlow is finally dead and I’m genuinely happy about it. Apple ditched it in iTunes 11 along with Ping and Party Shuffle — basically every feature I’d been disabling the second I upgraded. So opening iTunes 11, I wasn’t expecting much, but something felt different. Maybe this one would actually work.
The first hour was panic. Where’s the sidebar? What happened to the interface? Everything was wrong and shiny in that specific Apple way that makes you want to immediately downgrade. But I let it sit for a few days instead of reacting, and by day three it made sense. You stop expecting the old layout to come back and you realize it’s just clean and fast.
Everyone’s on Spotify now, which is fine, but I can’t do that. My taste is too weird for their algorithms — not in a precious way, just literally, most of what I listen to doesn’t exist on Spotify. And beyond that I need to own it. I know that sounds insane in a subscription era, like some aging music collector, but it’s how I feel. I’ve got thousands of songs on this computer and I want them offline, actually mine, not hostage to whatever subscription model they switch to next. iTunes is where they live. So when Apple finally cleared out all the garbage — no more Party Shuffle, no more Ping, no more CoverFlow — and left something that actually works, fast and simple and clean, it felt like they were paying attention for once.
“On the day I said no to Terry Richardson, my career ended,” someone posted anonymously on Fashion Industry Confessions. That’s where it started. People writing from inside the industry—models, photographers, assistants, interns—posting the stuff that never makes it past the publicist. Harassment disguised as mentorship. Design theft. The constant casual viciousness between competitors.
Not shocking. Everyone who knows the fashion world knows how it operates. But reading it in strangers’ voices, specific and unfiltered, does something different. “A colleague’s sweat started reeking under the backstage lights.” “My boss packed eight stolen Balenciaga pieces into a bag for his next collection.” Small moments of wreckage described like they don’t matter. Because inside the industry, they don’t.
The Tumblr stayed up longer than similar accounts elsewhere. Kept getting fed information by insiders. Some real stories broke—collaborations nobody wanted public, secrets the industry actually cared about keeping secret. That made people angry. Not shocked. Angry that the performance finally cracked.
As a designer, I’m close enough to this world to see how it works but far enough to walk away if I needed to. The confessions didn’t tell me anything new. But something felt different reading it all spelled out plainly, like everyone was just tired of the pretense.
If you don’t know who Skrillex is, you missed a weird five-year window when dubstep bass drops felt dangerous and every teenager was dancing to “Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites” in a basement somewhere. He was briefly everywhere, then he wasn’t, and now he’s just another name from the 2010s that some kid’s older brother still thinks is cool.
At some point he made a video game. Skrillex Quest—it’s basically the original Legend of Zelda in 3D, except you’re saving a kingdom from glitching apart while his greatest hits play in the background. Monster fights, puzzles, the whole Zelda structure but wrapped in Skrillex branding.
There’s something funny about musicians making games. You’d think someone who understands rhythm and composition could translate that into game design, but music and games are different beasts. One is about the moment hitting you right, the other is about systems and choices and mechanical flow. Skrillex Quest doesn’t pretend otherwise—it’s a fan service project, nothing more. Here’s a 3D Zelda game with dubstep layered on top.
What gets me is the shamelessness of it. The game knows exactly what it is. It’s mining two separate pools of nostalgia—Zelda and early-2010s Skrillex—and it doesn’t apologize. Just puts them together and sees if it lands. Sometimes that kind of honesty is worth more than whatever pretense you’d expect from a “serious” project.
Fashion television from Harajuku feels like watching people refuse to compromise with adulthood. Every frame is color, every outfit an argument against restraint. What gets me is that it’s not ironic — these designers genuinely believe in putting twenty things together and making it feel necessary rather than excessive. You see it and you either get it or you don’t, and if you don’t, that’s sort of the point. It’s not aspiration made palatable. It’s just girls being girls, in the most maximalist way possible.
Holiday lookbooks hit different in December. You’re scrolling through carefully styled images, and the mood carries more weight than the actual clothes. The color palette, the composition, the way each piece relates to the others—it all creates a feeling before any purchase. You look at someone’s December vision and think: I want to exist in that light. Maybe that’s all a lookbook really does: it sells you permission to feel a certain way.
Flying Lotus makes you work for it. The layers don’t announce themselves — they accumulate. You hear a thing for the first time around the third listen, or you hear a rhythm you thought was percussion and realize it’s something else entirely. It’s why his stuff rewards the kind of attention most music doesn’t ask for anymore, the kind where you’re not just background-processing while you do something else. There’s a generosity in that, actually — he respects your ear enough to not spell everything out. The complexity isn’t showing off. It’s just what he heard and had to get down.
The car was white with black accents and bright red wings — a special limited-edition Smart designed by Jeremy Scott for Mercedes. They threw a premiere party for it at the Jim Henson Studios, which seemed perfect for something so absurd. I went to Los Angeles for one night to see it.
Los Angeles always feels like two places at once. Dirty, with that fake-set quality to it, but also genuinely creative, full of people trying to do something real. The weather was hot and randomly windy, sometimes rainy. The people were surprisingly kind — the actual help-you kind, not the polite performance. Everyone seemed genuinely willing to talk or point you in the right direction if you got lost.
The party was this random assortment. Fashion people, music people, models, kids in streetwear, all mixed together in a way that wouldn’t happen anywhere else. M.I.A. played a short set. Frank Ocean was somewhere in the mix. Jeremy Scott seemed like someone who finds the whole thing amusing rather than serious — sympathetic, a little odd, not taking any of it too hard. Mark from The Cobra Snake was shooting photos constantly, documenting all these different worlds colliding in one room. Champagne and small sandwiches. That LA thing where you’re never sure how all these people ended up in the same space, but while you’re there it feels normal.
The next morning we went to the LA Auto Show. Car companies parking their latest designs, pretty people handing out branded sunglasses and CDs. Then a nice restaurant in Santa Monica, shopping on the main strip, small talk with salespeople, imported coconut milk from Jamaica, Christmas carolers asking for donations in the middle of spring. That crash after the night before is always sudden.
Los Angeles is full of things that never quite materialize — limited editions that stay limited, collaborations that sound better in press releases. The Smart eventually came out in some modified form in 2013, and I have no idea if anyone actually bought one. What stayed with me was the randomness of it. You go for the car, you get M.I.A. and Frank Ocean and a bunch of strangers, and somehow that’s LA in one night. That’s what the city is actually good at.
Cudi’s music always sounds like transmission from somewhere else. There’s a loneliness in his voice that doesn’t perform or ask permission—it just sits there, heavy. And wanting someone to teleport to you is the realest kind of desperate, the three-in-the-morning kind, when nothing ordinary will fix it.
Nothing lasts forever, especially not a campaign you’ve been half-watching for years. Represent was always about that thing sneakers actually do better than any other fashion item — they’re honest. You wear them, they get beat up, they tell a story that doesn’t lie. An Adidas finale feels like closing a chapter on something smaller but genuine, one last moment before whatever comes next takes over. Another thing that was, and then it wasn’t.
There’s a list in my head of things worth doing, or at least worth sitting with. Nothing particularly coherent. Some serious, some absurd, all of them lodged in there somehow.
Legalizing weed in my region. I keep thinking about it because California did it and youth crime fell, whether that’s cause or just correlation I’m not sure, but the logic feels sound — treat people like adults and something shifts. I don’t have a plan. It’s just something I turn over.
Animals suffering and needing comfort that they can’t ask for. That one actually matters, unlike most of these. You find something hurting and you give it what it needs: touch, words, a moment of presence. It’s the bare minimum and it counts.
Yoko Ono made fashion for men. I think about wearing it not for the Yoko mystique but for the deliberate strangeness of it — clothes that make you refuse to disappear into the crowd. You don’t need reasons beyond that.
Give money to people who share your name. Just a euro, no explanation. The specificity is perfect. The weird closeness of handing cash to a stranger because you both happened to get the same name at birth.
The shirtless gif that lives in my head. Make it, post it, let it sit there forever. I know what it looks like — vanity, exhibitionism. I also know the vulnerability underneath, the stupid freedom of doing something pointless and making it permanent anyway. I can’t fully talk myself out of it.
Feeding homeless people. I did it once, halfway through. Sandwiches, beer, cash. It’s the minimum and it doesn’t feel like enough and you do it anyway because what else are you going to do.
There’s Lindsay Lohan wet, and I’m not going to be coy about what that image does. Desire, celebrity, disaster, watching someone burn in real time. What does that feeling actually point to? What am I seeing when I see that?
Luxembourg. Nobody thinks about it and almost nobody goes. I keep thinking I should go there for no reason at all.
The Israel-Palestine thing dressed up as absurdist peace proposal: erase the borders, tell both sides they’re one people, problem solved. Except borders only exist because everyone agrees they do. If that agreement broke, they’d vanish. It won’t happen, but the thought is clean.
Matching tattoo with your best friend. Something dumb — a heart, a tree, a drunk care bear. It’s only permanent if you don’t regret it, and you don’t regret it if you decide not to. That kind of commitment to closeness, disguised as a joke. I like that impulse.
Why do we keep showing up? The whole stupid routine—getting ready at some awful hour, the cold, standing in the dark pretending to care while people dance. But we know why. Girls. Drunk girls, bored girls, girls thinking about something else while the music plays.
Nicholas Gazin figured it out as an artist. He wanders New York finding the right parties and just watches. Girls drinking, eating, half-asleep, thinking dark things while their friends ignore them. Not trying to talk to them or impress them—just looking. That’s the whole point.
There’s something honest about it, even if it’s a little creepy. It’s not romance or seduction or any of that staged stuff. It’s just that women in their own space, not performing, are endlessly more interesting to watch. The way they forget their faces when drunk. The way they get mean or quiet or loud without calculating it. That’s what drags you out of your apartment into the freezing dark.
His work captures this exactly—just the pure attention you can’t help paying when you’re around someone beautiful because she isn’t trying to be.
The beige envelope arrives. Registered mail. Inside is letterhead, legal language, a demand: you used this image illegally. Pay two to ten thousand euros. Most bloggers don’t know copyright law. They don’t want to hire a lawyer just to find out if they’re wrong. So they pay.
A law firm in Germany built a business model around this. They sent out hundreds of these letters — five hundred or more — claiming copyright violations and demanding money. The trick was simple: they didn’t actually own most of the image rights they were claiming. But they knew that most people wouldn’t call them on it. They’d just see the formal letter, the stamp, the money, and cave. And if someone was stupid enough to negotiate instead of paying, the firm would work out a “deal.” Either way, the firm made money off fear.
Matthias Winks got one of these letters. Seven thousand five hundred euros for a Nathan Sawaya photo he’d used. He looked into it. The claim was baseless. Instead of paying, he did something rarer: he filed a criminal complaint against the firm for fraud and extortion. He went to the police, not back to the lawyers.
What makes this matter is that it’s a reversal. Most people just take the hit because fighting is expensive and time-consuming. But Winks decided the firm was counting on exactly that — on people being too worn down to push back. So he pushed back. And now other bloggers are filing complaints too. Maybe enough of them file that someone with actual authority starts looking at what this firm has been doing and decides it’s not just aggressive lawyering. It’s fraud.
I don’t know if Winks will actually win. But I know that the moment someone stops just paying the letter and starts filing criminal complaints, the whole equation changes.
Saw them live once and the thing that mattered was how they actually played together, three of them listening and responding instead of running through a choreographed thing. Their guitars were loud and obvious, not buried under production. Just people in a room playing.
The title appeals to me because it sounds like a statement of fact, not a cry for help. There’s something steady about that. Most pop music is built on needing something from you, your attention or your sympathy or your money. HAIM’s stuff just is. States a position and leaves it at that.
Friendly Fires came around when I needed permission to dance again—not in an indie-rock way, but to actually move, full commitment, no irony. Their first album was gloss and momentum. I lived in it for months. They stopped making records that mattered to me after that, but those early ones still feel like the best version of a Friday night: alone, apartment, something good playing, knowing that’s enough.
I was listening to some people talk about anime and something switched. They were riffing on different shows—Girls und Panzer, Sword Art Online, Space Brothers—and hearing them get excited about it made me remember why this stuff matters. Anime does something. The earnest and ridiculous at the same time, all that unreal intensity you can’t find anywhere else.
So I downloaded three series for a flight coming up. SAO because you have to know what the argument’s about at this point. Girls und Panzer because it has no right to work—tank battles and cute girls and somehow it just does. Space Brothers because I heard it’s actually good and also slow, which is what you want when you’re stuck in a seat for hours.
There’s that moment when you realize you’ve been waiting to get interested in something again. Not hunting for it, just waiting. Someone mentions a show and suddenly you’re downloading at midnight like you’re a kid again.
Drunk high schoolers screaming Yolo before stepping in front of a truck while David Guetta plays — that’s what Germany’s official youth word of the year represents. You only live once, and apparently that’s the defining slang of a generation.
The voting’s been happening for years. Swag won before Yolo. Before that came Niveaulimbo, Gammelfleischparty, Hartzen. It’s basically adults and kids sitting in a room trying to codify whatever slang is currently cool, which means by definition it’s already dated. You can’t vote language into being; you can only document what’s already moving on.
The runner-ups that year were perfect examples: FU (For Ute, or fuck you). Yalla (hurry up). Wulffen, which somehow covers spam-calling someone, lying, and mooching off people. Komasutra for drunken sex. The pattern is clear — most of these words are either meaningless or so specific to one scene that regular teenagers have never heard them.
There’s something honest about how obviously the whole thing fails. The adults are guessing, the panels are theater, and the words that win are pure accidents. I watched it happen every year knowing it was adults performing understanding while kids performed being understood, and somehow both sides were fine with the fake.
The only genuinely interesting outcome would be if Kottsen or Fingerdisco actually made the ballot. Words crude enough to cut through the theater, specific enough to mean something. But that can’t happen — the whole point is maintaining plausible deniability that any of this is real. Once something actually matters, you lose the game.
Lazy Oaf’s always been about graphic abundance—tees with personality, collaborations that barely make sense, visual chaos. A capsule collection is funny because it’s the opposite of that, all restraint and essentials. But there’s something to it. You strip everything back and see what’s actually solid, what works when the excess is gone. For Lazy Oaf, that’s probably where the real taste lives—underneath the noise.
Went to the Journelles launch. Room full of girls, designers and writers and photographers—everyone dressed with intention, music that didn’t get in the way. Fashion blogging still felt important then, felt like it was saying something about style and identity rather than just moving inventory. Maybe I’m generous in hindsight, but that night the room felt like something real was happening.
Rebecca Black was thirteen when the internet decided to make an example of her. “Friday” went viral in that special awful way, and everyone with a keyboard felt permission to join in. Most people don’t survive that. You either disappear or you double down and never escape it. She did neither. She made music, something actual and good, and over time earned the kind of respect that matters — from people who know what they’re listening to. There’s no redemption arc here. It’s just what happens when someone refuses to be erased.
I kept hunting for “Gangnam Style” on sketchy sites—low-res copies plastered with ads, usually deleted before you finished watching. GEMA had locked the video in Germany. Google wouldn’t meet their licensing demands, so most of YouTube’s biggest videos just vanished for us. Not technically censored. Just gone.
PSY’s dance hit 800 million views everywhere else. By the time I found a decent version here, it was ancient. The moment had moved on. And when you did locate something watchable, it would be down again within days.
The depressing part wasn’t the drama of it—just the grinding, stupid consequence. Two organizations couldn’t work out licensing, and we got quietly cut off. Everyone else was making their own versions, learning the dance. We were squinting through forum links and low-res mirrors.
You just started accepting it as normal. You’d hear about something going viral and already know it would be blocked before you searched. Germany felt like an increasingly isolated corner of the internet, not for any good reason—just two companies too stubborn to figure it out.
Disaronno has that unmistakable almond sweetness that lands somewhere between dessert and actual liqueur, the kind of drink that tastes nothing like sophistication and everything like the kind of night where you’re young enough to think sophistication matters. The bottle’s iconic, too — that squat apricot-colored thing with the wrapper around the neck, instantly recognizable even when you’re squinting at a bar shelf in bad lighting. It tastes like something someone’s older friend bought for a party, something that made you feel like you were getting away with something. It’s smooth enough that it goes down dangerously easy, sweet enough that you can pretend you’re not really drinking, which is its whole trick. The Italians knew what they were doing with this one.
Clemens Poloczek went back to the Black Forest with Rampa, an old friend, to film what the creative process actually looks like. They shot in the natural, empty spaces of his hometown. The work is just process—searching and thinking and moving the camera, not some polished finished thing. Not performance. A photographer returning to where he’s from with someone he trusts, and the work is simply documenting what that looks like. What you actually do when you’re making something.
The three stripes are so common you forget they’re a design. Berlin’s got this way of making you look at famous things differently. An Adidas night, the Originals, heritage branding—it should be corny, right? But something about the city and the history and the people who actually care about the shape of things made it feel earned, made it feel real.
Jessie Ware has always been direct about what she wants. No metaphors, no protective distance. She’ll build a whole song around something as simple as “if you love me” and make it feel like the most honest question she could ask. There’s something about her voice—a slight rasp, the way she commits to a note—that makes vulnerability sound like strength.
It’s autumn, it’s gray, it’s cold. Someone at a party gave me their virus and now I’m stuck at home, coughing while everyone else is at Watergate getting wasted. I had plans. I wanted to go out. But here I am.
The Useless Web sends me to random pointless websites I’d never visit otherwise. I waste an hour clicking through. I look at old photos of Lindsay Lohan from before everything got weird—back when I thought she was cute. It hits different looking back. Steam’s having a sale where forty-euro games are five bucks. I buy a bunch of stuff I’ll never play and feel like I got a deal, which is enough when my brain’s full of phlegm.
I don’t do anything illegal. Last thing I need is cops confiscating my Winnie-the-Pooh laptop. I drink so much tea I taste like an herb garden. If I’m stupid enough to feel fine, I go to a trashy disco anyway. Probably won’t happen but sometimes it does.
Better move: invite someone over. Hot water bottles, melted cheese, Entourage on my laptop under blankets. If it’s someone I want and the warmth and proximity turns into sex—sweaty and rushed and desperate in that good way—that’s not a bad sick day. I could ask my grandfather if he wants to cover my modeling gigs next week. He’s got the figure. More realistically, I’m grateful I don’t have a boyfriend right now. Mary-Kate Olsen’s probably feeling the same thing.
The last one: I do this exact same thing whether I’m sick or not. That’s the depressing part. That’s what gets me.
The pink dress matters because it solves something real—how to belong in a rich school without selling out. Made from her mother’s curtains, assembled by someone who actually has to think about money. Molly Ringwald’s aesthetic is honest in a way designer clothes never are. I’ve been thinking about design for twenty years and the rule still holds: the best style statements aren’t decoration, they’re argument.
You click. A blog loses. You click again, and another one’s gone. It’s weirdly satisfying even though you’ve never actually read either one. You’re judging based on a screenshot, a design choice, maybe a vibe. You know this means nothing. You keep clicking.
Blog Battle was a simple website with a simple premise: take the “Hot or Not” formula that rated people’s appearance and apply it to blogs. Two sites appear on your screen. You pick one. It gets a point. The loser drops down the rankings. Thousands of people voted. Most of them probably never read the blogs in question.
What’s interesting is how fast the fashion blogging community split on it. Some people found it genuinely fun — addictive even. Others saw it immediately as a mechanism for cruelty. And they were both right. It was fun precisely because it was cruel. It gave permission to judge without consequence, to rate people based on nothing real, to feel productive while ranking your peers.
The voting never measured anything meaningful. Everyone’s in different feeds, following different people, exposed to different content. A screenshot says almost nothing about actual work or writing or the person behind it. But that didn’t matter. The system had momentum. Within days, some bloggers were organizing their followers to vote them up the rankings. Within weeks, it had devolved into the thing everyone feared: personal attacks disguised as aesthetic judgment. That girl stole my idea, so I’m voting to tank her ranking. She got a feature I didn’t, so her site deserves to lose.
When the backlash got serious, the operators tried to soften it. They killed the loser list, kept only the winners visible. But that missed the actual problem. The problem wasn’t the scorecard. The problem was the design itself — a tool that reduces people to a voting mechanism, that turns a community into a tournament. You can call it fun all you want, but what you’ve built is permission to judge without knowledge, to rank without understanding, to feel superior without earning it.
What stays with me is how quickly it normalized. We joke about ranking everything online, but when someone actually builds the tool, we don’t hesitate. We click. We vote. We check the rankings. We know it’s meaningless and we do it anyway. That disconnect between what we know and what we do — that’s the real story. The website was just the mirror.
Journelles launched with that specific Berlin energy—people who actually knew something about fashion coming together to write about it without the usual desperation. Jessie already had credibility as a writer, and they brought in Alexa, Hanna, Julia, Kerstin. It was backed properly. This was a real thing.
The launch party at Picknick Berlin was the kind of event that said something about how web culture had shifted. They had actual music, actual people. Palina Rojinski was there, Kim Kong DJing. It was the kind of event you threw for a blog when you wanted to say it mattered—like you’d throw for an album or a film.
What stuck with me about Journelles was that it didn’t have the hunger most fashion blogs carried. Everyone just knew their subject and wrote about it. No performance, no reaching.
I never made it to the party. But I watched what Journelles became, and it was solid. The blog did the work without any of the usual fashion-media nonsense. That was enough.
Florence Welch’s music has always worked at that scale where intimacy becomes operatic. Lover to Lover is about the specific moment when another person actually sees you—that collapse of distance on stage or off it. Her voice reaches for something just beyond the melody, and it’s hard not to feel addressed personally. She sings to you the way someone does when they’re actually looking.
I stood in an arena for three hours waiting for Rihanna to show up, and by hour three the crowd was actively fantasizing about murder. She arrived eventually and went through the setlist exactly as expected — ballads, dance tracks, the standard formula. My legs hurt. My drink vouchers were exhausted. Congo Rock was the opener and they were actually good, the kind of band I would’ve loved discovering in a basement club at 3 a.m. instead of here.
Willy came with me. I ran into Jessie and her boyfriend. We talked to someone about flea markets and savings accounts, which is what happens when you’re trying to kill time at an event like this. The actual winners — the fans who’d legitimately won their tickets — were ecstatic. That part felt real.
The best part was two tiny Asian women standing in front of me, couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, who knew every single lyric and jumped around like they were losing their minds the whole show. They filmed everything on a camera held above their heads because they couldn’t see otherwise. That’s the kind of pure fan devotion that makes you want to physically carry someone to the front row and hand them every backstage pass in existence. They’d earned it.
So Rihanna, since I know you read everything written about you online: if you’re going to make people stand around for three hours and then open with garbage club music, at least make it worth their time. Show me something real. Your right breast, specifically. Or write me a song about how great you think I am. That’s the deal.
The Adidas Originals campaign had this closing event in Berlin, some club called Alte Münze, where they were going to hold a ceremony for the winning teams. Teams that had spent months competing for the right to be celebrated as transcendent beings or whatever the brief said. It was the kind of thing that usually feels empty — brand activation, content, a way to get young people interested in shoes — but I went to the earlier event in Munich and it didn’t feel empty then.
That was at the start of the campaign. We hung around with people from Frontline Shop, from Blonde, from Art School Vets. Did stupid things that felt necessary at the time. And there was this hostess, Negar, who I was flirting with successfully enough that I actually believed it was working, that something was happening. The kind of moment where you think: this might be the start of something. It wasn’t. I never messaged her. Still think about it.
The Berlin party had music — Jinjin & The Ragdolls, Dreea, Sarah Farina — and the usual celebrities and personalities jumping around. Marcus Staiger. MC Fitti. Bonnie Strange. But it didn’t have the same charge. Maybe it was just that the novelty had worn off. Maybe I was already nostalgic for the Munich night before Berlin even happened.
What stays is that moment with Negar. Not the party, not the brand, not the winning teams. Just her, and the belief — false as it turned out — that I could be charming in a real way.
Ellie Goulding builds these spiraling synth lines that go nowhere and everywhere at once. I remember driving at night with one of her songs playing, thinking about how repetition can feel like progress if you’re not paying attention. There’s something mechanical but honest about the way she loops and layers. Maybe that’s what a figure eight is—the same circle twice, which means you’re back where you started but somehow different.
In 2012, Snoop just stopped pretending and became Snoop Lion. The reggae turn seemed ridiculous until you heard it and realized he’d found something that actually worked. “La La La La La” is almost nothing—just him whistling and repeating the same notes, a hook so simple it feels like a joke. But that was the point. He’d already won everything, already been the icon and the force. He could afford to just disappear into what he actually wanted to make, no apologies, no narrative. He’d earned the right to make a song that’s basically a joke and have it work anyway.
Being sick is the only permission you need to watch entire series without guilt. No productivity, no apologies, just fever and pills and endless play buttons. You infect the pizza delivery guy, pull the blanket up, and disappear into something that doesn’t demand anything of you.
I’m rewatching Cowboy Bebop right now in that exact state—Japanese audio, English subtitles, half-medicated and floating. It’s not my first time through, and that matters. The show doesn’t get old; you just get older watching it, and it hits different every time. This time it’s hitting during a headache I can barely think through, which somehow makes the whole thing more vivid.
The show’s been around long enough that I don’t need to explain it. Spike and Jet chasing bounties through a broken solar system, the Earth hostile below them, everything held together with duct tape and desperation. The moon’s been shattered. People colonized Mars and Venus and stuck themselves on outposts that feel less like homes and more like waiting rooms. There’s no hope anywhere in the framing, just necessity and bad decisions and the occasional moment of grace before it all collapses again.
What gets me is the music. Yoko Kanno wrote something that sounds like it’s from three different genres at once—jazz and rock and something that doesn’t have a name yet. The Seatbelts play “The Real Folk Blues” over the ending and I’m just sitting here fevered and destroyed, tears running down my face for reasons that have nothing to do with being sick. The song knows something about sadness that I can’t articulate. Maybe that’s the point.
The characters feel real in a way anime characters usually don’t. Ed’s intelligence hiding under childlike wonder. Faye’s hunger and damage and refusal to admit she’s lonely. Jet’s weariness. Spike’s impossible distance from everything, like he’s already dead and just going through the motions. I want to sit with them, play chess with Ed on some green field, drink with Faye until we can’t remember why we’re running. That’s not wanting to escape my life. That’s wanting to know people who know how to survive in a world that’s already over.
I’ve been thinking about MTV and VIVA showing anime in the late ’90s—that specific moment when the stuff you watched felt like a secret, like you were part of something no one else understood. Cowboy Bebop was in that space. It wasn’t aimed at you specifically; it just didn’t care if you were listening or not. It was too cool to try.
There’s a frame near the end where Spike’s walking away from something and the city is huge and empty behind him. That’s the show in one image. That’s how it feels to watch it now.
Being sick clears the schedule for this kind of thing—watching something that knows you don’t owe it attention, that understands loss is the baseline. You just lie there and let it move through you, and somehow that’s exactly what you need.
M.I.A. on the page reads differently than M.I.A. on screen. The visual chaos drops away, and what’s left is the thinking underneath — clearer, sometimes rawer. The formal noise that carries so much of her music can’t translate to prose. Instead you get something more direct: the biography, the politics, the vulnerability written out. It’s strange reading someone whose whole practice is built on sensory overload finally sit still long enough to explain herself.
Watched Posse again the other night — that 1993 Mario Van Peebles film where the whole mythology of the American west gets rewritten with Black gunslingers and outlaws at the center. It’s the kind of movie that feels more true than most accounts of actual history, which is probably the point. I’d forgotten how much fun it is, how unserious in the best way. The action’s a little stiff, the dialogue cracks, the villains are cartoonish. None of it matters because the film knows exactly what it’s doing: showing you a world where Black men get to be the cool ones, the dangerous ones, the ones in control. It’s been decades now and that still feels radical, which says something grim about cinema. I’m not going to pretend it’s a masterpiece, but it’s essential — one of those movies that does more than entertain. It reminds you what movies are actually for.
There’s something defiant about watching someone who refuses to apologize for being too much. Nicki has this way of occupying space — both physically in a frame and in the culture — that doesn’t ask permission. The bars, the persona shifts, the wigs, the unapologetic sexuality and ambition. She never sounds like she’s trying to fit into rap; she sounds like rap had to make room. I think what gets me is that she’s never performed modesty. She’s never softened her edges to make anyone more comfortable, and there’s something liberating about watching an artist at that level just commit completely to being exactly who she is, flaws and all, and dare you to look away.
Duckie’s jacket, Andie’s thrifted dress, the whole midwest-goth aesthetic of it — I keep coming back to this movie because it’s one of the few eighties films that understood that clothes are armor and expression at the same time. Molly Ringwald’s character cobbles together her identity from what she can find, and there’s something real in that desperation. The movie sells the romance to you, but what stays with me is the feeling of being on the outside, of wanting something you can’t have, of thinking if you just had the right outfit or said the right thing it would matter. It mattered to me then. It still does, different now — not the longing for someone specific, but the longing to be seen as someone worth seeing. The film gets that. It never pretends the clothes are just clothes.
Das Racist was doing something I didn’t see coming — hip-hop that was self-aware without being cynical, funny without winking at the camera. The duo understood that the best joke is the one delivered straight-faced. They made music that made you think about what hip-hop was and could be, which sounds serious until you realize half the time they were just messing around.
I keep coming back to Sky Ferreira. There’s something about the way she makes longing sound like decoration — production so thin and cool it’s almost nothing, just enough space around her voice to make you listen harder. You’re never quite sure if she’s looking at you or through you, and I think that’s exactly the point.
Tokyo gets into people differently than Berlin does. Berlin can ruin you—it’s the first good city for a lot of people, the one that makes you realize you can actually leave home and be happy somewhere. But Tokyo is something else. Teresa came back from Tokyo a few years ago talking about it like she’d taken acid, like something in her neurology had permanently shifted. Kiki’s there now and her messages have the same quality—this glazed, half-present tone of someone who’s been fundamentally rewired. She keeps sending photos of subway stations and vending machines and apologizing for how these things mean nothing to anyone else. That’s how you know it’s real.
I can’t get there. Not right now. The money isn’t there, the time isn’t there. But Berlin’s doing this thing in November called the Japarade, this whole festival built around Japan, and I’m going to go even though I know it won’t be the same. It’ll have exhibitions, performances, food, artists like Satoshi Fujiwara and Maki Shimizu. All the people who’ve actually been inside the thing that made Kiki and Teresa the way they are now. And me standing in a room full of objects and ideas pointing toward a place I can’t afford to go.
The weird part is I don’t even care anymore if it’ll actually help me understand Tokyo better. I just want to be in the room with people who understand why it matters. That seems like enough.
In a city like this you get lost fast. You’re drowning in a sea of lonely faces—everywhere you look, mouths and hands and breath, someone’s breath in your ear at the club. But then you find people who understand, who actually pull you back up, and you look at them and smile and they smile back and that’s when something clicks.
I’ve made peace with how I look in photos by now. Stopped blaming angles and light, started blaming stress and gray hair coming in and the bags under my eyes, which is at least honest. That terrible picture from the weekend doesn’t prove I wasted anything—it proves the opposite. It was exactly right. Right amount of chaos, right amount of rest, surprises mixed in.
Friday we danced at Luzia with A MILLION and Nike, with Wenke and Julia and Fanni and Paulchen and Meltem and Thang and Janos and Nadja and BJ. Then I needed the rest of the days to come down. Walks along the Spree with girls I actually like, talking about what comes next. Carrot cake from The Barn on a couch with good friends watching Indiana Jones. Sunrises from different windows. New music. Slipping into other people’s heads. The smell of everything.
You need days like that. Not optional. They keep you sane when the world’s moving this fast. You’re drowning in a crowd and everyone else is drowning too but then you find people who get it and they pull you back, and you look at them and smile, and they smile back.
I don’t know much about toy photography, but I know what I’m looking at when I see Brian McCarty’s work. He photographs plastic figures like they’re worth photographing — lights them properly, composes them carefully, gives them the attention you’d give to something you actually made. It’s changed how I think about the difference between an object and a subject.
I keep coming back to something that happened in Berlin in 2012. Refugee camp at the Brandenburg Gate. Ashkan Khorasani was there—Iranian, had walked from Würzburg with dozens of others. They set up tents and asked for something basic. Police came hard the first night, twenty vehicles, dogs, beatings. Then cold. Then nothing from the media for a month.
Then four women showed up with a stunt. Tits for Human Rights, they called it. Anne Helm, Anke Domscheit-Berg, Julia Schramm, Laura Dornheim. Invited reporters with the promise of seeing breasts. Reporters came. Breasts didn’t. Story went everywhere.
Laura Dornheim said something I can’t shake: “People starving themselves isn’t enough. It takes tits. Sex sells.” And she was right. The coverage flooded in the moment the nudity angle appeared. Suddenly opinions, suddenly photo ops, suddenly it was news.
Ashkan had something sharp about the language. “Flüchtling”—the German word for refugee. The “-ling” suffix diminishes it, makes it sound like weakness. He pushed back: “We’re not small. We’re strong. We eat nothing, we sleep outside in winter, and we’re strong.” There was exhaustion in it but also anger, the kind of clarity that comes from having nothing left to lose.
I don’t know how it ended. Whether they stayed and forced change or drifted away. Whether anything real shifted. But that moment—people fighting for basic rights needing to engineer a media stunt around nudity to be seen at all—that reveals everything about the machine, doesn’t it. About what moves us and what we have to be tricked into seeing.
Cro does something rare in German hip-hop—he’s introspective without being heavy, experimental without being difficult. The dude makes you want to move and think at the same time, which is harder than it sounds. His production is clean, melodic, a little melancholy, like he’s figured out how to make sadness catchy. I don’t speak German well enough to catch every line, but you don’t need to. The vibe carries.
Sky Ferreira makes things happen at a distance. She doesn’t announce it; she just appears somewhere unexpected—a collaboration, a visual, a sound nobody else would have made. That kind of artist, the ones who seem to actually be thinking rather than reacting to what thinking is supposed to look like. You know she’s good because she doesn’t need to tell you.
I’ve been around long enough that most hype just doesn’t land anymore. New bands, new venues, the same people losing their minds in some basement, and I’m at the bar writing “we’ve seen this all before” on a napkin and drinking until it doesn’t matter. But something about new web projects still hits different. That still makes my heart do something.
The Verge did something I couldn’t stop thinking about. They came out and made everything else look slow. They had the image, the certainty, writers who actually knew what they were doing, and they just erased a decade of other sites. The Verge showed what the internet could actually be. Design that felt like it wasn’t made in 1998. Writing with opinions. Everything moving at the speed of everything else online. Compared to that, German internet looked like a kindergarten craft project.
So when they said they were starting a gaming site, I lost it. I checked that preview page every day. I couldn’t stop wondering what they’d actually make.
Polygon launched this morning and it’s nothing like Kotaku or Destructoid or IGN. It looks like it came from somewhere else. The design breaks every rule everyone else is following, and it doesn’t guide you through it slowly—it just works. Chris Grant’s team isn’t easing anyone in or building a bridge. They’re just going. The goal is obvious: become a voice in this endless flood of blogs and sites and magazines. In English, that’s somehow even harder.
Even the trailers—trailers for a website, which people were quick to trash—felt right to me. That Silicon Valley thing, that documentary tone, that belief that you’re making something that matters. I’m always going to love that. And the actual writing, like that Dishonored piece, it’s good. Obviously it can be better, but it’s good.
If you care about games and you read English, Polygon’s going to be everywhere now. Too much to ignore. Too much being said that matters. Too much credibility building in real time. This is what everything else gets measured against now. Anyone launching something online is going to have to think about this.
M83’s ’Steve McQueen’ is that song that sounds like driving through an empty desert at night with the windows down, all synth wash and that lean, confident groove underneath. There’s something about pairing Olivier’s spacey, almost detached production with the coolness of McQueen’s name—the guy who barely needs to act, who just exists on screen and everyone stops talking. That’s the song. It doesn’t need to do much. It just moves forward, patient and self-assured, and you find yourself thinking about old cars and empty highways and the space between one place and somewhere else. No dramatics. Just presence.
Watched the Apple keynote. They announced an iPad mini, a new iMac, Mac mini, MacBook Pro. Each one looked perfect. Design at that level is almost offensive—it makes everything else look cheap.
I don’t need any of them. I know I don’t need them. But there’s that moment right after a keynote where I’m already holding one in my imagination, already deciding which coffee shop I’d work from, which friends I’d want to see me with it. The object hasn’t even shipped and I’m already three months into owning it.
It passes after a while, the wanting. I close the browser tab, move on to something else. But I remember what it felt like. That’s why they do the keynotes, I guess. Not to sell the thing itself—to sell that specific feeling of wanting something beautiful, something that seems like it would make me different somehow. Better organized. More serious. More me.
The weird part is understanding exactly how it works and still falling for it anyway. I’m a designer. I know how these things are put together—the choices about materials, about simplicity, about what you see and what you don’t. I can see through it. And I still want it. Knowing the trick doesn’t make you immune to the trick.
I’ve never been seduced by it badly enough to actually buy. But I’ve gotten close. Closer than I’d like to admit. And I’ll probably watch the next keynote too, knowing exactly what’s going to happen.
Blogging is what you actually love. Making money at it is nice. Reaching people is nice. Getting flown to events or having companies care about what you think—that’s an adrenaline hit. But the real reward, the thing that keeps you coming back, is putting something out into the world and watching what people do with it. The arguments. The passion, the hate, the debate that follows. That’s the addiction. That’s why you keep doing it.
Then the lawsuits started. German lawyers figured out that bloggers were publishing photos without permission and decided there was money in threatening them. Suddenly every image on my site was a liability. So I sat down and had to think: how do I keep this alive? How do I write about the things I care about without getting crushed by legal bills? The answer seemed obvious—just ask. Ask the photographers, ask the magazines, ask the agencies. Get permission. Get it in writing.
It sounds logical. It probably is logical. But nobody in that industry actually expects to be asked. The whole thing is built on the assumption that people will just take what they want and worry about it later, if at all. Still, I decided to do it right. I felt good about that decision. Genuinely good. Had a few beers about it.
Then the responses came in, or didn’t come in, or came so late it didn’t matter. A magazine owned the photos. There was a ninety-day embargo. Condé Nast has policies. Getty has departments. A photographer would write back saying sorry, all his work was licensed to a print magazine. And by the time any permissions actually landed, the story was old news. Everyone had already written it. The moment had passed.
The unknown photographers—the ones just breaking in—they got back to me fast. They were excited someone wanted to feature their work. Those became my reliable sources, the ones I’d feature again and again. But the big names, the work that actually drives readers? That’s controlled by agencies and magazines and lawyers, and they move at the speed of bureaucracy. Or they don’t move at all. Or they say no.
This is the cruel math of blogging right now: you can publish fast and break the law, which means maybe getting sued, which is catastrophic. Or you can publish slowly and legally, asking permission, building relationships with PR people and photographers, getting on their good side so they’ll actually send you files and approvals in something approaching real time. But “real time” by their standard is still slower than real time by yours. You’ll never be first if you’re asking for permission first.
I know some of this is just me venting. Getting the frustration out. I’ve probably written this whole thing just to vent, to get the annoyance out of my system, and also to remind myself why I’m bothering with any of this at all. It would be so much easier to just do what everyone else does—grab the image, publish it, hope nobody notices. But easier and right aren’t the same thing, and somewhere along the way I decided the right thing mattered more than being first.
Maybe the lawyers and the cease-and-desist wave did something after all. Maybe they forced all of us to grow up a little. To be more professional, more careful, more willing to actually build relationships instead of just taking what we need. The wild-west internet where you grabbed whatever and threw it up and nobody cared—that’s over. Had to be over. And maybe it makes us better at what we do, even if it doesn’t feel like it when you’re waiting for the hundredth email response from someone who will probably never reply.
Nicki’s voice on this track is all confidence, no apology. She’s saying what she wants without flinching, and that certainty is the whole thing. She’s not performing, not softening it, not asking permission—just stating it. And somehow that lands as genuinely cool instead of insufferable, which is harder than it sounds. I think about that a lot, how someone can sound so sure of themselves that you actually believe it.
Another weekend bearing down and I’ve got nothing. No plans, no ideas, just the dead weight of Saturday sitting on my chest. Here’s what keeps spinning in my head.
Start with the simple one: find a song, play it on repeat all day. Loud enough that everyone in earshot actually considers checking themselves in. Write an official complaint to whoever runs government—Thursdays are a fundamental error and need to be deleted from the calendar. Apparently three complaints and they have to listen. That’s the law. Probably.
There’s a collection of the most uncomfortable moments ever captured. The kind of images that make your skin crawl. Spend an hour looking at them. Try to make that feeling permanent, embed it into your bones.
Get properly high. All the way. Especially if you’ve wasted the last few years thinking some political movement was going to fix anything.
Go to a club. Drop your pants on the dance floor. Middle of the crowd, mid-song. Don’t say anything. Just let it play out.
Find an interview with a woman who made porn, whose mother had also made porn before her. There’s something genuinely fascinating about inherited professions and what gets passed down without being asked.
Dress up your fat cat for Halloween, even though the entire proposition disgusts you. The cat will suffer equally.
Go out tonight. By the time you’ve talked to fifty people, tell one you want to sleep with them. You miss shots you don’t take.
Leave a thawed-out frozen pizza on each of your neighbors’ doorsteps. No note. No explanation. Just an increasingly warm mystery.
Wake up Sunday morning somewhere you’ve never been. Naked if possible. A red balloon in one hand. Foreign currency in the other. Don’t ask yourself how you got there.
Universal’s lawyers sent a letter that started with the most absurd sentence: “It has been determined that on an internet-connected computer an unauthorized music offering is being held for access.” What they meant was you’d embedded a music video on your blog, and now you had one week to delete it or face legal action and massive fines.
It didn’t matter that the video was on YouTube or Vimeo, platforms that actively encouraged embedding. Didn’t matter that their own artists benefited from blogs sharing their work. Didn’t matter that you weren’t making money off it. According to Universal’s lawyers, a link was theft. An embed was theft. You were guilty either way.
This was part of a bigger, meaner wave. Photographers threatening bloggers with extortion. Lawyers abusing cease-and-desist letters like a shakedown. At some point people just stopped. Why write anything when there’s a lawyer waiting behind every image, every video, every link? It became too risky.
The absurd part was that Universal was destroying their own promotion machine. Blogs and independent magazines were free advertising – we’d find their stuff, get excited, tell people about it. But instead of letting that happen, they sent letters. Now when you see a song you like, you link directly to YouTube instead of embedding it. Nobody wins.
They clarified later that the whole wave targeted bloggers who’d embedded a Major Lazer video that hadn’t officially released in Germany yet. Like that detail made it less insane. It didn’t. Blogging had become legally uncertain, paranoid, and not fun anymore. The internet got meaner.
I landed in Tokyo expecting chaos and got exactly that, but also something else — something that doesn’t fit in a description. The city is liquid, constantly pooling and growing, spilling into spaces you didn’t know existed. Tradition pressed against neon against things that don’t have names. It doesn’t care if you’re prepared.
The subway is the skeleton key. The map looks impossible until it doesn’t, and then suddenly the entire city becomes a puzzle you can actually solve. Without it, you’d just bounce between districts, directionless. With it, you stop being a tourist and start being someone who knows how to move.
Food is the real reason to be there. The culture excuse is fine, but everyone goes for the food. I lived in izakayas — those rough little places that serve everything from sashimi to tempura to potato salad, whatever happens to be ready. Touhachi in Nakameguro became my place, one train stop from Shibuya. The kind of spot where nobody speaks English and nobody cares.
The fish market at Okachimachi Station around five in the afternoon is better than the famous Tsukiji tourist gauntlet at dawn. Locals haggling over the day’s scraps, fish I’d never seen, things from the ocean with names I couldn’t pronounce. You can eat pufferfish there, whale if you’re morally flexible about it, anything the sea produces. The small restaurants around the market are the draw — no scenery, just food.
Kill Bill was shot in Gonpachi in Nishi Azabu, which is useful information if you want a reason to go there that isn’t purely touristic. Ohashi and Daibutsu Kororo in Shibuya are traditional and actually work for tourists. Neats in Yutenji is organic, which I didn’t expect to matter until I was eating there and it actually mattered.
The Japanese don’t have a reputation for drinking heavily, but nobody told them to stop going out. Golden Gai in Shinjuku is 150 bars stacked vertically on top of each other, connected by six narrow passages that feel like you’re moving through a building’s circulatory system. Pick one, sit at a counter with people you don’t know, drink something small and very expensive.
Kinfolk in Nakameguro is what happens when a fixed-gear bike shop decides to open a bar. Locals and expats dissolving into cocktails, the kind of place that gets genuinely better as the night goes worse. Karaoke is inevitable — All You Can Drink specials run from midnight until dawn, so at least your voice is well-lubricated by the time you’re at the microphone. If you want to skip karaoke entirely, Communo is a club the size of a closet that somehow broadcasts to thousands, Jamie xx playing for people in their living rooms at 3 AM while fifty of you stand in the dark.
Shopping in Tokyo happens to you whether you want it to. Even broke, it’s just an experience — the consumption, the endless permission to want things. The fashion is everywhere: expensive boutiques in Ginza, Japanese design houses in Aoyama and Daikanyama, street fashion flooding Shinjuku and Shibuya. Sunday afternoon in Harajuku is the visual climax — thousands of teenagers in Lolita dress and fantasy costumes, a parade that happens on schedule.
La Foret for street wear, Big Love for records, Kiddy Land for Hello Kitty everything, Pass the Baton in the basement of Omotesando Hills. Eventually you end up in Akihabara, the electric district, because you have to. The eight-story Mandarake and the maid cafes are there if you want them. The real obsessives are a few stops further at Nakano Broadway, where the actual collectors live, the ones who take this seriously.
Hotels are whatever you want them to be. Shibuya XL is cheap if uninspired. The Claska in Meguro is trendier, with a gallery in the lobby. Capsule hotels are the weird move — just sleep tubes, cheaper than a room, and the Central Inn Gotanda has mixed capsules if you want company. Stay in a manga café even cheaper, though Tokyo stops running trains after midnight, so you’re reading until the first train at five. Love hotels rent by the hour (not prostitution, just a conservative culture needing privacy), and they’re decorated like you’d expect — not subtle.
I went to temples because I’m supposed to. After the third one you stop noticing differences, which is fine. The Meiji Shrine in Kyoto is worth waking early for, the crowds haven’t arrived yet. Tokyo’s architecture is both extremes — the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building in Shinjuku has a free observation deck, or spend twenty euros for the Roppongi Hills Sky Deck at night with the whole city lit below you. The Mori Art Museum is on the 53rd floor, which is a lot of building for one observation.
The Parasite Museum in Meguro is the only one in the world, which says something. The Ikebukuro Earthquake Museum lets you experience a 7.0 Richter scale shake. A cat café where you drink coffee and touch someone else’s pets. It’s all absurd and none of it matters and you keep going anyway.
Tokyo swallows you eventually. You’ll understand it on the 3 AM train — packed, quiet, everyone going somewhere. The city doesn’t wait. It doesn’t need to.
I’ve been watching Nicole Kidman long enough to stop trying to predict what she’ll do next. She takes on prestige roles, musicals, thrillers, something genuinely strange—commits fully each time. There’s an intensity to her that makes every choice feel inevitable, even when she’s all over the place. It’s rare to find an actor so committed to the work rather than the idea of being a star.
If you don’t know what The Pirate Bay is, you’ve lived a genuinely untouched life. For everyone else, it’s probably the closest thing the internet’s produced to an actual freedom apparatus. It made torrenting real. For years it’s been the thing governments ban and hate, the site they block and threaten, the project they keep trying to delete.
The concept is simple. Small files you download that unlock access to almost everything else. Most of it’s legal. Most of it’s not. Movies, games, albums, software—thousands of things people would normally pay for. Get caught uploading or downloading the wrong thing and police show up. That’s the transaction.
What gets me is how long they’ve held it together. For years. Record labels, movie studios, entire governments throwing prison time and fines and shutdown orders at them, and they just keep going. They’ve answered legal threats with basically contempt. Done actual prison time. Paid actual fines. Never broke.
So they moved everything to the cloud. Not as a backup plan—as the actual architecture now. The way it was explained to me was elegant: first they ditched the trackers, then the torrents, now the servers themselves. Every physical thing that could be seized, gone. What’s left is just data distributed across thousands of encrypted cloud providers simultaneously. Someone wants to take them down? They’d need to attack every server holding a piece of data at the same moment, or there’s nothing to attack. The Pirate Bay becomes permanent. Truly distributed. No center.
The technical solution is genuinely clever. The willingness to keep fighting is something else.
I wonder what I would’ve done in their position. First legal letter from DreamWorks and I’m calling my mom, trembling. But they just kept evolving, kept moving. That’s either principle or stubbornness or maybe there’s no real difference. Either way, I respect it. I’m curious to see how this ends.
A German image agency started systematically sending cease-and-desist letters to bloggers over photo usage. The mechanics were simple: find an image you posted, claim you owed licensing fees, attach a bill for several thousand euros. Most people paid because a lawyer cost more. The agency probably didn’t own exclusive rights to anything they were claiming — they just bought regional licensing and then threatened everyone else who used the same images. It worked.
Then BuzzFeed got sued for $1.3 million over nine backstage photos from a Katy Perry shoot. That’s roughly $150,000 per image in statutory damages — apparently Fair Use didn’t apply. The lesson was clear: size didn’t protect you, professional context didn’t help, nothing helped. The system had figured out there was money in making people afraid.
The weird part was the isolation. Bloggers were content infrastructure for the publishing industry — we found things, wrote about them, outlets fed off our traffic and our discoveries. But the moment legal risk appeared, we were completely alone. No institutional backing. No “we built this together, let’s defend it together.” Just letters and the calculation: do I pay, or do I fight?
People made different choices. Some stopped posting images entirely. Some got paranoid about sourcing. Some just accepted the risk and kept blogging. There wasn’t a winning move, just degrees of accepted vulnerability. And the system worked because enough people folded. It was efficiently predatory — no actual lawsuits needed, just threats.
I kept posting. Figured the odds were fine and paranoia would be worse. If the letter came, it came.
Far East Movement always felt like the bridge nobody asked for but somehow everyone needed. They were too American for the Asian market and too Asian for the American mainstream, which meant they got to make exactly what they wanted without anyone paying close attention. There’s something freeing about that kind of invisibility. “Little Bird” sits in that space where their sound just exists — no apologies, no explanation, just the kind of track that plays in your head for days without you planning it. I’ve always respected artists who don’t need permission to exist, who work in the margins and don’t seem bothered by it.
There’s a particular moment in shopping when the fantasy is cleaner than the reality. You see a GoPro and imagine yourself filming at places worth filming. A Chromebook and you’ve already decided on your tech philosophy—not Apple, not Windows, just Google all the way down. Rocksmith and you’re the kind of person who just picks up guitar, you skip the part where you’re bad at it. Limited Nikes because some things are only available if you’re lucky enough to find them. The H&M x Lana Del Rey collection and suddenly you’re living with that specific mood she does, that bored-glamour thing.
The products on this list are all selling that moment. They’re selling you the version of yourself that exists right before you buy them.
I’ve fallen for it plenty of times. You buy something and for maybe a week you feel like the person it promised. Then it’s just a thing you own and you’re still you, just smaller by whatever you spent. But those few days of feeling like someone else—that actually works. It works on all of us.
Regina Spektor makes music that shouldn’t work. I’ve never figured out how. Her voice is strange, almost childish one moment, then suddenly raw. She builds songs like puzzles — there’s always some logic underneath, some mathematical structure or unusual vocal arrangement that catches you sideways. She’s been doing this forever and nothing she does is simple or obvious. Every song is twisted, funny, unsettling. She’ll record her voice backwards, build something around pure nonsense, and it lands because there’s no irony — just genuine feeling underneath all that architecture.
Shibuya Hikarie sits right at the edge where Shibuya’s chaos bleeds into something almost manageable. The building itself is this sleek vertical thing—all glass and clean lines—which feels almost restrained compared to the rest of the neighborhood. I remember going up to one of the observation decks, that strange moment where Tokyo suddenly organizes itself into patterns when you’re high enough to see it whole. From down on the street it’s all noise and bodies and signs; from up there you understand the actual shape of things. The design is aggressively functional—shopping, offices, theater, restaurants all stacked into this efficient tower. There’s something very Tokyo about that, the refusal to waste vertical space on anything that doesn’t serve. You go in expecting a shopping mall and end up in this compressed vertical city. The crowds are better-behaved than you’d expect, moving through the space like they’ve accepted its logic. It’s the kind of building that works precisely because it doesn’t try to be charming or memorable—it just does what it’s built to do.
Jessica Weiß shut down LesMads about a year ago. It was this fashion blog that had actually worked—the kind of thing that becomes a real job, gets books published, wins awards, the whole trajectory. She’d built it with a few other people, made it into something people actually cared about. Then one day she just stopped and moved on to working with Interview Magazine instead.
At the time I remember thinking that made sense. You reach a point where you’ve accomplished what you set out to do and staying on feels like just coasting. The smart thing is to step away before it turns into work you resent. She did the smart thing.
Then Journelles showed up. A new blog, fashion again, but with different collaborators this time—Alexa, Hanna, Julia, Kerstin. Same core idea, completely different structure. Like she’d learned from LesMads and was trying again, but differently. She said fashion has to be fun, and that’s the whole thing right there. The first blog was about building something, proving you could do it. This one’s just about liking the thing itself.
I don’t know much about fashion. But I’ve been around long enough—making things online, watching what works and what doesn’t—to recognize this pattern. You do something because you love it. It works. Success becomes its own weight. And then, if you’re smart, you step away and come back to it. Not to repeat what worked before, just to remember why you started. That’s what Journelles feels like.
There’s something about that song in deep winter that just gets under your skin. The orchestration builds so gradually you barely notice it happening, and then suddenly you’re sitting in the dark and the strings are everywhere. Justin Vernon at his most intimate, I think—not hiding behind production, just this voice and what sounds like the whole architecture of loneliness arranged around it. I’ve played it so many times I’ve stopped hearing it as a song and started hearing it as a room I keep going back to.
I watched it again and forgot how much I like it. Not the film school way — nothing about Hughes’s camera work or the brat pack mythology. Just the thing itself, the feeling of it. Duckie’s desperation, Blane’s weakness, Andie’s armor made of thrift-store clothes and spite. The prom at the end doesn’t matter; what sticks is the longing. Everyone wants something they can’t have, and some of them know it. The synth score still sounds like loneliness. It’s a teen movie that never condescends, and it’s full of people who aren’t beautiful in the way the movie industry usually demands — they’re just there, wanting things, making mistakes. That probably matters less than it did when I first cared about it, but the film’s honesty about how much wanting something can hurt, how class gets between you and people you like, how you can want to be liked and still be too proud to ask for it — that doesn’t date.
Sky Ferreira has this way of making isolation sound like the only place worth being. There’s something in her voice—the precision of it, the slight remove—that suggests someone perfectly comfortable with her own company, or maybe someone who’s learned that loneliness is cleaner than the alternative. Her records have always felt like they were made in a room by herself, even when they’re surrounded by producers and collaborators. That sense of distance, of being untouchable even when the songs are vulnerable, is what makes her interesting to me. She builds these intricate electronic structures and then sings through them like she’s still deciding whether to let you in.
I’m not sure exactly how I first picked up on the idea that Berlin was getting more violent. Maybe I read it in the paper, or maybe my mother called early one morning to tell me someone had been stabbed again—this time at Alexanderplatz. Probably the latter.
According to the tabloids, the city is a pressure cooker full of danger. Thugs on the U-Bahn, far-right attacks, burned-out cars, violent kids, brutal football fans, muggings at night, drunk assaults, hustlers and scammers on every corner. If you believed the headlines, Berlin was a madhouse where people die for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I used to brush past these stories pretty easily. But the weight of them starts to accumulate, and the excuses get harder to make.
The longer you stay here, the more stories you hear. In the beginning you take them as local color. But then friends start telling you about being mugged at Hermannplatz, or nearly assaulted at Friedrichstrasse, or getting pulled into something darker in Kreuzberg. Eventually you’re asking yourself: What am I doing here?
Sure, everywhere is dangerous in some way. But what gets to me isn’t that it’s dangerous—it’s why. When some random person opens fire on strangers with no warning, or slips knockout drops into someone’s drink, or starts beating the shit out of drunk people at a party, I can’t help thinking: What the fuck is wrong with you?
Is it the size of the city, the sprawl of it making you more likely to cross paths with someone unraveling? The drugs, the alcohol, the freedom, the emotional coldness of the place? Or is it just that the tabloids make money off fear, and that fear slowly gets into your head anyway, no matter how cynical you think you are?
You feel safe until something happens to you or someone close to you. Then the whole thing crumbles—the art, the music, the possibility of it all. And I realize that’s exactly what I’ve been afraid of all along. Not the violence itself, but the moment when the city stops being what it promised.
There’s a moment in Lost in Translation where she’s in a red dress at some nightclub, and she’s just standing there, slightly detached, slightly bored, completely present. That’s the thing about her — she has this quality where she seems to exist in a different register than the people around her. Not better, just separate. She carries that into everything, whether she’s playing a blank-slate spy in Marvel movies or disappearing into Sofia Coppola’s Tokyo. The strange thing is that you can watch her be gorgeous — and she is, objectively, in that classic Hollywood way — without it being the interesting part. The interesting part is that she doesn’t seem to care. She gives you what you came for, but she’s never trying to convince you she’s grateful for the attention. That detachment, that refusal to perform gratitude for being beautiful, is probably why people are so obsessed with her. We want to know what she’s thinking when she’s not performing. The answer is probably nothing we’d find that interesting.
Skins was perfect timing for me. The early seasons especially — I was the right age, old enough to feel the darkness, young enough to think it understood me. The later seasons fell apart, and don’t get me started on the American version, but those first two generations stuck around in my head in a way most TV doesn’t.
So when E4 announced they were making Skins 7, I felt this weird mix of things. Excited? Skeptical? I didn’t know if I actually wanted this or just liked the idea of it.
It’s three one-hour episodes, each focused on a different character from the original run. Hannah Murray is Cassie, now in London trying to make sense of questions nobody can answer. Jack O’Connell is Cook, working as a drug courier, falling in love, drowning in the violence he’s been running from. Kaya Scodelario is Effy, sleeping with her boss, accelerating toward a collision she doesn’t see coming. Naomi and Emily show up too. Elsley and Brittain wrote it.
I want to see these people again, want to know where they ended up. But Skins was already done. It had an ending. There’s something haunting about returning to a story you thought was finished, something you can’t quite shake even if the new episodes are perfect. Spring 2013 they air, three episodes, and that’s supposedly it for real. We’ll find out if going back feels better than just letting it stay gone.
Discovered her music the way you discover anything that matters—half by accident, but it landed because I was ready for something uncompromising. Everything about her work refuses to apologize, the sexuality brazen and functional rather than decorative, the aggression deliberate. She constructs entire worlds around the provocation instead of just relying on shock, which is why it works. That kind of fearlessness, that unwillingness to soften anything even if the entire industry wanted her to, that’s worth paying attention to.
Insanity creeps in faster than you’d expect. It’s this thing where your mind just starts spinning in its own direction, destroying and saving you at the same time, and one day you realize you can’t reel it back in anymore. That’s what Far Cry 3 actually gets.
You watch Jason Brody transform from castaway trying to escape into someone genuinely unhinged. Not through cutscenes, but as a byproduct of every choice you make for him. The more you play, the more he becomes who you are through the controller, until the violence stops being about escape and starts being what you enjoy.
The mechanics feed it. New weapons, execution animations, the satisfying geometry of planning something brutally perfect. The game keeps rewarding you for efficiency at killing, and around hour ten you stop rationalizing it as survival. It becomes what you actually like.
By the end, the dialogue has shifted. NPCs talk about you like you’re not quite human anymore. What you do has become what you are. The game just lets it happen without the redemption arc or moral hand-wringing.
I liked that. Not as a statement about violence in games or anything like that, just a clean observation: this is what happens when you keep choosing power. You don’t stay who you were. There’s no going back.
Watched Die Antwoord’s ’Fatty Boom Boom’ at some point and the thing about it is they just didn’t care. The video’s crude, sexual, deliberately offensive — everything you’re not supposed to make mainstream music about. And that lack of concern, that complete refusal to perform politeness or apologize, that’s what stuck with me. The shock value burns out pretty fast, but the shamelessness underneath doesn’t. They made something ugly and owned it.
The thing about basics is they seem pointless until they’re not. You walk into a store looking for a plain t-shirt and suddenly you’re aware of every choice the designers made or didn’t make — the weight of the fabric, the curve of the sleeve, whether the neck opening is actually comfortable to pull over your head. Most brands fail at this unconsciously. American Apparel fails at it consciously, which is a different kind of achievement.
They built something on the idea that a t-shirt doesn’t need to be a statement piece. It can just be a really good t-shirt. Solid colors, simple cuts, no branding that screams at you. If that sounds boring, you’ve never actually had to wear clothes. The boredom is the point. You want your basic layer to disappear, to not be a distraction, to not make you think about it every time you move your arm. AA gets that — or got that, long enough to matter.
There’s a California thing underneath the whole brand that you can’t escape. A particular idea about what’s possible when you strip away the bullshit and just ask: what does this garment actually need to be? Minimalism isn’t accidental restraint, it’s a choice about what deserves your attention and what doesn’t. Whether that translates into good business is someone else’s problem. As a designer looking at a brand, you notice when someone made a real decision about what the clothes should be, rather than just adding features because they’re easy or trendy.
I’ve owned American Apparel pieces that lasted actual years because there was nothing in them to fail. No unnecessary seams, no cheap elastic that gives out, no printing that cracks and peels. The constraint of minimalism isn’t just aesthetic, it’s structural — if you’re not hiding behind graphics or novelty, the construction has to be solid. And when it is, you stop thinking about the clothes. They just become your clothes.
Felix Baumgartner stepped out of a balloon 43 kilometers above the Earth in 2012 and fell. The whole Red Bull Stratos operation was engineered down to the decimal point—the freefall speed, the parachute deployment, the landing zone. He broke the sound barrier on the way down and became the first person to do so without jet propulsion, which is the kind of fact that sounds absurd in retrospect. But what I remember from watching the footage was the moment before the jump, him standing at the open door with nothing below but air and distance, the kind of moment that requires a complete evacuation of doubt. How do you get to that? How do you convince yourself absolutely, with no hedging, that this will work? I think it’s the same mind that gets you to build anything that’s never been built before.
Joko and Klaas play this game on their show where they dare each other to do humiliating shit. The loser has to follow through, no excuses. It’s been a staple for years—people like watching them pressure each other into doing things they clearly don’t want to do.
At the Berlin tech fair, Klaas dares Joko to grab a trade show hostess. Joko refuses. Klaas won’t drop it. So Joko goes over and does it—touches her—and immediately apologizes. They both laugh and move on. Klaas turns back and makes some comment to Joko about how violated she looked, how she’s probably crying in the shower for hours when she gets home. Orchestral music plays under it. The whole thing feels grotesque.
The clip goes online and people react. Some call it sexual assault. Some focus on the basic wrongness of it—she couldn’t refuse, she was working, she was outnumbered. Klaas apologizes a few days later. Says they confused comedy with cruelty. Says it won’t happen again.
What got to me wasn’t even the physical part. It was that she had no way to refuse. That’s not a dare. That’s just bullying someone who can’t push back and calling it entertainment.
I’m not usually the guy defending every feminist argument, but this one felt genuinely fucked up. I don’t want to be grabbed by strangers, and I don’t think anyone else should have to be either. The whole setup only works as comedy because of the power imbalance at play.
What I wonder about is what would’ve happened if the genders were flipped. If a woman had dared Joko to let her grab him on live TV. I don’t think the reaction would’ve been the same. I don’t think anyone would’ve felt that same sense of violation. And that’s what makes it rotten—it only registers as comedy because of who’s doing what to whom.
There’s a way that Natasha Khan’s records arrive—like messages from somewhere else, immaculate and strange, each sound placed with such precision you wonder what she’s building. Bat For Lashes makes these perfect electronic things where you can hear the construction beneath, and then suddenly a vocal comes in and breaks something. That’s her gift.
“The Haunted Man” is darker than what came before. The title suggests something she can’t quite exorcise, some ghost that all those perfect synths can’t hide. That feels right for where she is now. Less restraint, more directness. I’ve always loved her work most when it’s willing to hurt.
I know it’s important to be social—go out to dinner, call family, sleep with women. I check those boxes often enough. But I’m only really happy when I can watch seven seasons of my current favorite show back-to-back and my neighbors are considerate enough to keep the bass off David Guetta and Scooter for once.
So I watch Jesse Pinkman dissolve bodies in bathtubs. Tony Stonem cheating on Michelle with some blonde. Will McAvoy pining for Emily Mortimer. I carry all these plot threads around in my head, all these characters and scenes and moments—the funny ones and the devastating ones. Only thing’s always been missing: a place to track it all.
A website appeared for that exact impulse—one of those things someone should’ve built years ago. You log every show you’ve ever watched, get notified when new episodes drop, build a profile. Simple. Obvious in retrospect. But it didn’t exist until it did.
Now I’m going through every TV show that’s ever crossed my screen and cataloging it. Which is a lot. Really a lot. Could take years. I’m the kind of person who carries everything in memory and then gets furious that I can’t search it. Most of what I’ve watched is gone. Breaking Bad, Skins, The Newsroom—I can pull those up. Specific scenes, specific lines. Ask me what I was watching in 2011 and I’m blank. It eats at me.
So I do this. I catalog. It’s not productive. It’s not going anywhere. But it feels necessary somehow, like I’m rescuing something from disappearing. Every episode tracked is one less thing the years take from me.
There’s something about The xx that makes you want to sit still. Two people making music that sounds like they’re afraid to take up space, like every synth note and drum hit has been carefully weighed beforehand. Jamie and Romy, standing apart on stage, singing into the darkness like they’re confessing something they don’t want anyone to hear.
I came to them late, years after everyone else had already moved on. That sparse sound, all air and negative space—it felt like permission to not be loud, not be grand, not be anything but present. Their best songs happen in the restraint. You listen and you understand that everything matters more when there’s less of it.
Now I can’t listen to them without that feeling of being in a room where everyone’s forgotten how to talk. Not uncomfortable. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that has weight.
You just inherited money and now you need to know what to buy. Houses, yachts, charity - or just the right products, which will somehow make you better. Maybe. There’s an honesty to that kind of thinking.
I used to read these posts back when I believed there was a formula. The right skateboard, the right watch, and you’d finally be interesting. The randomness was the appeal - explicit cartoons on decks, old iPods alongside new Android phones, Halloween costumes from a fashion brand. Nothing held together except the unspoken promise that if you had these things, you’d have coherence.
Jack White songs feel like they’re in a hurry. ’I’m Shakin’’ is a blues cover stripped to the essentials—just what’s necessary, moving with a kind of precision that cuts against the simplicity. He treats the blues like an argument, every second accounted for. No padding, no flourish, nothing wasted. Just the song moving forward and finishing before you can catch your breath.
What keeps me coming back to Sharon Van Etten is something almost boring to describe—the way she puts songs together. She’s not after flashy or complicated. Her chords are simple, but there’s this exactness to how she places them, like every change is the only thing that could come next. You don’t notice it at first. You just feel the song working on you, and then you realize it’s because of this choice she made about progression, this tiny decision that ended up being everything. There’s a confidence in that restraint. She trusts her voice enough to not clutter up the space around it. No flourishes, no reaching for a bigger moment than the song can hold. Just the chords and her voice, and somehow that’s enough to make something stick with you in a way that all the technical skill in the world wouldn’t.
I started with the episode where Max Herre walked out upset and went to cry, then just kept going backwards through the ZDF Mediatheque, eating through everything they’d made up to that point. Completely into it. Into Charlotte Roche and how she works within this format, how the whole thing is built exactly backwards from how I thought successful television was supposed to work.
The show shouldn’t work at all. No slick production framework, no gimmicks, no celebrities who’ve been properly warmed up by their people five minutes before air. Just Roche and Böhmermann talking to people, and somehow it’s the best thing on German television right now. I’m saying this while MTV barely plays music, reality consumes everything, and the space in between is mostly nothing.
Some of Jan’s jokes just die in the air. Some guests show up ready to perform, like they got told minutes before that they’re going to crush it. The silence when a joke dies, the censor can’t even save it. Sometimes they deserve what they get, sometimes they don’t, but the show doesn’t try to smooth it over or pretend it didn’t happen.
What gets to me is that they’re making something real on a time slot most people in this country can’t even receive. In the middle of all the reality noise, the reruns, the void—they’re actually making television that feels true. Something genuine. And I shouldn’t be this surprised by it, but I am.
I’m probably late to even mention this. The show’s already got the people who know about it. But if there’s a chance someone watches instead of scrolling through guaranteed nothing, if it pulls one person away from the wasteland of other stuff, that feels worth saying. Even if the show doesn’t last. Even if they make something terrible next time. You never know with this stuff.
Every public space online eventually gets invaded. You build something, people show up, and then the people show up who don’t want to talk about it—they just want to poison it. It’s not debate. It’s just seething into a text box.
The standard answers don’t work. Kill comments entirely and you lose the actual conversations, the people who showed up to engage. Use Disqus, Facebook, free registration—anyone serious about ruining the space just makes a throwaway account, and half your real audience bails because they don’t want another login. Nothing sticks.
But I ran across something different recently. Venus Patrol, this indie game site, started charging three dollars a month to comment. Three bucks. Nothing. But it works—not perfectly, but noticeably. Christian Gürnth from GameOne noticed the same thing with their paid sections: the comments are categorically different. More civil. More actual thinking. Where anyone can post, you get pure hate noise. Behind a paywall, even a tiny one, people show up with something to say.
The math is obvious. Three dollars is nothing to most people, but it’s enough friction that someone who just wants to dump anger into the internet will pick an easier target. And the people who pay are self-selected—they’re there because they care about the conversation, not because they found the space by accident.
But sitting with this for a minute, something darker emerges. If every corner of the internet starts doing this, you’re not just filtering trolls. You’re creating tiers. People who can afford to speak. People who can’t. A paywall doesn’t delete the trolls, it just displaces them, and splits discourse into islands of civility for people with five dollars a month and oceans of rot everywhere else. The internet was supposed to flatten the hierarchy. Now we’re rebuilding it, one micropayment at a time.
I don’t know if it’s the answer. Maybe it’s necessary. Maybe it’s inevitable. But it’s not a fix—it’s a partition.
“Ride” is the sound of a car you’re never really going to reach the end of. Lana’s voice drifting over that minimal, aching production, talking about going somewhere, knowing full well that the destination is beside the point. It’s melancholic in a way that makes you feel something—not sad exactly, but aware. The romance is entirely in the suspension, the not-arriving.
The song is really about mythology. She’s singing about the idea of romance more than romance itself, that fantasy where if you just keep driving you become someone else, something pure. It never lands. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway. That’s the appeal—the movie doesn’t have an ending because endings ruin the whole thing.
I think about this song during certain late-night drives, certain moments where my actual life momentarily aligns with something bigger and sadder than itself. Not because I want to live that way, but because for a second it makes the ordinary feel like it’s part of a real story. Lana’s best work does that—it gives you permission to feel like you’re living in a film that doesn’t exist yet.
Everyone wants to optimize your weekend now. Ten things to do, fifty things to plan, each one promising meaning or rest or experience. It’s always the same pitch: make it count. You read enough of these lists and they blur together into one generic voice telling you that your downtime needs to justify itself. Which is ridiculous, obviously, but something about it sticks.
You can tell a lot about what people actually care about by watching what makes them mad online versus what they’ll organize around. Someone shares a video about a warlord kidnapping kids and suddenly there’s millions of views. Someone explains copyright law and… nothing. Total silence. We’re not evil. We’re just consistent.
There’s this gap between petitions that disappear and movements that actually detonate. Same internet. Different outcomes. The Pirate Party in Germany filed a petition against the Leistungsschutzrecht—basically ancillary copyright, a law that would let publishers charge search engines for linking to articles. It seemed important. The machinery was there for a real campaign. And it went nowhere. People tried to explain why. Maybe it was the Pirate Party’s internal drama. Maybe people just don’t trust any political party with anything anymore. But that’s not really it.
Patrick Beuth wrote something in Handelsblatt about how if a different party had filed it, maybe the outcome shifts. There’s something to that but it’s not the root. The real thing is that movements don’t happen from policy. They happen from feeling.
Kony 2012 worked. Some guy made a video about a Ugandan warlord and added dancing kids and edited it well and suddenly millions of people knew the name. ACTA worked—people believed the government would arrest them for sharing recipes. The GEMA, Germany’s music licensing body, became a villain because YouTube blocked Katy Perry. The target was clear. The threat was immediate. The anger had something to grab.
Leistungsschutzrecht. The word is already the coffin. Ancillary copyright—the right to protect services. Good? Bad? No one can picture it. It doesn’t have a face or a narrative. When you explain it straight, publishers say Google profits from the traffic and should cut them in. The other side says publishers already profit from the traffic and search engines are just doing them a favor, plus they could always block them in the code if they wanted. Both arguments are reasonable. Both arguments put everyone to sleep.
And underneath that is the thing no one says: people are tired. Every week there’s something new demanding attention. New petition, new corporation to hate, new law to resist. The problems change names but the fatigue adds up. Most of us want to look at pictures of cats and not think about whose permissions we’re violating to do it.
What it takes to move people now is something different. You need the people who know how to capture attention—real production, charisma, the ability to make something that doesn’t feel like a propaganda film even though it kind of is. The internet is so loud and so fast that good intentions and clear thinking don’t register anymore. They’re just noise.
The Leistungsschutzrecht became law because no one could make anyone care about it. And that’s not an accident. We know exactly how to make people care. We’ve done it. But the people who actually understand the policy, who know what’s at stake—they’re not particularly good at the performance. They can write a clear brief. They can’t do what’s needed now, which is make you feel something before you think about it.
In a world where you’re constantly asked to care about something new, the campaigns that win are the ones engineered to be felt first and understood later. If at all.
I keep coming back to Vitalic’s stuff because it’s got this strange patience to it. Four minutes or forty, doesn’t matter — he finds one idea and won’t let it go. That’s stamina in electronic music. Not the flashy kind, just relentless, in the way that gets under your skin without asking.
What bothers me about Instagram isn’t that everyone photographs their food and their cat and the sky — it’s the endless stream of terrible, washed-out, square filtered images it’s been responsible for. Those flattened, sapped squares. I’ve hated them for years.
I can’t even properly link my own images or save someone else’s without diving into the browser source or just screenshotting the whole page, which apparently you’re not supposed to do. For the longest time I kept thinking something better would come along and actually stick.
Every couple of years there’s a new Instagram alternative — cleaner interface, no filters, pure photography. The specifics don’t matter. They all fail because Instagram already won. Everyone’s there. The aesthetic is locked in. Those washed-out, flattened squares are what images are supposed to look like now, even though they’re objectively terrible.
What really gets me is what Instagram did to how people think about making images. Everything goes through that filtered lens before it touches the world. The colors get pulled out. The actual life leaves the photo. Somehow this became the default. Unfiltered photography started looking broken.
I keep imagining images that just exist — no processing, no frame, just the pictures themselves. It’s a dumb fantasy. The alternatives come and die. Instagram stays there, total and bloated, and everyone keeps making the same washed-out squares.
Thee Oh Sees doesn’t let anything rest. John Dwyer layers guitars and percussion until there’s just this dense, moving sound that fills the whole space and demands attention. You can feel it tightening your chest before the song even starts. There’s a restlessness built into the structure—this pressure underneath that keeps suggesting something’s about to break except nothing ever does. Music like this is good for thinking about things you can’t quite name, for being awake at the wrong hour in a room where everything feels too close.
I read that Berlin’s government announced free wifi for everyone by 2013, and I felt that familiar sinking feeling. They always announce something, always set a date, then nothing happens. I want to believe differently this time. But I know better.
There’s something genuinely good about the actual idea, though. Imagine sitting in Berlin with your laptop and actually being able to post something, send an email, check the news—without your phone screaming about data limits, without being trapped in some overstuffed café full of people performing importance. That would actually be worth it.
But then you think about what it takes to get there. The government doesn’t want liability if someone uses the network for anything sketchy, so there’s this whole legal mess to sort through first. And they’re funding it with ads plus data sales—which fine, I get the economics, but it’s the same tired compromise you see everywhere.
Maybe 2013. Maybe not. Meanwhile, Microsoft’s handing out free wifi in New York and San Francisco like it’s nothing. These announcements keep coming about what might happen next year, while it’s already live elsewhere. That gap is the whole story right there.
When some American friends visited me last year, their first questions were about all that European sexual openness everyone talks about. Where’s the nearest nude beach? Can you just have sex in parks? Why don’t they show actual porn on television? I had to explain that you could zip through the German TV schedule for days and barely see a full frontal anything, and they almost booked a flight home.
I probably should have sent them to Norway instead. Turns out the Norwegians haven’t gotten soft about the naked human body. Or maybe they never were. They’re fine with blood and violence in constant loops on their screens, but actual sexuality doesn’t have to hide the same way it does in Germany. There’s a show called Trekant on Norwegian public television. It’s about fucking. And it’s rated 15+.
The show’s been running a couple of seasons now on NRK3. Three hosts—Johanna, Benjamin, Even—go looking for sexual adventures. They talk to experts about orgasms, vibrators, fetishes. They’ll strap into leather and try stuff that isn’t missionary under the lights of a living room. It sounds kind of boring when I describe it like that, like Bravo magazine for seventh graders.
But here’s the thing. While German media regulators are absolutely obsessed with protecting teenagers from the sight of a naked body—exactly when they’d probably benefit most from learning actual facts instead of getting it all from hardcore pornography—the people behind Trekant have zero hang-ups. They just show you how to do it.
In one episode, Johanna learns how to masturbate under the guidance of a professional. The camera doesn’t cut away. Five minutes of gel and vibrator, totally unflinching. Even drives out to a friend’s house for a casual dick parade. Benjamin, who’s gay, puts on a cop hat half-naked and just riffs while the TV crew laughs. It’s all so fucking normal.
That’s what kills me about it. This casual access to actual sexual information—the kind everyone should probably learn about as a kid, without all the euphemisms and censorship fucking it up. Because yes, German TV is happy to run mediocre crime dramas where murder and rape and drug dealing are just background noise. But show a breast or a penis and the whole country has a breakdown. I thought I could brag to my American friends that Germany was different, that we’d figured something out. I was wrong.
Sigur Rós does something to the air around you when you listen. It’s not quite silence and it’s not quite noise — it’s that strange space where meaning happens without words getting in the way. The band has always understood that the Icelandic landscape is as much a musician as anyone holding an instrument, which is partly why they’ve mattered for so long. You listen and feel suspended between things, which is exactly where the music wants you.
Every week I’m convinced some new thing is the ultimate revelation, the final content that makes life worth living. I’d sell all my furniture, probably my body, just to sit in a cardboard box on the street and do nothing but that one thing until I died of a heart attack. A happy death.
For a while it was League of Legends—thought I needed to be unbeatable, feared, haunting some kid’s nightmares. Then I was in the bathtub one day thinking I should become an activist, fight copyright abuse or something equally noble, dedicate myself to some righteous cause. And I’d also, separately, like to fuck Sasha Grey.
For the past few days it’s this anime. Just me, a cheap bottle of red wine, some sushi in bed, watching the original series with subtitles. Not the HD remake that inverts the whole story—the version that makes me want to hit Hideaki Anno.
Everyone with any claim to pop culture taste knows what this is about: kids with psychological damage forced into giant robots to fight things called Angels and save the world from apocalypse. Secret organizations with names like NERV, religious imagery, daddy issues, suicide, dreadnoughts, teenage breasts, betrayal, ceilings, friendship, and intelligent penguins. It’s a lot.
For me it’s the definitive anime. It reminds me why I fell in love with this medium, forgot about it, then fell in love again. I’m riveted to the screen. The cicadas are screaming, the sirens are wailing, the ground is exploding. I have tears in my eyes when Asuka’s in the bathtub covered in blood. There’s this moment when Misato cracks open a beer and that specific piece of music hits—infinite happiness. I sit in the dark afterward thinking about the lies and secrets, about Shinji’s choices, about Rei, the relationships, the ending, everything that comes after.
I can barely bring myself to understand the riddles forming in front of me. I don’t want to hear the confessions. I want to run back to a 24-hour convenience store, sit in the subway, stare out the window at all those lights. This show keeps breaking me. And it keeps putting me back together.
What Anno made is more than merchandise in arcade cabinets and instant noodle packages. It’s a revelation that could only hit this hard if you drop all your defenses and let it consume you completely. Once you do that, there’s no going back.
The Canyons is a cold, explicit drama about screenwriters and filmmakers destroying themselves in the LA hills—the kind of thing Schrader would make, all erotic dread and surfaces. He brought Lindsay Lohan back to lead it, which made the film instantly complicated: was it a comeback, a comeback fantasy, or a provocation? The answer depends on what you think the film is actually about, and Schrader made sure it wouldn’t be easy to answer. It’s fascinating as an artifact of a specific moment, a wound-up art film that refused to be respectable.
Peaches came at you like a violation, and that was the entire point. Distorted voice, cheap keyboards, lyrics designed to make you squirm. She wasn’t here to seduce anyone or make you feel good. She wanted you uncomfortable — wanted you to sit with desire and disgust at the same time, to feel something you couldn’t name. When everyone else was making polite electronic music, she was out there making something that felt genuinely transgressive, and somehow that’s what it needed to be.
I love animals. Would save every one of them if half didn’t taste so good. That said, PETA manages to piss me off every single month. If you don’t know them, they’re the ones who poison dogs in trucks and mock video games while claiming to give a shit about the world. Real charity work apparently got boring, so now they spend their time splashing people with fake blood and making parody games about Nintendo franchises.
Their latest thing is a flash game called Pokémon Black and Blue, timed to the release of the new DS games. In it, a furious, bloodied Pikachu takes revenge on his captors. The premise is that Pokémon trainers are basically running an animal torture ring, trapping creatures in balls and forcing them into fights for sport and entertainment. PETA’s statement compares it directly to circus elephants stuck in cages, given electric shocks to perform tricks. Which, okay, I see what they’re doing. The metaphor isn’t totally insane.
But here’s the thing. I genuinely respect the WWF and the real animal protection organizations doing unglamorous work in the field. I’m not being ironic—I think improving conditions for captive and endangered animals should happen fast and comprehensively. No bullshit. But pouring money and effort into embarrassing PR stunts instead of going where help actually matters, instead of doing anything that requires patience and real work, that shows PETA gave up on reality years ago. They’re not activists. They’re performance artists who decided animals were the right subject.
Protesting a video game about fictional creatures while real animals suffer in real cages is so perfectly on-brand that I almost respect the commitment. Almost.
Natalia’s been making the kind of music that follows you around—the kind you put on when you need to sit with something dark and beautiful without names. Letting go of ghosts would be about whatever she’s carrying, the same way all her records are about carrying something unbearable and making it into architecture. I’ve always liked her because she never explains what the ghosts are. That’s the courtesy of it.
There’s something about the late ’90s Cameron Diaz that just worked — not because she was stunning or because everyone said so, but because she seemed to actually enjoy being in the frame. In *There’s Something About Mary*, she wasn’t playing sexy, she was just there, funny and unselfconscious. She made comedy look like something you could do without calculating every movement, which is maybe the hardest thing any actor can do.
I know the culture moved on. She moved on too, stepped back from it all. But there’s something specific about that window — early Diaz, before the machinery of fame got heavy — that still holds up when you go back. Those films feel like they’re from another planet now, which probably says more about where we are than where she was.
I think about that version of her sometimes and remember what it felt like to watch movies that weren’t anxious about themselves, that weren’t trying to be Important. Just someone on screen having a genuinely good time, and you could feel it.
I like going back through the old work. The pieces that opened something up, the ones you didn’t care about at all, the ones you read with real anger or longing. Looking back at them now is strange—you finally understand what actually mattered and what was just temporary noise.
There’s a girl—Giza Lagarce. Just another internet it-girl, but beautiful enough to spend time thinking about. Every few years one emerges—Cory Kennedy, Uffie, Sky Ferreira. Same trajectory every time. They burn bright for a moment, the drugs show up in the photos, the tabloids consume them, they’re gone. You can see it coming a mile away.
At the time she was just modeling, I think. Getting ready for the album, the music video, the rest of it. I remember thinking maybe she’d avoid the obvious path. Probably she wouldn’t. Probably like all the others she’d feed the machinery until it spit her out.
But I loved her. That kind of blind, time-limited love—the love you feel for a stranger, knowing it has an expiration date. I probably loved her more than anything.
I spent a lot of that era thinking about German blogs. The talent was there—real writers doing real work in fashion, music, tech, the actual stuff people cared about. But the design was aggressively, deliberately bad. Like no one had even considered it. All that thoughtfulness sabotaged by an aesthetic that didn’t exist. It was maddening.
Then you’d find someone like Tam Vibberstoft—22, Danish, making photos and videos and text and just letting them live. Not performing the exhausting labor of becoming famous, not feeding the machine that grinds up beautiful people. Just making work and leaving it there. A completely different energy.
And then there was the film. Lost in Translation, Sofia Coppola’s. Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson drifting through Tokyo. I’ve watched it more than anything else—twice back-to-back on a train once. Put it on for girlfriends over the years and they’d be asleep before it got going. The pacing didn’t work for them. For me it was everything—Tokyo became a place I needed to be, and loneliness became the only honest thing.
Those are the pieces that lasted. Not the ones that turned out to be right, not the ones that aged well. Just the ones that mattered when I found them, and somehow still matter now.
I listen to Perfume Genius when I need to hear someone refuse to turn away from the hard stuff. Mike Hadreas builds electronic music that’s completely unguarded — no irony, no distance, just his voice and whatever he’s constructed around it reaching for the truth of desire and damage and survival. His songs don’t comfort you in any easy way. They just exist in the same space as your worst thoughts and don’t flinch.
The thing about Miranda Kerr is that she’s so visibly aware of being Miranda Kerr. You watch her in interviews and there’s this split-second lag before she remembers to arrange her face the right way — like she’s somewhere else for a moment, then snaps back. She’s been looked at so long that looking away might feel like disappearing. That’s the real exhaustion in it, I think. Not the work of being beautiful (she’s still beautiful; that part seems easy), but the work of managing what that beauty means, knowing exactly how many angles are safe, which charities to endorse, where the boundaries are between authentic and on-brand. The wellness stuff, the wellness guru version of her — that’s not fake, exactly. But you can feel the effort to make it all make sense, to turn a life into a philosophy. Maybe that’s why she comes across as thoughtful but untethered, like she’s solving an equation while living it.
Onkel Berni is shooting a late-night show from their Berlin apartment—sketch comedy, interviews, music, the whole format—and YouTube’s bankrolling it. Not taking a cut of the revenue. Literally funding production. For two years. Upfront. This is what happens when a platform decides it’s tired of being a platform.
YouTube realized they’d been thinking about it wrong. Why take a percentage when you could own everything? So they built out 60 channels across 60 countries, committed multi-year development budgets to each one, and started hiring people to make television. Real television. Professional productions. They’d figured out that streaming works now, that the production costs have bottomed out, that there’s no reason to split revenue with amateurs when they could just do the whole thing themselves and keep the money.
There’s a channel about extreme sports called Boneless. Gaming channels with production schedules. Music programming. Documentary series. The infrastructure of a real network, just hosted on the internet. A YouTube executive explained it plainly: you can’t just make good videos anymore, you have to become an entrepreneur. Build your own audience. Market your own channel. Handle the business side. For traditional TV people, that’s weird—they’re used to the network doing all that. For internet creators who grew up making stuff for fun, it’s a complete reorientation.
What gets lost in this pivot is obvious if you think about it. The internet’s golden age in video was wild and strange and deeply uncensored because the barrier to entry was practically nothing. No committee. No brand guidelines. No approval process. You had a camera and bandwidth and that was enough. If your weird thing found its audience, it found it. That scrappiness, that lack of institutional gatekeeping—that’s what made the whole ecosystem feel different from television.
Professionalization kills that. You need business plans now. Production schedules. Metrics. The ability to monetize from day one. The people who can afford to stay are people who already understood the entertainment business, who already had resources, who were already positioned to scale. The amateurs leave. The weirdos get priced out. You’re left with something that looks like internet content but operates like the old television industry. Which is fine, probably. It’s legitimate work. It just isn’t what made anyone actually care in the first place. YouTube realized it could make more money by becoming cable, and it turned out they were right, but somewhere in that calculation the original thing got left behind.
McGinley photographs youth like it’s the realest thing in the world—that specific honesty of people caught existing before the image takes. His work usually needs space: wide light, open ground, room to breathe. Tokyo is the opposite—density and compression, visual noise layering over itself. I’d want to know what happened when his restless eye met that. Did the city change how he sees or did he just compress the energy he already had, make it sharper, tighter, stranger.
Listening alone is fine—headphones late at night when sleep won’t come, some smooth electronic stuff running through your head. But that’s not where music actually happens. A song’s real magic only shows up when you’re listening with someone who matters, someone you love or hate or both. You’re not just hearing the same thing anymore; you’re feeling it at the same time. Everything shifts. This mixtape gets it. King Krule’s darkness, Teen Daze drifting through, A-Trak keeping the edges sharp. They know what they’re for.
The Vaccines came out of nowhere in 2011 and somehow felt inevitable — that jangly, nervous energy, the tight hooks, the way they sounded simultaneously ancient and contemporary. Justin Young’s voice had this quality of barely contained urgency, like he was telling you something he’d already decided you wouldn’t believe. I caught them early and they felt like a secret, which is the most dangerous thing for a band to feel like in the streaming age. Everyone finds it at the same time now.
What held up was the restraint. They never got bigger than the songs needed them to be. “If You Wanna” is still a perfect piece of nervous guitar pop — it doesn’t apologize, doesn’t reach, just exists exactly as long as it should. That’s harder to pull off than it sounds. Most bands either disappear or bloat. The Vaccines just stayed themselves, which is its own kind of obscurity.
Apple rumors were constant. A television was coming. Maps had been a joke that somehow escaped April Fools. Steve Jobs was definitely frozen somewhere deep under Cupertino, waiting for the iResurrection - a decade minimum. The usual noise. But back then, the iPad mini was supposedly real.
Supply chain sources said Apple was ordering ten million units for Q4 2012. Something between an iPhone and an iPad. Jobs had always killed the idea - couldn’t figure out who’d want it. Fair point. I didn’t either. But it came anyway.
That was twice the Kindle Fire’s production for the same window, and that didn’t even count regular iPad numbers. Somewhere in a factory, someone was about to find out what real exhaustion felt like.
The use case was obvious once you thought about it: an iPad was too big to pull out on the subway without looking insane, but an iPhone screen was too small for anything real. A compromise device for people willing to compromise. Or maybe just people with small hands - that was the joke anyway.
I’ve always been the type to worship whatever technology showed up - Nintendo, Apple, whoever was selling the dream. But watching actual people use tablets in public still felt strange to me. Just sitting there swiping at glass for no reason. Not working. Not going anywhere. Just touching a screen on the street. I could watch someone with a laptop all day. Phones were fine. But tablets held up at eye level in public, that looked odd. Maybe I was just odd about it.
There’s something odd about watching a film after an actor dies. You’re not talking about the big names usually, just the faces in the background, the actors who showed up in a dozen movies you loved without much thought. But once they’re dead, suddenly every time you watch those films they’re there again, exactly the same age as they were on set, doing the exact same thing. It doesn’t hurt or anything. It’s just strange — a ghost that was always visible, you just weren’t looking. Film locks people in time whether they asked to be locked or not.
The song doesn’t do much. Sky’s voice does the work — low, almost spoken, then breaking into something more exposed. No production trick to hide behind, no irony as a shield.
Everything is embarrassing, the title says. Everything is human, which means the same thing. There’s something radical about admitting that plainly, without the usual devices to protect yourself.
I remember first hearing it and feeling the relief of that admission. The embarrassment isn’t something to overcome or disguise — it’s just part of the deal. Part of being awake to anything at all.
John Kilar spent the last decade pushing television toward something it didn’t entirely want to become. First at Hulu, then Viacom — always the guy trying to drag legacy media into the streaming era while the industry fought him tooth and nail. He made his bets. Some paid off. Others just made people angry. There’s something almost sad about watching an executive’s grand vision get slowly dismantled by the same people who hired him, especially when he was probably right about what was coming. By the time he left, nobody was talking about the vision anymore. Just the exit. That’s usually how it goes.
A man from Leipzig went to the European Court of Human Rights to argue that laws against incest violated his right to privacy and family life. He and his sister had been fucking for years. Whenever he wasn’t in prison for it. They had four children together, two disabled—the biological consequence you learn about in ninth grade when you first realize why it’s forbidden.
His lawyer apparently made the case that his client’s sexual drive was so powerful that the law was unjust. The court disagreed.
I never had siblings, so incest has always been this theoretical thing, something that lives in pornography and true crime documentaries. Online, the fantasy is transgressive and electric—taboo made sexy, the forbidden packaged for consumption. But the actual case, the real people and their disabled kids and the repeat prison sentences, the relationship just slowly deteriorating—it’s just wreckage. The videos made it look like something it wasn’t.
What gets me is his certainty. He didn’t hide it. He went to court. He fought it publicly, knowing exactly what everyone would think of him. That kind of conviction about wanting something that badly, refusing to accept the world’s answer—I don’t know how to think about it.
The court said no. Not a human right. That was the end.
Rainy weekends do something to you. The sky just sits there crying and the temperature laughs at your face while you’re trapped inside with nothing but your phone and bad options. Scrolling, TV, whatever — mostly just existing in that specific pocket of weird that the internet saves for bored people. That’s the state you’re in right now.
There’s this video of kids from places with actual problems reading First World complaints out loud. Someone’s crying about their new iPhone and a kid just stares like you’ve lost your mind. It’s funny in a way that makes you think about everything you complain about, which is dangerous when you’re already stuck inside and thinking too much.
Sacha Baron Cohen made this movie where he plays some absurdly wealthy Chinese businessman trying to auction off his lesbian daughter. The premise is so committed and stupid that you have to respect it. Someone just decided to push it that far and nobody stopped them.
Effy from Skins is still, years later, the person you’re most in love with. Nothing’s changed. Something about that show wired itself into your brain permanently and on a day like this you find yourself thinking about how she moved, what she’d say, whether anything would be different if you could go back.
There are photos of models where the clothes don’t hide anything and you find yourself collecting them more than is probably healthy. You’re not organized about it, not doing anything with the collection, just saving things because they make you feel something.
There’s someone famous who posed for magazines and plays video games better than most people. She looks like that, her attitude is sharp, she’d destroy you in ranked matches. You think about marrying her sometimes, which is ridiculous because you know nothing except these surface facts. But that’s always the fantasy — someone great at what they do, looks incredible, wouldn’t take your shit.
You imagine moving to some isolated house somewhere, zombie-proof, cop-proof, away from everything. The zombie thing is funny because you don’t believe in them but the metaphor works perfectly.
There are websites built on pure hate. You think about suing them, reporting them, trying to burn them down through the system. But the system doesn’t work that way and those people are immune to being shamed. So you just want to hit something.
And then at the end of that whole mental list was just one more thing waiting: sleep with Luigi. And you do think about it, on afternoons like this.
Bloc Party’s sound was all coiled claustrophobia — jagged guitars, Kele’s voice tight and sharp like he’s trying to break through something. Kettling is what they call it when police trap you in a box with no exit, just pressure and bodies and nowhere to go. Their music had that same compressed, frantic energy, that feeling of being caught and the panic that comes with it.
There was a moment somewhere in there when Gaga stopped needing the costume. All those years of construction, calculation, shock — and then something shifted. The nakedness that came after wasn’t the opposite of the artifice, it was the endgame. You perform authenticity long enough and it becomes real. The person and the persona stop being separate things. That’s when you see what was actually underneath. That’s the nakedness that turns noble.
A rabbit from hell gets photographed in the bathtub with his duck. Now he’s hunting everyone who saw the photo to kill them. This is a SEGA game, which explains everything and nothing at once.
If you grew up during the console wars, you remember the weight of the choice: NES or Master System, Super Nintendo or Genesis, N64 or Dreamcast. It felt like it meant something about who you were. SEGA’s basically gone now. Sonic’s been dead for years. Shenmue’s a museum piece. But that blue logo still gets to me when I see it randomly — just a small recognition that doesn’t fade even though the company’s been declining for twenty years. Muscle memory from caring about something so specifically, so bound to a moment that’s over.
Hell Yeah came out during SEGA’s long decline, somewhere in that period of slow-motion surrender. There’s an energy to it that feels desperate in the best way — not trying to be anything but this one thing. Fast platforming through hell with stupid weapons and colors everywhere, everything loud and bright and insane. Cartoon logic where rules don’t apply.
What got me was how completely it committed to the premise. A rabbit. A bathtub. A duck. A photo. Revenge. No winking at the camera, no meta-irony, just full sincerity about the absurdity. I actually laughed while playing, which doesn’t happen often. Usually I’m either silent when I lock in or too busy turning my friends’ controllers into weapons if they get in the way. But the shamelessness of this — the refusal to dilute the bit for credibility — made me laugh.
It’s on PC, Xbox, PS3. Pick any version. Don’t go in looking for meaning or lessons or whatever games sometimes pretend to offer. It’s just a cartoon hell rabbit with a vendetta and a weird sense of humor. For an afternoon, that’s enough.
The Cool Hunter had nearly 800,000 followers on Facebook. Not some viral moment account—a legitimate design and photography blog out of New York that had built something real over years. Eight hundred thousand people who came back regularly. A thousand clicks a day, just from Facebook alone. And then one day, without warning, the account was gone. Permanently deleted.
Bill Tikos, who runs the blog, only found out because people started asking where the page went. Facebook didn’t send a warning, didn’t explain, didn’t offer any chance to fix whatever they thought was wrong. He reached out asking for details, asking what he could do. Facebook basically said no—account’s deleted, that’s it, no further discussion.
The stated reason was copyright violations. Two of them. Facebook pointed at two photos they said shouldn’t have been there and decided that meant eight hundred thousand followers, years of work, thousands of pieces of content—all of it gone. Tikos asked the obvious question: which photos exactly? What part of your rules did they break? How am I supposed to know what’s acceptable and what isn’t if you don’t tell me?
They never really answered.
What’s unreal about this is how arbitrary it is. Facebook could have sent a notice. They could have said “delete these two and you’re fine.” They could have given him an appeal, a chance to respond, something. Instead they just executed the page like some algorithm made a call and there was no court, no explanation, nothing. The account was gone and that was that.
But here’s what actually stings: it’s not just the followers or the traffic, even though that’s brutal. It’s what lived only on that page. Things he’d tested with his audience that never made it to the blog. Artists and designers he’d given a platform. The conversations, the feedback loop, years of learning what people actually wanted to see. All of it, just erased. The page wasn’t just a metrics thing—it was a place, a working relationship with an audience.
I think about this a lot because most of us who write or make things online have at least some piece of our audience sitting on someone else’s platform. Facebook pages, Twitter followers, whatever. It’s free, which is nice, until you realize you don’t actually own any of it. You’re renting from a landlord who can evict you any minute without explanation.
The practical move is obvious: go through your pages right now and delete anything that might get flagged. Better to pull it yourself than wake up and find the account’s gone. But that misses the actual fear, which is you never know where the line is until you’ve crossed it.
I grew up watching what he made and studying how obsessive he was about detail. That obsession was contagious—you’d look at your own work and suddenly small things mattered more. In design, you can’t escape his influence. The whole idea of stripping things down, of letting empty space matter as much as the object itself, changed what people expect from the things they touch. When he died, it wasn’t like everything stopped. It was more that you realized how much of how you worked had come from watching him.
Sasha Grey left. Not her job or city — the entire framework that was supposed to contain her. She started in adult films, the kind of totalizing industry where you’re trapped by one identity forever. Then she didn’t do that anymore. Became a visual artist. Made experimental films. Appeared in serious television. Just kept moving.
People who needed her to stay ashamed got angrier. The transgressive part isn’t where she came from — it’s that she refused to apologize for it. No redemption narrative. No ’I was lost and now I’m found.’ What interests me is how thoroughly she operates outside the categories people built for her. The real transgression is what she refuses to perform: shame, regret, the recovery story everyone expects.
Sky Ferreira’s been in this long enough that she’s clearly just making what she wants now. The voice, the sparse arrangements, the videos—it all feels completely under control, never straining to convince you. There’s something untouchable about her. She does her thing and doesn’t need you to be interested, which is exactly why you are.
I’ve been in Berlin five years now, and I’ve done just about everything this place has to offer without destroying my life completely in the process. Sunday mornings at the flea market in Mauerpark when the sun’s out, getting annoyed at the tourists while being one myself. Nights dancing through clubs, wrecked on whatever we’d taken before we left, sleeping in different beds after, and then at dawn finding myself on a swing somewhere watching the sun come up. I’ve met the kind of people you remember, people you kiss, people you lose. All the things Berlin’s supposed to be.
But standing here now, walking down streets I’ve walked a thousand times, the air smelling the same, the crowds doing the same dull thing—I can feel how little Berlin has moved. The city’s frozen. Maybe it’s been dead for a while and just doesn’t know it yet. You want to believe the experiences matter, the people matter, that five years of something means something, but the city tells you different every time you leave your apartment.
You can keep building along the Spree. You can keep closing clubs and opening them somewhere else. You can keep cycling through art shows and pop-up stores and vegan restaurants and startups and graffiti walls and MacBook cafés—everyone photographing it, posting about it, moving on. It doesn’t matter. Berlin’s suffering from something frozen at its core. Its creativity is asleep, kept in that sleep by the people who want it to stay free and elite forever, like those things can exist at the same time, like holding time still is the same as keeping something alive.
Everywhere I go I see the same faces in different people, the same types, the same stories repeating. I’m trapped in a place that talks about nothing but change while it starves for it. Full of people who came here as real individuals and got smoothed into copies of other copies. I watched it happen. I even called it out and people just stared back at me.
It’s not the coke or the beer or the casual sex or the music that bleeds you out. It’s the ruins of a place that’s lived through too much and is too tired to keep going, that’s gone quiet and barely breathes anymore. Your footsteps echo up through the tall old buildings and past all the painted rubble, down the long avenues and into the clubs at night, and nobody hears them. A rotting collective of imitations doesn’t hear anything.
I defended this place for years. Loved it. Said it was the only city that would ever give me what it gave me. And I meant it then. But I’ve seen through it now and I can only smile tired smiles at it, wave my hand. Five years in Berlin and I’m ready to leave. Maybe for good this time.
Winter’s the best excuse. Gray skies, rain that won’t quit, the sun showing up just to laugh at you. The kind of weather where you don’t feel guilty spending the whole day in front of a screen eating cookies from the family pack while some new game does whatever it does.
XCOM Enemy Unknown was that game. I’d describe it as what happens if Mass Effect and Civilization had a tactical child. You pick missions across Earth, send squads of soldiers to fight these slimy aliens, research technology, promote your people, make decisions that make some countries happy and others furious, then you’re clicking through turn-based combat until alien heads start exploding.
It’s actually pretty good. The problem is that half your team dies in your first real mission and you’re genuinely devastated because you wanted more time with that woman and her machine gun. Then everything accelerates: kidnappings in China, some alien attack in the US, and back at base there’s this scientist who sounds like she’s perpetually on the verge of falling asleep. Sleep well, doc.
The game steals from everything—deep strategy, roster management that makes you care who lives and dies, tech trees that feel meaningful, real tactical stakes. What doesn’t work is the story. It’s just thin. I kept thinking about what a real alien invasion would need, and it’s definitely more imagination. Dress up as Santa. Offer free beer and t-shirts to get people on the ships. Launch a TV station and rot our brains out slowly. Get weird with it.
Not a game for the ADHD Call of Duty kids. You need patience for the enemy’s turn, and most people would use that time to punch a wall instead. I had fun with it. Whether I’d actually play through the whole thing, no idea. Either way, if you’re curious, check out the demo. Fuck those aliens.
There’s something about watching The Weeknd perform that makes everything else feel like it’s happening in color correction. The red lighting, the distorted synths, that voice processed into something almost inhuman but still vulnerable underneath. He doesn’t perform like he wants you to like him. He performs like he’s working through something and you’re just there, witnessing it.
I got into his music late, which is typical of me. By the time I was paying attention, he’d already built this whole visual world—the bandages, the Starboy era, the absolute commitment to darkness as an aesthetic choice rather than just a mood. What struck me was that he never apologized for it. A lot of artists soften when they get bigger, start chasing relatability. He just went further in. The Weeknd looks at the camera like he’s already won, like he doesn’t need anything from you except to watch what he’s made.
There’s something about Natalia Kinstantin’s voice that gets under your skin in a way that doesn’t feel like a compliment at first. Bat For Lashes builds these dark, beautiful architectures from synths and whispered vocals, and you find yourself drawn into something that feels more like a memory than a song. The way she layers her voice, the way she moves between fragile and commanding, it’s like watching someone operate in slow motion while everything around them accelerates. I keep coming back to the restraint of it — how much power there is in not quite reaching for the obvious emotional crescendo. It’s the opposite of desperate. It’s someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and trusts you to meet them halfway.
The cease-and-desist letters started arriving in waves. activeLAW, representing a Berlin image agency called hgm-press, began sending them by the thousands. They’d apparently bought up rights to thousands of photographs and figured out they could make money just sending lawyers after bloggers. The demands were usually around five thousand euros per image. Sometimes more.
They didn’t distinguish between anything. Didn’t matter if you’d credited the photographer or even had written permission. They’d run Google Image Search, find your blog in the results, send a letter. Autodino got hit for nineteen thousand euros on three photos. We Like That got dunned for three grand on a picture of some artist nobody had heard of. When they came for me it was five thousand for a Lindsay Lohan shot I’d posted years earlier.
What made it possible was the law itself. Germany doesn’t have fair use. In America, you can share an image for commentary, reporting, inspiration—that’s why sites like Tumblr and Pinterest exist. Here, reposting someone else’s photograph without explicit rights is illegal. Full stop. The law doesn’t distinguish. Doesn’t care why you did it or how you framed it.
So you’re running a blog about culture and design, and you realize you’re legally exposed every time you embed an image. Not because you’re being careless. Because the law doesn’t allow for context. It’s an impossible minefield.
Most people just paid. That was the whole point. They knew you couldn’t afford a real court fight, so they sent letters until the money came. It was predatory in the cleanest sense—no complexity, no subtlety. Just identify creators, wait for the payment. The effect was clear enough: it made you less likely to create online, to share anything, to riff on culture and respond to it. Maybe that wasn’t the intended result. But it was the result.
I was in Tokyo when they made watching YouTube a crime. Two to ten years in prison, or a fine around 100,000 euros. Just for clicking play on something unlicensed. The Recording Industry Association of Japan had pushed it through, and it had that quality of satire that somehow became actual law.
The technical part was the perfect stupidity. Every video you stream gets cached to your computer. That’s technically a download. Watching any unlicensed video is now a felony. Fan uploads, trailers, covers, memes — doesn’t matter. And if you’re Japanese, the law applies even if you leave the country.
Most people didn’t know it had happened. I asked around and only a few had heard. Those who had seemed paralyzed by it tried talking about it online, tried organizing, then just gave up. There was something eerie about a law this extreme passing without real resistance, like everyone could see the stupidity but nobody had any way to stop it.
This is how these things work. One country does something extreme and survives, and suddenly it’s a template elsewhere. The record companies see Japan made it work and start pushing the same law in other places. The precedent is set. The craziness becomes normal through repetition.
I don’t know what I thought would happen differently. The law was already passed by the time I got there. But watching it happen quietly, the way people just absorbed it — that part stayed with me.
Found a list somewhere of ten things to do on a weekend if you’re bored enough. Give a fake diamond to a random person, whisper something terrifying—They’re coming, I’m running out of time—and just walk away. Don’t explain. Leave them holding a piece of glass interpreting your paranoia. Show up to someone’s party in a ski mask. Order a three-course meal at a fancy restaurant, throw it all up, order again. Admit that you’re less attractive than a horse, and mean it. Fall in love with a girl whose name is a single letter and name all your children other letters—M, O, Z, Y—build a whole life that’s basically a joke nobody understands.
It’s all completely pointless. That’s the thing about these lists—they’re not about accomplishment or even experience. They’re just permission to be chaotic for no reason. To disrupt a stranger’s day, to waste money on vomit, to admit embarrassing things to yourself. None of it leads anywhere. It doesn’t mean anything.
But there’s something I like about that. The idea that you could spend a weekend doing something completely unhinged and the only payoff is that you did it. No lesson learned, no growth, no story to tell that makes sense. Just: I was weird and pointless for a few hours and nothing changed.
I’ve never actually done any of this, obviously. But I keep the list around because it reminds me that the alternative to being reasonable is right there—accessible, ridiculous, yours if you want it.
Mutant space crabs in 3D is exactly the kind of premise that makes you wonder who greenlighted this, but also why they didn’t make more of them. You watch it knowing exactly what you’re in for - the budget constraints, the earnest practical effects, the commitment to the bit. There’s something kind of pure about a movie that doesn’t try to be anything other than what it is.
Marina made “How To Be A Heartbreaker” as a kind of theatrical game, all swagger and calculated seduction. The song doesn’t pretend to be sincere; it’s playing a character, enjoying every second of the performance. What gets to me is how it understands something true: the performance becomes the real thing. After a while, the role and the person are the same thing. It’s a pop song that’s actually honest about dishonesty.
I keep putting on Grizzly Bear records because something about their songs doesn’t quite resolve. They’re meticulous—every track layered with detail that rewards attention—but there’s always a restlessness underneath, like they’re reaching for something just beyond the arrangement. It’s not a flaw. It’s what makes you play it again, trying to hear what they’re getting at. Years later and the songs still feel incomplete in that specific way, still asking something of you.
I understand those stories now—the ones about kids in Korea or China found dead in internet cafes after three days straight of gaming. Starved, dehydrated, blood clots from sitting. I never got it until I played League of Legends for sixteen hours straight last night, slept for maybe an hour, and immediately started another match.
I’m level six. Killed over a thousand things, got a hundred takedowns, won five games and lost basically everything else. My team was usually incompetent. Though sometimes that was me. I’ll admit that.
I mostly play Sivir because she works, but I keep getting distracted by Riven, this disgraced soldier with a massive sword and this look, like she’d say yes to some seriously bad decisions. She costs five dollars or seven hundred hours of grinding. I’m not spending money on a free game, so Sivir’s who I get.
I’ve got my headphones on, smashing away at whatever moves in this jungle while I watch something else on my other screen because pure League makes me want to dig my own eyes out. I keep forgetting which button heals me and which one sends me back home. Which is humiliating. But nobody’s watching, so whatever.
This is free on Windows and Mac. I’m apparently the last person to discover it exists. You’re supposed to laugh at me now. I’ll be here for a few more matches before real life finds me.
What gets me is the restraint. Ellie sits in this skeletal electronic space with nothing around her—no reaching, no building, nothing trying to convince you. She’s just saying it, plainly, and something about that plainness is what lands. Most pop songs are built to hit you at once; this one trusts that you’ll hear what matters if you’re paying attention.
You go to enough blogger events and you start noticing the same four panels repeating: fashion, politics, tech, feminism. I stand around at the fashion panels completely lost because I don’t know anything about Karl Lagerfeld’s latest collection. Politics is fine—I lean left anyway. Tech I can manage with an iPhone upgrade every few years. Feminism though? Every feminist panel makes me want to set my chair on fire and start screaming.
I grew up around capable women. In school, at home, in friendships, at work—women with intelligence and agency and real purpose. I honestly couldn’t understand why anyone would seriously argue they deserved fewer rights or opportunities. It seemed like something television invented for ratings, so divorced from actual reality that I couldn’t take it seriously.
Guys on talk shows saying they’d only sleep with virgins, that women belonged in kitchens, that they needed hitting to stay in line. Theater. Pathetic theater. The kind of thing empires believed when they held slaves—so ancient and absurd that it barely registered as real.
I have genuine respect for everyone who fought against gender discrimination. The people who gave things up, who refused to accept less. They changed the world. So why does modern feminism fill me with this weird simultaneous rage and tedium?
Because it’s chosen to be angry and completely humorless as a matter of principle. They want to rename salt shakers and mean it. They push gender quotas that just reinforce the exact separations they claim to oppose. They organize SlutWalks like it’s some kind of statement. All of this with the grim certainty of people who’ve never smiled at themselves, never doubted anything.
Blogger Nike van Dinther pointed out that just saying the word “feminism” explodes in people’s minds: armpit hair, aggressive women, Alice Schwarzer, man-hating extremists. This weight of accumulated cliché and grimness. She’s right that having a label helps people find each other. But the label only works if the movement doesn’t actively repel everyone else.
Everyone should be a feminist in principle. For equality, for justice, against discrimination. But when the movement pursuing those exact goals comes across as so uninspiring, so uncomfortable, so aggressively humorless, then alienation is inevitable.
Feminism needs to be modern not just in what it demands but in how it presents those demands. Away from this suffocating seriousness. Away from the tired clichés. Away from the grim rigidity and word-policing and self-appointed idols. All of us—regardless of gender—want a fresher, more human version of feminism. Something that naturally activates the sense of fairness in everyone’s chest. Something people would defend because they believe in it, not because they feel obligated. Something that brings equality into society the way it should happen: naturally, not imposed from above.
Without quotas. Without the linguistic assault. And without me sitting in another panel wanting to set my chair on fire and scream.
I came to it late, downloaded the first one on impulse, and then I couldn’t stop. Burned through all three over a few months. That was years ago and I haven’t found anything that matched it since.
What hooked me was partly the story — intricate and strange for a blockbuster game — but mostly the weight behind your decisions. Not clean moral branches but real trade-offs with consequences that carried forward. Characters you saved in one playthrough died in another depending on your choices. You could green-light genocide and carry that guilt forward for two more games. The decision-space was enormous and almost all of it actually mattered.
The ending still gets to me. Won’t spoil it, but there’s something in how it concludes that feels truer than games usually allow themselves to be. People are still debating what it means, which is kind of the whole point. It’s one of those endings that makes you want to immediately replay it to see if another path was better, but you already know the answer — it’s not about the paths, it’s about you.
I’d stopped gaming before this. Not dramatically, just drifted away. These three games pulled me back in. Made me feel like someone whose choices actually shaped the world I was moving through. Bioware convinced me that games could do something I didn’t think they could — that they could matter the way books do.
I’m still chasing that feeling. Still waiting for another trilogy to do what those three did. Haven’t found it. Probably won’t.
There’s a series of Terry Richardson photographs of Lindsey, a skater, and they have that raw immediacy you see in his best work — a subject caught in a moment without pretense. These came from before he became shorthand for a certain aesthetic, when the provocation actually felt unconsidered.
I look terrible in that photo Frank took. Gray, wrinkled, the beard a disaster. I’m not going to list everything else wrong because that’s not really the point. The point is I’ve been home for months grinding work to save money for Tokyo, and it shows. The whole thing is library, apartment, repeat. No actual life, just working toward the one place that doesn’t feel like wasting time.
I went to Rotterdam with Thang for the festival and that was three years ago now. Everything since has been work. Studying kanji that were definitely invented as psychological torture. Neighbor Ute who’s losing her hearing. Cheap cola from the corner. U-Bahn rides to nowhere and back. This is what the old posts used to joke about—parties, sex, pills—but the actual version is just sitting at home and dreaming about Tokyo.
Janos, Anika, and I went to the Berlin döner exhibition. It was one of the most boring things I’ve ever done. Maybe five thousand people in line, vendors ran out of meat in minutes, everyone shuffling around like it mattered. I was too tired to even get annoyed about it.
Tokyo is the only place that actually works. I will get back there. When I do I’m going to kiss the Shibuya crossing. Until then, it’s studying the language, working, and not much else. That’s the whole thing right now.
MySpace is coming back. Justin Timberlake of all people is the one steering this thing. The screenshots are incredible — I’m not even kidding, the interface is sleek, the timelines are clean, the whole thing looks like something designed by someone who actually understood what’s wrong with every other social network. Which is exactly the problem.
The old MySpace was never beautiful. It was a disaster — loud, chaotic, full of broken HTML and autoplay music and comment spam and actual predators in your inbox. People customized their pages obsessively, made them completely unusable to anyone but themselves. The whole thing was garbage. But somehow that’s exactly what made it work. It was honest. It didn’t pretend to be curated or algorithmic or safe. You went there to be seen, to find your people, to be weird without apologizing for it.
What gets me about remembering MySpace is how much I hated it while I was using it. I knew the platform was full of creeps and bots. I knew my painstakingly designed profile page looked ridiculous to anyone looking at it. I knew I was wasting time. And still I couldn’t stop. Tom was your first friend, always there, always smiling.
It died the way most things do online — suddenly and then forgotten. Facebook ate it. Everyone moved on. MySpace became a punch line, the story older siblings told to explain how fragile everything is, how quickly what seems permanent becomes ruins.
But now it’s back. The new design doesn’t look like the old one at all. It’s slick, contemporary, actually functional. It’s the version of MySpace that maybe should have existed all along, except now we’re so tired of social networks that the promise of a beautiful interface doesn’t even matter anymore.
We’re drowning in them — Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, Discord, whatever new thing launched last week. There’s no room left for another place to pour yourself into.
Except the design is really, genuinely good. That’s the seduction. That’s why this might actually work for some people — the ones young enough not to remember MySpace the first time, the ones for whom this is just another social network without any weight of disappointment behind it. For them it’s clean and new. For me it’s a ghost with better graphics.
Gorgeous garbage still doesn’t make the garbage necessary. We don’t need another timeline to check, another feed to scroll through, another algorithm deciding who sees what we post. MySpace was a beautiful failure once. I’m betting it stays that way.
Miley’s whole thing has been refusing to be palatable — trading Hannah Montana’s wholesomeness for provocation, weaponizing her own image as a way of saying no to the things they wanted to lock her into. The shock gets the attention, but what’s actually smart is the control underneath. She knew exactly what she was doing, which made it different from just being another hot girl in pop. Everything that followed came from a position of power.
Used to write about things that mattered—hunger in East Africa, what men find beautiful, girls who refused the boxes. Now it’s Miley Cyrus’s breasts and drunk teenagers at Oktoberfest. At some point the work shifted. Maybe I got tired of being angry about things I can’t fix. Maybe I just followed the audience elsewhere. Maybe I stopped believing any of it mattered. The old pieces are still out there if you want to see what I sounded like before that happened. It’s not a tragedy. It’s just what happens.
I make money on the internet by sitting with feeds and PR agencies and the endless low-level noise of it all. The decent stuff gets bundled with people I work with and shipped back out. That’s the job.
The money comes from brands. We work them in between the actual posts—Adidas, Calvin Klein, whoever—and they land the same way everything else does. I’m saying this because I watch a lot of bloggers struggle to figure out how any of this actually works.
I’m in several blogger groups. Most of them are a wasteland. Naive fashion bloggers and exhausted writers running giveaways that are obviously sponsored, and you can see it immediately: they’ve gotten completely played. Not for the first time either.
You see it everywhere: someone giving away Maybelline lipsticks, H&M vouchers, stuff from KiK. The merchandise is often garbage. But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is how little they’re being paid—or nothing at all.
Most get zero. They make content hoping to pull a few people over. Some score vouchers. Ten euros. Twenty. Maybe a hundred if they’re lucky. Almost never actual cash, and when there is it’s still nothing. That’s fucked.
I’ve watched this for years. The brands make bank off free PR while you feel excited that some agency finally noticed you. They did notice—noticed you work for free. No guilt, no sleepless nights. If I ran a PR operation and bloggers were volunteering to get exploited, I’d take it too. Why wouldn’t you? Simple math. And they’re not wrong. If people will sell themselves cheap, why pay more?
What’s worse is that it ruins everything for everyone else. Not just the person getting screwed, but anyone actually trying to make a living. Anyone doing real work. The whole thing gets poisoned.
What would have to happen: brands come calling and you tell them no thanks, not for vouchers or pennies. Not for a hundred euros. A few hundred, real money. Post plus social. Suddenly you’re not free. You have leverage.
Most will say no budget, call you insane, try to walk away. But the ones who get it—who understand what you’re actually worth—they’ll meet the rate when it’s real.
I made it because I got in early and learned to charge. But I watch every new batch of bloggers repeat the same mistakes I see everywhere else. They think being asked means something. They think showing up for free will matter. It won’t.
HUB makes shoes without the performance-anxiety marketing. No overwrought branding, no claims stamped on the side — just leather, rubber, proportions that work. The kind of restraint that only comes from actually knowing what you’re doing. I’ve worn enough shoes to recognize when someone’s designed something versus when they’ve just slapped a logo on an existing mold. HUB’s the former. Break them in and you’ve got footwear for the next few years.
The standard story: campaign feels great, you’re beating all the missions, feel like you understand something. Then multiplayer happens and some 16-year-old with 10,000 hours throws down a build you’ve never heard of and it’s over. Campaign was fun. Multiplayer is for the people who actually want it.
But Dustin Browder apparently said at some eSports conference that Blizzard’s thinking about making the multiplayer free. Fully free, not a trial. Korea’s been waiting for this. The competitive scene there has always been built on accessibility—this would actually complete it.
What it means is straightforward: way more people trying the game, way more people getting destroyed immediately, and a few of those people caring enough to keep going. Right now you pay $60 to lose to a veteran. If it’s free, you lose to a veteran but at least you didn’t spend money first.
For people like me, it doesn’t change anything. I’ll load it up, get absolutely schooled, remember why I quit, and move on. But there’s something right about a competitive game that doesn’t charge admission.
Whether Blizzard actually does it, I have no idea. Browder mentioning it in public is interesting though. That means someone there gets it.
Kate Upton with puppies is exactly as straightforward as it looks. Beautiful woman, cute dogs, good light. Your eye lands there and stays. There’s no pretense to it, and somehow that’s the point. You don’t need more.
Dirty Projectors have always operated in that space where experimentation and genuine song craft somehow coexist. Dave Longstreth’s voice doing those fractured, angular things over the band’s constantly shifting arrangements — it shouldn’t work, but there’s something about the intelligence behind it that pulls you in. They’ve never been the kind of band you stumble onto; you find them because you were looking for something weird and precise at the same time. There’s a phase everyone goes through where their records feel essential, where you can’t figure out why more people aren’t listening to them, and then you realize it’s because most people don’t want their indie rock to demand this much attention. But that’s always been the point. They exist in their own lane, doing things their way, and the fact that they’re still around and still strange feels increasingly rare.
Oktoberfest rolls in again and there they are on that field in Munich. Millions of them. The leather-pants people, the tourists, the college kids who think this is the pinnacle of experience. They come for overpriced beer and overpriced sausages and the chance to get completely fucked up in public without consequences.
Then they puke. A lot. Which is why someone started München kotzt—a website that just documents what actually happens at Oktoberfest. Not the heritage angle, not the tradition, just the endless record of people drinking past their limit and doing it anyway.
There’s something almost noble about refusing to pretend it’s anything else. Just: this is what we’re here to do. Get excessive. Lose control. Call it culture and move on.
Bat For Lashes gets something about the distance between how you look and how you feel. Marilyn sits in that space between glamour and dissolution — all those crystalline synths, and then a voice that sounds like it’s breaking while it sings. The song doesn’t explain anything. It just makes you understand why someone would want to be beautiful and ruined at the same time.
Three months in Tokyo and I came back realizing how completely false most Western writing about Japan actually is. Not false as in intentionally dishonest. False as in radically incomplete. Every English-language blog, every magazine that touches Japanese culture goes straight for anime, manga, weird video games, the strangest television shows. If it’s sexual and bizarre and anime-shaped, it gets written about. Everything else just disappears.
What I actually saw there was a whole different country. Really good photographers working on real projects. Young designers thinking carefully about how people move through space, about objects, about materials. Artists whose practice had nothing to do with tentacles or AKB48 or whatever’s trending. There’s a visual culture there—a real scene, real work—that simply doesn’t show up in English because it’s not weird enough. It won’t get clicks.
I’m moving back to Tokyo next year. Partly because I want to live there, but also because I can’t stop thinking about that gap. There’s a whole side of Japanese culture that nobody I know has ever read about, and I’m curious what else I’m missing by only reading the weird shit that travels. So I’m starting Friends in Tokyo with Sari and a couple others. Same idea: document what’s actually happening. Cover shows in Tokyo, music from Osaka, find photographers and designers and artists doing work that doesn’t fit the “insane anime country” narrative. Interview people who’ve left Japan and landed elsewhere. Just point at what’s there.
We’re already publishing. If you’re tired of the same anime-and-tentacles version of Japan that every blog covers, it exists. If you’re not, that’s fine too. The basic thing is: I went to Tokyo for three months, saw a place that looked nothing like what I’d been reading about, and now I want to document it differently. That’s Friends in Tokyo.
There’s a specific kind of energy in his photographs—the casual cruelty of fashion, the way models look tired and bored and gorgeous and used all at once. The style defined a moment: flash photography, harsh light, the aesthetic of someone who treated the shoot like he was doing everyone a favor. For a long time, that worked. Then the stories came out. Now when you look at the images, you look differently, or you don’t look at them at all. The work doesn’t change. Your ability to separate what you see from who made it does.
Adidas held a launch party in Munich for a campaign hunting crews. Die Orsons performed, along with other German artists. The campaign was looking for groups with actual projects and offering to back them. There’s something interesting about a brand stepping back from selling product and just funding real work.
Whether it felt authentic or just like a carefully executed party with the right intentions, I couldn’t say. Someone thought it mattered, thought it was worth doing. Maybe that’s enough.
Ellie Goulding’s this precise, careful pop artist with a voice like glass—sharp and clear and somehow fragile at the same time. “Anything Could Happen” caught me because it doesn’t try to be more than it is, just this quiet moment of optimism that doesn’t feel desperate or cheap. You forget sometimes that pop can work that way, just by being honest. I can’t tell anymore if I actually like Ellie or just remember where that song landed in my life, but that’s the whole thing about pop music—they’re usually the same thing.
Two thousand and twelve. You had money and nowhere to put it—the banks were lying, the taxes were eating it—so you spent it on things instead.
The Nokia Lumia 920 was the first real alternative to Apple that actually mattered. They were still doing the fake-leather design thing, treating phones like they wanted to be leather wallets. Windows Phone went the other direction—bright tiles, hard angles, actually digital. Choosing one felt like you’d figured something out.
Nike and Dover Street Market made a special Air Force 1 for the 30-year anniversary. Limited, white, supposedly waterproof, tied to the 1948 Olympics, the first after the war. That narrative-making—you were buying the story as much as the shoe.
Lana Del Rey was Woman of the Year on magazine covers, mostly naked, and the writing about her was crude and horny. People were obsessed with her as this broken California image, this girl who’d let you photograph her however. She was interesting in a way most pop moments aren’t—something about it felt real, which is probably the cruelest thing you can say about celebrity culture.
A Bathing Ape put old Street Fighter sprites on t-shirts. The nostalgia play so obvious it barely registered, but everyone wanted them anyway. The culture was converting the eighties and nineties into essential merchandise, childhood packaged as product.
Urban Outfitters was where you’d spend an afternoon walking past people who’d figured out the look. The right hair, the right bands, the right irony level. The catalog was aspirational porn—beautiful people, beautiful apartments, beautiful objects. You could be that, supposedly, if you owned the right things.
This was what the year tasted like. The objects meant something, or you had to believe they did.
I’ve always been drawn to the hidden parts of cities—the tunnels, the abandoned infrastructure, all the spaces that exist beneath the surface but are meant to stay unseen. Steve Duncan and Andrew Wonder turned that into a practice, infiltrating the underground levels of major cities around the world, documenting what’s been forgotten or left to decay. They made a film with Palladium Boots about exploring beneath Las Vegas and other places, and it reached people: the Times covered it, so did HuffPost and Wired.
There’s a direct appeal to unauthorized access, to seeing what’s off-limits. It’s partly the transgression, partly just the visual record of it—these weird abandoned spaces, the strange things that exist below the surface. The collaboration with a gear brand makes sense; you need good boots to crawl through tunnels and underground passages. But what makes this work is the documentation itself, making something visible that’s meant to stay hidden.
There’s this moment in the song where everything drops out and it’s just Matt Bellamy’s voice, naked and fractured, before the production crashes back in like a building collapsing. I’ve always loved Muse for that—the way they’ll write something genuinely anthemic and then wrap it in so much bombast and self-awareness that you can’t tell if they’re sincere or taking the piss. Maybe they can’t tell either. Madness works because it catches that exact tension: a stadium-sized confection that knows it’s stupid and doesn’t care. The lyrics are hokey as hell, but the architecture of the thing, the way it builds and collapses, has stuck with me for years. It’s the sound of someone brilliant with too many ideas and no editor, which is basically Muse in a nutshell.
Armored Kill hit in September, and EA’s pitch was simple: the biggest map in Battlefield history, new tanks, new weapons, everything scaled up. The trailer showed tanks rolling across desert, buildings exploding, the usual bombast. I downloaded it mostly because I was running out of things to do in the base game.
What I wasn’t expecting was how different the scale would feel. I’d been playing Battlefield on maps like Caspian Border, which were already huge by shooter standards. But Armored Kill’s main map—I can’t remember the name now—was something else. You could stand at one end and barely see the other. Flags were so spread out that walking between engagements took actual time. No other shooter played like that.
The tanks made sense now. On a regular-sized map they feel like a gimmick, a way to get easy kills on roof campers. But on a map this big they solved a real problem: crossing open ground without getting sniped. You couldn’t just run. The armor became tactically necessary, not just a novelty vehicle.
There’s something appealing about that kind of scale, at least in theory. The idea that a map could be so big and chaotic that strategy becomes almost meaningless, where you’re just trying to find where the action is and stay alive long enough to matter. It felt different from the tighter, more controlled shooters we’d gotten used to.
But the novelty burned out faster than I expected. People still clustered around the same objectives. The scale mostly just meant longer downtime between fights. After a few weeks, I went back to the smaller maps where things actually happened.
Still, for a brief moment it felt like the game was trying to become something bigger than it was. Whether that was a good thing or just escalation for its own sake, I’m still not sure.
Go Topless Day happens every summer in New York, this protest about the absurd double standard for women’s bodies. But I saw a thread about why participation wasn’t bigger, and the honest answer kept coming up: not enough women felt safe actually doing it. Which is kind of the whole point, right? The protest is about freedom from constantly policing your own body, but the policing never actually stops. It’s hard to reclaim something when you’re still defending it.
The bailiff showed up just after eight. Maybe thirty or forty artists were still there, moving their things out while music came from somewhere in the building and beer coasters flew out the windows onto the street. Resistance in the artistic sense. Hundreds of petition lists lay on the floor—signatures from all over the world, all these people trying to save the place. I’d signed one of those lists myself, for whatever that was worth.
Tacheles wasn’t some carefully curated artist space. It was what happened when squatters and painters and musicians just occupied an old building and made something real out of chaos. Five years I’ve been in Berlin, and for nearly three of those I worked maybe fifty meters away from it. It became the place you took visiting friends when you wanted to show them the actual city, not the tourist version. Street art, the smell of piss, people who’d basically moved into the basement like it was their permanent address. Rough and genuine and completely uncommercial.
The legal owners had a case—HSH Nordbank wanted their building back. That was always the ending, but there was a window where Berlin’s mayor, Klaus Wowereit, could have done something. Could have intervened, given a signal that the artists mattered. He didn’t. One of the people being evicted said something like, “Now that Tacheles is gone, maybe Wowereit can go too.” I understood the anger. He’d been happy to pose for cameras talking about supporting the arts, but when it actually mattered, when it meant using political capital on actual artists instead of investors, he wasn’t there.
This time there wasn’t even organized resistance. Everyone just started packing, moving out to Neukölln where the rents were still cheap. The building would become something else—a hotel, apartments, condos. The market would decide, and whatever got built there would be clean and profitable and lifeless.
I could get into the whole thing about gentrification and how Berlin keeps losing its edges, how everything becomes sterilized and expensive and safe and boring. It’s true. The clubs are disappearing, the neighborhoods are flattening. But complaining about it doesn’t fix anything. Berlin was supposed to be this resilient city that regenerates itself, but I’m not sure that’s actually happening anymore.
The silence in The xx’s music is deliberate. It’s not absence—it’s presence through restraint. Romy and Oliver built their sound on what gets left out: the bass that almost appears, the drums that fade to nothing, the space between two quiet voices. Coexist is their new album, and it moves through the same economy of sound, trusting that you’ll lean in to hear it.
I caught wind they’d put it online free, which seems characteristically modest. There’s no announcement, no big rollout—just the album appearing where you can listen. Songs like “Angels” and “Fiction” arrive like confessions, and it doesn’t really matter what platform hosts them. You either hear them or you don’t.
There’s a sold-out show in Berlin tonight. I keep thinking about what that means for a band built on emptiness and restraint. The xx live are something else—you’re not watching a performance, you’re overhearing something private. That kind of economy shouldn’t work in a room full of people, but it does.
Arvida’s been posting topless photos to Instagram for years, knowing they violate the community guidelines, knowing they’ll get flagged or removed. There’s no apology in it, no explanation — just the image and the refusal. A platform awash in violence, conspiracy, and abuse, but a woman’s breast is where we suddenly get very concerned about decency. She keeps posting anyway.
What gets me is how unselfconscious the provocation is. No manifesto, no performance, no philosophical argument — just a body at the beach or in the studio and an implicit question: who is this rule for? You can’t quite untangle the politics from the provocation, and I think that’s the whole point. The work sits in that friction.
She’s not the first to push against the platform’s absurd rules, but there’s something different about the consistency, the willingness to lose the account if that’s what it takes. That’s actual stakes, not a simulation of them. Most art that tries to provoke is playing a game with the system. This is just refusal.
Apple sent out the invitations and September 12 is the day. After months of rumors and fake photos and tech blogs drowning in complete nonsense, it’s finally happening. Everyone’s asking the same thing: buy it or don’t.
I’m still using the iPhone 4. No S, no Siri. I made this rule years ago—skip every other generation, save some money, don’t be the sucker who upgrades every time. Makes sense in theory. Then you’re around someone with a better camera, or they’re talking to their phone and it actually understands them, and you realize you’ve locked yourself into the boring choice. You smile and hate everyone a little.
The thing about wanting a new phone is that wanting is the whole point. You could use anything—a flip phone would still work fine. But that’s not how it goes. You see the new one and suddenly your old one feels ancient, which is stupid because it’s not ancient, you’re just bored. Or you’re the kind of person who needs the best thing, or you’re the kind of person who doesn’t let himself have the best thing. Either way, you’re thinking about it.
Of course nobody knows what the 5 will actually do. Thinner, probably. Faster. Better camera. Some new feature that’ll sound great in the keynote and nobody will actually use. It doesn’t matter though. With the new iPhone, it’s only ever about having it or not having it. You want it enough to pay, or you don’t, or you’re broke and the decision makes itself.
So I’m sitting here thinking about it. The 5, I mean. Or maybe an iPad instead. A Kindle. A book. There’s that moment where you think about helping people in Uganda while contemplating a thousand-dollar purchase, like the thought somehow balances it out. My phone works fine. Everything breaks eventually. When it does, I’ll buy something new and rewrite the story to make it seem like the only choice I ever had.
There’s always another version. The track you loved gets remixed and suddenly it’s unfamiliar again, but better. Sometimes worse, but so different you can’t stop listening.
The xx make sparse echoing spaces that sound built for someone else. Bon Iver’s work gets remixed and it’s sharper, more textured. Purity Ring’s synths stretch differently. I’ve spent entire days with remixes, watching how another artist handles a song I already know.
It’s a different kind of listening. Not discovering something new, but discovering what you missed the first time. The original’s fine, but you’re spending the week with this version instead.
I’ve known about Perfume for a while now—three Japanese women making this kind of pop music that shouldn’t work but does. Pixelated 8-bit synths, songs about love and computers and freedom, totally unserious but sharp underneath. They hosted the Japanese MTV awards last summer, which I remember reading about and thinking, yeah, they’re still here. “Fake It” is the new track, and it’s exactly what you’d expect: clean, bright, a little cynical. The thing missing is a decent Japanese club in Berlin, the kind of place where you’d hear this at two in the morning and it would actually land.
Steve Aoki’s been around long enough that his whole persona—the energy, the cake, the endless touring—feels like a permanent fixture of electronic music culture now. He built Dim Mak into something real when progressive house was still somewhat niche, and he’s kept moving, kept championing artists who needed the platform. Whether people think he’s essential or exhausting probably depends on when they found him, but the work is done. The kids coming up now probably don’t think about whether he matters—he’s just landscape, something to navigate or reject as you move forward.
I posted a photo of Britney Spears in a bikini. The caption was “Britney, please put something on!” I do this kind of thing all the time—toss up a photo, add something to it, see what people think. Usually it’s fine.
The comments came in fast. Someone read it as me calling her fat. The next person piled anorexia onto it. Then someone dragged child pornography into the conversation. Cheap booze, hipster accusations, Hollywood beauty standards—all of it landing on me somehow, within an hour, for things I never said.
What got to me was that nobody even asked what I meant. Maybe I thought Britney was too thin. Maybe her glasses looked bad. Maybe I didn’t want to see someone’s mother half-naked on the feed. Maybe there was just nothing to it at all. But nobody stopped to consider that. They just took whatever the previous person had twisted and twisted it worse.
This is how these storms actually work—it’s not anger, it’s telephone played by people too lazy to read. Someone says something weird, the next person adds their own slant, and after it’s bounced around enough times it becomes unmovable fact. The original thing disappears.
I watched it happen in real time and what struck me wasn’t the anger—it was how little it mattered what had actually been said. Everyone just heard what they wanted to hear and piled on. But maybe that’s always how it goes. You say something, people mishear it, and the truth becomes whatever screams loudest.
Pussy Riot represented something that makes power genuinely afraid: art that refuses to ask permission, to apologize, or to compromise. They performed a political prayer in the Cathedral of Christ the Savior and the state arrested them. No strategy, no legal defense, no redemption narrative — just the action and its consequences. That’s actual resistance, which is why almost everything else that gets called activism looks so manufactured in comparison.
I noticed certain things around 2012. Not because they were trends or because marketing told me to, but because they seemed honest — like someone had actually cared about making them work. A phone that wasn’t trying to be an iPhone. A watch. A camera for snowboarding. Clothes that knew what they were.
Most don’t exist anymore. The phones are obsolete, the watch probably broke, the clothes got worn out. But I remember why they mattered — not because they were perfect, but because they felt like the product equivalent of someone being straightforward with you. Rare enough to notice.
The Little Monsters in Helsinki weren’t messing around. They moved through the city with this absolute certainty that Gaga was their person, that she’d understood something essential about them no one else could. The devotion was real, not trendy performance. There’s something powerful about that kind of faith, the way it binds people together. I’ve never quite believed in anything that completely.
The synths move with this patient warmth, and Polachek’s voice doesn’t strain to convince you of anything, but somehow you’re convinced anyway. Chairlift always had this way of making electronic pop feel close — like the space between the speakers and you was actually no distance at all. I come back to these because they don’t perform. They just exist a certain way, and if you’re looking for that thing they’re offering, you find it.
August’s almost gone. What I notice is all the absurd shit that’s possible right now, in this narrow window before everything snaps back into place. I think about dancing with eight friends dressed stupid, or what it would feel like to just start yelling like everyone in that Newsroom scene, or all the small rebellions that feel necessary even though they don’t actually change anything.
There’s a logic to it that only makes sense in late summer. Showing someone your genitals to end a conversation that’s gone on too long. Smoking weed even though I know it probably makes me stupider, which I already suspected and anyway the stupid part is usually fine. Looking at pictures of attractive people on the internet because I’m bored and alive and that’s what the internet’s for. Wanting to punch my boss when he starts sending Christmas marketing emails in August, like we’re all pretending the world hasn’t already ended.
The Eastwooding thing made sense once — Clint Eastwood had a conversation with an empty chair and then everyone copied it, having dialogues with invisible presidents and dead relatives, and it was dumb but it worked. That’s what absurdism is. Doing something because it makes no sense and that’s the entire point.
Some of it’s darker. Writing things in blood on walls, even as a joke, even knowing I’d never actually do it. Wanting a ridiculous golden Game Boy just because it’s beautiful and pointless. The wanting is enough sometimes. September will come and all this dissolves. I’ll be back in the rhythm, back in the machinery, and none of this will matter. But right now, late August, there’s still this feeling that I could do any of it. Usually that’s enough.
Just back from Japan and I’m stuck in that weird depression where everything looks like it’s missing something. Spend a lot of time on the couch eating delivery food and doing math on when I can leave again. It’s stupid and I know it.
At least the schedule’s packed enough to keep me moving. Munich tomorrow for an Adidas thing, then family in Ostallgäu, Berlin Festival, Rotterdam in September (partly because an arts festival invited me, mostly because someone said they have good cake there and I believed them). Movement helps.
Put on ninety-nine kilos since June. The usual cycle: swear to myself it’s only unsweetened tea and fish and salad from now on, make it to lunch, then eat something terrible and feel worse about the lie than the actual food. Classic move.
What’s kept me from completely atrophying is Guild Wars 2. Started playing with some other bloggers and made a guild called Die Gammelgilde. Character’s Yokomon. Stupid and pointless and exactly what I need, which I could turn into a whole thing about meaning or escape but I’m not going to. It just works.
Plane leaves tomorrow and I’m already nervous about packing. I’ll write about something next week, or maybe I won’t. That seems to be the pattern.
I got into Sleigh Bells back when noise rock and electronic music colliding seemed like the future. Alexis and Derek made something genuinely abrasive and weird at a time when everything was trying to be accessible. Their records were layered feedback and digital static and Amy Seimetz’s voice cutting through like it was the last thing tethering you to solid ground. They weren’t pretty and they didn’t care. Somewhere along the way I stopped paying attention—different life, different phase—but that initial run of albums still hits different. There’s something about how they sounded that felt like the moment, like they captured something about existing in a screen-filled anxiety-soaked world that nobody else was touching. Maybe the best thing a band can do is exist exactly when you need them to.
Kate Upton in a Skullcandy ad felt like the natural endpoint of celebrity endorsement culture. She had that quality—beautiful enough to sell anything, approachable enough that you didn’t hate her for it. Whether she’d ever actually worn those headphones didn’t matter. The transaction was the point, and she was good at making it feel effortless.
1313 was supposed to be a Star Wars game set in Coruscant’s criminal underworld—bounty hunters, dark corners, the stuff the Jedi never saw. LucasArts cancelled it in 2013. It felt like the one Star Wars game that could’ve actually worked, because it wasn’t trying to remake the movies or make you Force-sensitive. Just dirty work in the shadows. I never got to play it, but the idea stuck with me—that version of Star Wars, grounded in something real instead of mythology. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been.
The runway starts moving faster, and I’m crying. Not for a photo. Not performing something. Real tears, the kind you don’t plan for. I knew this moment was coming—I’d been waiting for it, dreading it, trying not to think about it. But I didn’t expect to feel like this.
Three months in Tokyo. That’s what I’m leaving behind. The specific gravity of it hits me now, wheels up, somewhere over the ocean.
I met extraordinary people. I ate things I’d never imagined. I walked through neighborhoods that shouldn’t exist outside science fiction—places where the ancient and the hypermodern occupy the same block, where everyone’s polite until they’re not, where the pace is frantic and the temples are silent. You hear stories about Japan. Most of them are true. But stories flatten it. They can’t hold the actual experience of being there, the overwhelming density of small perfections and cultural strangeness that made every day feel like I was living in two centuries at once, or on another planet entirely. I felt more at home there than anywhere else I’ve ever been.
Everything people say about Japan is accurate but incomplete. The stories don’t capture what it’s actually like to live inside it—not the photography of it, the lived texture. The wet smell of a Tokyo morning. The sound of a vending machine every few feet. The way convenience stores are genuinely there at three a.m. and stock things you didn’t know you needed: Asahi Super Dry, onigiri, green tea. The trains arrive exactly on time, every time. The Shibuya crossing at night. AKB48 playing everywhere. Shiina Ringo. Ikimono Gakari. The weird fact that even fire alarms have little smiling faces. Everyone reading manga in public. Arcade bars where you play 16-bit games while drinking. Schoolgirls everywhere—actually attractive, not a fantasy—and you can touch Pikachu and eat grapefruit crash ice and nobody bothers you if you don’t flag someone down at a restaurant because the system just works. The whole country seems built from limited-edition soft drinks. The river in Kyoto is so quiet it feels medicinal. The Tottori dunes are genuinely beautiful. Osaka’s arcades are pure neon chaos. Tokyo’s fashion is restless and alive.
What kills me now—what I’m already scared of—is that this will become a gray memory, a dream I woke up from, a place I can’t return to. The faces will dissolve. The feelings will dim. It’ll be a thing that happened to someone else.
But there’s something keeping me from total despair. Before I went, I made a plan. I’d forgotten about it—three months of living distracted me—but the takeoff reminded me. This wasn’t meant to be the whole thing. It was a test. A long preview. To see if Japan was as good in reality as it was in my head. To figure out which city I actually wanted to live in. Whether this whole idea was real or just something I’d convinced myself I wanted.
I didn’t have a single bad moment there that didn’t trace back to something I was stressed about in Berlin. That alone tells me something needs to change.
The Japanese embassy approved a work holiday visa. I’m going back in early 2013 for a year. I can work remotely—I’ve been doing it for years. A woman I met in Tokyo, who lives in Berlin now, offered to help me learn the language seriously, said it’s easier than HTML. So there’s actually a plan here.
The runway disappears beneath us. I’m still crying, but different now. Not goodbye. Preliminary goodbye. I know I’m coming back, better prepared, for longer, with people there who are waiting for me. With a whole year ahead instead of a provisional three months.
I lean back in my seat and put on Utada Hikaru. Because that’s what you listen to on a flight away from Tokyo when you know you’re going back.
The appeal of a hotel room photograph is that it’s nobody’s real life. You’re in this temporary space, the light’s probably good, and there’s something about being outside your normal context that makes it easier to be free with a camera. She looks good, comfortable with what’s happening, which is all you really want from any photograph.
Taryn Manning shows up knowing exactly what the moment needs. No filler, no performance, no trying to make space for herself. In Hole she belonged because every note was deliberate, every moment earned—there was a certainty in it, a refusal to add anything extra. That’s what separates people who are in the scene from people who actually shape it. She just did the work. That’s it.
The sun’s baking the streets and the apartment is impossible. Hot, wet air that doesn’t move. You’re sweating, can’t stop thinking about it. I know what people say about talking the weather—it’s the fallback when you’ve run out of anything interesting. But some days the heat is all there is.
Cold beer helps. So does the right music. King Krule’s voice is thick and low, makes the summer feel intentional instead of just brutal. Twin Shadow brings something weird and beautiful underneath—synths that feel like they’re melting. Rustie carries you through the worst hours, all texture and space, something you exist in rather than listen to.
These three just work for the heat. That’s all I know.
I’ve had my iPhone for a little over a year. No Siri, but plenty of muscle memory and this weird contentment that only shows up when everything just works. Not because I’m some devoted Apple person—just because it actually works the way I need it to.
But I’m not loyal. I’m the type who’d trade it in a second for something faster and better looking, something that isn’t in every other person’s pocket on the U-Bahn. So when Sony announced the Xperia SL, I looked. These are the people who actually understand hardware. They could do something real.
Thing is, though—a phone that works isn’t just about what’s under the hood. It’s about that confidence you build after a year of using something, the way you stop thinking and just reach for it. You can’t get that from specs. No processor is going to give you that feeling.
I have no idea if the Xperia would. Probably doesn’t matter. By the time I actually care enough to switch, there’ll be something else I’m waiting for instead.
Green Day’s ’Oh Love’ from Uno! is one of those songs that catches you mid-breath — Billie Joe singing about wanting someone badly, that specific mix of desire and resignation. It’s a three-minute thing, deceptively simple, the kind of song that shouldn’t stick but does because it’s honest about how badly you can want something that’s probably not good for you. I keep returning to it when I need to feel that particular ache, that ’I know this won’t go anywhere but I want it anyway’ energy. Not their most important song, not their most technically interesting, but there’s something true in it that you don’t get from a lot of their more elaborate work. Just a guy admitting he’s caught.
Grimes emerged from the internet in the early 2010s refusing easy categorization. Hyperactive bedroom pop, then ambient noise, then visual artist. The aesthetics kept shifting, and the visual work always mattered as much as the music—album art like CGI fever dreams, videos designed to make you uncomfortable on purpose.
What interested me was the refusal to cohere. Most artists get boxed and everything they do filters through that box. Grimes moves through aesthetics like tools, high and low mixed together. The work is restless, sometimes brilliant and sometimes unlistenable, but never optimized into formula. In an era when almost everything gets smoothed into blandness, that kind of productive weirdness feels rare.
Two years in a labor colony for forty seconds of song. That’s what a Russian court decided three women deserved—Nadezhda Tolokonnikova, Yekaterina Samutsevich, and Maria Alyokhina from the punk band Pussy Riot. They performed an anti-Putin prayer in a church, and the state decided that was reason enough to lock them up. The trial itself was obscene—they spent over two hours just reading the verdict for what amounts to a public disturbance charge.
Everyone with any reach was talking about it by the time the sentence came down. Every major news outlet, musicians, politicians, human rights groups—all watching a court that had made up its mind before the trial even started. The Russian government had wanted to make an example of them, to show that you don’t get away with this kind of thing in their country. They miscalculated completely.
The response was almost unanimous in its judgment. A major Russian musician, someone who’d left the country decades before, spoke up about how this proved that the dream of freedom was finally breaking through. European figures, German officials, major international organizations all issued statements saying this violated everything Russia claimed to believe about human rights. Even the Chancellor called it out directly for what it was: a fundamental violation of rule of law. The numbers piled up—all the major outlets, all the important voices.
But numbers and statements are abstract. What wasn’t abstract was the clarity of what had happened. Three young artists said what they thought. The state decided that was intolerable. So it crushed them for it. And in crushing them, it proved everything they’d said about power and freedom and the state’s fear of dissent.
The thing that’s hard to square with is the actual courage required for what they did. Not the symbolic gesture—that’s almost easy if you’re angry enough. But the knowledge, absolute and complete, of what a state apparatus can do to you, and the decision to act anyway. To sing your actual beliefs in front of that machinery. To know that prison is a real possibility and perform anyway. I think about whether I’d have that. I don’t think I would. Most people wouldn’t. You can talk about your principles all you want, but they’re abstract until you’re facing years locked up for them. Then the calculation changes. These three women made the choice without that luxury. They knew exactly what was coming.
What happened after was predictable in a way. The government thought it was making an example. Instead it had created something impossible to ignore. They’d taken three musicians and turned them into symbols, but not the kind they wanted. Every attempt to silence them just made what they’d said louder. An entire generation watched this and learned what their government would do to you for speaking. That’s the opposite of what they wanted.
I keep coming back to that clarity. There’s no ambiguity here, no gray area that lets anyone off the hook. Power was threatened and it struck back. In striking back, it confirmed every word these women had sung. You can lock up bodies. You can’t lock up ideas. The more brutally you try, the more people understand what’s actually at stake.
I remember thinking the obvious thing when Blizzard announced kung-fu pandas for World of Warcraft: they’ve run out of ideas. Cute martial artists in a game that’s already strangled itself with complexity and lore. It sounded like desperation.
The Mists of Pandaria cinematic changed something, though. Five minutes of animation that actually stopped me. The craft was undeniable — the water, the way light moved through fabric, the pacing of it. Blizzard’s marketing team still knew how to reach you.
For about thirty seconds I thought about reactivating my account. The game was still waiting. I could roll a new character, lose myself in familiar systems again. Part of me wanted that simple comfort.
But I’m not the person who has time for that anymore. I wasn’t sure that person even exists now. The cinematic was beautiful and it changed nothing about my actual life. It just reminded me of the distance between the person I was and the one I am.
What lingers is the craftsmanship, though. Not nostalgia, not the desire to go back — just the fact that someone made something genuinely good, even if it was designed to pull money from people like me. There’s something honest about that, at least.
You start with one fragrance and think that’s the end of it. Then you catch something on someone across the room and suddenly you’re deep in it, testing samples, reading about accords and base notes you didn’t know existed. Scent does something to you that other things don’t. It stays with you all day, changing as it settles into your skin, becoming part of your presence. It’s completely irrational. Your closet doesn’t need another fragrance. But you’re ordering the sample anyway.
Nothing you do in a single-player game really matters. Save the world, kill everything, collect every item—and then what? No one’s watching. It changes nothing. That’s what I realized recently after trying to get back into gaming seriously. Mass Effect, Skyrim, Fallout 3. I gave them real time and they pulled me in and then left me empty.
This is what I was actually missing: World of Warcraft. I started in 2006, got my blue-haired night elf to level 40, and then life got in the way. But those first weeks—walking into that world, talking to strangers, hunting together—felt like something real. That’s the thing I’ve been chasing ever since.
Grew up on Nintendo. Everything after that felt like a disappointment, so I just stopped paying attention. But I kept having this thought: a perfect single-player game can feel hollow, but a broken MMO with other people in it can feel alive. Because you’re not alone.
Eve Online was a spreadsheet that hated me. Diablo 3 was mindless clicking. Guild Wars 2 is launching in a few days and it’s my last real chance. Not to chase that old WoW high but to actually push it somewhere new. I don’t want to be a guy staring at spreadsheets or pressing buttons. I want to matter in a real world, even if that world is made of pixels.
The fantasy is pretty specific. Start as nobody in a huge world. Claw my way up to being someone people actually remember. Get my own epic stories. Meet allies in taverns and cursed caves. Make enemies who’ll think about that loss when they’re going to bed. Swords and armor and ruins and volcanoes. A medieval city that actually feels like a place. Danger everywhere. Noble companions at my side—even if in reality it’s some kid named Justin-Tarzan who’s 13 and skipping school, but the connection is real. More real than anything I’ve found outside a game.
ArenaNet’s whole pitch is that Guild Wars 2 strips out everything the other MMOs made tedious. Easier quests, better scaling so you can actually play with friends, dynamic events, no mandatory raids. I don’t know if they’re bullshitting, but I guess I’ll find out.
I still don’t know what to be. A warrior, probably. Anything that requires actual skill and I’d just break it. So August 25th, I’m rolling a warrior and coming for Tyria. Fair warning to anyone involved. And if someone wants to explain what a nerf is before I get there, I’m taking applications.
A$AP Rocky’s always had this thing about aesthetics — the way he dresses, the way he frames his videos, how he talks about other artists. There’s taste underneath the bravado, even when he’s being crude or oversexed. Purple Kisses sits somewhere in that space where the production is lush and the hooks are sticky and you’re not entirely sure if he’s being sincere or just enjoying the sound of his own voice over something beautiful. Which is probably the point. He knows what sounds good, and he doesn’t particularly care if you’re reading into it.
“I Am Alive” had promised something real—a survival game where you actually felt the weight of staying alive in a ruined city. But it delivered this crushing exhaustion simulator instead, and by the end you weren’t rooting for the guy to make it; you were hoping he’d finally collapse and put you out of your misery.
So when Sony and Naughty Dog showed up with The Last of Us, there was this tentative hope that someone might actually get it right. Joel and Ellie crossing a dead America, not because it’s mechanically challenging but because the story demanded it. They showed footage at gamescom that had people convinced this was the thing that would actually work.
I wanted to believe it. After “I Am Alive”, I was wary of any game promising real survival and meaning. But there was something about the way they framed Joel and Ellie—these two people with no good options, just the next terrible choice and the next—that felt different. Whether the game could actually deliver on that, I had no idea. You never do with these things until you’re actually playing.
Peaches makes work that pisses people off on purpose. Pussy Riot did too, and they paid for it in ways Peaches never had to, locked away for saying the wrong things in the wrong country at the wrong time.
But that’s what bonded them—not abstract solidarity but something deeper, the recognition that some artists simply won’t shut up no matter what. There’s no calculating whether it’s worth it. You make the work, you live with the consequences, you trust that the work was honest enough to matter. That’s where Peaches stood. That’s what she was saying: these women were right to refuse.
Peaches has been doing this for thirty years — making work that makes people uncomfortable, using her body as a weapon against everything uptight and controlled. Pussy Riot got arrested for it. There’s something clarifying about that, about watching artists who refuse to apologize or explain themselves, who understand that transgression isn’t a marketing angle but a necessity. The state fears pussy more than it fears guns.
The South Florida Tattoo Expo is people shopping for permanence in a convention center — artists with genuine skill, customers with dreams and hesitation. Everyone’s pretending this might actually happen; everyone knows most won’t. The good artists don’t care either way. They’ve got the work. You either want it or you don’t.
There’s this thing where you just need to get higher than everything around you. Not literally necessarily, though that works. Higher than the people before you, the people after you, the people next to you. Just elevated. Untethered. The method doesn’t matter—you figure out your own path. Some people chase it through smoke, watching it curl through their lungs. Some go for substances that taste like death but somehow rewire how you think about things. I’ve known people warned off by someone who’d been there and come back burned, but they went anyway because the promise of a new thought was worth it.
But the easiest way, if you’re not trying too hard, is music. The kind that doesn’t ask permission, just takes you somewhere. Paul Banks does that thing where the song builds and builds and your chest gets tight. There’s this moment where you realize you’re not in the room anymore. Ellie Goulding’s voice hits a register that feels like light, like something physical and almost painful. And Lana Del Rey—there’s something about how she holds a note, the way she makes melancholy sound like the only true thing in the world. You’re not thinking about what’s around you when those songs are playing. You’re somewhere else.
That’s the high. That’s the whole point. You get there and everything that was pressing down stops for a while. The noise becomes music becomes feeling becomes nothing but the present moment, and the present moment is finally enough.
There’s this four-day explosion that happens twice a year in Tokyo called Comiket, and if you haven’t experienced it, it’s hard to explain — tens of thousands of people flooding the convention center, doujinshi tables stretching out endlessly. Everything’s there: amateur manga artists, semi-pro operations, piles of explicit hentai doujins next to original art, fan works of every conceivable anime or game. The heat’s brutal, the smell’s a mix of print and sweat and coffee, and there’s this specific energy to hunting through the aisles for one thing you came for or discovering something completely unexpected.
What gets me is how legitimate it all is. The bunny girls (Playboy aesthetics filtered through anime) work some booths, Hatsune Miku blares from speakers mixing with a thousand conversations, and it’s all — doujinshi, fan art, fan fiction, fan everything — completely above board. This is where fan culture doesn’t hide. It’s pure creation, pure fan energy, the opposite of corporate. Hours disappear wandering the aisles, buying maybe nothing, just watching this whole ecosystem of people making and sharing things they actually care about.
Adventure Time gets it in a way most cartoons don’t — it lets the characters actually matter. Finn and Jake, obviously, but also Marceline with that exhausted cool, Ice King with his pathetic desperation, BMO being some kind of innocent logic-machine that somehow became the emotional core of the whole thing. It’s funny and sad and genuinely strange, and it shouldn’t work as well as it does.
Mike and Katie from TADO made toys of the characters. Real ones you could hold. I’m not sure if they were selling them or if it was just for the exhibition, but the point is someone looked at these drawings and decided they deserved to exist as plastic objects. That’s some real love for the material, rare enough these days.
The exhibition was in Alhambra in 2012, a small gallery in a small town, no big promotional push. Just artists making something because they cared. Getting a BMO figure hits different than getting some generic collectible. It’s that little Game Boy thing with limbs, the impossible innocent in a show full of broken people, and somehow it ends up being the most real character in the whole series.
Feist isn’t interested in opening doors for other people. She moves through the work that calls to her and makes something specific enough that it can’t be copied or franchised. There’s something almost hostile in that independence — the refusal to become a reference point, a school, a method that others can follow. She’s done remarkably well without ever trying to influence anyone, which means her work doesn’t teach you anything. You can listen. You can’t learn the trick. That’s probably exactly how she wants it.
Charlotte Free made grunge look like an actual aesthetic instead of just wearing old clothes. The oversized flannel, the ripped jeans, that blank stare—it wasn’t performing, but it was precise. Her androgyny helped; she could wear masculine and feminine together without it reading as a statement, which is exactly what day grunge needed. She looked like she’d gotten dressed in the dark but somehow nailed every proportion. That’s harder to fake than it looks.
There’s something almost defiant about how happy Mika sounds. His voice is high and theatrical, his arrangements are all synths and strings and drama, and every song feels like he’s trying to convince you that joy is still possible—that you should let yourself want things, let yourself be silly, let yourself shine. It’s not subtle. It’s not cool in the way critics care about. But there’s real thought behind it, a kind of studied exuberance that comes from someone who’s thought hard about how to stay alive. The songs that stick with me aren’t the hits everyone knows. They’re the ones where he sounds like he’s singing to himself, reminding himself that the brightness is still there if you know where to look.
We’ll all die, so get that settled first. But the weekend’s still there, and weekends are when things happen—some on purpose, most because you’re bored and the internet’s given you ideas that sound good at two in the morning.
You could waste eight hours at Gamescom standing in line for Call of Duty. Write to HBO. Specifically HBO—not MTV, not Fox, definitely not some German network—demanding they make a show about bloggers. They won’t respond. But there’s something good about that pure futility. Tell a little kid the world ends in four months, give him a cookie, don’t explain anything.
Get high and paint yourself the way Brian Lewis Saunders did, over and over until your face stops being your face and starts being something closer to drowning. Send weird pictures to strangers online. Buy a wrecked submarine and disappear underwater. Go around signing things that aren’t yours, then act like you’re doing the owner a favor. Find an eating contest and see how much potato salad you can force down before it stops being food.
The stupid moves are easier. Call the girl from third grade and ask if she wants to come over and help with homework. Pretend there’s still something there. There isn’t. But the reaching is the thing, I guess. Write down who you think about when you’re alone, post it somewhere public. Hannah. Someone else. Everyone does it. There’s a whole website for people doing exactly this. It’s darkly funny how we’re all the same—identical in our loneliness, reaching for the same ghost.
But you’ll probably just sleep until noon and let Saturday happen to you. Same result either way.
Games used to be blocks and balls, then pixels and plumbers. Now they’re worlds where you can spend serious time on choices that don’t matter and feelings that do. Somewhere in the last couple decades, the stuff people said would rot your brain became where actual artistic thinking happens.
Fallout 3 sits in that space. It’s a game about nuclear aftermath, but really it’s about what you do when everything’s destroyed and you’re standing in the ruins deciding whether to keep moving. There’s something almost fairy-tale about it—not beautiful in an easy way, but beautiful in how it lets you find meaning in wreckage and reasons to care in an empty world. The aesthetic helps: that retro-nuclear America thing, the way destruction reads as possibility.
What got me was the modding community. Not texture packs or graphical overhauls, but people spending countless hours rebuilding the game’s systems, adding their own thinking to it, having a conversation with something they loved. That kind of obsession only happens when something actually matters. The game was already complete, already worth playing, but these people decided it deserved more attention, more depth, more voices.
I keep coming back to this one like it has something else to say. Not because I missed it the first time, but because it makes me want to look closer, contribute something of my own, sit with it longer. That’s the mark. That’s what separates games that move units from games that become art.
Nobody tells you it’s okay to not be paranoid about the internet. They tell you the opposite, starting early. Your parents, your teachers, whatever authority figure is nearby—they all recite the same warning: don’t share your data, don’t trust anyone online, once it’s out there, you’re compromised. You become a commodity. A profile in some server, just your likes and dislikes, waiting to be weaponized by people you’ll never meet.
I heard it all, and I believed it for a while. Privacy was sacred, data was dangerous, the internet was the one place you had to be careful.
Then I got older and stopped listening.
For more than ten years now, I’ve been systematically putting my entire life on the internet. Every platform that’s existed—Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Reddit, every dating app, every forum, every corner of the web where you could leave a trace of yourself. What I eat. Where I went to school. Who I’ve been with. What I listened to today. The bands I actually like versus the ones I pretend to like. Long detailed entries about fights with friends I thought nobody was reading. The weird porn I watch late at night instead of socializing like a normal human. Everything. I’ve been almost stupidly honest about it, like the whole thing was a confessional and I didn’t care who was listening.
And in all that time? Nothing. Not a damn thing has happened.
I haven’t been stalked. My location history hasn’t been weaponized against me. I haven’t lost an opportunity because Google knew too much. I haven’t been blackmailed or identified or put in danger. My life hasn’t gotten worse. There’s been no actual harm, no injury, no real consequence.
I get why people are afraid. The idea of some algorithm knowing I prefer pizza to doner meat, or cataloguing every embarrassing search I’ve ever done, every late-night rabbit hole—yeah, that’s genuinely unsettling. There’s something gross about some company building a file on you to sell to someone else. It should feel gross. But understanding why something is gross and actually experiencing harm from it are two different things.
The worst-case scenario I’ve been able to construct, even stretching my imagination to find a realistic outcome, is personalized advertising. That’s it. Relevant ads instead of random ones. And honestly? I can almost laugh about that being my dystopia. My greatest enemy is a targeted ad.
Everything else is theoretical. Someday someone somewhere might use my data to hurt me. Might. Someday. Someone. Maybe. It’s all conditional, all if-if-if, and the longer I live online without anything bad happening, the harder it gets to stay afraid.
There’s a moral panic that’s built up around internet privacy, and I think a lot of it is just that—panic, not reason. We’re supposed to be terrified. We’re supposed to hide. We’re supposed to live in constant anxiety, waiting for the day it all falls apart. But I’ve been living on the internet with no filter for over a decade now, and I’m still here. Still fine. Still myself, whatever that costs me.
I keep coming back to Gotye not for the obvious song, but for what’s underneath. The production has this deliberate restlessness—samples and synths arranged like someone refusing to settle, doing experimental pop before it had a digestible name. And then he just stepped away from it, chose obscurity over the momentum he could have kept riding. There’s something about that refusal to become a brand that stays with me.
The xx’s thing is working with emptiness. Two voices, sparse machines, and vast amounts of space. Listen to them and everything else suddenly sounds bloated. The way they use silence — you’re waiting for something, and then it comes, but barely. It makes you pay attention. I’ve probably listened to their records a hundred times and they still feel like overhearing something private.
I’ve spent twenty years watching zombie movies and TV shows, reading comics, playing games—all of it a weird cultural rehearsal for something that will probably never happen. The movies taught me malls fall first. Comics showed me that bows matter when ammo runs out. Games made it clear that trusting anyone is a good way to get stabbed in the back. It’s all preparation, really. A fantasy rehearsal we run over and over while we’re trying to sleep.
DayZ is the thing that’s been letting people actually live that fantasy for a while now—started as a mod for Arma, free, endlessly buggy, but it had something the polished military shooters didn’t have. You drop into this fictional post-Soviet country called Chernarus with a handful of other survivors and a lot of infected things that want to eat you. You can help people or kill them. You can team up or go solo. The average life expectancy is barely an hour, which is the kind of pressure that makes every decision feel real.
So Dean Hall announced DayZ is getting a full release. Not as some janky mod, but as an actual game. Boxed copy, digital download, the whole thing. And when I heard that, I got stupid about what it could be.
I started imagining what would actually matter in a game like that. Every object craftable. Professions that mean something—hunter, engineer, trader. Building settlements. Creating actual societies and trade routes and conflicts that ripple through the whole world. Something like EVE Online but with corpses and decay and the constant threat of being murdered for a can of beans. A place where ten thousand players could actually shape the world through economics and war and betrayal.
That’s not what’s going to happen, though. I know better. DayZ will be a solid survival shooter where you crouch through bushes and hoard canned food and occasionally run from some twelve-year-old in Ohio who thinks he’s in Call of Duty and just blasts you for your backpack. It’ll be fine. Decent way to kill an afternoon. Better things exist, but worse too.
Music that actually works does something simple and brutal at the same time. It touches you and doesn’t let you put it down. Takes you somewhere you weren’t planning to go, keeps you there just long enough to feel something, then either sets you down gently or shakes you hard enough that you remember the landing.
That’s what I’ve been chasing. The moment when something grabs a nerve you didn’t know was exposed. SBTRKT, Bat For Lashes, Crystal Castles—they’re not doing anything complicated. They’re just building music that works on you. Textured, patient, then suddenly alive. The kind of thing that makes you want to move, to kiss someone, to break something, to stand there feeling it all at once.
Music doesn’t have to be clever. Doesn’t have to announce itself. But it has to touch something real. Has to stay with you longer than the three minutes it takes to play. And it has to want to come back—not because you’re chasing novelty, but because it keeps feeling different.
That’s what I listen for. Not songs. Music that works.
Porter Robinson’s early stuff felt like someone figuring out how to make electronics sound like longing. Language was that pivot point—still synth-heavy but warmer, less interested in proving technical prowess and more interested in whatever the opposite of alienation sounds like. The kind of music you listen to at night in a dark room and realize how much space there is between you and everything else. I came to it late, after Worlds, so I was already primed for what he was trying to do, but there’s something about those earlier tracks that doesn’t apologize for wanting to be pretty. Electronic music that sounds scared. Electronic music that sounds like it needs someone to hear it.
You always reach this point. A blog starts small, you’re writing for yourself or for a handful of people who get it, and then it grows. The growth itself isn’t the problem. What’s the problem is that growth brings an audience with expectations. They want curated taste, smart writing, something that looks legitimate. So you give it to them, because they’re not wrong to want it. But in giving them that, you stop feeding yourself. The thoughts that don’t fit an editorial template, the weird photos, the stuff that’s just you thinking out loud—there’s no space for that anymore. You become a curator before a person.
I spent five years building this website into something that looked right. Photography, critical writing, music—all of it serious. But seriousness meant retreat. I had no outlet for the daily thoughts, the random obsessions, the unfiltered version of me. The stuff just rattling around in my head with nowhere to go. I found myself disappearing from my own site, and it caught up with me in the worst way. Depression, the constant ache to be somewhere else, the need to lose myself in something mindless. The pressure of performing for an audience instead of writing for yourself does something to you.
Before this there was another blog I shut down for different reasons—heartbreak, desperation for change. This website came out of that feeling. It felt necessary at the time. I didn’t account for what would happen when it found an audience: how that success would calcify the work, push out the personal, replace intimacy with professionalism.
I kept this other space under my name mostly as an afterthought. Barely used it, mostly ignored it. But somewhere I realized it was the only real door in all of this—a place where I don’t have to make sense, don’t have to be consistent, don’t have to sound intelligent. Where I can write about boobs and Japan and Pokémon and whatever else is in my head without worrying about whether it fits some editorial category.
So that’s what this is. Where I put everything that doesn’t fit anywhere else. No curation, no editorial voice, no performance. Just unfiltered thinking, the way I needed to be blogging all along.
Summer 2012 wasn’t shaping up to be anything special. The kind of season where the heat doesn’t feel good, just relentless, and there’s this background disappointment to everything. But somewhere around August, if you had the timing and the money and a friend willing to drive, Highfield was happening out near Leipzig—three days in the middle of nowhere with the kind of lineup that made the rest of the summer feel less stupid by comparison.
Beatsteaks were headlining, which made sense. Placebo, The Black Keys, Casper, Kraftklub, The Shins, The Gaslight Anthem, Social Distortion. A mix of everything—bands that were already established and bands that still felt like they had something to prove. Nothing obscure, nothing you had to justify to anyone. Just good rock and punk and indie rock, the kind of bands that show up and do the work and don’t apologize for it.
Festival season in Germany is its own thing. The grounds, the crowds, the temporary cities of tents. Everyone’s drunk and sweaty and trying to position themselves to see something across a field. The amenities are shit, the music is loud, and there’s something about all of it that gets under your skin. You show up to be uncomfortable on purpose.
I never made it that year, though at the time I remember thinking I should. Not because Highfield was some legendary thing you had to experience—it was just a solid regional festival with a good lineup. But because the summer was the kind of blank, disappointing thing that might’ve felt better from inside a crowd of people there for the same reason you were.
Some summers stick with you. This one didn’t, except for moments like this: the idea of Highfield, the lineup on a flyer somewhere, the possibility of escape that didn’t quite materialize. That’s usually all festivals are anyway—the promise that something worth doing is still possible.
I’ve been thinking about Secret of Mana lately, which is probably just what happens when you’re trying to feel less old. People love that game with a fierceness that doesn’t really admit argument. Say something sharp about it and you’ll hit the wall — the implicit or explicit one — that you’re wrong, that you’re missing something, that you have no soul. I don’t quite believe that. But there’s something there.
At some point Square Enix released an album with the original MIDI files from the soundtrack. Hiroki Kikuta had kept the uncompressed source files all these years, and they pressed them to CD exactly as composed: no orchestra, no reworking, no remixes. The sound before everything got filtered through hardware and emerged as something else.
The thing about MIDI files is they sound nothing like how we remember them. There’s no warmth, no character — thin synthetic tones laid bare. But there’s something clarifying about it too. You hear what Kikuta actually wrote: the individual voices, the choices, the skeleton before the hardware gave it flesh. It’s like watching a film with all the sound design stripped away, or reading a script instead of seeing the play. Not better. Different. Revealing.
I never quite bought into the idea that Secret of Mana was untouchable. But I also never wanted to be the person who said it out loud. That game matters to people. It soundtracked something real for them. Maybe the uncompressed files are for people who needed to know what was underneath — what was always there before the filters. Or maybe it’s just nerd stuff, which is fine. Nerd stuff tends to be the only stuff that lasts.
Kreayshawn showed up fully formed in 2011—bratty Oakland rap, the “Gucci Gucci” girl, and then “Go Hard (La La La)” right after it. The song was stupid in the best way, that hook doing all the work, the whole thing riding on pure confidence and not giving a shit what anyone thought. She was everywhere that year, and then nowhere. The hook’s still there, though.
Benga’s always found that sweet spot between cold precision and something that actually moves you. The production is surgical, meticulous, but underneath there’s a pulse that pulls you in before you realize it’s happening. Pour Your Love is probably that same thing—emotion buried in the machinery, delivered without apology, just the weight of something real underneath all those clean breaks and bass.
Natalie Droog makes the kind of music that fills a room without asking for attention. There’s something about Bat For Lashes that works best late at night, when you’re alone with it—those stretched-out synths, the way her voice sits inside the production like it’s part of the texture rather than on top of it. A lot of people make atmospheric music, but there’s usually some ambition showing through. With her it just sounds like someone thinking out loud, building something strange and precise without needing you to understand it.
I’ve been reading Cintia Dicker, and she has a particular attention to red-haired women. Not in a creepy way—it’s more that she describes them with this specificity, this real attention to how they are, that makes you believe she’s actually looking at them. Once you notice it, it’s everywhere. Not every character, but when there is red hair, something shifts. She makes it matter.
The thing about ’Summertime Sadness’ is how completely it captured a specific moment—you can hear the exact second in Lana’s voice where she realizes someone’s leaving, and you know it’s not coming back. The video made it permanent, that red dress at the boardwalk, everything blue and slipping away in slow motion. It’s been everywhere for over a decade now, in commercials and covers and parties where nobody’s really listening, but it never gets worn out. There’s something about the slowness of it, the way she sings like she’s documenting sadness rather than feeling it. That distance is what makes it beautiful. Make it pretty enough and the pain becomes something you want to hold onto.
Standing in a bedroom from the 90s, the design makes unexpected sense. The colors, the posters, the furniture arranged the way it was because that’s what you could afford and what felt right. It’s not nostalgia—it’s more like understanding the choices someone made when they were trying to be someone else. The room doesn’t hide that. It shows it completely.
I perpetually forget to compile these until Friday afternoon, or I’m too lazy and would rather shove chocolate donuts in my mouth. But here we are anyway.
Find the fifty cutest things that ever made it on camera and then hold whoever’s nearest to you with force that actually matters. Sing the national anthem in a church. Sing it in a waiting room at the doctor’s office. Sing it in front of a kebab stand. Commit fully and see what happens. Think about the worst video game you ever randomly played and then kick the person standing next to you directly in the crotch. Do it on purpose. Start your own religion. Money and sex are guaranteed. The ending will be spectacular. Steal food from one supermarket and stock it in another.
Try to look cool when you’re actually coming. Put a mirror in front of you, wear something you’d want someone to see you in, and follow through whether you’re alone or someone else is there. Launch a YouTube news channel about things maybe one percent of humanity cares about. Air conditioning on Korean oil rigs. Apple juice expired April 23rd, 2011. Cotton swabs with unequal cotton on each end. Coverage so specific it’s almost pointless. Drop bags of coke in every neighbor’s mailbox. Generosity. Cosmic karma. Buy a pristine Nokia 3210 still sealed in its original box. That’s the smartest money you can spend. And the last one: do whatever you’ve actually wanted to do with someone who actually wants to do it.
Passion Pit always had this way of making you feel like maybe things would work out. Michael Angelakos had that earnestness even when the synths were swallowing everything—like he actually believed in the hooks he was writing. I’ll Be Alright does exactly that. It’s not trying to be complicated or clever. Just permission to think things might be okay, dressed up in enough production that you don’t have to feel too exposed about needing it.
Kim Schmitz writes about music with the kind of confidence that doesn’t hedge. He’ll call out what’s empty, celebrate what moves him, without waiting to see what you’re supposed to like or performing reverence for the formula. In a world of measured critical distance and careful positioning, there’s something almost punk about a voice that just thinks out loud and doesn’t give a shit. That’s probably what audioterrorism means—not literal noise, just someone refusing to nod along.
I was coding this blog one night, slowly losing my mind to the dark hours, so I drank these weird grapefruit-lemon beers and kept some video playing to break up the desolation. Adventure Time. Some GameOne clips. Then Indie Game: The Movie. It had been out a couple months already, which is ancient by internet time, but whatever.
The movie’s about nerds who lock themselves away programming games for years and then release them. Super Meat Boy. Braid. FEZ. You probably know about it if you follow the right blogs. But it’s not really about game development. It’s about what passion looks like when someone actually means it. How much they give up. Time. Friendships. Love. Money they could’ve made doing literally anything else.
Tommy Refenes sits there visibly depressed. Jonathan Blow is basically losing it because nobody gets what he made. Phil Fish tells the camera he’ll kill himself if his game fails. And I’m watching this thinking, yeah, I understand that. I get why someone would end up there.
The speakers on stages inspire me when they’re saying the right motivational shit, telling all of us believers to hold on. But what actually gets me is someone who won’t leave their tiny room for months because they’re under some kind of spell, convinced that what they’re making will matter.
I can’t stand anyone who just clocks in and clocks out. Nine hours of nothing. Nine hours of being a tool. Nine hours with everything turned off inside. Wake up. Work. Brain off. Come home. TV. Sleep. Repeat for fifty years. How does that not drive you mad? You get one life and you’re spending it dead and serving someone else’s bottom line.
Of course civilization would collapse if everyone just made indie games or weird design blogs or whatever personal obsession drives them. I know that. Civilization needs the regular work done. But the filmmakers in that movie—they couldn’t do anything else. The dream was the only thing that made sense to them.
If you’re one of those basement-dwelling weirdos who’ll never be happy doing anything but the thing that’s eating at you, then watch this. It’s your tribe. It’s what actually giving a shit looks like. Not the pretty version, not the TED talk version. Just the drive to create what you need to create, and not giving a fuck if the world gets it.
I spent the last month in Tokyo trying to figure out how to make a German blog matter to people who don’t speak German. The ambition was stupid and straightforward: world domination, or at least a cheap cheesecake subscription. The reality was that you can’t impose yourself in your native language anymore—you need English, you need the translations to be less bad, you need to sound like you know what you’re doing when you don’t.
Sitting in Tokyo, surrounded by cats I didn’t own and people far too tall and beautiful, I basically made the decision that I was going to make this work. I found people on the internet—through friends, through connections I didn’t know I had—who actually seemed willing to help. Which was the only way any of this was going to happen, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to translate the whole thing by myself.
The current version is shit. The translations are bad. There are broken things everywhere. But it exists now in English across multiple places. The Japanese version is supposedly in the works. Other languages if we get around to it.
There’s something absurd about trying to make something that matters to you matter to strangers around the world. You can’t control how it lands. You can’t make anyone care. All you can do is put it out there, broken and half-baked, and see if anyone shows up. And then, somehow, some people do.
I don’t know if this was worth doing. Probably not. But there’s something about impossible projects that keeps you interested—not because you think you’ll succeed, but because you get to meet people weird enough to want to help you try.
I like that rich kids on Instagram stopped pretending money means taste. Cristal next to Burger King in the same shot because they want to, because it looks good. No performance, no restraint, just this honesty about what they actually enjoy. It’s the only democratic part of Instagram.
Arvida Byström’s photographs work because she’s not trying to convince you of anything. Just these pink, soft, constructed worlds, and she doesn’t push a point about them. No winking at the camera, no moral lesson. You’re left alone with the image. Most artists dealing with femininity can’t resist — they want you to see the critique or celebrate the freedom. She just lets it exist, which is rarer than it should be.
The Newsroom opens with Will McAvoy on some panel being asked why America is the greatest country in the world. The question is designed for a soundbite. Will just unloads. He’s angry and brutal and completely certain he’s right. That’s the whole show right there. Aaron Sorkin’s new series on HBO is about news people trying to actually do journalism at a network that wants ratings and conflict instead.
Will’s a cable anchor who’s basically given up. MacKenzie was his ex and she’s been reporting in war zones, and when she comes back they start working together. There’s an ensemble of producers and other people, and most of the show is just them in a room talking about how to run a broadcast while everything falls apart. It’s pure conversation. Some people hate it. I find it actually works.
What interests me about it is the attention to real work. I work in design and I notice the difference between something that’s actually good and something that performs being good. The Newsroom cares about real journalism the way I care about real craft—not for the drama of it, but because the thing actually needs to function. The scenes that land are the ones where someone realizes mid-story that the information’s bad and they have to handle it live, or they’re making a call with real consequences. That’s actual work. Most shows don’t care about work. They care about how work feels.
Everything else on television right now is either melodrama or spectacle. Girls is basically wish fulfillment for people with no actual sex life. Game of Thrones has incomprehensible plotting and everybody’s just watching for the dragons and the breasts. There’s no middle ground. You either get empty sentiment or you get pageantry. Nothing that just does the work and trusts that you’ll notice if it’s done right.
The Newsroom trusts you. It assumes you can follow a conversation. It believes competence is interesting. That’s probably exactly why it’s going to get canceled. Television doesn’t survive bets on the audience having taste or paying attention.
Santigold’s music has always carried this quality of absolute certainty — it doesn’t prove anything or explain itself, just exists exactly as it needs to. The Keepers feels like more of that: the work of someone who’s figured out what matters and has no interest in anything else. There’s a kind of rest in that, actually.
I keep coming back to Little Dragon for this quality where nothing strains. Yukimi Nagano’s voice sits in the mix naturally, and the production is so clean that you can hear the silence between sounds. There’s something almost restful about it—the way tracks just unfold without reaching toward you. You put it on and an hour gets away from you.
National Anthem is the song that made me understand Lana Del Rey was doing something different from everyone else around 2012. Not better, necessarily, but committed to a specific mood in a way most pop songs aren’t — all that melancholy wrapped in production that sounds like it cost a fortune. The song feels expensive and sad, which shouldn’t work together but does. There’s something almost cinematic about it, the way she stretches syllables out, the way the beat sits back like it’s already resigned to something. It’s not a song that tries to make you dance or feel inspired. It just wants you to sit with it, in it, aware that beautiful things are often kind of dark when you look close.
Sometime in autumn I opened the courtyard window for the first time in a week. I was wearing just boxers, pizza crusted into my beard. On the monitor next to me I’d just finished conquering the entire planet. I felt like Napoleon, Caesar, and Hitler all at once—and looked like a rotten sex offender.
Civ IV had beaten me. After ten minutes of useless clicking around I gave up and went back to jerking around. Then boredom hit hard and I downloaded Civilization V off Steam out of pure desperation, and suddenly there was this whole world to discover and research and take over. It was absolutely epic. The delivery services made a killing off me the entire time.
Gods and Kings is out now—the first expansion. Tons of new achievements, religious zealots, wonders, new civilizations. I just throw my little Japanese units at whoever stands in my way and watch them crumble. You can attack coastal cities from the sea now, send spies into other nations, trade in citrus. There are guilds and fresh units, police stations, air raid shelters, amphitheaters. Just so much stuff to click on and watch unfold. The game shows you what kind of person you really are—whether you’re weak or whether you’re an emperor.
I’m deep in it again. World domination as a form of practice. Strategy, occupation, victory—these are things that need to be exercised. And when I’m eventually your untouchable dictator, you’ll know exactly who to blame. Now kneel.
She came up young—cute Caribbean pop princess—and spent years systematically rejecting every version of that. Different sound, different look, like she was shedding skin until one stuck. The voice was what anchored it. Not technically perfect, but unmistakably hers. Built an empire and then stepped back from music mostly, which felt like a loss until she clearly just didn’t care. The songs matter more now than they did when they were fighting for radio hits.
After Fukushima, the whole country wanted nuclear power gone. You could feel it—the fear, the disgust, the sense that nobody in charge had been paying attention to what could actually happen. Then Noda’s government came out pushing to restart the reactors anyway. Restart them. The public opinion numbers were unmistakable, the anger was real, and they did it anyway. There’s a particular kind of contempt that involves ignoring millions of people telling you exactly what they want, then acting surprised when they stop trusting you. Japan had lived through the catastrophe. The fear wasn’t abstract. But the machinery of power had its own logic, and it didn’t include listening. That was the disconnect—not that the government and its people disagreed on something complicated, but that one side had already made up its mind it didn’t care what the other side thought.
I can’t explain what cooking an old Furby has to do with this mixtape, but the pairing won’t leave me alone so I’m telling you about it. If you’ve still got one gathering dust in an attic or shoved in the back of some closet, dig it out. Plug it in one last time. Then throw the whole thing in a pot.
Listen to Yeasayer, Purity Ring, and Frank Ocean while you do it. The logic doesn’t hold—there’s no reason any of this should work together—but something about the way those three move, the texture of their production, the space they create together, makes the stupid thing feel almost inevitable. Maybe that’s enough.
There are speaking toilets here. That’s the first impossible thing you notice, and after a month it’s barely registered. There’s a whole aesthetic of strangeness in Tokyo — manga characters that look more human than humans, magazines full of half-naked teenagers, everything selling everything to everyone. But you stop seeing it as strange. It just becomes what’s there.
I’m not doing the tourist photography thing anymore. The first week you take pictures of everything because that’s what you’re supposed to do, then you post them and feel like you’ve captured something true. You haven’t. So I stopped. Started living instead. On The Corner and Wired Cafe in the mornings, The Terminal for coffee, Burger Factory around the corner for burgers that taste like regret. Sushi and tendon everywhere else. Shibuya I know by heart now. Harajuku caught me before I realized it was catching me.
The small stuff sticks. One Piece figurines in every window. AKB48 girls on every billboard and truck and vending machine, all the same grin. A bar where Utada Hikaru was playing — my favorite songs, just there.
I was supposed to leave July 5th. Simple enough. But the government lets you stay until August, and Summer Sonic is in August — Grimes, Perfume, Rihanna, Kyary Pamyu Pamyu, SBTRKT. These are people I’d normally just read about. My job is strange enough that it doesn’t care whether I’m in Tokyo or Berlin. So I extended. How do you walk away from something feeding you like that?
Tokyo scratches something Berlin stopped scratching a while ago. Some kind of creative energy I can’t describe without sounding like I’m reading a guidebook. Maybe Japan really is the most creative place on earth. Maybe it’s marketing. I’m not going to find out by leaving early. I’m still hungry here.
You know that feeling when an institution suddenly starts actively ruining something? That’s what’s happening with GEMA in Germany right now. They’re the music rights collective—basically a monopoly that collects royalties whenever a song plays in public. Makes sense on paper. Except they’ve decided to charge clubs and discos between 600 and 2000 percent more in licensing fees starting this year. Not gradually. Not negotiated. Just decided, and now it’s law.
The numbers are almost absurd. A small club’s licensing fees go from manageable to impossible. So the club closes. This isn’t hypothetical. It’s happening. The scene is collapsing because one bureaucratic outfit squeezed too hard.
What gets me is the stupidity of it. GEMA exists to support musicians. Their entire reason for existing is to make sure artists get paid. But their fee structure guarantees fewer people hear music, fewer venues book bands, fewer scenes exist. They maximize their own revenue while destroying the ecosystem that makes that revenue possible in the first place. It’s self-sabotage with a spreadsheet.
Years ago, you heard new music at clubs. DJs, live bands, the full thing. Those venues were where scenes happened. Some random Tuesday you’d see a band that changed everything. GEMA just priced that out of existence. Or most of it.
The real kick is the powerlessness. GEMA’s a monopoly. They set prices, make rules, decide what’s legal. You can protest, petition, yell online, and none of it matters because they’re not a competitor you can avoid—they’re effectively the government. It’s like watching a parasite slowly kill its host and being unable to stop it.
I don’t know what happens next. Maybe the clubs survive somehow. Maybe people stop going out. Maybe both. But whatever it is, something dies. A scene is a delicate thing. You can’t rebuild it from a database. You can’t manufacture the moment someone hears a song for the first time and it rewires them. That only happens in real venues with real moments. And GEMA just priced those moments out of existence.
Twin Shadow makes synth records that feel intimate and private even though they’re all machines and careful planning. Everything’s electronic and precise but somehow warm, like he’s singing right at you in the dark. There’s a romance to it but never anything soft or easy. “Five Seconds” could be about that moment where something finally shifts, or maybe just how long it takes for a melody to get under your skin.
Weekends arrive and you’ve got all this time and you don’t know what to do with it. Someone’s always got a list - things to create, movies to watch, ways to be productive. The suggestions get progressively more absurd, like they’re grasping at meaning and giving up halfway through.
Earplugs and a movie you don’t watch. Sniff people. Look at pictures that make you feel something without touching yourself. The actual stuff worth doing is quieter. Friends who make you laugh. Sex when it lines up. Good food. Sometimes just being still.
The weekend you’re waiting for is usually just the regular one, except nobody’s telling you what matters.
Kern’s videos from the eighties have this aggressive unflinching quality. Something as simple as girls washing becomes confrontational when he films it — cheap video, explicit, no fantasy, just bodies and water and what’s actually there. It’s a kind of honesty that feels almost hostile. You can feel the refusal in it, the resistance to letting you feel comfortable looking. It doesn’t let you off easy.
Three weeks in Tokyo eating ice cream on the beach, drinking overpriced beer at tiny bars, shooting girls in colorful outfits. The website could wait. My collaborators were busy with their own stuff. Then the rainy season hit and typhoon after typhoon rolled through Honshu, and suddenly I was trapped inside with nothing but time and the relaunch I’d been avoiding for months.
I know from experience that completely redesigning this place always implodes. Remember the black minimalist diary we tried? Or that pseudo-print thing? I loved both of them. Thought they were genuinely brilliant. Everyone else thought I was insane. So now every update is just whatever design ideas I half-found while flipping through Tokyo magazines, applied with whatever confidence I could fake. The homepage is the big one—monumentally oversized, basically just there to prove we have the biggest and you don’t. The background image is gone. English is coming back eventually. Behind the scenes we’re building new sections by stealing from everywhere and repackaging it so it looks like intention.
It’s really just doing more, making life worse for people who actually want to see us fail, and that turns out to be its own reward. Yeah, there are bugs. There’s always bugs. We’re working on them. The homepage might be the worst thing we’ve ever made and also the best, and you should click around and decide which one is true.
Time to go back to Tokyo and eat tendon and sleep and not think about websites for a while.
Karley Sciortino’s podcast is just people talking about sex like adults, which sounds simple until you realize how rare that actually is. No therapy-speak, no Instagram wellness angle, just conversations that let the awkwardness and absurdity sit there without trying to fix it. She’s got a gift for asking questions that make you understand something about yourself or whoever’s on the show, and she does it without turning anyone into a case study. It’s the kind of thing that makes you realize how much of the internet is either performing sexuality or performing purity, with nothing in between.
There’s this law they were pushing through in Germany—Leistungsschutzrecht, ancillary copyright or something. I spent way too much time reading about it, getting angrier, because it’s the kind of thing that seems small until you understand what it actually does.
Before all this, if you copied something wholesale—a whole article, a photo, whatever—you’d get nailed for copyright infringement. Fair enough. But there was this space in between where things could live. You could quote, link, reference, remix. Fair Use exists in America for a reason: it lets people build on what’s already there. It’s how culture works. It’s how the internet works.
This law went the opposite direction. It was designed to let publishers sue you for quoting them. For linking to them. For tweeting their headline. For doing the basic things everyone does online a dozen times a day without thinking about it.
Who wanted this? Axel Springer, the big German newspaper groups, all the people who already had money and lawyers. They looked at it and saw another revenue stream. They could charge for links, for quotes, for excerpts. They could weaponize copyright against the internet itself. The morality of it didn’t matter. The fact that it would make the whole system worse didn’t matter. Just the money.
I kept thinking about what it would actually mean. You share an article on Facebook with a comment—suddenly illegal. You tweet a headline. You write a blog post and quote something that inspired you. All of it would be illegal. Just everyday shit, the stuff that actually makes the internet work.
I’d try to explain it to people and watch their eyes glaze over. Easier to not pay attention, to keep scrolling. And maybe that’s the whole design—these things pass because nobody notices until the lawyers show up.
I get why Die Antwoord upsets people. The South African duo makes music that’s deliberately crude and shocking, visuals that hit you wrong, performances that don’t apologize. Most artists hedge, offer context, soften the edges somehow. These two just lean in completely. The production is actually interesting too, which makes it worse for people who want to dismiss it outright. There’s something weirdly respectable about refusing to tone it down for approval.
I’ve been in Tokyo for four days now and it’s swallowed me whole, skin and all. The first hit was visual—flickering neon, noise that bent my knees, crowds that seemed to operate like perfect clockwork until you looked closer and realized it was barely holding together, each person inside it doing something slightly, wonderfully wrong.
At first I felt like a foreign body dropped into a machine that worked too well, watching some kind of evolved civilization optimized for everything. Then someone would smile at me—actually smile—and suddenly they had a face, a name, a personality, and their genuine hospitality pulled me deeper into a world that shouldn’t exist at all.
I keep trying to pin down the details but there are too many arriving every minute. There was the first time Anna and I ended up in Shibuya and somehow surfaced in a ten-story fever dream of teenage girls. Then Sari took me through Akihabara—the garish arcades, the sweet couples, the creatures that looked like they’d crawled out of a hentai fantasy. With every breath, every word, every new thing I saw, I felt myself becoming a working part of something that was waking me up in a way I’d almost forgotten was possible. The feeling was a burning thing.
Tokyo isn’t a city. It’s a teleporter that throws you into some parallel existence. Its streets are the pulsing blood vessels of a beautiful monster you can’t escape from. And you don’t want to. Why would you? It’s consumption, fashion, music, tech, art, sex—all of it compressed into an intensity that makes every other place on earth look like some village you fled the moment you realized real life was somewhere else. Walk through this digital god’s insides and you get pumped full of this hyperculture energy concentrated in a way you’ll never find anywhere else on the planet.
So I’m falling without resistance. No fear, no regret, no hesitation. Just diving deeper into somewhere that metaphor can’t touch, comparison can’t reach, description can’t satisfy. By the end of five weeks I’ll either have found the enlightenment I came looking for—the kind that shows you where to go next—or I’ll be standing in the wreckage of the only fantasy that ever made me want to get out of bed in the morning.
Tomorrow morning I’m heading out for five weeks in Japan. I’ve spent the last month talking about nothing but travel prep. My apartment’s rented to a Spanish couple who can do whatever they want with my furniture. Flight’s at 9:45 from Berlin. Hope the Russian pilot doesn’t detour over some sketchy volcano.
Six hours stuck in Moscow. I get in at Narita on Wednesday at 10:20. I’m planning to post as many ridiculous photos and videos as possible so I can look back later and convince myself it was all worth it.
I made a list. Missions, actually. Because you need some kind of plan when you travel, otherwise you just wander around like an idiot. You can break the plan whenever you feel like it, but having one matters. I could just check them off and call Japan done, but here’s what I’m doing: First, Tokyo Tower. I’ve lived in Berlin for five years and never gone up the TV tower. I’m fixing that in Tokyo. Second, I want to see a Japanese film in a Japanese theater in Japanese. No particular reason, just because.
Third, I’m buying a Game Boy Light and some games. Because why not. Fourth, I’m hitting up Super Potato, which is basically Valhalla for anyone obsessed with old video games. Fifth, I’m going to kiss a Japanese girl. See how romantic that is? I said kiss, not fuck—just kiss, maybe feel her up a little. Real romance, truly. (Except Eriko Nakao. She can have my kids.)
Sixth, I want to eat at one of those conveyor belt sushi places where everything just spins by and you grab what you want. The world should work like this. Everything on a belt. Seventh, I’m climbing Mount Fuji. I’m terrible at hiking, but it’s got to happen. If I can’t make it, I’ll just let the crowd carry me up. Eighth, I’m going to an actual beach with actual sand. Ninth, I’m spending a night in one of those capsule hotels or internet cafés—the kind of place losers end up when they miss the last train or ran out of money. I find that kind of appealing.
Tenth: I wanna be the very best, like no one ever was. Gotta catch them all. Yes, really.
Look, I know these are pretty generic goals. But I’m not going to piss in a temple while screaming slogans or insult the royal family for a laugh. I actually like Japan, for one. For another, I’m not some third-rate TV presenter getting stuck with Sunday-night gigs by doing stupid stunts on camera. And honestly, I only thought about this for like ten minutes. The best shit happens when you’re not looking for it anyway. With people you don’t expect.
So wish me luck getting there in one piece. Comment below with anything you want me to bring back. Maybe I’ll actually take some pictures worth showing off. This is it—the life dream along with getting rich as hell and having a drug dealer who cleans house and reads me bedtime stories. Japan, here I come. Schoolgirl tentacles.
I published something stupid last week under my magazine’s name, and I need to own that completely. One of my writers, Meltem, did a piece calling Sarah Kuttner a racist and stupid. The whole thing was built on scattered quotes from other people—Mola Adebski, Benjamin Bäumle—none of it actually from Sarah, all of it fragments and inference. I started getting angry emails and threats. At first I thought, well, I didn’t write it, Meltem did. Which is technically true. Which is also complete bullshit.
If I’m going to run a magazine, my name on the masthead means I’m responsible for what goes in it. I can’t hide behind the byline. I wanted to publish unafraid voices, and I did—but I should have made sure those voices were saying something true first.
Here’s what I actually think: you can dislike Sarah Kuttner’s work. You can find her boring or overrated. You can think she’s a bad person. That’s all legitimate. Criticism should cut. But there’s a difference between sharp and reckless. You can’t accuse someone of being a racist in public based on hearsay and fragments. The foundation had to be there, and it wasn’t.
I should have seen it. Not because it was too hard or too mean—provocation is fine. But because the foundation wasn’t there. The research was sloppy. The logic didn’t hold. I let something through that I shouldn’t have, and now I’m dealing with the fallout and rightfully so.
So the piece came down, and I’m saying it plainly: I’m sorry to Sarah Kuttner. Meltem learned something. I learned something. I want the work here to be sharp and unafraid, but it has to actually be built on something real. Provocation without substance is just noise. That’s not what I want to make anymore.
Odd Future hit at the exact moment when hip-hop needed something that didn’t give a shit. Tyler and those kids made beats that sounded scratchy and blown-out—juvenile and brilliant at the same time. Nothing was polished, nothing was designed to be palatable. The whole thing felt dangerous, probably way less than it actually was, but danger was the point.
They were genuinely outside the system in a way that mattered. No major label machinery, no gatekeeping, no one’s approval but their own. Just weirdos with something to say and the tools to say it. For a few years there they felt like the only thing that was real, like you were part of something that wasn’t supposed to exist.
I got pulled into AKB48 the way you get pulled into anything that’s obsessively designed to be engaging—through sheer momentum and craft. A group with forty-eight members, rotating lineups, constant turnover, all that manufactured urgency built into the system. The songs are good, genuinely. The production is meticulous. The business model is basically a content machine designed to make you feel like you’re part of something, part of choosing who matters, who stays, who goes. Which is the point, I think. It’s not hidden. You know what you’re buying into, and you do it anyway. There’s something honest about that, at least. No pretense that this is art for art’s sake. It’s appetite, manufacturing, desire, all laid bare. And the music still works. The performances still land. You can acknowledge the machine and still feel something when they’re on stage.
Rock am Ring happens in June at the Nürburgring, in the Eifel region—eighty thousand people descend to camp and watch bands for three days. The lineup reads like every major European rock festival of the last twenty years: Metallica, Die Toten Hosen, Linkin Park, The Offspring, Skrillex, The Hives, Enter Shikari. Familiar names that work at scale. You know what you’re getting.
There’s something honest about that. A festival doesn’t need to reinvent itself every year. It needs to show up with a good lineup and decent logistics and let people do what they came to do: camp, drink, stand in a field watching music. The setup is the appeal. Three days outside normal life, in a tent with eighty thousand strangers, all of you surrendering to the same temporary insanity.
Most of what lingers from a festival experience isn’t the music itself. It’s peripheral things. The smell of a campfire at night. Someone’s laugh from the tent next to yours. The specific exhaustion of standing in one spot for two hours, needing water, not moving. The moment a bass drop hits and fifty thousand people jump. You weren’t there for a pristine audio experience. You were there for that aggregate feeling—the crowd, the moment, the knowledge that you’re one of eighty thousand people who wanted to be exactly here.
Whether the festival surprises you stops mattering after a while. You go for the same reason you go back: it delivers. The bands are good enough. The scale is impressive. The chaos is familiar and comfortable. And for three days, that’s exactly what you want.
Couldn’t sleep last night because the heat was like something alive, and Abby Winters plus Miley’s sideboob weren’t cutting it, so I spent the dark hours falling down Japan prep videos. Six days until my flight and suddenly I needed to know everything, or at least convince myself I did.
First I followed some guy with absurdly long hair through Super Potato in Akihabara—the kind of place where ancient consoles and cartridges stack so high you either start crying or get hard, sometimes both. That’s where I learned about the Game Boy Light, Japan-only, backlit, the last real one. Mine died years back—picked it up with Ines at a flea market. If I can find another cheap enough, I’m getting it.
Got lost in videos about old phones with actual antennas, sumo wrestlers, mid-90s Tokyo. What to do on planes. What to do when you land. How cool the city is. How beautiful. How charming.
Sari wrote to me—she never sleeps—about phones. You need one in Japan, she said, because otherwise you vanish into crowds and can’t find anyone. SoftBank rents them, but better: they rent SIM cards you drop into your own iPhone. Calls, texts, data. Good to know.
I handled the basics. Travel insurance done. Credit card appeased with metaphorical blood so it doesn’t do its usual thing. Got a haircut scheduled so I don’t look like a caveman when I get there. Last thing I need is becoming a character in some Japanese reality show.
One thing’s left: missions. I don’t want to just wander around for five weeks like an idiot. I need objectives, tasks to hunt down, so I come home feeling like I accomplished something. Find a real working underwear vending machine. Throw a live Pikachu off Tokyo Tower. Get a blowjob from someone in a Hello Kitty costume. You suggest them—I’ll pick ten.
Advance Base makes the kind of music that fits summer in a particular way — not bright or uplifting exactly, but wistful. Matthew Rowe’s synth-pop has this nostalgic pull that works when you’re driving around in the heat, or sitting somewhere you know you won’t be much longer. There’s melancholy threaded through the brightness of it, which is why it sticks with you more than proper summer pop. It’s the sound of knowing something’s already fading while it’s still happening.
Woodkid’s “Run Boy Run” arrived in 2011 with that music video that looked like a kids’ film noir remake — all grain and sepia and a small boy running through scenarios that shouldn’t be terrifying but somehow were. The production is huge, orchestral in a way that feels like it’s building toward something, and the video’s aesthetic landed in every designer’s moodboard for the next five years. There’s something about that combination of scale and a child’s perspective that works. It’s not quite as potent now as it was then, but the bones are still there. Woodkid made something that looked expensive and felt sincere, which is harder than it sounds.
On Demons, Alexis Krauss sings almost conversationally while guitars implode underneath her, synths screaming like something’s dying. Sleigh Bells’ whole thing is that contrast—her voice clear and almost vulnerable against all that noise, which somehow makes it worse. It gets in your head because it doesn’t feel safe. It feels sexual and dangerous in a way that pop music usually isn’t.
Swedish artist Arvida Byström makes photographs that sit somewhere between self-portrait and horror show — her face bloated, disfigured, smeared with fake blood and paint, sometimes barely recognizable. The work is transgressive in the way that matters: it’s not trying to shock you, exactly, it’s trying to show you something about the grotesque that lives inside the everyday, the way the body can become utterly estranged from itself. She’s been doing this for years, shooting herself in these various states of beautiful ruination, and the longer you look at the images the less you can tell where the artifice ends and something real begins. There’s a restraint to it despite the extremity — no caption, no explanation, just the image. It’s the kind of work that makes you uncomfortable in a way that matters, that lingers after you’ve stopped looking.
There’s something about how Maggio’s voice cracks on the chorus that gets me every time. It’s not pretty, not technically impressive — it’s just honest. The song sits somewhere between power ballad and raw confession, and she doesn’t try to make it sound easy or controlled. She lets it hurt, lets you hear the effort. Swedish pop doesn’t usually hit like this, at least not the way it reaches you when you’re alone at three in the morning.
It’s Friday evening and you’ve done nothing to prepare for the weekend, which means you’ll probably do the same things you always do. Hours will pass, days will blur, and you’ll forget any of it happened, which is how most of your life goes if you’re not paying attention.
Here’s ten things you could do instead, or not.
One: buy Facebook stock so in forty years you at least have an answer for why you’re not rich. Two: hunt the secret rainbow-pony level in Diablo 3 all weekend. Find it and you’ve earned permission to quit and maybe go outside. Three: read those articles about your childhood that destroy you. Sit with the regret. Four: just stop reading. Five: run everywhere with your arms straight up in the air for three entire days.
Six: listen to what people from nowhere towns think about the city. Seven: look at pictures of girls with perfect stomachs until you feel dead inside, then look at your actual body and accept it. Eight: tell your dad you know he’s not actually out with his buddies, and try to blackmail him into a car and Xbox. Nine: order Big Brother season one and watch all of it. Nothing better on TV anyway. Ten: mix your coke with food coloring and let it dry. Rainbow party deluxe.
You get to the bottom of the list and realize none of it matters. The weekend will pass the same way it always does. But at least you read the part about the cocaine, which is the joke.
Lemonade builds its power from control rather than release. Every shot composed, every color deliberate, moving through rage and betrayal with such discipline that catharsis stops mattering. I don’t need to understand the specific marriage to feel the architecture of it, how she moves through something unbearable without breaking. What stays with me is not the emotional arc but how precisely it’s constructed.
Mike Hadreas makes music that feels like it’s coming from somewhere most people won’t go. Perfume Genius records operate in this space between fragile and overwhelming—ethereal production that can snap into something almost violent, whispered vocals that carry the weight of genuine hurt. I keep coming back to his work because it doesn’t ask for permission to be dark, to be confused, to sit with contradiction. There’s no redemption arc built in, no neat resolution. Just the sound of someone looking at the parts of himself he can’t fix and deciding to make something beautiful from the wreckage anyway.
Two people in a Tokyo hotel who barely know each other. One’s older, famous, jetlagged into a kind of useful numbness. The other is young and lost in the way people are when they’ve just realized that the life they planned isn’t quite real. They find each other because they’re both awake at three in the morning and the normal world has gone quiet. Nothing happens between them. Nothing needs to.
Coppola films it like a memory—soft-focused, quiet, with long stretches of nothing that somehow feel more like something than most films manage in two hours. The specific sadness of two people connecting only because they’re both temporary. They leave Tokyo and go back to their lives and become strangers again, and you understand this from the first frame. It’s beautiful because it ends. That’s the whole thing.
I used to think Florence Welch’s music was too much—all that drama and orchestration, the voice always at full volume, never letting you breathe. Then I stopped thinking about it as restraint and just let it happen. There’s something in the way she commits to feeling that makes sense in a way I can’t quite explain. Not everyone needs to stay in control. Some people just need to get it out, and she figured out how to do that at a scale that actually matches the size of what’s inside. The music hits different when you stop waiting for it to be subtle.
The Little Monsters in Tokyo moved as a single organism, screaming the lyrics back at her like she’d written the script to their lives. There’s something about that kind of devotion in a stadium that gets to you — all the loneliness and intensity that usually lives in private suddenly becomes collective, becomes permission. Maybe that’s the whole reason pop music exists.
I walked into the game shop yesterday afternoon to buy Diablo 3, and there were about 163 other people doing exactly the same thing. I had absolutely no idea what I was getting into. Never played the first two, skipped the beta, didn’t watch any videos or read a single review. I’m a hype gamer in its purest form.
Why did I play StarCraft II? Because everyone was talking about it. Why Skyrim? Same reason. Why Mass Effect? I loved it, actually—but I only picked it up because it was the game everyone was playing. Each of those games gave me hours of genuine fun, but would I have bought any of them if they didn’t have millions of devoted fans? No. I wouldn’t have even known they existed.
I used to be different. Back then I hunted for games nobody else knew about. Weird stuff, niche stuff, games with stories and characters that didn’t have mainstream appeal. But that was when I had time. Now I don’t. And back then there were maybe twenty games a year that actually mattered culturally, games you had to play or you’d be completely left out of the conversation, left behind without a Super Nintendo or a PlayStation or both.
Now everything comes at you in waves. Steam bundles, identical shooters dropped every weekend, indie games everywhere, Kickstarter projects, then you’re buying a Wii and a 3DS and a PlayStation and an Xbox and a PS Vita and an iPad and an iPhone and whatever other overpriced retro console hits the market. I lost track years ago.
So I do what makes sense: I buy the most hyped thing available. Not because I want to, but because at least then I know it’ll probably be worth my time. And if it isn’t, at least I can complain about it alongside everyone else. There’s something comforting about being disappointed in unison.
I dropped 50 euros on Diablo 3 knowing full well I’ll barely touch it. Maybe finish the campaign, try multiplayer for an hour, then it goes on a shelf somewhere. In a few months something else will be hyped to hell and I’ll buy that too, play it a little, shelf it. Then something else. And that’s fine. That’s enough. I’m a hype gamer and I’ve made peace with it.
Paolo Patrizi photographed sumo wrestlers for years, and what emerges isn’t the circus version most of us know. It’s the weight of it—literally and otherwise. The discipline, the ritual, the strange isolation of living inside a body and a tradition that both demand everything. His pictures aren’t flattering or cruel, just honest about what’s there. You notice the care in them, the way he waited for the quiet moments.
Friday’s coming and I’m already deep in the fantasy. The sun’s been frying everyone and all I want is to freeze myself solid for a few weeks until Diablo 3 drops, maybe leave a clone to handle work. Everything else spirals from there.
I’d feed Anja Rubik. I’d strap on a mouth spreader and swear an oath: whatever lands in there stays in or goes down. Lick everything you see, every surface, all of it. Burn something large that doesn’t belong to me—something that would feel good to burn. Finally do the group sex thing I’ve been fantasizing about since I was eleven. Play pranks on friends until there’s no one left to prank. Record a video for a kid who doesn’t exist yet, confessing every terrible thing I’ve done, showing them where they can find the porn film I made at eighteen when I was broke.
Smoke an apple. Break into a research lab, steal two animals, put them in bright costumes, fight crime with them. By the time I’m thinking about that last one I know it’s just Friday afternoon brain, none of this is happening. But the wanting doesn’t really stop.
Harmony Korine made a movie where four college girls commit crimes in designer bikinis while a guy named Alien (James Franco) screams about his guns and money. The whole thing is neon and slow-motion and depravity, shot like Korine’s documenting a fever dream he wants to stay in. What got me was how little the movie cares about consequences. No moral framework, no redemption arc—just bodies and violence and bad decisions lit like a music video. That kind of refusal to apologize gets under your skin. You’re left sitting with discomfort and maybe a little admiration for it.
When the weather finally cooperates, the thought is automatic: tent, friends, a field, music. Hurricane in 2012 had Die Ärzte, The Cure, Florence & The Machine, New Order, M83, Little Dragon—the kind of lineup where you’re constantly torn between stages, convinced you’re missing something better happening somewhere else. You probably are.
Festivals work because the gap between imagination and reality is so wide it ceases to matter. You go in picturing yourself present and engaged and reasonably clean. You get there and by hour four you haven’t showered, you’ve already lost one friend to the main stage, and the food situation is worse than you feared. None of it ruins anything. By day two everyone’s equally grimy and equally tired and nobody’s bothering with the social performance that matters at home.
That’s where it actually happens—that complete step outside. You’re crammed in a field with thousands of people and after a few days you’re eating together and sleeping near each other and not thinking about it. The regular world dissolves. When you finally get back, it takes longer than you’d think to readjust to basic things like showers and clean clothes.
Sitting in Mallorca right now, watching middle-aged men in their underwear paddle through the pool with their equally destroyed kids, and somehow I can’t stop thinking about Prague. Which tells me the trip was actually great—I wouldn’t be unable to let it go otherwise.
We went for the Electronic Beats Festival, which Telekom was sponsoring. The lineup alone was reason enough: Grimes, The Whitest Boy Alive, Woodkid, Mike Skinner. But the trip turned into something beyond just catching shows. We were a group—Nike, Frank, Jessie, Katja, Nina, Pierre, Kai, Nele, Johan, and me—and we just kept finding more to do.
Prague is the kind of city that’s genuinely beautiful in a way that catches you off guard. There’s the part that’s been touristed to death, funneled and packed, and then there’s these whole sections that feel almost obscene in how elegant they are. The kind of place where they actually shoot films, where everything looks expensive without even trying.
The shows were technically the reason we were there. Backstage, people kept handing us plastic cups full of beer. We talked to the artists. Took pictures. Met Janet, who runs the Kleiderkreisel operation there. At some point we ended up on a party boat on the Moldau at an insane hour, and then it was sunrise and we were back at the Hilton trying to sleep before checking out, only to find out that 24 hours of internet cost about 40 euros, which felt obscene.
What I realized, though, is that I actually hate traveling alone through unfamiliar cities. You end up feeling like an idiot, shuffling through streets trying to figure out where the real part of town is, where the good stuff happens. With a group, especially one where someone like Pierre is keeping things organized and functional, you don’t have to think about that. You just get to be there.
Anyway. Back to watching these middle-aged men paddle around with their destroyed kids.
I’ve already written three posts about this trip without actually going anywhere. Still sitting in this chair—literally decomposing—and somehow narrating like I’ve already been there for weeks. Most people just go, keep quiet, send a postcard when they’re back. I prefer dragging someone into my neurotic anticipation spiral instead.
But I found a place. Five weeks in Tokyo, assuming they don’t throw me out for saying something unhinged about the imperial family. (I won’t. I have no fucking idea what I’d even say.)
The issue was avoiding three equally bad options: my own apartment where I’d just decay; a concrete tower on the edge of the city where I’d be completely alone; or a backpacker hostel, 22 Australians and 48 Russians packed into a basement for a month. Everything in Tokyo is stupidly expensive anyway, which you know.
So I’m in an artist house in Shinjuku, right next to Shibuya. First floor is a club called CAVE246. Second floor is a barbershop called Dorren. I’m on the third floor, next to a hostess bar. Rooftop has a barbecue setup and supposedly a decent view. Six hundred fifty euros for five weeks—found it through Wimdu.
The owner is Yoji. His English is charmingly broken. He also runs some kind of artist collective on the Pacific coast, which is legitimately cool if you think about it for more than two seconds. I wanted to be around weird creative Japanese people, not other tourists. Not completely isolated either.
It’s a home base. Once I land, I can disappear to Kyoto, Osaka, the beach, wherever, and have somewhere to return to. That matters. And given the location and the length, the price is solid.
So that’s done. Now I just need to find that Sailor Moon costume. Twenty-three days.
re:publica wrapped up yesterday. Third time I’ve been, and if you didn’t go, you didn’t miss anything.
They moved to the Station this year because the old place got too crowded—this warehouse by Gleisdreieck that they converted. Big spaces, good light, easy to walk around. The food wasn’t terrible. That was pretty much the whole experience.
The conference could be something real. Current, informative, worth your time. But it keeps failing for the same reason: the people running it, speaking at it, working it.
You walk around and it’s like the entire German internet is just reblogs and a fake elite—journalists and PR people who either found in social media a way to feed their insecure egos with favorites and retweets instead of, I don’t know, joining an emo band or eating ice cream for comfort, or they’re just there to make money without actually understanding what any of it’s about. Basically people you spent middle school avoiding and throwing wet paper balls at.
The panels are the worst part. Either they’re run by people who are way too into Twitter and shouldn’t have been dragged away from their iPads, or by people who actually have something interesting to say but who spend their time talking about things that have been online for nine years.
So of course by afternoon, when people are supposed to be taking it seriously, most of the crowd is out in the courtyard with a beer and their phone, tweeting about how bored they are. Some try to sit through a talk, give up after ten minutes of nothing, go eat something. The food was decent.
The only moments that actually worked weren’t from the speakers. Just some dumb video someone found, or just the people who’ve been online forever sitting outside, getting sun, eating a bratwurst or a weird vegetarian pocket, maybe feeling something like what a festival is supposed to feel like.
re:publica has become this smug nerd olympics. Totally disconnected from how people actually use the internet. Living in its own world of memes and data plans and half-baked rebellion, without the real creativity or actual new ideas or anything that actually changes you.
I think this is where the German internet is heading. Can’t say I’m thrilled about it.
There was this May where I thought flying to the States and hitting on Lady Gaga while she was dealing with a breakup was a legitimate plan. Like I was somehow the answer to that particular problem. I’ve never even liked her pseudo-crazy act that much — it always felt exhausting — but May logic overrides everything.
Banana milk mixed with cocoa became momentarily important. The holy grail of dairy. It tasted fine. A dog made sense for a few days too, some idea that a small creature depending on you would fix things. It wouldn’t.
Five in the morning felt like the right time for sex. Spending an entire weekend in one building that wasn’t mine — a 7-Eleven, a train station, someone’s apartment — just staying in one place and seeing if 48 hours of horizontal living changed anything. It didn’t, but the impulse was real.
Getting “God” tattooed on my forehead seemed necessary at one point. Not as sincere spiritual gesture, just chaos. Then walking around, especially toward cops, with the absolute conviction they’d find it hilarious. They wouldn’t have. I knew that even then, but the conviction felt pure.
Making a funny video to upload to YouTube like I’d invented entertainment. There was this purity to refusing to watch cat videos on the internet while doing basically everything else stupid — like that was the one line. The geometry of only shaving one side of my body and calling it Two-Face, a revolution against male grooming conducted entirely through pubic hair.
All of it was May. The month where you’re not quite sane and you don’t care about it. June came and it stopped. That was always how it worked.
Coco Capitán makes work that sits right at the intersection of high concept and pure visual pleasure—colorful, textured, playful photographs that deal with identity and desire and the gap between how you see yourself and how the world sees you. The title alone is the whole thing. There’s something about the way she combines abstraction with personality, language with image, that makes you feel like you’re inside a private joke that somehow includes you. Her stuff has gotten more confident over time, less concerned with being understood and more interested in just being exactly what it is. That’s the move I keep watching for in contemporary work—the moment an artist stops performing their practice and just lives inside it.
Cut Copy makes electronic music that feels designed for the moments when you need something sleek but warm, detached but human. “Take Me Over” is them at their best—all these synth layers stacking up like they’re building toward something that never quite arrives, except it does, it’s all around you the whole time. I used to come back to them constantly, that specific texture they do with electronic pop, machines made to feel like they’re breathing. I don’t listen as much anymore but I know exactly where to find that feeling when I need it.
I forget strangers’ faces almost immediately—faster than I remember addresses or phone numbers. If someone connects with me mentally, challenges me, or grabs my attention visually, sure, I light up in the moment. But after we part, there’s a solid chance I won’t recognize them next time. They just slip away.
Then there’s the one person who doesn’t.
That one person has been in my head for weeks, months, maybe longer. I can’t solve it. Their face burned itself into my skull. The smell of them hits like adrenaline. Their voice does something fucked up to my body—makes me want to come and simultaneously want to throw up. The butterflies died a long time ago. Now there’s just chaos in my gut.
Modern love isn’t what it used to be. It’s not the Bravo photo love stories, not ice cream dates and movie theaters and roses in some candlelit bed where everything ends in textbook sex. Modern love is war. And I don’t get to sit it out—I either fight it or it breaks me.
I don’t feel close to the other person anymore. My own mind tortures me in every possible way, and it doesn’t give a shit about dragging this obsession back to normal. It’s not sadness. It’s not grief. It’s not emptiness. It’s some mutated thing built from my own mistakes, the chances I missed, thoughts so fucked up I’d never tell a therapist because they’d lock me away on some green hill somewhere.
I know the rules. I know what I’m supposed to do. I understand the balance between attraction and indifference, I’ve learned from past failures, I know what’s allowed and what isn’t. But when that one person shows up—that specific, cursed person—logic gets overrun. My heart takes the wheel and my body starts moving without permission.
I think I’m helping. I think I’ve changed, learned, grown. I want to love and celebrate and support them, even though I know deep down that every move makes it worse. I’ve shaped them, built them up with my hands and my hope, invested my whole future in them. And then someone new walks in—untouched, unchained, vital as a storm—and takes what I was building. Moves into their body and their head like they own it. And I just scream silently and die inside and finally understand that I should have left a long time ago.
But I couldn’t. Modern love demands the impossible. It fucks me, tortures me, punishes every attempt to be normal. It gives me fantasies of a better world. It puts thoughts in my head when I’m on the train. I remember how their skin tasted. How they smelled. The moment they let themselves fall. That one moment—I want to live in it forever.
I’m part of a generation drowning in oversaturation, bored with everything after a few minutes, scrolling through my life from one thing to the next. So it makes no sense that I become so utterly dependent on one other person, that every attempt to be cool about it, to say “fuck it” like I do with everything else, just results in me screaming silently to death while going in circles. Sometimes worse—sometimes I don’t even want to escape. I’m just broken in that way.
There’s this ancient rule that governs all of this: the more you want something, the less you get it. The inverse is equally true. The harder I try to remember a face, a name, a moment, the more strangers flood in—a crowd of characters I can’t pin down or rank. But the moment I try to force your face into that crowd and move on, the moment I try to delete you from my head, your ghost follows me everywhere. Every small thing brings you back.
I know I’ll only breathe again when your face is just one among many. Someone I like or don’t like, someone I’m indifferent to. Someone who doesn’t turn me into a psychotic time bomb every time something reminds me of you. I’m working on a solution. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know. Until then I’m leaning hard on the three As—alcohol, distraction, and anal sex—and hoping that someday a rock, a piano, or a car hits me hard enough in the head that I gain superhuman control over my own thoughts. That would be incredible.
Kate Upton became the cat person nobody expected. Genuinely obsessed, not in some curated way—talking about her animals constantly, posting them like she’d forgotten she was famous. There’s something to that, watching someone with her profile just lose it over cats. No angle, no brand strategy, just actual affection for small animals. The weird hobby that makes someone human, strips away the untouchable thing.
May 1st in Berlin is one of those dates everyone tells you about before you experience it — the street parties, the riots, the spray paint, the cops in riot gear, all of it supposedly happening at once in the city center. I went once, wandering into it almost by accident, walking toward what looked like a normal evening and finding myself in the middle of something else entirely. There’s something weirdly energizing about being caught up in that kind of chaos when you’re not looking for it, when you’re just trying to get somewhere and suddenly the whole street is packed with people in black hoodies and the air smells like tear gas and beer. It’s not fun exactly, but it’s alive in a way that nothing else quite is. The whole thing feels like a release valve that the city needs to let off steam once a year, and for one night Berlin just surrenders to the mess of it all.
Cologne in May seemed unlikely to be memorable. Cathedral, carnival, that one TV guy. But Electronic Beats Festival was booking the E-Werk, and the lineup meant something—The Kills, Miike Snow, Austra, Citizens, Hundred in the Hands. Not the obvious moves.
I didn’t end up going. Money, timing, the usual friction. But I remember seeing the announcement and scrolling the lineup and thinking maybe. That halfway moment before something else takes your attention and suddenly the festival’s happening without you and then it’s past.
That era of electronic music had a specific quality. Not the clean, algorithmic thing it became, but something that still seemed like it was discovering itself. The Kills were a mess in the best way. Miike Snow was doing something so exact it should have been cold but wasn’t. A German city suddenly hosting something that Berlin probably resented missing.
It’s all gone now. The scene kept moving, the artists moved on, the festival probably died or transformed into something unrecognizable. But that moment—that curation, that confidence in taste over obvious pulls—I still think about it. The evidence that something good was happening somewhere, and you either caught it or you didn’t.
British Airways wanted another 200 euros on top of the original 700 they quoted me, and I wasn’t going to pay it. Found Aeroflot instead for 500 euros round trip. It felt like a win until I realized the layover was six hours somewhere in Siberia, but I decided it was worth it anyway. The timing shifted too. Forget early September. Late May instead, for five weeks, with an open return ticket in case I decide to stay or need to escape after two weeks. Both feel equally probable.
Sari volunteered to be my guide—she’s one of the new authors here. We’re going to hunt down artists, hit some concerts, photograph people who are already photographing things, eat food that shouldn’t exist. Unless I end up too drunk in a gutter somewhere, which also counts as experiencing the culture, apparently.
Hannah went to Tokyo for three months in 2009 and over the years has drilled advice into me like she’s preparing me for combat. Don’t walk while eating—it’s impolite. The cold soup with raw egg at street stalls is a trap. The yellow egg things at the sushi conveyor taste insane but they’ll destroy your stomach if you go overboard. Never eat anything that looks like sludgy peanut paste, because you will vomit. The milk-flavored soda from the vending machines though, that’s legitimately good.
There’s a beggar at Shibuya Station who targets foreign people, tells elaborate stories, kneels down asking for money. Total performance art. The manga kids—you can’t tell if they’re male or female under all the makeup, they’re visually identical. A few streets over and basically everywhere else are the red light places with big display windows where you pick from the menu before entering. Hannah got thrown out of one—women aren’t allowed. Fruit costs more there than anywhere else, which is bizarre, but that’s Tokyo.
Always step through temple entrances with your left foot first or it’s bad luck. The way people blow their noses is this aggressive snorting thing that sounds horrible, and I’ll definitely do it wrong. Hannah used to laugh at how much people slurp their soup. Buy yourself a Hello Kitty face mask. Nobody speaks English there. They’re too self-conscious about it. You can approach someone in a business suit and they’ll just say “hai hai” and wait for you to release them. They learn reading in school, not speaking. Some of the ones who don’t speak English are incredibly generous and brave about trying to help though. It goes better if you actually try Japanese. They warm up fast. Don’t ride the trains without paying. Don’t hop the barriers. That actually gets you in trouble.
I’ll probably stumble from one social disaster into another anyway. It’s how I operate. Before Japan there’s Prague and Mallorca, but I’ll get to that later. I’m just hoping the landlord and tourism board feel benevolent about my housing, because the backup plan is a roommate situation, and that’s only tolerable if they’re genuinely interesting people. Otherwise it’s just miserable.
She’s the kind of person who knows exactly what you’re thinking when you look at her, and the fact that she doesn’t pretend otherwise is what makes it interesting. There’s something disarming about that — the refusal to play the coy game, to act like she doesn’t understand the currency of her own image. That smile isn’t hiding anything. It’s the confidence of someone who’s been looked at her whole life and decided to do the looking back.
Rita Ora’s “How We Do (Party)” is a 2012 club track that does one thing: gets you moving on a dance floor. It doesn’t pretend to be anything else — just the beat, the hook, repeat. I remember hearing it in bars and clubs back then, the kind of song that was perfectly fine as background to the actual experience of being out. There’s something honest about that.
Towa Tei thinks out loud through his production—acid house meeting Japanese sensibilities, ideas in constant collision, sounds that explain themselves as they unfold. That chattiness goes back to Yellow Magic Orchestra, that sense of having so many sounds and tools that they all need to go into the mix. The wordiness works because it’s not performed. It’s genuine, the actual shape of his thinking made audible.
Cornershop were the band that made it clear you didn’t need to be cool in any traditional sense to make something that sounded good. British-Indian, loud, rambling, unafraid of being goofy or sentimental in the same song. They showed up in the mid-90s Leicester indie scene like they were just figuring it out as they went, which I think they were. “Who’s Gonna Lite Up Your Light” doesn’t try to be clever—it’s a love song that sounds like they genuinely didn’t know if anyone would care, but they were going to play it anyway. That’s the whole thing right there. They weren’t performing indie credibility; they were just making music in a room and letting whatever happened happen. That kind of carelessness is rarer than it should be.
On gray weekdays I used to sit by the window watching a pigeon that had claimed the tree outside, and I’d think about when I was actually happy. Not the big moments—not winning a Nintendo, not the day I got accepted to move to Berlin, not the first time anything sexual happened. No. The real happiness was somewhere else entirely.
In my first apartment we had a spare room where my toys lived. Stupid movie posters on the wall, but what mattered was the wooden box by the door. I’d gotten it for a birthday years back. That box was my entire life. My whole life compressed into one thing.
And by my whole life, I mean LEGO. Just LEGO. When I had time—which was most of the time—I’d spend entire days in that room with soundtracks playing, sometimes a radio show, occasionally getting dragged outside by friends to play whatever it was we played. But then back to my LEGO planet.
I had so much of it. Every Christmas, every birthday, one thing mattered: another box of new pieces. This was before the branded stuff, before Harry Potter and Star Wars colonized everything. Back then it was just “City” or “Aliens” or submarines—these ridiculous massive yellow submarines—or pirates. Just plastic.
I never followed the instructions like a normal kid. I built civilizations. Entire worlds with cities and massive spaceships, a gold volcano in the middle somewhere, secret headquarters scattered all over. Restaurants and bedrooms and prisons and laboratories and rooms that shouldn’t exist. The figures weren’t random—they had names, jobs, relationships, families, politics, wars. I created complete societies with economies and enemies and social structures. Even the Mighty Max and Polly Pocket stuff somehow ended up part of this dense urban fantasy I kept expanding.
Then I got interested in actual breasts instead of plastic bricks, and my parents sold the whole collection on eBay for almost nothing. I had Nintendo, I had the internet, I had a girlfriend. That was supposed to be enough. LEGO was kid stuff.
But now I’m surrounded by people who can’t let go of their childhood—they’ll take any excuse to bring back pixels and vinyl and Pokemon, hanging onto anything that reminds them they used to be young. And I feel the absence of what I sold. Those long nights building something that only existed because I decided it should. I miss that more than I wanted to admit.
What would be perfect is a place for people like me. A loft somewhere, LEGO scattered everywhere, just show up and spend a few hours building something stupid and elaborate together. It would be creative. It would be healthy. But that’s a fantasy. Instead I’m here thinking about a wooden box I don’t have anymore, wishing I’d never let it go.
The thing that got me was watching everyone else go. People with half my reasons, half my want, all of them making it to Tokyo before me. I’ve been wanting to go there for twenty years, maybe longer. This place I fell in love with through music and images and the way it looked in films. Somehow I’m still here while half the internet posts photos like they were just visiting a friend.
So yesterday I booked it. Early September, one month, because I couldn’t keep waiting for whatever excuse I was manufacturing. A PR invite. A reason. Something to make it feel earned instead of just mine.
The plan is basic: spend a few weeks in Tokyo learning which trains I’m allowed on, then drift out toward Kyoto and the coast, maybe Fukushima. I wanted to go to Fukushima for years just because it seemed forbidden and cool. The radiation thing isn’t funny in the way people want it to be, so I’ll skip it. The point is moving through a place I’ve loved from a distance, checking if the real thing matches what I built in my head.
If it is — if I don’t come back destroyed because Japan is a beautiful nightmare and I’ve wasted my emotional energy on it — I’m going back next spring for longer. The working holiday visa gives you a year, but only if you’re under thirty. I’m running out of time, which is its own kind of panic, but it means I need to know if this is real before I commit.
I know how I’ll look walking around. Lost. Obvious. Some guy with a camera taking pictures of things that probably don’t need pictures. I’ll probably get on the wrong train. But at least I’ll finally be there, after all this time.
If you know Tokyo, let me know. If you don’t, that’s fine. Just be a little happy for me.
When Grimes hits, it’s usually sideways. She’s never made anything that feels designed for radio or playlists—the songs arrive already weird, already hers, like she’s building for an audience that doesn’t exist yet and probably wouldn’t want to exist the way she imagines it. There’s something admirable about that refusal to soften anything. Art that doesn’t apologize for being difficult or strange or structurally odd.
The fact that she’s become as visible as she has, making exactly what she wants, feels almost accidental. Like she just kept building and suddenly there were thousands of people listening to something nobody asked for. Most artists either compromise or disappear. She’s somehow done neither.
Iris is 25, from Hamburg. She went to art school in London, worked at VICE in Berlin, and three years ago was planning to move to Morocco. She’s still in Paris, which tells you something about how seriously she takes plans.
The band with Arthur is called Super Secret Lovers. She writes the music and sings—the live version is physical, demanding, the opposite of someone going through motions. When she needs money, she works as a designer for L’Officiel. Otherwise she travels, which seems like the actual job.
There’s a story about sunbathing topless with Arthur in a Paris garden. The neighbors, Muslim and unimpressed, nearly lost it. Most people learn something from a near-lynching about respecting local norms. Iris seems to have learned that people’s expectations are their problem, not hers.
The restlessness isn’t for show. She’s not building a brand or documenting adventures. She just doesn’t stay still. Hamburg, London, Berlin, Paris, the next place—they’re not on an itinerary, just where she’s been. The difference between someone with a travel blog and someone who actually can’t sit still is pretty obvious once you see it.
The first time I heard Rudimental properly was in someone’s car, and the bass hit different than anything else coming out of the UK at that moment. Not aggressive, not trying to prove anything—just clean, lush, built for people to feel something other than the need to defend their taste in music.
They came up as drum and bass did a slow turn toward the human. The genre had spent years in the underground, fast and technical and deliberately hostile to casual listening. Rudimental made it gorgeous. “Feel The Love” was their statement: we can do this, and we can do it with real singers, real hooks, real emotion, without losing what made us fall in love with the sound in the first place.
What gets me about that album is how unafraid they were of melody. The tracks don’t feel like concessions to pop radio—they feel like a group of producers who understood that beauty and speed aren’t enemies. They could make something that belonged in a stadium and still have the intricate, restless energy of underground music underneath it all.
There’s a generosity to their approach that matters. They brought in singers and rappers, they collaborated, they weren’t guarding some pure thing. They just wanted to make records that moved people. That’s harder than it sounds, because you have to believe in what you’re making enough to be sincere about it, and sincerity in electronic music can look like trying too hard. They never looked like that.
I come back to this album sometimes and it still feels like a conversation between two things that shouldn’t work together but do. Fast and slow. Technical and emotional. Underground and accessible. That balance is harder to hit than it looks, and they made it seem inevitable.
Three cities, really. Munich if you want to pretend to be rich. Hamburg if you’re fine with pretending. Berlin if you’re done with the pretense and want to see what happens. Everything else is compromise.
You have to be a certain kind of person for Berlin. Not cautious. Not soft. Not someone who needs things to make sense. Young helps. A little wrecked helps. A real tolerance for chaos and failure and people who mean nothing when they talk. If you’re that person, Berlin’s right. If you’re someone who gravitates toward cheap drugs and bad music and friends who’d turn on you in a second, Berlin’s not a city, it’s the place where that thrives and eats you alive.
The actual Berlin doesn’t hide anything. Your failures are visible. Your wins are too. The beautiful parts—the light in the morning, the galleries in basements, the places that should fail but keep going—they’re only beautiful because the decay’s right there beside them. Nothing’s been polished into a lie.
So you go. Or you don’t. Most people don’t, and they’re right. But if you’re the type who looks at Berlin and thinks yes, you’re already half gone.
You knew Mishka without anyone having to explain it. While everyone chased Supreme and the obvious names, there was this label quietly making graphics and pieces that just landed right, collaborations from someone who understood design and culture and didn’t need to explain any of it. That’s the whole thing. A brand that knew what mattered and stopped there.
There’s something about how she films desire from the inside—not looking at it, living in it. The black-and-white footage, the dust, the feeling that everything beautiful is already halfway to ruins. You watch and it’s like looking at a life you know you’re not supposed to want, one where the payoff never comes but the wanting never stops either.
I keep coming back to the simplicity of it. No plot, just a woman moving through a world that’s both romantic and completely hollow. The kind of thing that sticks because it understands something true: that sometimes the image is all there is, and that’s enough. That’s everything.
It’s the opposite of earnest. It’s knowledge without hope, beauty without comfort. I find I need that sometimes—something that won’t try to redeem itself.
One morning I wake up like I’m coming out of a nightmare, and I can’t stand it anymore. All those days exactly the same. Eight to five at the bank, selling retirement plans to divorced women with four kids. Every night making promises, swearing I only love them, before I come on their face. And I don’t want a divorce or four kids of my own. I don’t want to become the story everyone tells about themselves when they’re thirty-five and bitter. One morning I just can’t do it anymore.
That’s when it hits me. I’m living in a world where I can theoretically do and leave whatever I want. There are rules—things about the survival of the species or whatever—but otherwise nothing’s stopping me. I’m actually free.
From films and books and theater I know what’s out there. The world’s full of things worth seeing. You fall in love with a Sherpa in the Himalayas. You swim with dolphins in Hawaii. You stand on Uluru and stare up at the stars and suddenly think you understand something about being alive. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway. These aren’t fantasies. They happen to people. Why not me?
Most of what keeps me trapped isn’t real anyway. The relationship I hate? I could leave tomorrow. The job? Hand in my notice. The city I’ve resented for years? Get on a plane. It’s habit. It’s laziness. It’s fear—fear I’ll become like all those people on TV who blow their savings on a curry stand in the Philippines and realize halfway through that there’s an actual economy there. Fear I’ll be even more alone than I already am. Fear I’ll lose what I’ve already built, whatever that is.
But this doesn’t mean blowing up my whole life. I mean looking past my own little universe and remembering it’s just one of many. Do something different once and it breaks the hold. Habit, laziness, fear—they lose their grip.
I could book a flight to Stockholm right now. Pull the trigger. The ticket’s cheap, the risk is low. It would be the first real step. But I don’t. I sit here in front of this screen twenty hours a day, tweeting about nothing, watching other people’s shows, jacking off to porn, getting fat and slow and useless, and I can feel myself disappearing into this fake world that shouldn’t even exist. I could get on a plane but instead I’m here. Where I’ve always been.
What am I afraid of? That when I’m dying, my life flashes before my eyes and all I see are bad tweets, stolen TV shows, Russian porn. That I wasted the whole thing. That I’ll regret not taking the leap, and that regret will be the last thing I know.
I know all this. I see it clearly. I understand the contradiction—the freedom and the paralysis existing at the same moment. And I still don’t move. Maybe that’s not a problem to solve but just something to skip past. Maybe the only mistake is looking for an answer when I should just be getting on the plane.
There’s something about the precision in a good drum and bass track, the way every element sits just right so nothing gets wasted. DJ Fresh had that—a sense of arrangement that made things like “Gold Dust” land heavy without needing to shout about it. He wasn’t trying to be deep or experimental, just genuinely good at his craft, which is maybe the most underrated thing in music. You put on one of his tracks and it works immediately, pulls you in, makes you understand why this sound mattered to so many people. Not transcendent, just satisfying in a way that’s harder to achieve than it looks.
By the time YouPorn and RedTube became household names, the internet had already revealed itself for what it was: an endless archive of people fucking in every configuration imaginable. Two people, seven people, alone, with household objects, with animals, at all hours. Girls who barely looked old enough to care.
Is Anyone Up was the apex of a generation that figured out sex before they figured out anything else. For just over a year, drunk exes and angry lovers and narcissists kept uploading naked photos to this guy Hunter Moore, who collected them all—sorted them, categorized them, sometimes added crude captions and GIFs. Hundreds of people got posted without consent. The hot ones got thousands of horny comments. The ugly ones got labeled “Daily Gargoyle” and mocked. Bands sent in photos of groupies labeled “Today’s Band Whore” with tallies of which members they’d slept with. The more names, the bigger the “prize”—a certificate and public humiliation.
I got why it worked. It was a loyalty machine. People didn’t just visit; they contributed. They got tattooed with inside jokes. They bought merchandise. They defended it viciously in the corners of the internet where they lived. The community felt bulletproof. Hunter got death threats every day—angry fathers, lawyers, girls begging to have their photos taken down—and he posted the threats on the site itself, like proof of his untouchability. In Germany this would’ve meant prison time for revenge porn and a dozen other violations. In America it just meant clicks and engagement.
I emailed with Hunter a few times about this. About why people kept coming back. About the machinery of reputation and fear and attention that made something like this stick. What made a community loyal to something explicitly designed to hurt people. The formula was simple and it worked perfectly.
Then one day it didn’t. Not because of a lawsuit or legislation, but because Hunter just shut it down. He said he’d gotten tired of forwarding pictures of minors to the cops. Said he’d met the founder of a site called BullyVille that helped victims of online harassment, and it changed his perspective. Said he realized he could use his programming skills for something less poisonous. So he took the site offline and pointed the domain to BullyVille instead.
I’m not sure if I believe the conversion narrative. But I am curious about what it means that even Hunter Moore eventually felt the weight of what he’d built. That the machine he’d engineered so carefully to keep people hooked—the loyalty, the spectacle, the fear—eventually started grinding him down instead.
For everyone who had their life turned inside out on that site, the shutdown was overdue. For me, it was the end of watching a fairly pure distillation of how the internet actually works: take something people want badly enough, add shame and community and the promise of anonymity, and watch them build the prison themselves. We all knew it would crash eventually. I just thought it would take longer.
There’s a specific kind of exhaustion that comes with listening to Liars, the good kind where your nervous system feels like it’s been wrung out and left in the sun. No. 1 Against the Rush is them at their most abrasive and least interested in being likable — Angus Andrew’s voice cracking over those fractured guitars, everything slightly out of sync on purpose. I found myself going back to it around the time I was trying to figure out what noise actually meant to me, not as a concept but as something I wanted to hear. There’s something cleanly refusal about this record, like they’re not explaining themselves or smoothing edges for anyone. You either get it or you don’t, and honestly they seem to not care which.
I put on Scissor Sisters when I need to stop thinking and start feeling things at full volume. Jake Shears doesn’t care if you’re listening, the production is designed to surround you, and there’s no room in it for half-measures. It’s the opposite of every other kind of music I listen to — it asks nothing except that you surrender completely.
Weeks disappear. You look up and it’s Friday again, feet swollen from standing, same four walls, same exhaustion. So you need something. A plan.
Walk into Burger King and order a Whopper with a thousand slices of bacon. Write your suicide note first, just to see how the despair changes the flavor. Then find one specific friend in your group and ignore them completely until they crack. Make them paranoid. Drive them to a tarot reader. Stop right before they start calling hostage negotiators.
Tell your parents where babies come from. Buy a random plane ticket for the next available flight and don’t come back for ten years. If it lands in Düsseldorf, congratulations, God hates you specifically. Eat meat until your hands smell like iron. Run around on all fours making monkey noises, claim you’re a new species. Nobody stops you when you’re this committed to something, no matter how dumb.
Buy sunglasses in bulk until you’re barely recognizable — the math is simple, fewer friends means more shades, each one another layer of mystery. Name every pimple on your body. When you run out of names, you know you’ve lost. Play Power Rangers and skip straight to the giant robot scene.
And then some night, when nothing’s marked on the calendar, paint your genitals with glow-in-the-dark paint and let them figure it out mid-sex.
Lain edits Amateur magazine in Switzerland, though he’s rarely there—he travels constantly, moving through cities, finding artists and scenes and bringing them back to print. The magazine documents street culture globally, not as trend coverage but as genuine reportage from people making work outside institutional structures.
His observation about contemporary culture being fundamentally a mash-up isn’t particularly novel, but the way he works with it is. Everything references everything else now. Street artists pull from graffiti and advertising and fine art and music and whatever’s on the street, and someone else builds on that, and the culture develops through these layers of reference and recombination.
Most writing about culture serves either commercial interests or validates people already in the scene. Lain’s different. He’s documenting the process as it actually happens in different parts of the world, building a network of artists mostly isolated from each other, connecting them through the magazine without extracting value or positioning it for an outside audience. He’s just making space for the work to be seen.
Street culture has always been about taking what’s around you and making it new. But it’s never been this networked, traveling this fast across geography. The recombinations get richer because more people participate without ever meeting. That’s what Lain is tracking.
Coachella’s one of those things that works on a level you can’t quite explain — the music, sure, but also the specific desert heat, the parade of clothes and bodies you’ll never see the same way again, the sense that something’s supposed to happen because everyone arrived expecting it to. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway. And when it’s actually good, when the music lands right and the night’s perfect, you remember why humans keep doing this to themselves.
Mavi, a German jeans company, decided to host a free-clothes event in Berlin with one condition: you could take home as much as you could carry in your mouth. Your actual mouth.
I’ve been thinking about the logistics of this. Someone showed up and tried to fit a pair of jeans between their teeth. Multiple people did this. Someone trained for it. There’s definitely a video somewhere of someone’s jaw opening impossibly wide to grip a tank top. I haven’t watched it, but it exists.
What gets me is how straightforward Mavi was about the whole thing. No narrative about self-expression or community or celebrating yourself. Just: bring your mouth, leave with clothes. That’s the deal. Humiliate yourself on camera for some basics that cost five euros secondhand, and we’ll both get what we want.
Marketing used to try to convince you of something, sell you a version of yourself, make you believe you’d become someone better if you bought the right jeans. Now it’s simpler than that. Brands just acknowledge what’s happening: you want free shit, we want attention, let’s both do something ridiculous and call it a day.
I’ll never buy Mavi jeans. But I have to admit there’s something kind of refreshing about the nakedness of it. No false intimacy. No pretending. Just mutual transaction and everyone knowing exactly what’s going on.
Vacation photos are always framed as casual—just bikini shots, just a beach, just downtime. But nothing’s casual when you’re that famous. The edit, the angle, the choice to share it: that’s work.
Rihanna knows it. Real vacation, where you’re genuinely unremarkable and unbothered, probably stopped being real for her long ago. Now it’s just content that happens to be her body on a beach.
Sébastien Tellier made something with that title and I keep coming back to it, not because I fully understand what I’m hearing but because there’s something in it that feels deliberate and strange, like he knew exactly how absurd the project was and committed anyway. That’s the thing about Tellier—he’s always been willing to follow an idea to a place that makes no commercial sense, which is maybe why most people don’t know his work at all, and why the people who do care about it obsessively. The title itself is a joke, or maybe it isn’t, and that ambiguity is probably the whole point.
I went to Prague once, on a school trip in 2005. Someone handed me burning absinth and I drank it because everyone was laughing. I remember the noise more than anything — the city felt loud and warm and slightly dangerous, the way cities do when you’re young. There was this girl Hannah who danced with two guys at the same time in what was supposedly Europe’s biggest club. I believed it. Still don’t know if it was true.
The Electronic Beats Festival is there on May 5th. Grimes is playing. Mike Skinner, The Whitest Boy Alive, Woodkid — people I actually want to see. So I’m going back to Prague.
You go somewhere once and it stays in your head as a feeling, not a place. Seven years later you think maybe you can go back and get that feeling again, or at least understand what it was. The streets will be the same and different. Grimes will be somewhere in the city, I’ll be somewhere else, and that’s probably how it should be. At least there’s a reason to go now besides young nostalgia and burning absinth.
What strikes me about Amanda Lepore is how she’s stayed exactly the same while everything around her changed. The makeup, the nightclubs, the whole vision of who she is—she committed to it and never wavered. You watch enough nightlife and you see everyone constantly adjusting themselves, chasing trends, trying out new identities. But she just stayed put. That kind of constancy looks almost defiant from where I’m sitting, like she understood something about authenticity that everyone else is still figuring out.
The Flaming Lips have always been too much in the best way—Wayne Coyne’s voice pitched somewhere between a child and a ghost, the band building cathedrals out of noise and synth wash and pure earnestness. There’s something almost naive about how committed they are to the weird, the experimental, the unapologetically sentimental underneath all the digital glitch and orchestral bloat. You could write them off as novelty, the guy in the giant bubble performing live, the costumes and the props, but that misses what actually matters: they mean every second of it. No irony, no protective distance. Just four guys from Oklahoma making music that sounds like nothing else because they don’t know any better and don’t care to learn. There’s courage in that kind of unguarded strangeness.
The weekend shows up and I’m staring at some files my boss handed me with that theatrical urgency you learn to ignore. Highest priority. Right. I know it’ll wait. I know I’ll either get to it or I won’t. So instead I’m thinking about random things, like the time I painted my dog and threw him out a window with a parachute. Completely absurd. But that’s how avoidance works—you replace one pointless task with another, weirder one. And if I’m going to waste time anyway, I might as well be thorough about it.
I could wait for frozen piss from an airplane to kill me. It’s the dumbest possible way to go out—I can’t even imagine a worse death. Or just stand somewhere and embrace a vending machine like it’s human. If nobody else is going to hold me, at least this dispenses something cold. Embed as many YouTube videos as possible on this website until it breaks. Completely illegal. Doesn’t matter. Join a cult and try to blow it up from inside. If I somehow pull it off, I deserve a medal. If I fail, at least I’ll be happy and broke.
The weekend stretches. I could eat ground meat ice cream until I’m sick. Just keep eating, no threshold, no good reason to stop. Walk barefoot all weekend—nails, glass, dog shit, whatever. Don’t wash it off. Don’t pick anything out. Spend hours thinking about someone I’ll never have. Their face, their voice, the pointless fantasy of it. Let a skateboard take my virginity somehow. I don’t know how that works logistically, but it’s probably still better than most people.
Document every toilet I use all weekend. Public restrooms, private bathrooms, doesn’t matter. Just photograph them and call it a blog. I’d actually read that. Or figure out how to make someone come using only a feather, mayonnaise, and baking paper. Three stupid objects, nothing else. If I can’t manage it, I’m not ready to be inside anyone.
That’s my actual weekend. That’s what I’m going to do while the files wait.
Kimbra’s music feels like combat — not physical aggression, but genuine conflict. She shifts genres like she’s switching weapons, stacks her voice until it’s arguing with itself, treats melody like it’s something to break and rebuild. There’s a refusal in it, a determination not to slip into whatever would make her successful in an easy way. The skill is obviously there; she just chooses not to use it for comfort.
Femen stripped down and made it impossible to ignore. The Ukrainian activist group showed up topless at government buildings and military sites with their message written across bare skin. It’s crude and smart — the body becomes the medium, exposure becomes the tactic. Whether it shifts actual policy is debatable, but the conversation itself becomes one you can’t reframe or dismiss.
There was a Jägermeister tour thing happening in Berlin, which mostly meant a crowded bar and free drinks. Loftus Hall was so packed that nobody could sit down—we were eating standing up, which isn’t really eating so much as grabbing food while people pushed past you, but the food was good so it mattered more than you’d expect.
The bands came on at some point: Tek-One, Dumme Jungs, Eskimo Callboy, not necessarily in that order. By then I’d already had enough Jägermeister that the set list wasn’t making much impression on me. I drink it like water, which is the kind of thing people always doubt until they see you do it, and that night I was doing it. The place was loud and jumping and everyone was having the particular kind of fun you only have when someone else is paying.
I remember standing at a foosball table at some point, laughing at nothing in particular. There was a woman from the agency who kept appearing at exactly the right moment to pull me out of whatever I was getting into, which sounds dramatic but I’m pretty sure I needed it. More than once.
The night had that quality where everything feels perfect while it’s happening—the crowd, the noise, the steady stream of free drinks—and then you wake up the next day trying to piece together what actually happened. All that’s left is the feeling of it and maybe two clear images, plus the distinct knowledge that you had a good time even though the details are gone.
Back when we started all this, the deal was simple: we make what we want, nobody tells us no, we keep the money. No corporate hand in it, no brand manager calling from some office saying we need more of whatever was trending. You have an idea, you build it, you’re done. That was freedom.
We ended up with three projects we actually care about. They work because they’re completely independent — no overlords, no committees, no algorithm deciding what’s next. But running them, I started noticing something: the media that lasts always has a center. MTV had Viacom. Newspapers have their publishers. There’s always some architecture holding it together, even if you’re trying to stay small.
So we built our own. Called it NEUE ELITE, which is a name I hate but naming things is impossible and we had other work to do. The idea’s straightforward: these three projects are ours, and now they operate as one system instead of three separate things pretending they’re not connected.
It sounds like corporate jargon. Maybe it is. But here’s what changes: we have an idea, we build it. No one to ask. No budget meetings, no six months of committee decisions, no waiting for permission from someone who doesn’t even understand what we’re trying to do. Just the three of us deciding what happens next, every time.
I don’t know if that’s world domination, but it feels like we figured something out. How to stay independent while having the infrastructure to actually do things. Most people have to choose one or the other — you’re either free and broke or you’ve got money but someone else is calling the shots. We somehow managed both.
And we’re still going for the cheesecake thing. That’s the real goal, obviously.
I got pulled back into School of Seven Bells not long ago and remembered how their music works on you—this pillowed, textured thing that doesn’t demand attention but quietly settles in. Reappear is exactly that. Lush production, the kind of digital-and-organic blend that feels designed in some dream studio. It’s good to have them back.
I could start completely fresh every day if I wanted to. Just leave. Drop everything I’ve built, everyone I’ve promised things to. Drain my bank account, fly somewhere nobody knows my name. Set down my suitcase on ground that’s never seen me before. Turn off the music. Scream it out clear and loud: Hello world. But I never actually do it.
The fantasy sits there sometimes, bright and available. The freedom is always there—I’m not actually trapped. I could become someone else entirely, erase everything, start from scratch as a different person. There’s something almost beautiful about knowing that. Knowing I could leave tomorrow if I really wanted to.
But I won’t. I know it won’t fix anything, and by now there’s too much keeping me here anyway. Too many people, too many small obligations that piled up so gradually I stopped noticing. Too much weight to everything I’ve already built. So I stay. Same person. Same face in the mirror. Same worn conversations. The fantasy stays sharp and available in my head—something I could reach for anytime I want. But I never do. I turn the volume back up and keep walking.
American Apparel felt like the last gasp of something—a brand that actually believed in its own provocation. The ads were relentless and stupid and sometimes brilliant, all tits and thighs and desperation, this weird collision of genuine design sensibility (those basics were actually good) and Dov Charney’s inability to keep his hands off anything. It worked for a moment. Everyone knew those ads. They were embarrassing and you couldn’t look away.
Then the lawsuits came, and the bankruptcy, and eventually the quiet realization that being shocking for shock’s sake doesn’t build a business—it just gets you sued and hated. The brand limped through several owners, each one trying to sand down what made it distinctive. By the end it was just another basic apparel company with a dead brand name. The morning after the party, when you realize the guy throwing it is actually horrible.
Feist’s voice has this particular quality—not quite a break, but a hesitation, like she’s deciding whether to let the note all the way out. Years ago when The Reminder was everywhere, everyone else was piling on layers, but she just kept stripping things down, leaving space. There’s something bittersweet about going back to that record now, realizing you don’t need it the way you once did, but you can still hear exactly why you did. That intimacy she managed—the feeling that she was singing something private but letting you stand right there with her—that doesn’t fade.
Easter trapped me at home. Nothing open, family everywhere, sister won’t leave me alone. The kind of day where you’d normally escape but instead you’re just sitting there watching time die. So I made a stupid list of things to do.
First: if you’ve got work due next week, actually do it. Stop scrolling, put the phone away, set a deadline and work. It’s the most obvious advice until you’re actually this bored, and then everyone’s picking up their phone every thirty seconds. Just sit down and finish it.
Send someone a message who’s having a worse day than you. Doesn’t need to be profound, doesn’t need to be long. Just say you’re thinking about them. It helps.
Stop posting the reflexive horny stuff, the performance of taste, the recycled jokes. Buy ice cream instead. Your brain will thank you.
Actually spend time with what you find attractive. Micaela Schäfer, whoever gets you off. Look at it properly instead of scrolling past. Stop pretending you’re above having desires—just be honest about it.
Watch Lana Del Rey’s music videos and pay attention to how she moves. There’s something about the way she inhabits a scene that makes boredom look interesting.
Give your friends terrible nicknames and use them everywhere. At work, in front of their parents, when they’re trying to impress someone. It breaks the agreement that we all take ourselves seriously.
Follow a cat around your neighborhood for a day. Just follow it. Where does it go? What does it actually do when nobody’s watching? There’s more drama in that than in most things worth paying attention to.
Try to understand what other people actually want. Not what they say they want—what they’re constantly thinking about, what they keep going back to. Genuine curiosity about how someone else thinks is better than any social feed.
Call someone you haven’t talked to in years. Tell them what’s been happening, complain about stupid stuff, ask them for something you know they can’t give you. There’s honesty in that kind of conversation.
Wear something ridiculous. Give yourself permission to be actually weird. Throw eggs at annoying kids if you want. Do things that don’t make sense to anyone but you.
I wasn’t really paying attention to Beyoncé and Jay-Z before. What they did in their free time, their work—didn’t matter much to me. They have more money than most countries. That was all the information I needed. Then she started a Tumblr with private photos, and suddenly there was something to actually look at. Proof of how the incredibly wealthy spend their time. So I looked.
There are colored tunnels she runs through just because. Melons that cost more than your rent. Sand facials because she felt like it. Photos of the kind of life where you don’t have to justify anything because the money never stops. Each image is another small proof: I can afford this, and I don’t need a reason.
I’m not jealous. I keep telling myself that. My time’s coming too, probably. I’ll get there and fill my own Tumblr with stupid expensive shit. Or that’s the idea anyway. For now I’m scrolling through someone else’s evidence, collecting notes for a future I’ll never actually have but can’t stop imagining.
Rae Morris has this voice that doesn’t try to convince you of anything—it just lays out what’s true. “Don’t Go” is the kind of song you come back to knowing it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway, hoping it somehow might. There’s resignation in it, but not sadness. She sounds like someone who’s made peace with the fact that some people leave no matter what you do.
Regina Spektor’s voice is wrong on purpose—Russian whispers and English monotone, melodies that barely hold together. ’All the Rowboats’ doesn’t try to be likable or pretty. The songs sprawl into weird shapes that shouldn’t work, but they do because she commits to the strangeness, sings like she’s not sure about any of it, lets that uncertainty be the song. Late at night I keep putting it on, not for comfort but for something that doesn’t pretend everything’s fine.
Grimes showed up when electronic music was getting soft. Her work was abrasive, sometimes difficult to listen to, and she didn’t care. The videos weren’t designed to make you comfortable or like her. That refusal to play nice meant something, even when the songs themselves didn’t grab me.
Kreuzberg in the 2010s was where Berlin’s underground lived—small fashion labels working out of courtyards, parties at night, music that didn’t care about the mainstream. It was the neighborhood where actual culture happened, before the city gentrified it into something safe and expensive. That specific energy, the sense that something real was going on there, that’s what made it matter.
German hip-hop spent years learning from America, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But there’s a difference between learning and copying, and for a long time it was hard to tell the difference. The beats sounded borrowed, the flows like patterns learned from records, the whole thing missing something that felt native.
Marteria’s part of a generation that stopped waiting for permission. He’s from Rostock, working with Casper, Peter Fox, Miss Platnum—artists who’ve actually thought about what German could do in rap instead of just translating American rhythms. His recent album got real recognition. Jan Delay, who knows this music inside out, called it among the best German hip-hop records in recent years.
What registers when you listen is the precision. The production doesn’t bury him or try to save him with polish. It gives him space. The rhythmic sense sounds earned instead of borrowed, like someone who’s thought carefully about what German sounds like over a beat.
You can feel it in how he works with other artists too. It’s not just guest appearances and features. It’s collaboration with people thinking about the same problems. That’s what a scene sounds like when it’s actually talking to itself instead of waiting for approval from somewhere else.
There’s something about a woman at the edge of a pool at a certain angle of light—that specific moment before anything happens. Paz in that scene has this look that’s neither performing for the camera nor pretending not to be watched. Just exists there, suspended, which is probably the hardest thing to do on screen. The pool itself becomes less important than the fact that she’s comfortable enough to sit still in front of it.
You end up in a room full of strangers at midnight, and two hours later you’ve had the kind of conversation that feels like it matters. It probably doesn’t, but for those two hours it does. That’s what these events are.
They’re running the Jägermeister tour again in March—Hamburg, Berlin, Dresden. Same formula every time. Bands, a bar, enough liqueur to keep things loose. I’ve been to a few over the years. The lineups change, the cities rotate, but the actual event never varies: a room where people go to get drunk and talk to people they just met. It’s the kind of honesty you don’t see much anymore, the kind of event that doesn’t pretend to be anything except an excuse.
You show up, the shots start, and by hour two you’ve stopped asking if any of this is worth your time and just surrender. Sometimes the conversations from that night last. Usually they’re gone by morning. You remember a name, maybe a laugh, and that’s it. It’s not cynical, exactly—it’s just what it is. A moment that’s real while it’s happening and then evaporates.
The Berlin date’s late March. They’ve got decent bands if you care about that. But you wouldn’t go for them. You go because you want to be in a room where the usual social architecture doesn’t apply, where you can talk to a stranger for three hours without it meaning anything except that you were both there. That’s rare enough to be worth showing up for.
I’d been struggling with two competing instincts for a while now. Part of me loved the work of sitting with something for weeks—the careful writing, the photography, the visual projects that demanded real attention. But I also couldn’t turn away from what was happening in real time: a new song that mattered, a moment worth catching, the news that moves fast. These two impulses operate at completely different speeds. Trying to hold both in the same place felt like being pulled in two directions at once. There was no form that could hold them.
For a stretch there, nothing happened. Not because I had nothing to say, but because I’d hit a wall with how to say it. The fast stuff didn’t belong here. The slow, careful work doesn’t sit right next to the daily chase. Every time I wanted to write something quick, I felt like I was interrupting. And when I wanted to sit with something properly, I felt like I was ignoring what was happening outside. The compromise got too loud.
So I spent a few weeks putting something together. Found a team I actually wanted to work with and built THE INVADER—a space for the fast thing. The quick takes, the videos, the music, the news, whatever moves now. All the stuff that felt wrong in this notebook. But we kept the care in it. Years of knowing what works, understanding the difference between moving quickly and moving carelessly.
This place gets to slow down now. The long pieces, the photographs, the projects that need weeks to breathe. No compromise about what speed they operate at.
I don’t know what either becomes. But I needed this—the permission to work at two speeds without one sabotaging the other. There’s something like relief in that.
Dieter, the Russian mailman, showed up with two packages one afternoon. Two massive plastic flashlights, except they weren’t flashlights. One black, one pearlescent white. A gift from Brian, no explanation attached—probably the right move.
I opened them and found two rubber vaginas. Genuinely excited.
Each one was shaped differently. One looked like Ariel Vortex’s anatomy. I looked it up. The other was wider with bigger lips and called itself “Build Your Own Texture.” Customizable. LEGO for adults. I liked that.
That night I prepared. Dinner: mussels in white wine cream over arugula, fresh olives, Pinot Grigio. Candles. Lights off. Grabbed Ariel’s soft, warm, wet silicone. Fap, fap, fap. Three minutes. Done.
Efficient.
Because normal masturbation eats time. On bad days you’re an hour in, cycling through terrible pornography, checking email, ordering pizza, all for thirty seconds of nothing and a stupid expression. Time you could spend elsewhere. Languages. Actual relationships. Anything.
These cost around thirty-five euros—more if you want the weird variants. Zombies, aliens, that kind of thing. They feel almost real. They rinse clean with water. Three minutes instead of an hour slouching through the internet.
The downside: you look absolutely ridiculous doing it—like you’re fucking a puffy hand vacuum. Close your curtains.
I still think about the Gorillaz and De La Soul collaboration from 2011, the way it landed without warning in that pre-algorithm moment when things could just exist online and you’d find them by accident. De La Soul’s production, Gorillaz at their loosest—it felt like watching people who actually liked each other make something in a room. No stakes, no press cycle, just the song itself. I played it so many times that year I wore a groove into it, which sounds like bullshit but it’s true: certain songs get old in your hand. This one never did. Later versions with ScHoolboy Q kept the vibe alive but added something heavier, more complicated. The original though—that’s still the one that hits, that particular collision of everything working without trying to work.
Mishka’s the brand that never got polished. Grotesque characters, angry type, graphics made to provoke. Most streetwear eventually decides to be beautiful or at least likeable. Mishka just stayed the same for twenty years — ugly and indifferent to your approval. That’s the rare move.
Good songs are like sex. Some come with such heat and force that I can’t resist them—I’m caught in the rush for hours, dizzy with it, until suddenly it’s over. They’re gone and they don’t come back.
Others are slower. I might not even notice them at first, might forget them for years, but they’re always there. And when I find them again, when the moment’s right, there’s no word that explains what happens. The relief. The happiness. The hurt underneath.
Two out of five Germans were genuinely afraid of Facebook, according to a poll they commissioned. The fear was worse among people with lower education, though about 20 percent of those had no idea what Facebook was in the first place.
A market researcher was surprised by the numbers. He’d expected educated people to be more skeptical, but it turned out the opposite—teenagers and college students used it without hesitation. Everyone was already on it, and once your entire friend group is communicating through groups and messages and walls, you can’t really opt out. You’re basically forced to be there.
The list of things to worry about was endless and also kind of ridiculous. Your boss seeing photos from a party where you’re making out with someone. Some creep downloading pictures from your vacation. Personalized ads following you around forever, trying to sell you Hello Kitty vacuum cleaners. All theoretically possible. Maybe even likely.
I used Facebook constantly. Every day, constantly. Phone and computer, home and out. I was basically never logged out, even when I wasn’t actively using it. I worked in a field where not being on Facebook meant you didn’t really exist. But I also had the luxury of not caring much if people were monitoring me. My job wouldn’t suffer because of party photos. I wasn’t a young woman worrying about harassment or someone young enough that this could wreck their future. And if someone tried to sell me a Hello Kitty vacuum, honestly, I’d be curious.
The thing nobody can really calculate is the cost of all this visibility, this documentation, this permanent residence in one system. Nobody knows. I don’t know, and I won’t for a long time, maybe ever.
I’ve always believed in fighting noise with noise—feed the system enough random information and garbage and meaningless details that it drowns out anything worth actually protecting. Let them try to profile you based on that. Keep the real secrets. It’s a defense if you can afford it, and I could.
The platform was powerful, obviously. As powerful as the people running it and using it let it be. The smart thing would be to know what could go wrong, engage with it thoughtfully and with intention. That’s probably right. But by then it was already inevitable anyway.
The Shins have always felt like they’re trying to prove something, all that careful arrangement and winking references, but ’Simple Song’ just sits there. It doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t ask you to think it’s clever. That plainness is what got me—a song that’s just what it is without performance. I find myself coming back to it more than I expect to.
I keep coming back to Kern’s photographs because of how little they pretend. Women in rooms under bad light, often naked, rarely smiling. There’s sexuality in the frame but it’s not soft — it’s frank and uncomfortable and risky. The title references drugs, which fits the whole feeling of his work, that edge that says something is at stake here, that this isn’t safe. He’s been making these photographs and films for decades, pushing what people will look at, and whether you think he’s documenting something true about desire or just exploiting it probably depends on what you need to believe. I tend to think it’s both.
Clicking on a music video link in Germany used to be like playing a slot machine. You’d find something great, everyone’s talking about it, you click play and… black box. Nothing. Just GEMA and YouTube locked in a stupid fight and the whole country paying for it.
This had been going on for years. GEMA—the German copyright collecting society—wanted licensing fees YouTube wasn’t willing to pay. So YouTube just blocked every video with copyrighted music. GEMA said they were protecting artists. YouTube said the fees were unreasonable. Both technically correct, which meant nobody would move. And nobody did.
The rest of the internet moved on and watched videos while Germany got a black box. I remember spending actual time begging managers to upload stuff to Vimeo instead, hoping for decent quality, knowing it would take weeks if it happened at all. Half the time it didn’t. The artists got stuck in the middle of a fight that had nothing to do with them, and by the time a video showed up anywhere else, nobody cared anymore.
It got so absurd that even the record labels admitted it. Edgar Berger at Sony basically said: we’ve licensed the content to YouTube, YouTube says GEMA’s asking too much, GEMA says they’re protecting creators, we’re losing millions, and nobody’s going to fix it. Which was… accurate? None of them were lying. Everyone just had a reason not to move.
The stupid part was how obviously solvable it was. Just figure it out. But instead it sat there, year after year, this architectural disaster that made everything harder—blogs couldn’t embed, artists couldn’t share, the internet just worked around it. Germany got walled off while everyone else watched.
Eventually they sorted it. These things always do. By then the whole thing felt like ancient history anyway.
Friday finally showed up. I’d genuinely started thinking it might not arrive this year, but here it is—that moment when nothing matters and the weekend is just screens, porn, and horizontal commitment for seventy-two hours. The baseline state.
Emeli Sandé put out an album for free and it’s actually good, which is worth mentioning. Actually worth your time instead of the usual internet noise.
I fell down a video about unwanted Pokémon, creatures nobody wanted, and spent longer than reasonable calculating how many I’ve murdered just to keep my party from looking pathetic. The real number is higher than I want to admit.
The Death Star calculation keeps circulating—853 quadrillion dollars for the real thing. It’s beautiful stupidity. You only live once, might as well think about the actual cost of your fantasies.
Sacha Baron Cohen was complaining about not getting Oscar tickets, which is petty and perfect. That man manufactures chaos from nothing; imagine what he’d actually do with an invitation.
Nicki Minaj gets stuck in my head in that uncomfortable way. I watched her become exactly what the industry needed and just kept participating, every click and listen and share feeding into the machine until there was nowhere else for her to go. There’s something complicit about that.
Models who can’t properly walk keep becoming funny again, which is weirdly predictable. The photographs are perfect and then they step and it all breaks. There’s something true about that gap.
Grimes is still happening. Whether she’s the next thing or just what we’re trained to want right now, I haven’t decided. But the songs stick, so maybe it doesn’t matter.
Scheißtürken. Go to Auschwitz. Turkpack get out. Last Monday morning, a man on a Berlin S-Bahn screamed this at a group of fourth-graders. Ten- and eleven-year-olds from Kreuzberg, mostly kids whose parents weren’t born in Germany, on a class trip to go bowling. A woman had already told them “This isn’t Germany anymore” as they boarded. Then this guy started. Full Nazi rhetoric, the kind you read about in news summaries, not something happening in front of you while your coffee gets cold.
No one said anything. No one stood between him and the children. No one told him to shut his mouth. The other passengers just sat there. The train kept moving. When the teachers reported it to the conductor, he couldn’t do anything, so he kept driving.
That’s what freezes me. Not the man himself—every society has its assholes—but the rest of them. The women staring at their phones. The men pretending they hadn’t heard. Whatever was going through their heads in those seconds. Fear? Apathy? Agreement? It’s that question that won’t leave me alone. What would I have done?
And I don’t know. That’s the honest answer. I like to think I’d stand up, say something, physically block his access to the kids somehow. But I’ve been that person on the train, tired and small and eager to not be involved. Easier to disappear into the moment, become invisible, let someone else handle it. The cowardice isn’t unique to those passengers. It’s contagious. It spreads through a car like a gas.
The thing that really gets me is that this isn’t even the worst kind of racism in Germany. The worst is the kind that doesn’t scream. It’s the landlord who won’t rent to someone with a name that sounds foreign. It’s the HR manager sorting resumes. It’s the casual thing a colleague says at lunch that everyone laughs off. It’s structural. It’s quiet. It doesn’t shout; it just closes doors. The man on the S-Bahn is almost honest, in a sick way—at least you know where you stand with him.
But I can’t think about that right now. I keep coming back to those kids, the shock on their faces probably, the teachers trying to figure out what to do with a man saying he wants them dead. They’re just going to a bowling alley. They did nothing wrong. Neither did the bystanders, technically—no law says you have to intervene. But something in me knows that’s not the point.
I know what I should say here: someone should do something. Everyone should stand up. We should all be better. But I’m tired of hearing that, and I’m tired of saying it. The real answer is probably that I’m going to sit on this memory until it stops bothering me, and then I’ll forget it happened at all, just like everyone else. And that’s maybe the most depressing part—not the Nazi screaming on the train, but knowing that even thinking about it won’t actually change how I’d act if I were there.
Lo-fi funk has this weird pull to it. There’s the chill, the groove, the bedroom-production sound of it all, but underneath there’s something deeply sensual if you’re paying attention—the way the bass sits under everything, the subtle sexual charge in the pocket of the rhythm. It’s not trying to be hot, which is exactly why it works. You put it on and the room shifts. Your body shifts. Everything slows into something almost sacred, almost intimate. It’s the sound of wanting someone without saying anything at all.
I’d spent an hour trying to figure out what I’d actually pay for Pokémon on an iPhone. Ten bucks? Twenty? A hundred? The idea was perfect—everyone with whatever device they had, fighting and trading without wrestling some shitty link cable into submission. Like the old days. Just on the phone.
Some guy named Daniel Burford apparently thought so too. He uploaded the yellow version to the App Store for 99 cents. The reviews were exactly what you’d expect—five stars, “I love it,” “just like the original but way better on iPhone.” I downloaded it. Crashed three seconds after the title screen. His company was called Home of Anime or something. That kind of half-assed operation.
And people hated it. Someone named Faustino Angel wrote something like “I want my money back and I’m suing,” which—fair. Nintendo issued some corporate statement about protecting their standards and stopping unauthorized releases. Fine. Didn’t help me get Pokémon on my phone.
But Square had Final Fantasy and Chrono Trigger on the App Store. Rockstar had Grand Theft Auto. Sega had Monkey Ball and Sonic. Nintendo had the most famous handheld game ever made and couldn’t figure out how to just sell it to me.
If they were going to do it, I knew what I wanted. Either full retro—16-bit pixels, pure nostalgia—or the opposite, something crazy colorful and 3D. Anime girls with actual breasts. Fluffy clouds. A real character creator. And when another person running it was nearby, my phone should tell me, let us battle over Bluetooth or WiFi. Every generation that mattered. Team Rocket, the Elite Four, all the stupid creature names, even Missingno and the glitches that broke the whole game in half.
What I really wanted was to be a spotty teenager again, blowing hours on something completely pointless, crushing friends who didn’t stand a chance. Nintendo had all of it. Still does. For some reason they wouldn’t give it to me.
Charlotte Free doesn’t shave her armpits. Just photographs them and lets them exist, which apparently is radical. Beauty culture’s whole apparatus is designed to make you feel ashamed of your own body—there’s always something to fix, remove, sand down. Free doesn’t participate. The refusal is casual, almost offhand, which makes it more interesting than if she’d made it a whole thing. She’s just living in a way the world wasn’t expecting her to, and that matters.
Small towns wear their name for good reason. Every stereotype about them is true. Everyone knows everyone. The inbreeding statistics are higher than you’d want. The newspaper covers the gardening club’s seventy-fifth anniversary and kids placing third in the regional taekwondo competition. That exotic stuff. And when you live somewhere like that, eventually you face the question: stay or go?
Mine was Buchloe. Bavaria, somewhere between Augsburg and Landsberg and Kaufbeuren—places that probably don’t mean much to you. And when it was almost too late, I decided to leave. Berlin. To make something different happen, something that wasn’t marrying my girlfriend and moving into a house on her father’s land and dutifully making FC Bayern fans. That kind of different life wasn’t really acceptable where I was from.
When I visit home now at Christmas or Easter, I feel superior. Like I left the blue-and-white monotony for something faster, something with parties and drugs and minor TV celebrities. Or you’re at home beating off because you’re living at the center of German power, next to the TV tower and some guy screaming dialect through the streets. That’s the fantasy anyway.
There are real reasons I wanted out. Money. Variety. A future that wasn’t predetermined. You know, big city life or whatever. And most days I don’t have time to imagine what I’d be doing if I’d stayed, if I’d never left almost five years ago. Everyone asks themselves that question at some point. It just has a way of finding you.
Late night, alone with wine, scrolling Facebook, looking at the faces of people who decided to stay—or who maybe just didn’t have the energy to leave. They look older now. Heavier. But they’re laughing and drinking and they don’t seem to regret not moving thousands of kilometers away chasing something better, risking coming back with nothing. They work their eight-hour days at the convenience store or nursing home, get excited about the McDonald’s twenty kilometers away, meet up every night at their regular bar. Or when they want things to get wilder they drive to the big nightclub a few towns over, dance to David Guetta, cheer for The Bachelor—because that’s what they know from TV.
I miss them sometimes. Sure, they’re posting daily inspirational quotes and inviting you to pointless Facebook apps, sharing photos of tortured dogs with “I’ll cut off his dick if I ever catch him!!” underneath—that’s Bavaria. But then the nostalgia hits and you remember: getting wasted on Jägermeister with them in the warm summer rain outside one of those wooden sheds with Groove Coverage blasting. Breaking into a camper van and getting our asses kicked by the owners, then reading about ourselves as vandals in the newspaper the next morning. Sitting with Jule on the wooden bench by the creek after midnight, and she leans into my lap to show me shooting stars, and we make out.
It’s depressing sometimes, knowing they’re still together after all these years, still doing things as a group, some of them couples now, married, with kids. We were dumb kids with nothing in our heads, causing trouble everywhere we could find—streets, fields, schools, forests, lakes, apartments, bars, basements, rooms, beds. And they stayed together. I left. Far away. Four in the morning, wine in hand, that feels sad.
Even though I know the answers, I ask myself anyway before I can sleep. Was it really that bad there? Was any of this worth abandoning my friends? What would I be doing now if I’d stayed? Pizza delivery? Warehouse work? Unemployment?
In another world I’m sitting in Buchloe right now wondering what would’ve happened if I’d had the guts to leave. Then I open the newspaper. The gardening club is having their seventy-fifth anniversary. The kids got third place in the regional tournament. Exotic stuff and all.
That drop still hits different. Skrillex made something almost stupidly fun out of the bass wobble — turned dubstep into a pure sensation machine, all aggression and glitch and the kind of sound design that made you feel like the speakers themselves were breaking. Bangarang was everywhere for a minute, became a meme before the internet even had a solid name for what memes were yet. You heard it in videos, in games, blasted from car stereos. The production is genuinely inventive, which is what people miss when they write it off as bro nonsense. There’s craft in the chaos. Whether you wanted to dance to it or laugh at it, the thing had gravity. It marked a moment when electronic music stopped trying to be sleek and started being deliberately crude and loud. That shift changed everything that came after.
Late nights obsessing over how to make money online without destroying yourself. Facebook, Google, Tumblr, pixel advertising, cereal schemes—none of it ever works out. It’s a stupid game, and I got tired of playing it.
Then Pinterest. Or rather, everyone decided Pinterest had happened. Some pseudo-experts explained it was the mandatory next thing, and if you weren’t there immediately, you’d wasted all your time on everything else. Everything was prologue to this moment.
So I joined. Set up folders, dumped images in, added dumb captions. No strategy, no idea what I was actually doing there. Just going through the motions because that’s what you do when something has enough momentum to make you look stupid for being absent.
Now I’m on Facebook and Twitter and Google+ and Tumblr and Last.fm and Formspring and Pinterest. An endless rotation of platforms, each one convinced it’s the last, each one replaced every few months by something that tells you the previous five were just warmups. I stopped asking why. This is what it costs to stay visible, to be one of the cool kids online, which sounds absurd when you actually think about it.
Whether any of it means anything is unclear. I’m there though, pinning along, genuinely confused about the point, just holding onto the vague hope that maybe this one will stick. Probably won’t. But you do it anyway.
I clicked through to Cashy’s Blog the other day, one of the biggest German tech sites, the guy posting constantly about every Apple announcement, every Windows update, every Google shift. Fast, thorough, no idea how he finds the time. The design looks like a Russian spam site for knock-off pharmaceuticals. The domain’s one of those that confuses people—half the traffic is probably retirees looking for a hotel near the harbor.
That’s the thing about German blogs though. The writing is actually good. The voices are distinct, the subjects are everywhere—fashion, tech, the weird gross stuff that makes up everyday life. The content is genuinely worth reading. Then I click to the actual site and just stare at it. Some person wrote something smart and sharp and then deployed it on what might be the worst design I’ve ever seen.
Nerdcore is the German headquarters for geek stuff—comics, zombies, whatever. René’s been at this forever and basically has no life outside of pushing content 24/7. I respect that dedication. But the site looks like an overstuffed content crawler. No structure, no design sense, just everything at once. There are reference points everywhere—look at EA, look at The Trend Netz, look at Kotaku, look at fatale or Ships Mag or Pilot Magazine. Cool designs exist. You could take something from any of them and make it your own. Instead it looks like someone took a default theme and made half-hearted adjustments and gave up.
Then there’s Buzzriders, Robert Basic’s new project about technology trends and the future. Except the site looks like it’s from ten years ago. Standard theme, slight modifications, no personality, no visual distinction, nothing that says “this person knows something.” It’s almost spiteful, like he resents the people looking at it.
I get that content is king. When something’s written well and in a real voice, that matters. But bad design undercuts everything. It makes the experience worse. If you’re running your own project, you owe it to the people reading to make it look like you care.
The gap is what gets me. The writing’s good, the thinking is sharp, the content is worth reading. But every time I click through to read something, there’s this moment where I look at the design and feel a little deflated. It’s like someone built something worth reading and then put it in a broken container.
All those paparazzi shots from that era had her with a cigarette. Outside clubs, in cars, always lit, always being photographed. There was something about it that read as untouchable—young, exhausted, like smoking was the only sane response to being everywhere at once. Whether she actually smoked that much or the photographers just caught the right moments, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now. That’s the image that stuck.
I watched her more closely than I’d admit. There’s something about seeing someone your age become completely inescapable in the culture that makes you study them for clues about how to exist. The smoking was part of how she read—reckless, indifferent, burned out before twenty. I can’t separate the real person from the image anymore, but I’m not sure that distinction ever mattered. The image is what lasted, and it’s still there.
Watson’s documentary is a straight look at British skinhead culture without the editorializing—just these guys talking about what drew them in, how it felt to belong to something that hard. The photography is unflinching. There’s no distance between the camera and the people it’s watching, no winking at the audience about how weird or dangerous this world is. It’s a record of something that mattered to these people, and that matters. The skinhead thing gets flattened by media into one image, but Watson’s work lets you see how personal and complicated it actually was—ideology mixed with friendship, violence mixed with genuine care for your crew. It’s the kind of documentary that teaches you to look at subcultures differently, not as curiosities but as real communities with real stakes.
I was thinking about Skrillex the other day, after he picked up those Grammys, and I realized I actually cared more about who he was before—back when his name was just Sonny Moore and he was playing in an emo band called From First To Last. There’s something interesting about that trajectory, the way someone can come up in one scene entirely and then end up defining something completely different.
The thing about dubstep right now is that everyone acts like it appeared out of nowhere, like Skrillex invented it in a lab or something. But he didn’t. There were people doing this stuff for years—Mary Anne Hobbs was championing it on BBC Radio 1, Joe Nice had been pushing it, Zed Bias was making moves. But Skrillex’s version, with all the drops and the wobble, that’s what people latch onto. That’s what made it a mainstream thing. And now his fans think he’s the whole history of dubstep rolled into one person, which is funny if you actually know anything about the genre.
But before all that, he was just some kid in an emo band. I think about that a lot—how you can be in a scene for years, take it seriously, and then just become something else entirely. The emo kids I knew, or knew about, they’re scattered now. Some grew out of it, got normal lives, found other music. Some are still there in that same headspace. And then there’s Sonny, who went from selfies in a bathroom mirror to being this giant in electronic music.
I don’t know where this is going exactly. I just think there’s something worth sitting with about the whole thing—how you can be completely embedded in one world and then just step into another and become the face of it.
They called us criminals. ARD, ZDF, the entire German Content Alliance — that’s what they said. We were a generation that came of age downloading songs, making videos, remixing work we loved. Digital theft, in their view. They wanted ACTA signed, wanted international law to make it all illegal, and when thousands of us took to the streets to protest, they just got louder. We didn’t even know what we were stealing.
The contradiction made my head spin then, still does. They claimed, officially, that ACTA was about protecting cultural diversity. But that was never true. It was about protecting their monopoly on who made culture and who profited from it. They wanted to shrink the digital commons to nothing — no sharing, no remixing, no building on what came before. Just payment at every step, licensing, control.
I read statements from executives claiming the measures in ACTA already matched German law, so what was the problem? The problem was obvious to anyone paying attention: they wanted to criminalize what normal people did every day. Post a photo somewhere. Hum a melody in a video. Quote a line that moved you. None of it would be safe anymore.
There was actual research showing file-sharing barely touched box office numbers. Economists ran the numbers and found downloads only mattered when there was huge lag between releases in different countries. But evidence didn’t sway them. They’d decided we were the problem.
What struck me most was how naked the generational divide became. These people had built everything around scarcity — own the master, control the copies, profit at every step. The internet made culture abundant and shared, and they couldn’t bear it. Instead of adapting, instead of even asking how to make money in a world where culture flowed freely, they wanted to use law to reverse time. Make the digital world behave like the analog one.
The solution was obvious and already existed elsewhere. Fair Use, they called it. It gave people legal room to remix, reference, transform without becoming accidental criminals. The Netherlands had figured it out. But Europe wanted the door locked tight.
ACTA got shelved in the end because too many people pushed back. I don’t think about it much anymore, but I sometimes think about what it represented — this permanent friction between people who own culture and people who live in it. They wanted to freeze everything, monetize every gesture. The rest of us just wanted to play with what we were given.
I made a list of things to do this weekend. Buy a goldfish that looks like someone I don’t trust. Download something I’ll delete without opening. Write a musician asking if he can hook me up with his dealer. Go to the underwear party—actually, no, I’ve seen myself naked. Play Super Mario World badly on purpose. Use cash at Starbucks and wait to see if anyone takes me seriously as a threat.
The appeal of these lists used to be obvious: shock, transgression, the anarchic energy of saying the unsayable. But that’s not really it anymore. The actual appeal is simpler—it’s admitting that the weekend comes and you do nothing, and that’s fine, that’s normal, that’s all anyone really does.
So you make a stupid list and feel better about wasting two days.
Fashion Week Paris is the big one. The history, the weight, the fact that everyone acts like it matters so it’s decided that it does. Fashion weeks are everywhere anyway—Berlin, New York, London, then back around again. But Paris gets the reverence.
Jeremy Scott’s work catches my attention because he doesn’t seem beholden to the whole thing. He pulls from pop culture, street stuff, references that don’t usually show up in formal fashion spaces. It doesn’t feel precious the way a lot of high fashion does. There’s personality in it.
His Adidas collaboration proves this—he actually contributes something instead of just attaching his name to a product. Sneakers with style, basically, which sounds simple but most designers don’t pull it off.
I’m not sure I’d want to fly to Paris and sit through fashion shows, but understanding what drives someone like that—what he’s drawn to, why certain things work together—that’s something. The rest is just industry machinery doing its cycle.
The Selby was a column in Nylon where photographer Tyler Mitchell Smith would shoot creative people—artists, musicians, designers—in their actual homes. No heavy styling, just the person and their space arranged in a way that revealed something true about how they thought. It became the look that every lifestyle magazine chased afterward. But The Selby had it first and made it look inevitable.
Richard Kern films women jogging, just follows the camera and doesn’t look away. “Jogger Stalker” is literal—bodies moving through the city, unaware they’re being filmed. There’s no metaphor here, no aesthetic camouflage.
He’s been making work like this for decades. The gaze is deliberate and without apology. The discomfort is the entire point. You can find something honest in it—the acknowledgment that looking takes something, that the male gaze isn’t innocent—or you can find something repulsive. Usually both.
What I find interesting is that Kern never tries to redeem the work. No distance, no theoretical framework, no irony. He makes it and leaves it there. Most artists would flinch away, would try to explain or justify or wrap it in something that makes them feel better about themselves. Kern doesn’t. That kind of clarity—just the thing itself, without the apology—is rare.
Uncomfortable to watch. But there’s something to an artist who won’t look away from what he’s doing.
Valentine’s Day gets to you different when you’re alone. Not in some romantic, wistful way. The actual depression numbers spike harder on February 14th than they do on Christmas, than your birthday, than any other day someone decided meant something. It’s engineered to make you feel what’s missing.
The whole thing is a commercial operation. Flowers, dinner reservations marked up fifty percent, jewelry designed to trigger desire to prove something. Greeting cards. If you’re not participating — if you’re solo or indifferent or just broke — the culture keeps nudging you that you’re fucking it up.
I’ve seen the responses. Contests: “Win a date with someone from the site.” It’s pathetic in a specific way — selling the idea that what you need is company, that loneliness is something you win your way out of. But it’s also honest. The machinery briefly admits what it does: it sells the belief that you need another person to feel okay on a particular day.
The actual thing is simpler and worse. Valentine’s Day just sucks when you’re alone. Not because of the day — the day is nothing, it’s one day out of 365 — but because of what everyone’s decided it means. You can’t argue with a culture. You just find something that doesn’t rub it in and wait for it to be over.
I keep coming back to “Safe & Sound” on nights when I’m worn down in that specific way where another big moment would actually hurt. It’s the opposite of what makes most Taylor songs work—no production, no move, just this voice that knows better than to ask anything else of you. When you’ve had enough of trying, that’s what matters.
There was this treaty called ACTA that came out of nowhere around 2012—governments had negotiated it in secret as an anti-counterfeiting thing, but what it actually did was open the door to total internet surveillance. Unlimited monitoring, ISPs logging everything, websites shut down on accusation. You read the details and it sounds like fiction, but it was real, and people were about to let it happen.
That Saturday, there were protests everywhere. I remember how spontaneous it felt—not some organized campaign, just millions of people independently deciding this was worth walking outside for. It was one of those rare moments where you could see the internet actually mattering to people, not as content or commerce but as something worth defending.
And it worked. Countries didn’t ratify it. The whole thing failed.
Looking back now, ACTA seems almost quaint. We ended up with all the surveillance anyway, just slower and without the treaty, which made it easier for everyone to pretend it wasn’t happening. But ACTA was at least honest—it came with text you could read and understand and refuse. That moment, when people understood what was at stake and actually showed up for it, that felt important.
There’s something about the way Lana Del Rey has constructed herself that feels both totally artificial and completely genuine, which might be the only way to be famous anymore without losing your mind. She arrived fully formed with the Lana Del Rey persona—the old Hollywood glamour, the sadness, the self-destruction aesthetic—and people couldn’t decide if they were looking at art or a marketing campaign. Probably both. She made drowsy cinematic pop songs when that wasn’t fashionable yet, when sad girl music still needed to prove itself, and she had the taste to make them sound expensive and doomed.
The scorned part is real. There’s always been something about her that makes people angry—maybe because she’s a woman who’s unapologetically sad and glamorous instead of empowering, maybe because she’s wealthy and doesn’t pretend otherwise, maybe because she’s too aware of her own mythology. The accusations, the debates about whether she’s authentic or a constructed persona, the criticism that followed her everywhere. She took it all and kept making music that sounded like cigarette smoke and champagne and regret.
What I keep coming back to is that she’s one of the few pop stars who understood that sadness itself is beautiful, that you don’t need to resolve it or overcome it to make art about it. The songs just sit in that feeling and refuse to move. Whether that’s a choice or a compulsion or some combination of both feels almost beside the point now.
ACTA protests are happening. I’m supposed to march, stand in the rain, care visibly. And I do care, but the weekend’s already booked. Sunday’s recovery. But if you’re the kind of person who finds time in the cracks, here’s what kept running through my head.
Download the entire Pirate Bay database. Ninety megabytes. Memorize it. Let it settle there permanently. Find an eating contest that donates to hunger relief and actually do it — hot dogs, sandwiches, whatever they’re serving. Stuff your face for a cause.
Break into a girls’ boarding school at midnight wearing a blonde wig. What happens next is entirely up to you. Collect menstrual blood in mason jars and don’t ask me why, because I don’t have an answer. Sit next to someone who looks exactly like Cartman and just mess with him until he’s genuinely pissed off and leaves.
Hug a tree. It’s cold. Probably wants company. Celebrate that it’s been a year since Rebecca Black uploaded “Friday.” That song, that whole bizarre peak, happened on a day like today. Watch Comic Book Men. It’s about comics and nostalgia, the stuff I care about.
Save Macaulay Culkin. From drugs, from obscurity, from whatever he’s lost to. Get him food. Red Bull. Just make sure he exists. And then actually write on your blog. Some Israeli psychologists did a study — teenagers who keep a blog are emotionally more balanced, socially competent. It’s real. So write something.
Heavy blues rock with no apology for the blues part. Band of Skulls hit a sound that feels exactly as good as it should — guitars thick as tar, drums like something collapsing in slow motion. There’s no restraint here, no clever arrangement trying to prove something. Just the weight of it. Sweet Sour captures that pull, the push and drag of wanting something you know will hurt, the kind of wanting that doesn’t care if it makes sense. They move through it like they’ve lived there for years.
Ladyhawke works because it respects color as emotion. The whole film moves through whites and silvers and blue—the curse rendered in palette. What makes the romance work is that it doesn’t oversell the misery. Just two people locked into opposite halves of the day, reaching across something that won’t close. That’s all you need.
I came for the design, but the thing that stuck was the sadness of it. That kind of ache doesn’t need underlining. Just a look.
There are two kinds of sick. The light kind where you drag yourself to the doctor, cough in his face, and then get blessed with two weeks decomposing at home with delivery food and a laptop—maybe even clean the apartment if you’re ambitious. Then there’s the other dimension. The one where you’re stuck in bed sweating through fever, hallucinating through mucus, certain you’ll never see daylight again. The laptop becomes your only friend. It’s all that keeps you from losing your mind when your skull feels like it’s splitting open.
I needed something massive to break the fever grip. An anime that could make me cry and laugh without boring me with realistic garbage. Some guy named Veed posted a list: the 50 best anime ever, according to him. One Piece, Neon Genesis Evangelion, Wolf’s Rain—I knew them all, loved them all. He had Gurren Lagann at number one, and he said the opening episodes were shit but the rest was the best thing he’d ever seen anywhere. That was funny because I’d tried Gurren Lagann once, quit after episode four, and moved on. Desert, monsters, robots. Repeat. Nothing grabbed me. But I had nothing else going on.
So I tried again and watched all 27 episodes in one sitting, broken only by sleep and food and jerking off. And I cried at the end. Like a small kid into a tissue. Because it was that good. Because I didn’t want it to finish. Gurren Lagann.
The setup is simple. Simon is a kid living underground with his best friend Kamina, and they spend their days digging tunnels. One day a giant monster crashes through the ceiling with a big-breasted girl named Yoko, a robot appears, Simon gets superpowers, and everything goes sideways.
The story’s about hunting down an ancient monster at the end of the world who’s been crushing humanity for centuries. Simon and Kamina join a resistance group, pilot giant robots, and start destroying everything in their way—mutant frogs, bathhouses, shark-men, whatever. Standard anime logic, the kind of stuff you’ve seen before.
But then Kamina dies. Early, and it hits hard. That’s when the show stops being a kid’s cartoon and becomes an epic. The rest of the series crams in more story and heart and raw insanity than most shows manage in 16 seasons. Massive space wars. Questions about meaning and will. Betrayal. The weight of the universe.
I was lying there ruined by fever, and watching it all unfold was extraordinary. I think Gainax created the perfect expression of what anime can be. If you gave up on the medium after Yu-Gi-Oh! and Beyblade wore you down, you need to watch Gurren Lagann. There’s no getting around it.
Lying in bed, waiting for dreams. The fantasies come first—space pirates, money, actually getting into bed with people you have absolutely no business wanting. You’re already grinning at the thought.
Then you wake up. The dreams that actually happened were all nonsense. Forgetting poems in front of assholes, piles of bottles, the usual weight of being stuck exactly where you are. You get out of bed pissed.
There’s an app called Yumemiru—it means “see your dream”—that says it can fix this. You pick what you want to dream about. Before bed, you set it up. The app watches for your REM sleep, then plays some music into your brain that’s supposed to remind you what you told it to want. Flying, being loaded, finally closing the gap with someone way out of reach. Just select it and sleep.
It sounds almost believable. The mechanism’s simple enough: sleep tracking, audio cues at the right moment, some neuroscience you don’t understand. It’s free. It’s from Japan. Nothing to lose.
I never bothered. Feels like the whole point of dreams is that they don’t take orders. That’s where your actual self lives, not the version that has to make sense or behave. I figure if you could schedule your fantasies, they’d just feel like commercials for what you already wanted. Worse than useless.
But every morning someone wakes up disappointed in their own brain, and that’s why they’d try it. That’s the whole thing, right? You’re always hoping the next thing—the next app, the next girl, the next whatever—will finally give you what you can’t make yourself feel. Even your dreams won’t cooperate.
Charlotte Free made Wildfox work in that specific way that’s hard to explain out loud. She could wear those deliberately kitschy 70s prints and look completely unbothered, like she’d just grabbed them without thinking. That effortlessness is almost impossible to fake—you spend weeks designing every detail and somehow it has to look like a thrift-store accident. Wildfox’s entire thing depended on looking like something you just found, and she made you believe it.
Dree Hemingway didn’t go the expected route. She chose indie films and art projects over the obvious studio path, work that probably meant more to her than money. That’s the utopian part—not anything grand, just the belief that you can actually do what interests you and still have a life. Easier when you come from her background, probably. But the choice itself is still real.
Ice season. Nothing for it but to stay inside where the heat actually works, while that winter sun outside exhausts itself trying to convince anyone it’s useful. Eggs and bacon on fresh toast. A blanket. M.I.A. into The Weeknd into Dillon—each one flowing into the next without any thought, the kind of afternoon where you close your eyes and hours just evaporate. I’m thinking the whole time about how humanity really missed the mark by not evolving to hibernate. Why would anyone choose to stay conscious through winter. It feels like a fundamental design error.
Most of my time should go to making money for the lean times, eating, sleeping, getting around—whatever normal people do. Instead I’m telling my friends they shouldn’t kill themselves.
I’m almost thirty. That’s a lot of years. But I’ve never had this many people around me dealing with depression all at once. Burnout. Broken hearts. Existential panic. Fear of the future. Voices. Regret. ADHD. Everyone’s got something, and they want to tell me about it for hours, and then eventually it always comes: “I wish I were dead.” You’re standing there and you can’t say what you’re thinking. Not at first, anyway.
Early on you make jokes. You give advice that sounds clever so they know you care, but also this isn’t an emergency. You’re not spending the next week in an ice cream shop crying together. But if the talking doesn’t stop, you grab them, sit down, and work through what’s actually broken. Your girlfriend left you? Yeah, that’s shit. We all go through it. And however deep this pain feels right now, it ends. She was garbage anyway.
No money? Okay, let’s figure out what you can actually do right here in this city. Who do we know. Who can help. How fast can you get a job that doesn’t completely suck. One step at a time. Your whole life’s fallen apart and you haven’t slept with anyone in three years? Wine first. Then the real drinking.
What comes out of these conversations is always the same thing: nobody’s life works the way they want it to. We all hit a moment where we think about just stopping. But you have to let that thought pass, make room for the next thing, something that actually fixes it. We can figure this out together.
You hug. You say stupid stuff again. The moment is over. Seems like it, anyway. Then it’s four in the morning and a Facebook message shows up. “I wish I were dead.” And you close the laptop and think, okay then do it. Just leave me out of this.
I understand your life isn’t what you wanted. I get that you’re crushed. That’s your thing, honestly. But we’re your friends, so we show up. We listen. We look at it clear. We pull you out of the wreckage. We do your thinking for you. For free. Or a beer. Or a date with your good-looking sister—the hot one, not the other. But then you actually have to get your life together instead of just rolling around in self-pity and convincing us nothing works. You actually have to do the work. Let me go back to living. Making money. Eating. Sleeping. Moving around. Being a normal person.
The music video arrived in 2012 with all the pageantry you’d expect—Madonna still convinced she could provoke the internet, still convinced the internet cared. M.I.A. and Nicki Minaj flanking her like the pop equivalent of a power play. The whole thing was so determinedly scandalous, so carefully calculated to offend, that it kind of did the opposite. You watched it and understood exactly what she was doing, which meant there was nothing left to do.
But the song itself is better than the controversy around it. It’s poppy and dumb in the way that works—the kind of thing that gets stuck in your head not because it’s deep but because it doesn’t pretend to be. Madonna chasing relevance by chasing younger collaborators, which is what you do when you’ve already been relevant longer than most people are alive. There’s something sad about that, actually. Not in a way that makes the song worse, just in a way that makes it more honest than she probably intended.
Everyone knows it. Science says it, TV says it, your mom sends panicked emails. Everyone’s getting fatter. Delivery instead of the walk, sitting instead of moving, sugar water instead of anything requiring effort.
Jamie Lee Curtis Taete made work about this—not a threat, just what she was watching. What comes next when bodies get bigger: sex redistributing, beauty spreading across shapes and sizes that used to be invisible.
No moral angle in her drawings, no panic—just plain documentation of the shift. This is what it looks like. And honestly, that’s easier to sit with than the anxiety that assumes we can stop it. We can’t. So why fight it.
M.I.A.’s “Bad Girls” works because she’s not apologizing for any of it. No redemption, no softening, just someone who’d figured out that being the thing everyone feared was more honest and more fun than playing nice. The track is sparse — just gunshot samples and her voice mostly — which means the attitude has to land on its own. And it does. There’s no defensiveness in it either. She’s not trying to convince you of anything. She just owns the space completely and doesn’t care what you make of it.
Friday afternoon and you’re already running the playlist of finally-going-to-do things. The project in the garage. Get out and do something worth remembering. Maybe something genuinely stupid and risky. The weekend stretches ahead like permission.
By Saturday evening you’re home eating fries and watching garbage television and nothing has changed except your confidence level, which has dropped significantly.
The script never varies. You’re going to buy some piece of gear that’s supposed to fix your entire life — your setup, your work, your brain chemistry somehow — and when it arrives you realize it doesn’t do anything you couldn’t already do. Or you’re finally going to say what you actually mean to someone, which feels brave until you hit send and then six hours of self-hatred. Or get drunk with someone you usually avoid and let the night go where it goes. Use the snow before it’s gone. Pick up some weird hobby for no reason. None of it happens, or it happens halfway and stops.
The actual weekend is much quieter than the Friday version. Mostly time passing and you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do with it so you settle for small things — scrolling, watching, sleeping in. Maybe something breaks open. Usually not.
Sunday evening is always the same: you had two days and did basically nothing with them, and somehow that’s its own kind of wisdom. Monday comes and resets everything. Friday hits again and you genuinely mean it this time, which is the only bit of this that never gets old.
Josh Tillman recorded an album at Hollywood Forever Cemetery and called it after the place. It’s the kind of obvious metaphor that only works if you’re being completely sincere about it, and he is. The record doesn’t perform cleverness. It just sounds like what you get when you’re too far inside a system to critique it from outside—so you absorb the decay and turn it into something dark and considered.
There’s a distance running through it, but it’s not cold. Tillman’s spent long enough around Los Angeles and fame to know they’re the same thing, that the whole machine is already dying, and that there’s no fixing it from inside. The album doesn’t make arguments about this. It just sounds like someone who’s accepted it and made something good with that knowledge.
I listen to it not because it’s brilliant or revealing but because it sounds like actual thinking—someone sitting with something they’ve seen clearly without needing to explain it or turn it into a lesson.
For about a year everyone agreed the world was ending on December 21st. Nobody really believed it — the Mayan calendar thing was nonsense — but the joke somehow became its own real culture. Memes, a John Cusack disaster film, ironic apocalypse parties, countdown sites you’d obsessively check. Brands capitalized immediately, selling products dressed up in endtimes packaging, trying to get you to buy deodorant for your final days.
The weird part was how light it all felt. You could think about the world ending without any real dread, just the abstract fun of collective doom. When the 22nd came and nothing changed, everyone moved on without missing a beat. But there was something genuinely good about that shared absurdity — everyone refreshing the same countdown timer, posting the same jokes, rehearsing apocalyptic panic together without meaning any of it.
When that date comes around I remember the specific mood of it. The internet found something fundamentally absurd and the whole thing just sustained itself, straight-faced, no winking, just pure absurdity running for twelve months.
I don’t run. Never have. I’m shaped like someone who spends time thinking about design and film, not someone who moves their body for the sake of moving it. So when I first heard about Zombies, Run!, I didn’t think it was for me. Turns out it kind of is, just not in the way I expected.
The concept is simple enough. You’re one of the last survivors after a viral outbreak, and the only way to gather supplies and complete missions is to actually run. Not in a gym, not on a treadmill — GPS-tracked running through the actual world. You move through real space, and as you go, your phone feeds you a story through your headphones. Mission briefings, zombie warnings, audio cues about supplies you’ve collected. The fiction is that you’re scavenging in a post-apocalyptic world, and your actual distance covered is what advances the game.
It’s basically Pokémon GO logic applied to a zombie apocalypse instead of cartoon creatures. Same idea: get people off the couch and moving through actual geography by wrapping a game around the activity. Same core insight: people will do things they wouldn’t normally do if you make it part of a world, part of a narrative, part of something that feels purposeful.
What makes Zombies, Run! work, at least in theory, is that it doesn’t pretend to be about health or fitness. It’s framed as pure game. A scenario. A world where you have to move to survive. If I’m going to spend an hour moving through the city, being chased by fictional zombies feels more compelling to me than the idea that I should exercise. The motivation is different. One feels like a game. The other feels like responsibility.
Games have always been good at this — taking something you’d avoid and making it feel like something you’d actually want to do. Making you care about the activity itself, not the benefits of the activity. I never became a serious player myself. That part of me that resists routine and discipline is still pretty strong. But I understand the appeal. There’s something right about using game mechanics to make people want to move, to be outside, to cover actual distance through the world. It’s clever design, even if it’s also kind of absurd — we’re all pretending zombies are chasing us so we’ll run faster.
Twitter is funny because there’s nobody between people and what they’re thinking. So Erika Steinbach, head of the League of Expellees, posted that the Nazis were left-wing — see, it’s right there in the name, National Socialist. By the time I read it, the internet was already split: half furious, half nodding along. I was just curious whether there was any substance to the argument or whether it was just word games dressed up as history.
There is a grain of truth that makes the argument persuasive. The Nazi party did have socialists in it during its formation — genuine socialists, not people just using the word. The Strasser brothers, Otto and Gregor, represented an actual left-leaning faction with real socialist ambitions. But Hitler was never going to let that happen. By 1930 he’d purged them, made it clear that fascism, not socialism, was the ideology. Capitalism was fine. State power was what mattered. Redistribution and worker control were useful rhetoric for recruitment, not actual policy.
Historians are pretty clear on this: fascism is right-wing totalitarianism. It can adopt socialist language and bring in socialists during its formation, but what emerges when it has power is something else entirely — hierarchy, nationalism, racial state, imperial expansion. Hitler wasn’t subtle about it either. He said openly that the party wouldn’t become socialist once he took power. The Nazis were Nazis: ultranationalist, totalitarian, obsessed with race ideology and state control. Nothing about that is left-wing, regardless of what the charter said.
So Steinbach’s argument doesn’t hold up. Twitter rewarded her for a clever sound bite — look at the name! — but actual history doesn’t work that way. I spent an hour on this so the next time it comes up, I don’t have to pretend to think about it.
Die Antwoord hit at exactly the right moment when people were desperate for something genuinely unhinged. Yolandi and Ninja showed up looking like a fever dream, talking in fractured English about sex and their own weirdness, unfiltered and unapologetic. “I Fink U Freeky” felt like watching someone have a seizure onstage while they’re also hitting on you—crude and weird and completely raw.
What made them different was they actually didn’t seem to care what anyone thought. Not as a pose, but as a fact. The sexual content, the provocation, the strangeness—it all felt honest rather than calculated. There’s a real difference between manufactured scandal and actual weirdness, and they were the latter. People were disturbed by them in a way that felt alive, not the sterile outrage of corporate controversy.
Looking back, they probably weren’t as good as they felt at the time. But they were necessary. The culture needed someone to break the glass and not apologize, to be that uncomfortable and explicit without corporate packaging. They burned out fast, but for a moment they felt like the only honest thing around.
I’ve been looking at Magnum photographs of America—decades of work by photographers who had the patience to wait in diners, on highways, in small towns where nothing was happening. What stays with me is the lack of romance in these images. They’re not trying to say anything grand about the American character or the national soul. They’re just documenting light, boredom, solitude, people moving through spaces. I think that’s why I keep coming back to them—they got something true about scale and loneliness that you don’t forget once you’ve seen it.
There’s a pattern everyone knows. You smoke pot, meet some weird friends with weird things, try speed and acid and mushrooms. And if you’ve got the connections—some sketchy friend of a friend who knows a nurse or a pharmacist or someone who just knows—you eventually end up at ketamine.
What most people don’t realize is that the K in the clubs is actually an anesthetic. The thing that makes it less terrifying than other anesthetics is that it doesn’t knock you out completely. You keep your reflexes, your ability to protect yourself, which is why people can take it without going completely helpless. There’s something almost humane about that.
But apparently ketamine does more than just lift you out of your skull for a few hours. Doctors in Houston figured out it works on depression. Real depression, the kind that’s been crushing someone for years. And it works in hours, not weeks.
I read about this woman, Heather, who’d been depressed for so long she couldn’t remember what it felt like not to be. After the ketamine, she said something like: the lightness just came. The feeling that maybe things would be okay. The doctors said she was unrecognizable—not just happier, but actually here, actually present, when before she’d been locked away inside herself.
The neurologists explained it better: ketamine doesn’t just make you feel high. It actually rewires something in your brain. The connections between cells change. A blockade gets cleared. One researcher said his patients felt like they’d never been depressed in their lives, suddenly able to work again, to be around people, to exist without that weight.
The obvious problem is that having some guy’s baggie of ketamine and doing the treatment are completely different things. Dosage matters. Timing matters. Context matters. Self-medicating with club drugs because you read something online would probably just make you wasted and depressed, which is its own kind of terrible.
But if this holds up, if more studies confirm it, something shifts. Depression isn’t automatically a life sentence anymore. It’s not something you just learn to live with. There’s a possibility that someone could come out the other side of it, that the weight could actually lift. That’s the thing about science—sometimes it finds a crack in something you thought was solid, and light gets through.
Feist does something most artists can’t pull off—she makes restraint sound urgent. Not the fake minimalism of someone trying to seem sophisticated, but actual space, actual air. You listen to her and you understand why silence matters. There’s a particular kind of intimacy in her work, where the smallest gesture—a voice drop, a string arrangement, the way she lets a phrase hang—means everything. It’s the opposite of trying to move you. It’s the confidence to assume you’re actually listening.
There’s a moment in dance tracks where everything locks in—the kick, the bassline, the vocal line—and suddenly you’re not thinking anymore, you’re just moving. Morillo knew how to build those moments. Skin’s voice sits in the track like it was always supposed to be there, rough and certain, somewhere between a confession and a command. It’s the kind of track that made sense at 2 AM in a packed club, but it also makes sense alone on a drive at night. Most dance records fade, but the ones Morillo touched had this staying power—they didn’t feel like disposable hits.
Every few years someone decides the internet needs fixing, which always means locking it down a little tighter. ACTA—the Anti-Counterfeiting Trade Agreement—was one of those moments. An international treaty negotiated in secret by governments and entertainment lawyers, designed to stop online piracy but broad enough to destroy half of what made the internet work.
If it had passed, ISPs would’ve been legally liable for everything their users did. Constant monitoring, reporting to authorities, handing over personal information. Sharing a song became illegal. Quoting a film became illegal. Posting a video with background music became illegal. YouTube wouldn’t exist. Twitter wouldn’t exist. Tumblr, Reddit, any platform built on the basic idea that people share and remix and talk about things—all of it becomes legally impossible. Even linking to something becomes precarious. The internet as a space where ideas move freely, where people build on each other’s work, where you can say what you think: finished.
What’s strange is how close it came. The machinery was already in place. Governments were on board. Corporate lobbyists had been pushing for years. Then somehow it didn’t happen. People found out what was being done, got angry, organized. Protests in cities across Europe. Millions of petition signatures. Politicians suddenly nervous about the voters they depended on. The whole thing collapsed.
I don’t think about ACTA much anymore. The internet changed anyway in ways far more effective than ACTA would’ve managed—monopolies instead of open platforms, data harvesting instead of public surveillance, erosion of privacy through corporate terms of service instead of government mandate. The people pushing the original deal won anyway, just through channels they hadn’t expected. But for a moment, for maybe a few weeks, people understood that the thing they lived in every day, that felt inevitable and permanent, could be taken away. That understanding was brief. It mattered anyway.
There’s a moment a few minutes into this where Abigail Wyles’s voice sits right on top of the production—not over it, not buried beneath it, just there in the space it finds. Benjamin Damage and Doc Daneeka build something patient underneath, the kind of electronic track that doesn’t announce itself but lets you settle into it. The thing about good production like this is that it doesn’t feel like work. You’re not aware of the choices while you’re listening, which means the choices are working. By the third listen you start catching what they did with the frequencies, the way they left space for the vocal, and by then you’re already gone.
Sleep Party People make music that feels like being alone in the best way possible. There’s no aggression to it, no performative sadness—just lush production and voices that sound like they’re admitting something true. I’ve always appreciated how they don’t oversell their own darkness. It’s just there, available if you need it.
Here we are. Another weekend right on schedule. Your freedom’s waiting—no school, no work, no TV network controlling what you think about yourself. One more episode of something and you’ll crack the code to everything. You won’t, but the thought’s nice anyway.
If actually improving your life sounds too exhausting, there are smaller games to play. Eat McNuggets until your body quits and somehow land yourself in a newspaper for it. Send Twitter an angry email about how stupid their censorship is, then spend the next day tweeting about the email you sent them. Buy a Nintendo 3DS finally, before Mario and Luigi get genuinely upset at you. Shop exclusively at Urban Outfitters in Berlin from now on—don’t mind that you’ll look exactly like every other “totally unique” person shopping there.
Try the menstrual product alternative just to have done it, even though you’re not built for it. Leave the church and start your own small sect. Orgies, virgin sacrifices, we’ll bring the beer. Go find Hannah on Facebook and tell her how much you love her, how great she is—she needs to hear that sometimes. Dig out those magazines from ten years ago and spend some time remembering Rachel Stevens. It’s allowed.
Sell your real opinions for fifty euros on eBay and go back to being the hollow consumer the TV networks always designed you to be. Or skip all of it and just do that last thing with your sister. What happens between you stays between you.
Sleigh Bells hit at the right moment—that mid-2000s surge where everything distorted and electronic sounded like the future. Alexis Krauss’s voice cutting through all that noise felt like a conversation happening in the middle of a car crash. You listened obsessively for a few years and then just… stopped. The way you do with bands that burn bright and then become library clutter.
There’s something strange about a band like that coming back. You’re not the person who fell for them anymore, but the music hasn’t changed and neither has whatever part of you responds to it. Noise-rock doesn’t date the way other things do. It just waits.
I remember winter being brutal when you didn’t have a place. The U-Bahn stations would fill up when the temperature dropped. Muschi Kreuzberg, the Berlin label, decided to do something about it. They partnered with Strassenfeger, a magazine by and for homeless people, and organized “One Warm Winter.” The idea was direct: old winter jackets that took up space in your closet could go to people who actually needed them.
They had a party for it on January 28 at Alte Münze. Some DJs who drew a crowd—Palina Rojinski, Sacha Robotti, Juli Holz. What I liked about it was the refusal to be solemn about it. You’d come, you’d dance, you’d brought your old jackets, and the jackets would find people who needed them. No speeches about suffering. No benefit concert. Just music and the practical thing.
I had this oversized H&M jacket that I’d bought years before and never wore right. I brought it to the event. Someone left with a jacket they’d actually use. It’s not going to fix homelessness or change the system, but February’s brutal when you’re sleeping outside, and a jacket matters for that.
Cam Damage doesn’t soften anything. She makes work about sex, about her body, about the explicit business of it all, and she doesn’t dress it up or apologize. There’s something unsettling about that directness if you’re used to everything being packaged for mass appeal—but that’s the point. She’s doing what most performers won’t: owning it completely. No metaphor, no irony buffer, no distance. Just this is what I do. That refusal to be ashamed sits with you.
Some nights there’s nothing to do but go under. Home’s too small, problems won’t stop, the noise in my head is unbearable. So I kill the sound of my own thoughts and turn something else up—loud enough to be the only thing that matters.
Whether I’m alone in a dark room or standing in a crowd of blank faces—doesn’t matter. The night becomes something bigger than what’s breaking inside.
Zola Jesus gets there first with that voice breaking things open. SBTRKT fractures it further. Justice lands heavy. These aren’t songs trying to fix anything. They just let me sink deeper, feel worse, until there’s only the sound.
Sometime in the early 2010s, every tech company and media brand decided streaming concerts could be interactive. Fans would vote on the setlist, the stage colors, what songs the artist would play. It was participatory culture, or that’s what they called it. Someone somewhere would be the biggest fan, the most dedicated voter, and they’d get a song dedicated to them.
Woodkid, the French musician and filmmaker, did one of these events in Paris, in front of the Eiffel Tower. His work is always visual—his videos have this precise, dark, geometric quality. A concert shaped by thousands of internet votes seemed to miss everything interesting about him. But that was the bet: that distance could disappear, that watching meant participating, that your vote mattered.
I don’t know if the fans’ votes actually changed what happened during the show. I suspect they didn’t. But for a moment, the idea that they could, that we could shape what we watched through widgets and Twitter replies—that felt like something. It probably wasn’t. But it felt like something, and that was enough for the moment.
The season opens with Morocco. Drugs and freedom and lost virginity and the kind of casual cruelty only teenagers can manage. Then the shock: Grace gets tangled with some rich drug dealer and it all collapses. Matty runs. And you’re back in the grey suffocating world of Franky and Mini and all of them—back in that teenage reality where every choice echoes and mistakes become permanent.
I watched the first episode when season six came back on E4. No show has ever gotten inside me like this one does. It grabbed me completely, didn’t let go, had me thinking about scenes and moments years later. Made me feel things I couldn’t quite name.
I connected more to the earlier generations than to this new batch. Tony and Effy and Cassie felt like they were made from the same stuff I was. But Liv and Rich and the others are undeniably good. They convince in ways most television doesn’t even try. Because they still feel real somehow, different in a way that matters.
Mini went from insufferable high-school diva with freckles to bold, actually worth following. Franky’s struggling in her relationship—pulling back, getting lonely, looking at other guys. Liv’s still Liv: half slut, half saint, thoughtful, mostly invisible to everyone except her actual friends. They’re all growing into a world that’s harder than anything they started with.
The second season of any generation in Skins gets darker, and I wanted that here more than I expected. The earlier episodes had been a bit too playful, too young. I’m not delusional about it—nothing hits twice like the first time, and those early seasons had their own power. But watching what Elsley and Brittain were building, it felt like they knew exactly what they were aiming for.
Nicki appeared in 2010 already knowing exactly what she wanted to be—crude, sexual, and as aggressive as anyone around her. The song is built on nothing but confidence and hostility, just her voice over minimal production, staking out territory. What struck me was the complete lack of apology in it. She wasn’t trying to be clever or relatable, wasn’t asking the audience for anything. Just hostile, explicit, and in total control.
Lanthimos made a film about a couple in South Africa interrupted by a stranger who arrives to upend their carefully maintained arrangement. It’s exactly as unsettling as you’d expect—dialogue slightly off, light relentless and flat, bodies observed and observing. Mescal and Ronan move through it like they’re in glass. By the end you’re not sure what you actually watched or if understanding it was ever the point. The film works on you anyway, in a way that’s not comfortable but is effective.
Palina Rojinski was on stage at Flamingo Berlin exactly like you’d want her to be—completely committed to the moment, not performing the idea of performance but actually doing it. The night was supposedly a launch party for some Adidas website about culture and music. You know what those are: a brand trying to seem relevant by proximity to real artists, polished surfaces, press releases hiding inside the event itself. But Palina wasn’t interested in that. She was there to make something happen.
Uffie showed up too. In the early 2000s, she was making strange small-large bedroom recordings on MySpace—music that sounded intimate and massive at the same time, impossible to categorize. She was serious about it, which is harder than it sounds. The irony-poisoned internet didn’t quite know what to do with someone who wasn’t in on the joke. Just an artist making music like it mattered.
Rye Rye came from hip-hop, the version where it’s about conviction and presence, where you can feel the actual weight of the work in the room. Not the radio version. The version where your commitment is the only thing that holds it together.
Three artists from different worlds, different eras, different ideas about what performance means. That shouldn’t work on the same stage. But Berlin is the kind of place where incompatible things collide naturally, where nobody feels the need to explain why these specific people are in the same room.
The portal, the brand, the reason for the event—all of that faded away the moment anything real started happening. What mattered was three people who actually knew what they were doing, performing without calculation, without irony underneath. Palina made sure that’s what the night was about. She just decided that if you’re going to do this, you do it right.
I found this old list somewhere — a collection of weekend missions, each one more ridiculous than the last, each one supposedly mandatory. Join a Berlin-only social network that’d be a ghost town by next month. Watch a porn star documentary, then stick to amateur videos with your heavy-set friend. Watch the Lana Del Rey SNL performance with the sound off — please God, with the sound off.
Go make fake gold bracelets from plastic bangles and show up to Fashion Week like you know someone. Hack some websites if you’re feeling anarchic about it. Burn something. Participate in a shitstorm against whoever, or buy some nice shoes instead — the list was equal parts thoughtful and completely indifferent to consequences.
Mixed in with the chaos was actually good advice that I still think about: read more, go see your best friend, specifically kiss her. The post warned this might land you in jail, which I appreciated. Not bothering to pretend the suggestion was safe, just acknowledging it as a risk worth taking. Either the best night of your life or a prison cell — no gray area.
What got me was how much it refused to choose. Not motivational quotes, not a life-hack list. Not pure anarchic nonsense either. It was both at once — genuinely useful advice tangled up with absurd, impossible, or dangerous suggestions, all presented with the same deadpan severity. Burn something and read more belonged in the same list, weighted equally.
The consequence for failure was always the same: you’d never come back, forced to read something else forever. I don’t know if anyone actually did these things. But I like that this list existed. The specificity of it, the mixing of the real with the ridiculous, the casual cruelty of the goodbye threat — it feels like something you’d actually want to be part of, even knowing you’d probably fail.
Santigold doesn’t make music for people who need things explained. There’s always this tightness to her work, even when it’s loud — a sense she’s holding back something sharper underneath. The title alone tells you where this is going. She’s been doing this long enough that I know she’s not interested in being polite about anything.
SOPA was the Stop Online Piracy Act, which sounds like something that should exist, until you read what it actually did. A congressman named Lamar S. Smith had written this proposal that would let the US government block websites, remove them from search engines, cut off their ad revenue, and make them inaccessible to Americans — not just the piracy sites, but anything that contained even one piece of copyrighted material someone decided was illegally uploaded. YouTube, Flickr, Tumblr, Reddit, Wikipedia. Any site where users could post content. All of it would be on the table.
The proposal came from the usual place: the MPAA, the RIAA, the entertainment industry people who’d been terrified of the internet since they realized they couldn’t control it. They kept trying. Every few years, a new law, a new way to lock things down tighter. SOPA was just the most obvious middle finger they’d thrown at how the internet actually worked, which is to say, freely.
I remember reading the details and feeling something between resignation and disgust. There was this predictable quality to it, like watching someone try the same thing over and over expecting different results. The copyright holders saw piracy as an existential threat, and their solution was to break the internet itself. If one person uploaded something illegal, the entire site got blacklisted. That was the proposal. That’s how little these people understood what they were trying to regulate.
What mattered was that some people actually understood what would happen if it passed. Google, Facebook, Sony, even some of the big companies that had reason to care about copyright, they all said no. The blackout on January 18th, 2012 — Wikipedia going dark, Reddit, Mozilla — it made people pay attention. Even Obama said he’d veto it. And it died.
But the whole thing stayed with me because it showed how easy it would be. How close we came to having the whole internet restructured around fear of liability. Every site owner would’ve had to police every upload, every comment, every link. The internet would’ve become this timid, sterile thing. I’d still have been able to use it, but it would’ve been gutted from the inside. Neutered by lawyers and fear.
That never happened. But it could’ve. And there’s always another version of the same idea waiting in the wings.
Rusko’s dubstep hits different when you’re alone in a room with the bass turned up loud enough to feel it in your ribs. There’s this moment in the track where everything drops and rebuilds itself into something almost vulnerable, which shouldn’t work for a producer known for skull-crushing wobbles and distortion, but it does. The UK bass movement never quite stayed still long enough to explain itself to people who needed it explained, and Rusko was always more interested in the wreck than the rules anyway. This one stays with you.
Tellier’s voice on these tracks has this floating quality—not quite ethereal, more like he’s singing from inside a warm room with the windows open. Pépito Bleu moves without rushing, French-language pop that doesn’t feel like it needs to prove anything to you. There’s a kind of contentment in it, almost meditative in how the arrangements sit, giving you space to actually listen instead of demanding your attention. It’s the sort of thing that gets better the more you hear it, the kind of record that feels like it was made for late afternoon or early evening, when the day’s done but the light’s still around.
He moves between platforms, between visions, between what he announces and what he actually builds. It feels like a hunt for something specific—a problem only he can see. Maybe he’s found it. Maybe he’s still looking.
I spent a week traveling around—different cities, hotels, airports, people everywhere sweating and smoking and taking up space. The one thing every place had in common: no internet. Not really. Not when I needed it.
Hotels wanted fifteen euros for a day of WiFi that barely moved. Airports gave you thirty minutes free if you bought something overpriced first. There was a Nike network that only wanted to sell you running shoes, McDonald’s WiFi that actually worked if you didn’t mind camping there forever, Starbucks that kept you going until your battery died. I walked around holding my phone up like I was praying, hunting for open networks, checking if they were real or just honeypots. Half the time they were fake or too slow to matter.
I told myself it was for work—email, staying visible in whatever digital world we’re all supposed to live in now. But really I just wanted to scroll. Read dumb tweets. Look at whatever was trending. The fact that I couldn’t do that without either hunting for WiFi or dropping money on some corporate hotspot made me angry in a way I’m embarrassed to admit. Irrationally furious at nothing and everything.
I’m not even saying it should be free, though it probably will be eventually. But twenty euros for a full week of solid connectivity, everywhere I am, no asterisks? That seems fair. That’s what it was worth to me. Instead everything was fragmented and limited and had fine print attached.
What got to me was the futility. We’ve built the entire modern world on the assumption that everyone’s connected. But we haven’t actually committed to making that possible. It’s absurd.
So here’s what I want to say to whoever controls this: make it work. Charge if you need to. But actually make it work. Everywhere. No strings attached. Because the image of me orbiting Starbucks for hours just to have decent connectivity isn’t progress. It’s depressing. And you know it.
She emerged in the early 2010s with this sleek electronic-pop sound that made anyone with taste take notice, even if not that many people were actually listening. Her album “Night Time, My Time” was the kind of thing that felt too specific, too carefully crafted to ever go mainstream—but then, she wasn’t making things for the charts. What strikes me about her work is how genuine it all feels. The videos, the production, the aesthetic—it reads like something that came from somewhere real, not assembled from a Pinterest board. That kind of integrity is rarer than it should be.
I moved to Berlin thinking I was immune. Turns out everyone thinks that—it’s part of the guarantee the city makes you. Within a year you’re in some gallery basement that used to be a bathhouse, drinking wine that costs nine euros because the bottle’s ugly, nodding at people you’ve seen three hundred times but never spoken to. The thing about hipsterdom in Berlin is that it’s so complete, so inevitable, that pretending you’re above it just makes you complicit in a different way. You become ironic about your own participation, which the city has already accounted for. It’s not that Berlin turns you into a hipster. It’s that Berlin is a city built specifically so that becoming a hipster feels like having no other choice.
Sitting alone at home, wondering what happened. The party invitations come through—decent ones, people I actually like—and I still choose the couch. Getting older, I’m thinking seriously about getting a cat, just something that loves you back without asking for anything in return.
That’s the shape of life at this age. Not wanting the crowds, but something warm that simply accepts you.
I haven’t actually gotten the cat. So here’s a playlist instead. Soft and rough mixed together—the kind of thing I put on when solitude stops feeling like loneliness and starts feeling like the only choice that makes sense. You listen and realize the quiet is fine.
Twenty hours of flying—stops in London and LA—and I finally made it to Vegas. Apparently I’m staying in a villa that MTV used for some reality show, crammed in with twenty other bloggers who had the audacity to start a website. Oliver from Zeitgeschmack is here. Simon from Blogwerk. Anna from Hi-Tech. You get the picture. Some of the others are probably already lost in whatever nightclub or bar passes for fun in this place.
Microsoft invited us out for CES 2012—Consumer Electronics Show, the annual tech pilgrimage. Windows 8, new Kinect stuff, Xbox games. Nintendo’s showing the Wii U. Sony brought the PlayStation Vita. Every tech company imaginable has set up booths, some with genuinely clever stuff, most with devices nobody will remember in a month.
And then there’s the celebrity parade. Justin Bieber is here. So is 50 Cent. Eliza Dushku. Jillian Michaels, for reasons unclear. Miss America showing up to attempt coherent speech. Tiësto’s doing a live concert on Twitter. It’s this strange mix of technology and C-list entertainment that nobody asked for but somehow exists anyway.
I’m hanging around until Thursday, then catching a bus through the desert to LA and flying back to Berlin. If I make it. There’s a Destructoid video that explains CES—gets interesting around minute twelve. But honestly, I’m just here to see what happens when you throw tech nerds, free alcohol, and a party circuit into one place and see what sticks.
A Terry Richardson photo of Charlotte Free: tongue out, that familiar provocation. What gets me is the complicity. His camera makes you feel like you’re getting away with something, and maybe that’s the whole point. Free looks like she’s in on it—or maybe she’s just accepted that this is what his lens does. Either way, it sticks with you. Not because it’s beautiful. Because you can’t quite shake the feeling that you shouldn’t be looking.
Raita was one of those girls in class who drew manga constantly. Pages and pages of terrible action poses and love triangles ripped straight from Sailor Moon. She’d show you her work with this desperate hope, and you’d say it was good because you didn’t have the heart to be honest. But she was getting better, which made watching the progression almost interesting.
For the last decade or so, she’s been pouring everything into Katawa Shoujo. It started as character sketches on 4chan in 2007, designs for a story set at Yamaku High, a school in Japan for disabled teenagers. You play as Hisao, a student there, and the game is essentially a dating sim — you’re trying to date these girls. One’s scarred from a severe fire. One lost a leg in an accident. One was born blind. The title translates literally to “cripple girls,” which should tell you everything about the tact level here.
But it actually became something real. Programmers and artists from around the world saw those sketches and started building. A full visual novel came together with actual writing and actual character depth. It got released free on Windows, Mac, and Linux in English and German and Russian and plenty of other languages.
That’s the strange thing about the internet sometimes. Someone you barely remember makes something weird and crude, and the internet decides to help finish it into something that actually works.
I first heard Walk Off The Earth’s version when it was everywhere online, and it took me a while to realize why it worked so well. Gotye’s original is all restraint and distance—a song about the strangeness of encountering someone from your past. They turned it into something participatory and alive, all those loops building up until the whole thing is a collective stomp. Same song, but where Gotye was examining the feeling, they were inviting you into it.
King Krule’s music sounds like someone’s interior collapsing in real time. That scratched voice of his, the way he staggers between whisper and scream, makes you feel like you’re eavesdropping on something you shouldn’t hear. He pulls from punk and hip-hop and soul without announcing it, which is the whole point. There’s weight to everything he does—you can feel whatever’s eating at him bleeding through every track.
Adidas hired Palina Rojinski to edit a fashion website they called News for Original Girls. It was 2012, Berlin Fashion Week timing, and the whole thing was premised on the idea that girls who liked fashion could also have an actual brain, that you didn’t have to choose.
Palina was a TV host, known for parties and energy. They assembled writers and photographers around her, pulled from the internet, carefully selected to create this magazine that was supposed to be smart. The copy was all about building a community for people who wanted both style and substance.
I don’t remember how long it lasted. Probably a few years at most. By now it’s just another thing from that period when brands started becoming publishers and you genuinely couldn’t distinguish between advertising and actual content. Not even a line between them—more like they’d merged completely. Everyone just accepted it.
First week of the year wasn’t completely awful. Came in drunk, sure, but the days had a nice drift to them. Now it’s the weekend—if you’re not completely exhausted, here are some genuinely stupid things worth trying.
Answer the Sternsingers wearing nothing but an Aldi bag on your head while you hum Michael Jackson. Shake your genitals. They won’t come back. Listen to “Genesis” by Grimes and just accept that it’s good she exists. Move to Sweden. Join the Church of File-Sharing. Call it a life won. Fight the Barbification trend by posting only completely unedited photos. Start something new: the courage to be naturally ugly. Breathe quieter.
Buy Futurama Monopoly and tell your mom she’s still got laundry, still needs to bake cookies in the basement, still has to fetch you acne cream. Use your middle finger more. Point it at anyone who annoys you. Point it at everyone else too.
Check out Una’s Tits if you’re somehow in Antarctica. Accept that you’re not indie. You’re just a slut in a grandma sweater. Surrender to the simple beauty of really good black and white photos.
There’s this specific moment that gets me every time. Someone writes something mean in a comment—an attack on how you look, what you think, the work you do—and you know they’d never say it to your face. Not because they’re too polite, but because they’d lose their nerve. The anonymity is everything. Without it, they’re nobody.
I’ve gotten the full range. Comments about my appearance, some creative and some just lazy. Criticism of things I’ve written about that completely misses the point, like I haven’t thought about the bigger picture. The weird part isn’t the malice—it’s how pathetic the effort usually is. A few words, often misspelled, typed out with the seething conviction of someone who’s just found their reason to be angry that day.
You start to see patterns if you pay attention. Certain phrasings come back. The same grudges resurface. Specific people develop their own styles. If you run something online long enough, you recognize the regulars, even when they’re trying to hide. They leave traces without realizing it. And there’s this cyclical thing about it—you ban one, and another shows up. You delete their comment, and they come back with a new angle. The futility of it all is the thing that’ll drive you insane if you let it.
The temptation is always to engage. To explain yourself. To prove them wrong. To lay out exactly why their complaint makes no sense. I’ve done it. It’s never worked. The satisfying thing, I’ve found, is the opposite: just delete it. Let all their effort vanish. Don’t even acknowledge it happened. They’ll be furious, and that fury is the only proof that something actually landed, but it won’t be anything they wanted.
There’s also a difference between trolls and actual haters. Trolls are mostly just loud. They’re compensating for something—a bad day, a failed life, the fact that nobody listens to them anywhere else. But then there are people who are genuinely vicious, genuinely interested in harm. Those get deleted too, but for different reasons. They’re not looking for attention; they’re looking to hurt. That’s a line that matters.
The vast majority of people reading whatever you’ve made don’t say anything. They show up, they read, they leave. They come back. They recommend it to someone. They’re the actual audience, the reason any of this matters. The trolls are just noise on top of it. It’s easy to forget that when one of them is screaming, but the numbers tell you what’s real.
I used to think there was a solution. Some way to stop it. Now I just think trolls are a permanent fixture of putting anything into the world. The internet gave them a tool, but they’ve always existed—they’re just schoolyard bullies who found a place where consequences don’t exist. And maybe that’s the most honest thing about the whole thing: we all know better, but we keep reading them anyway.
She entered the industry as a teenager, did the work, and then did something most people from that world don’t do — she talked about it honestly, about how it functions and what it costs. Not a redemption narrative or a cautionary tale, just a refusal to be nothing but the image. That takes a specific kind of nerve. Most figures in adult entertainment either vanish or become the product forever. Andrews claimed something different: the right to be known as the person behind the work, not just the work itself.
Four thousand photographs from a week in Japan. Mike Matas traveled through Kyoto, Nara, Hakone, and Tokyo in late November with his girlfriend, riding trains between temples and tea houses and markets. Instead of filing all those images away, they made them into a video with some tinkling piano music underneath. The kind of thing you watch and feel that specific ache, knowing someone else got there first and got to live in it for a week. Japan is one of those places that haunts you even when you haven’t been, and watching someone else’s footage just makes it worse.
When the Wulff thing happened—when Germany’s president got caught calling newspaper editors to kill a story about his house credit—I watched something unfold that actually frightened me. The speed. The way people who normally think of themselves as smart and cultured just surrendered to it, no questions asked.
The SPIEGEL called it the “Mailbox Affair.” BILD demanded his head. Die Welt was calling him a Stromberg—some joke about a corrupt middle-manager that apparently fit. Every news outlet had their angle, every journalist competing to sound the most outraged. A rapper even got involved. The whole nation synchronized around the idea that this one man deserved their collective contempt.
And I’m not talking about the scandal itself. I’m talking about how easily people let themselves get swept up. How the media kept pouring fuel on the fire day after day, and almost nobody seemed to notice they were being herded toward a conclusion that was already decided. No real skepticism. No one holding back. Just an inevitable wave of consensus forming until everyone was saying the same thing in the same tone of voice.
What scared me was how recognizable it all looked. Kids in school say Germany couldn’t fall into something like the Nazi era again. They’re confident. They think it couldn’t happen now, couldn’t happen here. But I watched how fast people stop thinking once you have the right enemy, the right pressure, the right machinery of media pointing in one direction. I watched how thin that layer of civilization really is. How quickly people trade in their individual judgment for the safety of the mob.
That’s what got to me. Not Wulff’s career, not his future—he was always going to be fine. But the mechanism itself. How quickly it can be activated. How little it takes to flatten dissent, to make people stop asking questions, to turn a whole nation into a single voice. Screaming at the same target.
And I’m not sure we’ve learned anything since then.
Arvida Byström makes photographs that look deliberately ugly in a way that matters. She photographs her own body—hairy, messy, unglamorous—and the provocation isn’t about shocking people for shock’s sake. It’s about refusing the idea that a woman’s body, especially one that’s supposed to appeal to men, needs to be smooth or polished or fuckable on demand. The title references Nabokov, but that’s almost beside the point. What matters is the refusal. The hair, the angles, the plainness of it. She looks at the camera like she’s not performing anything for anyone, and that’s rare in photography, where even the most experimental work often ends up being about some kind of gaze. Her work is about its own gaze.
There’s something about coming back to Sam Beam’s fingerpicking after years away — the precision of it, every note exactly where it needs to be, nothing wasted. It’s patient music, the kind that asks something of you. Not aggressively, just quietly, in the way someone sits across from you and won’t look away. You find yourself listening differently in your forties than you did at twenty-five. Not better, just less defensive about it. Less worried about what it says about you to want something so gentle, so small, so honest about its own sadness. That’s what folk music is, I guess — an argument that feeling things carefully is its own kind of strength.
Youth Lagoon makes the kind of music that dissolves before you can fully understand it. Everything is so densely layered and dreamy that it feels private, like you’re listening to someone’s mind working rather than a finished composition. I found most of their catalog by stumbling around at weird hours of the night and never really left. That July especially, I kept coming back—not because I was analyzing anything, just because the sound made more sense than whatever was actually happening around me.
The Scissor Sisters made pop music that wasn’t trying to be something else. ’Shady Love’ is pure gloss and beat, total theater, and that’s the whole appeal. I’ve never understood people who need their pop to hide under irony or reach for some deeper meaning. Sometimes the surface is the entire point.
I’m pretty sure the international society of couch-bound slobs voted me their president. I don’t exercise. I eat like someone who’s completely given up. I’d probably spend weeks fused to my sofa if I wasn’t vaguely afraid of what would happen after.
Since I’m clearly not alone in my commitment to declining everything about wellness culture, someone has to keep trying. IBM, of all companies, just patented a system that supposedly wants to change all this. They’re offering to pay you to eat better. Not points, not app credits, not some corporate loyalty scheme—actual money.
The idea is straightforward. The system recognizes what you’re eating. Grab an apple, you get bonus points. Grab a chocolate muffin buried in frosting, you get nothing. Somehow it even catches you if you cheat—if you throw your vegetables in the trash and pretend you ate them. Each month, you cash out your bonus points for real cash.
The whole thing is absurd in that particularly tone-deaf way that only a giant tech corporation can manage. But here’s the actual question, the one I’m stuck on: Would I do it? Would I trade my hamburgers and fried cheese and whatever else for money? I think maybe for the first week. Then I’m back to my old life, lighter wallet, same habits.
By early 2012, Grooveshark had become unusable. Not slowly—it crossed some threshold where the ads and crashes and vanishing songs outweighed whatever had made it worth using in the first place. Ringtone ads everywhere. Pages that would freeze. Playlists breaking for no reason, tracks suddenly flagged as unavailable.
For a while Grooveshark had been good at one thing: finding versions of songs that officially didn’t exist. Remixes, deep cuts, weird regional versions—the stuff that didn’t belong on Spotify but lived in some legal gray area online. You could build a collection from that chaos, and it felt like you’d figured out something the official services didn’t want you to know about.
By January I gave up and switched to SoundCloud. It wasn’t elegant or professional, but it worked. The playlists stayed put. The links didn’t break. It was messier than Grooveshark ever was—bedroom producers uploading bootlegs, a chaotic timeline—but there was something honest about that. Less pretense. More real.
The annoying part was hunting through SoundCloud to rebuild what I’d organized, clicking through looking for specific remixes I remembered, finding most of them, accepting that some were gone forever. You do it anyway. You rebuild the playlist like it matters.
Sat across from her at that place downtown and knew within five minutes it wasn’t happening. Not because anything was wrong exactly—she was fine, smart enough, looked like her pictures. But there was nothing there, no spark, no reason to be sitting in those particular chairs at that particular moment instead of literally anywhere else. You go through the motions anyway because bailing early feels worse than staying, so you order a drink you don’t want and ask questions you already know the answers to.
That’s the real punishment of a bad date—not that it’s bad, but that you have to sit there pretending it might get better, watching the clock, hoping she doesn’t notice you’re not actually listening. You leave knowing you wasted an evening and she probably left knowing the same thing, and nobody’s going to say it out loud.
Bonnie Strange throws the kind of New Year’s Eve thing that doesn’t feel like an obligation. Everyone’s actually interesting, nobody’s trying too hard, and the night just moves right — no forced countdowns, no resolution talk, just people with actual taste spending an evening together.
Last one of these for the year, so here’s the full collection. A hundred-song playlist you’re supposed to listen to straight through—your computer will definitely die in the attempt. Weird anonymous sex with internet strangers, the kind where you might accidentally send your intimate confessions to a family member or that teacher you hated. Only throwing trash in containers where it explicitly says you can’t. Letting someone teach you how to dance to electronic music and then spending the whole night falling for them.
Someone gave me this whole lecture about how consumer capitalism is designed to hollow you out, so I’m only buying green packaging for a while, which lasted about ninety minutes. Holding your friend’s newborn and saying something deeply inappropriate about what she’ll become, and actually meaning it. Listening to an Adele cover by some Korean artist until it stops being emotionally devastating and just becomes sound. Ending the year with Nyan Cat because it’s the only appropriate note to finish on.
These things don’t cohere into meaning. They don’t add up to anything. They’re just the small, stupid tasks you collect because otherwise the weekend is just hours you’re awake for, and you need them to be about something, even if that something is completely absurd.
My Facebook account got nuked a month ago. Deleted, blocked, deactivated—I still don’t know which, and Mark didn’t explain. When your job lives online, a month is basically forever.
I waited around for someone from Facebook to respond. Stared out the window. Played old video games I’d already forgotten were bad. The days just stretched. Nothing happened.
Eventually I got tired of it. No Facebook? Fuck that. I know the whole thing is a dystopia designed to steal your life, but you have to be in the room to say anything about it. Being gone means you’re not heard.
So I signed back up, which was definitely against their terms and probably means I’m getting locked in Mark’s basement with bread, water, and WiFi that barely works. But it felt good to be back, liking things, seeing photos of people I barely remember, all the familiar noise.
Except nobody’s actually there. No one spamming me with farm game invites, no one posting pictures of their feet at weird angles, no one in the secret group chat complaining about their job. Facebook without real people is just a void. Which might be what it always is, come to think of it.
Tom Jones singing about a woman who destroys him and he keeps coming back anyway. That’s the whole thing — the obsession, the anger, the way she’s both the problem and the only thing that matters. It’s overwrought and theatrical and completely sincere, which is why it works. The song doesn’t explain anything or ask for sympathy. It just shows you a man undone by someone he can’t leave, and lets that speak for itself. There’s something true in that mess.
Christmas shows up in five days and I haven’t bought anything except lottery tickets and warm beer from the same gas station everyone’s crowding into. The gift selection there is almost perfect if you’re not trying—scratched-up chocolates, magazines you’d never admit to owning, an energy drink in the wrong flavor. It works.
The season’s got this stranglehold on you. Visit the markets, feel appropriately festive, buy things that supposedly mean something. I’m done pretending. I’m making a shirt that says I skipped every Christmas market and I’m proud of it. I’m taping antlers on the cat. Mixing cheap Mexican liquor with whatever juice is closest and Red Bull from the discount bin. It tastes like garbage but the taste isn’t the point.
My uncle gets drunk and spends three hours explaining how everything’s falling apart. He’s not wrong, so I listen. Both of us end up wrecked about it. That’s probably the realest conversation of the week.
The stupid plans start accumulating in my head. Stay young by eating less. Move to Sweden right now, get some pointless job, marry a model, have five kids, buy rural property, grow old together, come back home fifty years later and never mention it. That one’s genuinely sounding good.
The cat looks ridiculous with antlers. The liquor tastes wrong. My uncle’s crying about things that don’t get fixed and I’m crying with him because nothing gets fixed. That’s actually what the season is.
If you can’t get actual drugs or you’ve had your stash confiscated, there’s always Perfume. They’re a Japanese electro-pop group from Hiroshima — three people: Ayano Ōmoto, Yuka Kashino, and Ayaka Nishiwaki — and they make music that sounds like it was built in a lab specifically to liquify your brain.
You put on “Computer Driving” or “Vitamin Drop” or “Electro World” and for the next few minutes you’re not thinking about anything except the colors and the noise. Your actual problems just disappear. The speed is disorienting in a good way. When it stops you’re left stupid-happy, the kind of happiness that makes you wonder if you’ve actually broken something in there or if this is what feeling good feels like for people who aren’t naturally depressed.
The weird part is that the feeling sticks around. You’re not quite the same after you’ve heard that much intensity. Something rearranges itself in there.
I listen to Perfume when I’m working. Probably explains most of what I end up making.
I’ve burned out on most of the artists everyone went crazy for. James Blake doesn’t work for me anymore. Lana Del Rey can keep it. Tyler, the Creator, Casper—not my guy. But Lykke Li I keep coming back to, even when I’m supposed to be over it. There’s something in her voice, this rawness, the way she doesn’t hide anything, that just works.
The Lost Sessions is a free playlist of acoustic versions: “Youth Knows No Pain,” “Jerome,” “I Follow Rivers.” Songs I’ve already worn thin. Hearing them stripped back further doesn’t change anything. I was always going to return to this anyway.
Kids packed into neon boxes with coins in their pockets, hands on joysticks, eyes locked on screens glowing through smoke and cabinet speakers. That was everywhere else—Asia, America, Europe—while Germany got regulation-killed before the culture even took root. Legal crackdowns on youth gambling addiction strangled it in the crib, the surviving arcades turned into dingy adult places, and by the time home consoles arrived it was already gone.
I only know what it was like from films and from glimpses during travels—kids hunched over Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, Tekken, chasing the next high score like it was everything. That’s a childhood experience I won’t have. It’s strange how old 80s photographs hit when you know the thing in them is vanished. Not from the world entirely, but from where it belonged.
Maybe the regulation made sense—protect the kids, kill the addiction before it starts. But something disappeared that didn’t have to: a space where the game wasn’t just yours alone, wasn’t bound to your living room. It was loud and chaotic and it belonged to everyone. Home consoles filled the void instead, which is fine, but it’s not the same. The real thing was the place, the bodies, the coins disappearing.
There’s something uniquely disorienting about a Christmas party where everyone’s in costume. You’re supposed to be festive and present, but you’re also performing a version of yourself that feels both more true and more false than usual. I went to one years ago where half the room showed up as sexy versions of things that shouldn’t be sexy—animals, professions, whatever. It was ridiculous and kind of perfect. The effort people put into looking good while pretending not to care, the way a costume gives you permission to be weirder or more forward than you normally would—that’s always gotten to me. There’s a whole language of disguise and desire wrapped up in it. Now I mostly stay home and look at other people’s photos, which feels more honest somehow.
Looking back at a year of writing, what I remember isn’t the articles themselves but the gaps between them — the months when nothing seemed worth saying, and then suddenly a string of pieces that all landed in a few weeks. 2011 was scattered. Fractured in a way that felt honest at the time. I was writing about whatever caught my attention: a film, a thought about design, some piece of culture that wouldn’t let go. No agenda, no grand narrative. Just trying to document what mattered when it mattered.
There’s a point in every Christmas afternoon when the family is sitting around bloated and satisfied, and someone puts on “Silent Night” or whatever, and the room goes quiet. Tradition, restraint, the old songs everyone’s heard a hundred times. The holiday works because of that moment.
Then I found Christian Dubstep, and I understood that this was an album made by someone who looked at that moment and thought, No. What this needs is bass so heavy it makes your teeth vibrate.
The tracklist reads like a crisis of faith run through a synthesizer: “God Gave Me,” “O Praise Him,” “Forgive Me.” Each one crushed under the kind of production that’s supposed to destroy you in a club at 3 AM. Skrillex worship music. Jesus getting down.
What gets me is how completely sincere it is. No one made this as a joke. Someone genuinely believed this was the future of Christian music. And maybe there’s something right about that—if you’re committing to dubstep, why not commit fully? Why not make God the subject? The faith is total, which is almost admirable in how stupid it is.
I never actually played it for anyone. Just thought about it—the image of it, everyone expecting carols and getting dropped into frequencies that shouldn’t exist in a room with aging relatives. That moment in my head is the real subject. The thought is enough.
Deichkind are the kind of band you’d listen to in a friend’s car and immediately understand why they’re worth your time. German electronic music that’s satirical and deliberately absurd, technically sharp while acting like it doesn’t take itself seriously—except it clearly does. ’Illegale Fans’ probably points at something about devotion that can’t be controlled or commodified, which fits their whole project perfectly. They’re smarter than their jokes, which is exactly why the jokes work. I like artists who don’t need you to like them.
I remember Christmas baking like it’s one of those things where you convince yourself it might work just because someone competent is there. Lena actually knew what she was doing. Janos came along for the ride. Thang helped knead the dough while we mixed schnaps into coffee and stood around drinking it. Chris Rea played in the background. December doesn’t give you a choice about Chris Rea.
We shaped these little crescents and felt genuinely confident about them. The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and orange and whatever we’d poured into that coffee. Lena had to leave for the gym, which should have been my warning — the moment the competent person leaves is the moment you realize you’re actually on your own. But we didn’t notice. We threw the tray in the oven and settled in with Home Alone, a movie I’d seen so many times I barely paid attention to it.
By the time Kevin got to New York, the kitchen was thick with smoke. I opened the oven and just stared at what we’d made. Not brown. Black. Completely charred. They looked like shit — genuinely, unmistakably shit. Little nuggets of pure failure sitting on a tray. Nobody said anything. We all just looked at what we’d accomplished.
That’s when you find out what you’re actually made of. We called the place we trusted and ordered a full meal for four. Sat on the floor with the windows open, Home Alone still playing, and ate it all without irony. Better than anything that came out of that oven. Sometimes the best meal is the one you don’t cook.
There’s something about pixel designs in black and white that strips everything down to pure geometry. No color to distract you, no texture or gradient—just the grid, the constraint of square units, the way pixels force you into honest shapes. The clothes work because they don’t try to be anything else. You wear them and you’re not performing minimalism or paying homage to computer culture. It’s just clean lines and small repeating forms. The kind of thing that feels right whether you’re scrolling through code or walking around the neighborhood.
Renée mentioned this British series to me, Black Mirror. I watched it because the UK had been putting out genuinely good stuff—Skins, Misfits, The Inbetweeners—and she said this was different.
The opening episode: a prime minister gets blackmailed into fucking a pig on live television. Not as a metaphor, not off-camera. Brooker just holds the shot, holds your attention, and you feel the weight of what it does to a person and a nation both. The camera doesn’t look away.
It’s an anthology—each episode is its own story, different characters and futures, but the pattern stays the same. Technology you recognize or can imagine (social platforms, neural implants, memory recording, gameshow logic) gets turned into a weapon. Or reveals that it was always designed to be one.
There’s an episode about Bing, a guy in some future where everything’s gamified and streamed. He meets Abi and they connect and then he watches her get absorbed into digital pornography—her image broken up and commodified and distributed while he’s completely helpless. That helplessness is the structure. It’s what the system was built for.
What stayed with me was how the show doesn’t announce itself. It just shows you the logic and lets you live inside it. Weeks later I’d still be working through one of those scenarios, imagining myself in that choice, knowing what I’d do and hating it.
There’s a particular kind of discomfort in recognizing the technology that’s already here—surveillance, metrics, exposure—and watching someone demonstrate its endpoint with calm confidence. Like Brooker’s just showing you what was always coming.
MTV and Microsoft are sending me to Las Vegas in early January for the International CES. For anyone who doesn’t follow the tech world, it’s basically the IFA but American—bigger, louder, absolutely certain that revolutionary products are about to change everything. Casino halls full of speeches from Google and Facebook and Sony, every gaming company and film studio showing off their latest thing. The standard hype machine about the future of living rooms and kitchens and bedrooms.
I’m getting a Windows Phone 7.5 and a new laptop out of it. Microsoft’s essentially treating me like a field correspondent. MTV wants me on camera occasionally, talking into their rigs about whatever’s happening in the convention halls. It’s not dignified but it’s a free trip.
The real trip starts after CES ends. I’m taking a bus down to Los Angeles alone. No preset agenda beyond the things you’re supposed to see—Hollywood, the studios, Chinatown, whatever. I’ve made it this far without visiting LA and it started feeling like I was missing something obvious.
The drive from Vegas to LA is when it stops feeling like a business obligation. Eight hours on a bus, leaving the conference behind, heading somewhere that actually feels like a destination instead of a corporate event.
I keep joking about not buying a return ticket, about staying and finding work on Sunset Boulevard. It’s the kind of joke you make about any trip, but there’s something real underneath it—the fantasy of just not going back. I know I will go back. But I like that the thought exists at all.
When the cold sets in and darkness arrives by mid-afternoon, that’s when it all surfaces. Where the year actually went. Who I’ve lost, who’s come into my life. What I missed and what I somehow grabbed anyway. Whether any of it’s made me happier. Whether I’m even asking the right question.
The snow comes quiet over the roofs and fields. It muffles everything, which should be peaceful, except the silence just amplifies what’s already loud in your head. That’s where the music comes in. Scott Matthew, William Fitzsimmons, Gregory And The Hawk — these are the voices I want walking beside me through the cold. They understand something about the slowness of winter, the way it makes you sit with yourself.
So I take a walk. Not because I think it’ll change anything, not because there’s an answer waiting at the end of the street. Just because the body needs to move when the mind gets too loud, and sometimes that’s the only remedy.
There’s something about a musical that commits completely to its own absurdity, no apologies, that makes you respect it even when it shouldn’t work. Earth Girls Are Easy is this Technicolor fever dream from 1988, all neon and glitter and sex jokes, a ’50s pastiche that doesn’t bother pretending it’s anything other than what it is. Jeff Goldblum in a full captain’s outfit, aliens landing in the San Fernando Valley, a musical number in a nail salon — it’s silly and knowingly so, and that confidence makes it work. You watch it and realize nobody was trying to make something smart or edgy. They just wanted to make something fun that felt a little dangerous, a little raunchy, a little queer in ways you couldn’t quite name back then. It’s the kind of movie that probably felt like permission to some people.
The year’s ending. A few weekends left and nothing really matters anymore, so why not spend them on something completely pointless?
When you decide the normal rules don’t apply for a weekend, weird things become possible. Tattoo your business hours on your forehead as a permanent excuse to ignore people. Make a YouTube video of yourself singing something you don’t care about. Watch a movie so absurd you nearly choke laughing. Order weird things from the internet just to see if you’ll go through with it. Ask your religion teacher something designed to unsettle them. Go on dates with your ex’s unhappy parent just to mess with the whole situation. Eat an entire box of cereal because no one’s watching and the normal rules don’t apply.
None of it serves any purpose. That’s exactly the point. Weekends are permission to be pointless, to commit fully to something ridiculous without apologizing for it. Most of the time you’re supposed to have it together. Then Friday hits and suddenly you can be completely absurd. That’s what makes them worth looking forward to.
There’s a moment where your brain short-circuits seeing yarn covering a fence in the middle of the city. That’s the effect Sheila Pepe is going for. Brooklyn-based, she’s been wrapping parts of New York in knitting for years—bus stops, bollards, chain-link, whatever public infrastructure isn’t nailed down. Careful geometric patterns, dense enough that you can see the labor. It’s street art without the spray cans, without claiming territory. Just surface texture where there wasn’t any before.
The strangeness works. Infrastructure is supposed to be invisible, something you walk past without seeing. Covering it in handmade material breaks that completely. A knitted fence still functions as a fence, but now it asks something of you. Maybe you want to touch it. Maybe you actually look at it instead of through it.
The work reads as precisely intentional—not cute, not decorative, just geometric forms built up over hours of time. Which is unusual for public space. Usually what someone’s made with their hands stays inside, stays private. Pepe puts it on the skin of the city, and that’s a different move.
I don’t know what her artist statement says, and it doesn’t matter much. Knitting a city is its own language.
Born to Die worked because of the frame — every song sat in this thick cinematic space, all Americana and glamorous decay, sadness you could actually inhabit. The production was heavy and dense, everything sounding like the end of something. The whole album had this visual quality, like you were living inside a specific aesthetic rather than just listening to music. It mattered because it showed pop music working as design language, as architecture you move through rather than just hear.
The Avantgarde/Diaries’ Mystical Playground works like a dream — all surreal logic and private references, not bothering to make sense for anyone but itself. I’m drawn to that kind of work, the stuff that doesn’t apologize for being strange, that trusts you to find your own way through. There’s something honest about that.
The Rapture were one of those post-punk bands that made the genre feel alive again when it had been pretty thoroughly dead. They showed up around the mid-2000s with this urgent, fractured sound—dense and tight and a little frayed at the edges. When I first heard them, something clicked.
A bowling alley in London is a strange venue for a band, but there’s something right about it. The place strips away the formality of a normal rock show, the sense that the stage is sacred space. You walk in, roll some balls, order a beer, and the band is there playing. It’s more like a party that happens to have music, which suits the spirit of what The Rapture do—music as something present in the room with you, not something elevated above you.
Haven’t kept up with where they’ve gone since then. Worth circling back to.
Somewhere along the way, the blog stopped sounding like me. Not because anyone forced it—it just happened as the thing grew. It became a publication: curated, professional, with an image and an audience. I found myself unable to just post anything without worrying about how it would land. A stupid photo. A tangential thought. A random link. Everything had to be an article. Had to fit. Had to matter.
Blogging was always my outlet—like songs for musicians or drawing for artists. You throw the thought out, untangle what’s tangled, and feel lighter. But once the blog became a magazine with writers and photography and proper editing, it stopped being that. You can’t have both curation and honesty at the same intensity. One wins.
So I started something else. A completely private space to post whatever—bad ideas, photos of nothing, half-thoughts. Pointless. Completely mine. Named it Broken Dreams Club.
The main blog keeps growing. It’s exactly what it should be. I’m fine with it not being mine anymore. What I needed was something that was, completely—no audience, no pretense, nothing to prove. I’d forgotten what that felt like. Turns out I missed it more than I realized.
When you’re sick at home with a fever, you do stupid things. You mix cough syrup with whipped cream and chase it with warm beer. You binge eight seasons of Little House on the Prairie like it’s going to save your life. Or you find yourself scrolling Tumblr for hours, which might actually be worse.
Tumblr had this specific pull. Everyone was doing visual blogs, hunting for the same aesthetic—snow-covered wolves, floating girls, breasts, old film stills, anything grayscale that felt significant. You’d reblog endlessly, curating this version of yourself that had nothing to do with who you actually were, but it felt like you were building something. Like you were saying: this matters to me, I see you, I’m part of this.
The platform understood something about how people want to present themselves. Customizable themes, the infinite dashboard, the reblog button giving you credit for passing something along. You weren’t making anything. You were just saying yes to images, accumulating evidence of your taste, your mood, what reaches you. It’s basic narcissism but also weirdly sincere.
Some people actually posted their own work. Most just collected. Either way there’s something honest about it—all those images slowly building into a portrait of who you wanted to be, or who you actually were filtered through aesthetics you didn’t create.
Scrolling through a fever makes it worse. Your brain’s loose and everything on the screen feels profound. You start thinking about your own dashboard, what it would look like, what you’d post first. You don’t actually make one. You just sit there thinking about it, which is somehow worse than if you did.
When life keeps taking shots—taxes, lawyers, your mom nagging about chores—the only escape is music that makes you feel like everything’s a musical. That was my week. Everything looks better when there’s a beat under it. So here’s what actually got me through.
Hercules & Love Affair - Blue Songs
Pure hedonism. Nostalgia, glitter, gay girls, strip shows, confetti cannons, sweat, Miami Vice, flamingo shirts. The excess doesn’t know when to stop, and why should it. If you’re not dancing to this, something’s wrong with you. Dead inside. Probably kicking puppies for fun.
Azari & III - Azari & III
Can it get gayer than Hercules & Love Affair? Barely, but yes. The 80s trash energy is so thick it puts you in darkrooms thinking about ecstasy instead of confetti. If ecstasy was a song, this would be it.
Kanye West - The College Dropout
From glitter to arrogant Ye. He’s become an asshole, let’s be honest—a pompous kid who talks too much stupid shit. But he talks with such fundamental confidence that it’s almost inspiring. The rest of us could use some of that delusion. “The College Dropout” isn’t pure joy, but it’s got this swagger of someone convinced they’re going to change the world. Maybe they will.
Jay-Z & Marvin Gaye - Brooklyn Soul
Jay-Z rapping over Marvin Gaye samples isn’t new, but this mashup sounds so natural it just works. Headphones, the bus, the city moving past. Berlin’s not Brooklyn, but at least you don’t get shot at every corner.
Weezer - Raditude
They torched half their fanbase with “Hurley,” but “Raditude” was better. Not as good as “Pinkerton,” but it’s got “The Underdogs” and “Put Me Back Together,” and if you’re not into electronic music, you need to love those songs.
There’s something different about games made by women for women—they don’t go through all the usual filters. No guessing, no justifying, no fantasy. Just something made with someone specific in mind.
There’s something unreal about a tennis court cut into the forest. The hard surface sits there like an implant among all that brown and green, the net dividing a rectangle of space that was never meant to exist. You lose the ball constantly in the trees. The silence between points gets heavier each time, and you realize you’ve driven out here not to play well but to play somewhere no one else is around. It’s the same game, the same rules, the same pointless chase, but stripping away the audience strips away whatever I thought I was doing on a court in the city. Out there, there’s nothing to prove and no one to prove it to. Just the ball and the trees and whatever I needed to think about badly enough to make the drive.
Kyary makes pop music that feels like permission to want things without overthinking them. Everything’s oversaturated, clearly artificial, whatever appeals to her stacked together. No apology, no self-consciousness about it. ’Tsukema Tsukeru’ is exactly that — color and sound and movement built as high as they’ll go. There’s a real confidence in that kind of maximalism.
Grimes makes music that sounds like it’s being transmitted through a system designed to scramble or beautify or maybe destroy whatever passes through it. Nightmusic fits the pattern — electronic arrangements so dense they feel sculptural, her voice folded into the texture rather than floating above it, everything precisely layered but never quite resolved. You listen and you believe she’s reaching for something, even when the message stays partially encrypted.
There’s this South Park episode where Stan’s dad accidentally swaps the rental cases—comes home with a copy of Lord of the Rings and the hardest porn he could find, and somehow the kids end up with the porn while trying to recover it dressed as little medieval characters. That’s the kind of chaos that lives in your head forever. It was the first thing I thought of when I heard they were actually making a proper South Park RPG.
By proper I mean proper. Not another hollow licensed game churned out to sell copies before anyone realizes it’s garbage. Obsidian’s building this—the people who made Fallout: New Vegas—so they know how to make an RPG that doesn’t feel like it was assembled by a committee. Dungeon Siege III engine, five classes including something Cartman invented, supposed to play like Paper Mario with Final Fantasy’s combat and leveling system. It’s a weird combination but it sounds right for South Park.
Trey Parker and Matt Stone are writing the story themselves. You’re a new kid who just moved to South Park, some quiet nobody who gets adopted by the main crew and immediately swept into whatever insane adventure they’ve dreamed up. That’s genuinely exciting. Good writing could make a mediocre game worth playing, and they’re not going to phone this in.
Every previous South Park game was hollow in that specific way licensed tie-ins are hollow. Five minutes of playing and you can feel the emptiness underneath—made by people treating the property as a checkbox rather than something worth making interesting. This one feels different. Feels like someone actually cared about getting it right.
It’s coming before Christmas next year on PS3, Xbox 360, and PC. 2D action, Christmas levels, Parker and Stone doing what they do best. I’m looking forward to this one. Not the vague “hope it’s decent” forward—genuinely looking forward to it. That’s rare for a licensed game.
Scroobius Pip made music for people who were thinking too much and not comfortable about it. With Dan le Sac the project felt inevitable, but his solo work since has been harder to pin down—less polished, stranger, more willing to fail. There’s something about refusing to play it safe that makes him worth following even when it doesn’t all land. Thou Shalt Always Kill is still the song that cuts deepest, the kind of thing that makes you feel like you’re not alone in your anger.
Sarah Brandner asked what I’d put in her Advent calendar and I actually spent nights thinking about it. Like, real nights where I couldn’t sleep. What do you give to someone like that? Nothing made sense until it did: a cheese pizza and Mario Kart.
The whole thing is stupid in the best way. Show up at her place with a pizza, make her play video games, find out if a model can actually handle a controller. Throw in a Game Boy loaded with Tetris and Super Mario Land and Pokémon. That’s what I’d give her. Not what you’re supposed to say, but what came to mind.
Everyone else was going the predictable route — body paint, cute haircuts, sexy uniforms, all that — and I’m lying awake thinking about Nintendo cartridges and melted cheese. Which maybe says everything about me or nothing at all. Either way, that was the gift I landed on.
“Marry The Night” is Gaga stripped down to pure devotion — the 4am version, when it’s just you and your ambition with no one watching. The video doesn’t flinch from how unhinged that looks, the sweat and isolation. It’s the kind of thing that gets to you if you’re the type to need that intensity. I used to think you’d outgrow it, but I think you just learn where to pour it instead.
Outside was a waste. Wet streets, gray sky, people who’d given up before the weekend even started. I had no idea if there was anything else out there. So I made a list of things to do—ten stupid things, just enough to keep from losing it indoors or getting lost out there.
Grab everyone and go to Prenzlauer Berg before they tear it down for good. Cuddle with the world’s biggest insect. Watch enough bad German TV to break yourself—not the quality stuff, the mind-rotting kind that leaves you blank and primitive.
Fly to Tokyo for the Pringles. I’m not joking. Bring me some back. Turn in the Pope for driving around Germany without a seatbelt; might as well share the punishment with people who won’t bore you. Watch Lana Del Rey’s new video the way she filmed it—hands exactly where they belong. You already know.
If you’re going to kill someone annoying this weekend, at least have your excuse ready: “I’m not a murderer, I’m a ghost creator.” Ada’s got bedtime stories that’ll destroy you. Grab wine and pills and rewatch Skins all the way through, live in your past for one night. (If you touch the American version I will come to your house and do something I’ll be sorry for.)
The weekend’s long. You just have to get through it.
Lykke Li’s voice cracks in exactly the right places. Her production knows when to pull back. There’s no mystery to hide behind in her songs—just someone being straight about wanting, about loss, the small devastating observations about what it means to be attached to the wrong person. You listen to her at three in the morning and you feel less alone, which is both the best and worst thing a song can do.
At 15:36 I slammed my head on the desk, folded my arms over it, and stayed there. Thirty minutes. I wasn’t quite crying, but I was close. I just couldn’t do it anymore. Finished. Done. Over.
I’d spent days thinking about what the hell I was doing with my time, and somewhere in there I started talking to myself. Then yelling. Then kicking at the mountain of tasks in front of me, spitting curses at it, and it just kept growing. More came with every complaint. I was drowning in things I couldn’t even clearly describe.
You hear about burnout from colleagues and friends. They complain and then they collapse, and your instinct is to tell them to take a week off—you just overworked yourself a little, that’s all. Toughen up, stop whining. But it was starting to make sense to me.
Everyone wanted something. Answers. Copy. PR statements. Designs. Videos. Photos. Decisions. Corrections. Just me, basically. No matter how much I typed into the computer, no matter how many calls and Skype sessions, it never stopped. Technical problems, legal problems, people problems. And then just hate. Pure hate for all of it.
I wanted to scream “fuck you all,” but I couldn’t, because I’d put myself here. I’d wanted this somehow. And they couldn’t help the fact that I’d taken on too much. So I kept going, and with every email, every checkbox crossed off, three more appeared. Four. Five. A sump of tasks, drowning me.
The obvious moves: parties, sex, alcohol, drugs, friends—anything to make it bearable. I burned it all out at parties, I had fun with people, and the moment I sat back down in front of the computer and saw the red-numbered pile of messages and wishes and expectations, I wanted to smash my head right through the screen.
It became clear something had to give when I started getting mean. Rocking back and forth in my chair like something was broken in me. Constantly asking myself what the point was, if it would ever get better, if I’d killed the fun part forever or if this was just temporary brain damage. The laptop had eaten my soul.
I don’t have a solution yet. And the self-help books and talks with friends can’t make the decision for me. Can’t tell me what comes next, how to actually change this without either blowing it all up or just lying down and letting this giant pulsing thing made of bits and bytes consume me.
The end of the year feels like the time to ease off. Take a vacation. Pull back. Maybe actually exercise for once. Figure out what’s wrong—with me, or with the world, I’m not sure which. Not slamming my head on the desk anymore. That would be a start.
Cymbals Eat Guitars never let anything settle. Their songs wind tight and bright, all restless energy with no payoff, which is exactly what makes them work. You listen and you’re instantly uncomfortable, waiting for the moment it snaps and it never does. It’s infuriating. It’s perfect.
I watch shows differently than most people. Some series only make sense if you consume them in bulk—one episode after another, whole seasons at a time. Not one per week like that’s supposed to happen. When you watch that way, the characters come alive in a different way. You’re inside their world for hours at a stretch. The relationships breathe. Everything compounds, and by the end you’re completely wrecked.
I’ve fallen hard for a few shows that do this thing perfectly. They’re all different kinds of good, but they all work best when you disappear into them.
Community is built around a group of broken people at a community college, and it’s genuinely one of the few shows that gets better every single episode. You’ve got Jeff Winger as this arrogant ex-lawyer, Britta who is exactly as much of a disaster as she seems, Abed who is something else entirely. By the third or fourth episode you’re already obsessed. Ken Jeong as the insane Spanish teacher is legendary. The paintball episodes are basically traditions at this point. The show is packed with film and TV references that land so perfectly you’ll actually fall backward off your chair from laughing. NBC canceling this show would be genuinely rage-inducing.
30 Rock starts as a story about saving a failing NBC show called “The Girlie Show”, which sounds dry until you get into it. Liz Lemon and her new boss Jack Donaghy hire a scandal-magnet movie star named Tracy Jordan to inject new life into the program. What makes it work is the same thing that makes Community work—the characters are genuinely dysfunctional and weird in ways that feel real. Tina Fey’s actual experience in TV is all over the show. Nothing feels polished or fake. It’s just smart people being completely insane.
Louis C.K.’s comedy is probably the most direct and funny stand-up you can find. The guy gets on stage and talks about his gut, his kids, fucking, pancakes, whatever, and you just destroy yourself laughing. The show Louie takes pieces of his act and builds everyday situations around them—things that could happen to anybody, except they’re happening to someone who isn’t normal at all. It’s not for everyone. If you’re squeamish about anything, you’ll probably hate it. But if you can handle it, it’s singular.
Modern Family is this thing that got so many awards it barely needs introduction, but it’s worth talking about. It follows three American families through that Office-style mockumentary format, and the comedy comes from how incompetent and clumsy these people are at basic existence. Phil and Claire and everyone else just bumbling through life. You have to sit with it for a while before it clicks, but once it does, it sticks.
Wilfred is only one season so far and ends on what might be the most infuriating cliffhanger ever made, but it’s the perfect argument for watching shows all at once instead of parceling them out. It’s adapted from something Australian and it’s a dark comedy about a guy and his dog, except the dog is the worst possible creature—cruel, constantly fucking with him, shoving him toward drugs and alcohol. But somehow it also saves him? You end up hating Wilfred and needing him at the same time. And then it just ends. You sit there furious and completely empty.
That’s what these shows do to you when you let them. That’s why you watch them in one go.
You build something bigger than a hobby and they show up. Trolls. Not when it’s still just your friends and the handful of people who actually want to be there—but once you hit a certain visibility, once things start working, they arrive. They’re not here to engage. They’re here to ruin it.
They sort into types pretty quickly. The disappointed ones, usually—you rejected their work, didn’t respond to their email, made them feel small somehow. The ideological ones who decided your whole project is fundamentally wrong. The jealous ones running their own smaller versions. The ones who just need somewhere to dump their rage and found an open comment section. Sometimes there’s real substance underneath. You did move slower. You did publish something you shouldn’t have. You did make a bad call. But they don’t want to discuss it cleanly. They want to twist it into evidence that you’re corrupt or stupid, poison the entire well. That’s when it stops being critique and becomes something else.
I’ve had the impulse plenty of times. Some artist or blogger doing something I genuinely think is garbage, and I want to leave the cruelest comment possible, just to make sure they know someone sees through them. But I don’t, because I know where it leads. Feed one and the rest show up. And it doesn’t even feel good—it’s just this small thing eating itself.
The smart move is to not engage, and it’s right, but it’s its own kind of torture. When someone attacks you, the natural response is to defend yourself, explain, set the record straight. But the moment you do, you’ve already lost. You’re playing their game. So you learn to let it go instead. Engage with the people who are actually here in good faith, and stop wasting mental energy on people whose only goal is to derail you.
Except there’s no real solution. You can’t convert them. You can’t block them all. They’re built into the system now, especially online. You accept it. Delete the worst ones. Ignore the rest. Keep working on what you’re building instead of on people trying to wreck it.
And I’ve made peace with this much: trolls are accidental proof. If people hate you badly enough to spend their time destroying you, you’ve reached something real. You’ve built something that matters enough to make people want to attack it. Safe, small, invisible work doesn’t attract that kind of aggression. So maybe they’re accidentally right about one thing—you did something worth destroying. They just chose to be the ones trying.
There’s something about the way Cee Lo Green’s voice sits in a mix — it’s almost too much, too present, demanding you hear every flex and every hurt at once. You listen to him and you get the sense that he doesn’t care if you’re ready for it. He’ll sing over a Danger Mouse production or some soulful thing that should collapse under that much personality, but it doesn’t, because the voice is doing something honest underneath all the showboating. The title says it all, I think. “Anyway.” Not defiant, exactly. Just the sound of someone who’s made peace with the fact that he’s going to be himself regardless of the circumstance, and yeah, maybe nobody asked for it, but here it is. That’s not nothing.
Polish artist Olek covers city surfaces in knit. Buildings, taxis, utility boxes, anything with a perimeter. Bright colors, repetitive patterns, thick enough that you can’t miss it. The knit sits on the hard geometry of the city like an argument—soft against rigid, handmade against municipal code.
Cities are built on old decisions. Centuries old, sometimes millennia. Streets laid out before cars existed, before electricity, blocks defined by property lines that outlived the people who drew them. I get why they stay that way—you can’t change infrastructure on a whim. The structure has weight. It’s supposed to stay.
But watching bodies move through that fixed geometry, the paths shift. People adjust. The same street is never quite the same because we’re never quite the same. Olek’s knit is about that gap, I think—between what was decided and what actually lives in a place, between permanent and fluid.
When you cover a surface in bright yarn, you’re not erasing what’s underneath. The shape is still there. But it’s been claimed, remade into something vivid in a way the city never intended. There’s mutiny in it, not against the city itself but against the idea that any of this is permanent or inevitable.
I’ve walked past transformed surfaces like this and felt something shift. A familiar taxi becomes unrecognizable. A wall you’ve seen a thousand times is suddenly alive. You can’t unsee it once it’s there. And if a taxi can be remade like that, if a wall can be remade, what else are we accepting as fixed just because we’ve always seen it that way?
Peaking Lights’ thing is making you feel like you’re remembering something that never happened. The synths sit there in that particular kind of murk they favor, the vocals drift across the top, and somehow six minutes pass and you’re thinking about someone you haven’t seen in years. Hey Sparrow does what it does. I respect music that knows exactly what it is and doesn’t apologize for it.
The taverns in the mountains are dark and warm, the kind of places where strangers become company by the second drink. You stop tracking which village you’re in after a while—the point isn’t the route, it’s the room itself. The green bottle, the local voices, the mountains invisible outside the windows. By night the whole world is just the bar, and that’s enough.
That hook hits different when you’re actually young enough to believe in it. Snoop’s voice drifting over that simple, locked-in beat, Bruno Mars on the chorus like he’s reminding you that feeling good is allowed to be that easy. The whole thing moves like it has nowhere to be and doesn’t care. There’s a casualness to it that was hard to find in hip-hop at the time — no stunting, no pressure, just the idea that your life doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone.
Wiz Khalifa’s feature feels accidental, like he wandered into the studio with weed smoke trailing behind him and decided to stay. That’s what makes it work. No one’s trying. The song plays like it made itself, like Snoop just decided to let you in on how he spends an afternoon, and you’re lucky to be there. It’s got that rare thing where a song about nothing in particular — just a vibe, just enjoying being alive — somehow says everything that matters about that moment in time.
Friday hits and you’ve got two days stretching ahead with nothing particular to fill them. This is supposed to feel liberating, but it mostly just feels empty. The work week’s done, which means you’re finally free to do whatever you want, which turns out to be nothing, or less than nothing. So you invent little missions instead. Weekend projects. Stupid things to accomplish that don’t actually matter but at least they’re something to think about besides Monday.
I’ve been doing this my whole life. You get free time and instead of actually relaxing, you construct these frameworks to make it feel productive. Like if you can just complete enough small, pointless tasks, the weekend will count as something real instead of just a gap between work weeks. Call a friend you haven’t talked to in years. Dig up some old game and see how much you can break it. Spend an evening thinking about people who probably don’t think about you. Do something stupid. Do something crude. Do something you’d be embarrassed about if anyone found out. The specifics don’t matter—what matters is that you’re doing something, that you’re not just sitting in your own head.
The absurdity is kind of the point. You know these missions won’t change anything. You know Monday’s still coming. You know the weekend will end exactly like it always does—with some vague sense of having wasted it, some quiet guilt about all the things you didn’t do, some desperate promise to yourself that next weekend will be different. But that’s fine. That’s honest. You’re not trying to fix yourself or improve as a person or make the most of your time. You’re just trying to get through Saturday and Sunday without spiraling.
There’s something true about it, once you stop pretending the weekend’s supposed to be meaningful. It’s not. It’s just time. Empty time. And you either fill it with something, even something stupid and pointless, or you don’t. Either way, Monday comes. At least if you’ve got a few absurd little missions, you have something to think about while you’re waiting for it.
The Bag Raiders remix does something clever with The Ting Tings’ Silence. The original sits thin and quiet, almost apologetic. The remix doesn’t try to blow it up—it builds density around the emptiness, layer by layer, until the space becomes its own presence. Same song, but now it fills the room.
Dominique Young Unique is what you want from a hype girl — no irony, no layers of performance, just someone radiating confidence and bringing actual energy. You hear it in how she carries a track, that certainty that we’re all about to have a good time. It’s a thing that either works completely or doesn’t, and when it does, you remember why you love this stuff.
Camille Rowe was one of those faces from the mid-2000s that you just remembered — the Strokes video, the editorials, something about the way she carried herself that felt like she knew something everyone else didn’t. Not conventionally pretty, something stranger and better. The kind of model that stays with you because she seemed like herself while everyone else was trying to be what the industry wanted them to be. Deadliest catch. She was never going to be caught.
I open my email and Facebook has suspended my account again. They’re very polite about it. The message reads like a form letter—calm, professional, impersonal. Effective immediately, I’m locked out. My profile, my pages, my contacts. All gone. But don’t blame them. They’re just the tech team, just doing their job.
What gets me isn’t that it happens. What gets me is how. Someone saw something I posted and decided it wasn’t acceptable. Maybe they thought it was funny and reported it anyway. Maybe they were having a bad day. Maybe they didn’t get the joke. They clicked a button. That was enough.
An administrator looked at whatever it was—a photo, a text, a comment—and decided I’d crossed a line so far over that I didn’t even deserve a warning. No explanation of what I did wrong. No chance to fix it or defend myself. Just judgment rendered in silence.
Even the worst legal systems give you that much. An accusation. A judge. A trial. Some record of what you’re supposed to have done. But Facebook doesn’t work that way. You get a verdict with no trial. No crime specified. No appeal process that actually works. You’re just out.
The first time it happened, I was careful. Genuinely careful. No explicit images. I even went through and censored anything remotely questionable—bent over backward to stay on the right side of their rules. And here we are again. Which somehow makes it worse.
And look, I could tell myself it doesn’t matter. I can reach people other ways. Messenger, email, phone, whatever. I could dust off the old habit of writing actual letters. But that’s mostly bullshit, and I know it.
For me, for anyone running anything on Facebook, that account isn’t just for memes and inside jokes. It’s infrastructure. It’s work. Getting banned without warning is like someone coming into your office, locking you out, and walking away. Except they also take your Rolodex, your calendar, and every client relationship you built there. The pages you run, the groups you manage, the events you promote—all inaccessible. The deals that were coming, the readers you were growing, the administrative access you need to keep things running. Gone.
So now I’m waiting. Three to nine weeks for Facebook to maybe, possibly respond to an appeal they won’t necessarily explain. In the meantime, I’m doing nothing with the biggest network on earth, and hoping the intern who pulled the trigger on this one figures out that this job isn’t for them. Preferably before he gets bored and bans someone important.
Here’s what I’ve learned: don’t build your business on systems you don’t control and can’t predict. Don’t rely on platforms that can destroy your access without explanation or recourse. The irony is that Facebook needs you to believe they’re fair and reasonable and that you can trust them with your livelihood. But they’re about as predictable as a bouncer with a chip on his shoulder. Worse, actually. At least the bouncer will throw you out to your face.
Mishka’s 2011 holiday collection by Jeremy Jansen. The lookbook was clean and understated — oversized knits that fit right, colors that looked better worn than photographed. The kind of stuff where you don’t need much explanation, just a body and the right temperature.
I’ve returned to this song more times than I’d like to admit, always at night, always when something hurt enough that I wanted to sit with it awhile. The track swallows you—that orchestral swell, Florence’s voice climbing into something desperate and beautiful and completely broken. It’s a song about wanting to drown in someone, about the logic of devotion even when it destroys you, and there’s something so honest about the way it refuses to resolve. You don’t get catharsis here. You get the cold clarity of someone who knows they should leave and won’t. That matters. Most music about heartbreak wants to comfort you or fire you up. This one just sits in the dark with you and doesn’t pretend it gets better.
Friday hits and your brain just stops. The machinery shuts down—school, work, all of it. For the next couple of days, if you’re lucky, you stop being the version of yourself that thinks before acting. The ideas start coming: write down something brilliant for a new social network, the one that’ll change everything, and then tear the paper to pieces and flush it down the toilet, because we’re drowning in those already. Go back and finally finish those Zelda dungeons that took something from you just to beat them. Buy a princess while you’re at it. Eat enough pizza to justify calling it a vegetable—it’s official somewhere in America now. Watch Tim Burton for six hours straight and let it dissolve into your skin.
The weirder stuff comes next. You think about how God apparently liked your sister more than you, gave her an easier face, easier luck, easier everything, and nobody says that out loud but you know it’s true. You joke about naming a kid Dovahkiin just so Bethesda legally owes you free games forever. You print a life-size photo of someone beautiful and try to find a priest deranged enough to actually marry you to it. You get a pet and name it something stupid like Schnuffel and somehow that becomes the most honest thing you do all weekend.
Then Twitter a photo. Something you made or someone you care about. Spend the rest of the day panicking about whether you opened a door you can’t close, whether you said something you shouldn’t have. The real one, the one that actually matters: get into places you’re not supposed to be, do something that would make a therapist uncomfortable. Have sex on a bridge or do something equally reckless, live like you’re not checking your phone for permission. Just make sure you don’t end up next week in the tabloid headlines under a photo that makes your family stop returning calls.
The webcam was a mirror that made you look at yourself in the worst possible light, catching every angle you weren’t ready to see. Low resolution didn’t help — it just made you worse in a more honest way. But it also let you step into someone else’s space without leaving yours, or have them step into yours. That was the whole invention. Not the technology, but the possibility of it. The idea that you could put your face somewhere you weren’t and have someone put theirs where you were.
November split into two columns. What worked and what didn’t. Nothing sat in between.
What worked: David Lynch’s entire aesthetic. Old Slayer records played loud. Hours dissolving into Skyrim. People who didn’t apologize for being crude—at least they were honest about it. The internet’s stranger corners, the memes and soundboards, the garbage nobody asked for but everyone clicks anyway. Cold baths. Sequins and lace. Pizza from downstairs eaten at your desk when no one was looking. Amanda Seyfried in a bikini. Good lube—this matters more than anyone admits. The particular confidence of people who never bought the growing-up thing.
What didn’t: The cold itself. Bad breath in elevators. People hyping their “big thing” that never arrived. Bosses who thought anger and a small dick added up to authority. Personal crises that lasted longer than some degrees. Needing a new Nintendo console just to play a Nintendo game. A world without bubble tea. Award shows fixed before they started. Wine expensive enough to embarrass you but cheap enough to taste like gasoline. UTIs. Delivery services that brought food but not something to drink. People dealing in imitations. The specific impossibility of ever feeling that first one again.
By December I could see it clear. The good column was small but it held something real. The bad column was just noise—the sound of the world moving when you weren’t paying attention.
Sky Ferreira’s music has always been half-hidden, something you find rather than something that announces itself. There’s intelligence in that refusal to make things easy for the listener. Traces sounds like it follows that same logic—something partial, something that only reveals itself if you’re actually paying attention.
I’ve worn Superstars long enough that they’ve stopped feeling like a purchase and started feeling like a fact about me. Black leather, that rubber shell at the toe, the sole wearing in patterns that seem universal to the shoe. There’s no ambition in them — they don’t promise anything fancy, don’t hide anything beneath a layer of tech. Just a shoe that looks right whether you’re twenty or forty.
Tokyo pulls on me in roughly the same way, which probably explains why I can never quite justify it to people who ask. The city has a logic and a restraint that doesn’t need advertisement. Style without the performance of style. When Adidas opened a store there ten years ago, it made immediate sense — like the city had been waiting for exactly that thing.
For the anniversary, they put out a “Made For Tokyo” drop: 150 pairs, all black, each one numbered. The restraint thing again. They didn’t try variants or collaborations or some story about the future. They thought about black — how the leather and the rubber sit at slightly different tones, details you only catch if you’re actually looking. A matching jacket came with it.
That kind of object gets to me. Not because it’s rare or expensive or says something about taste — I don’t care about any of that. But because it’s the result of someone thinking clearly about a single thing, taking time with small decisions that almost nobody will notice or care about. Superstars don’t announce themselves either. Tokyo doesn’t. Neither does this shoe.
A release like that probably found its people. I imagine some of them got lucky in Tokyo. Some probably scattered worldwide by now. The specific magic of the object is that it doesn’t need anyone to write about it or debate it. It exists. It’s there. That’s enough.
Eylül Aslan made these photographs as part of some project about the future of cities and sustainable food, but what stuck with me was something she said about urban noise. Cities are already full of sound, she said — the pulse of traffic, the breathing of crowds, the rumbling in your gut when you’re hungry. That’s the music of the city. And maybe, she was suggesting, it’s not noise at all. Maybe it’s something plants can use.
I’ve always thought of cities as fundamentally opposed to growth — concrete against soil, walls against roots. We want to bring plants into cities as a kind of correction, like we’re apologizing for the buildings and asphalt. But Aslan’s observation cracks that open. There’s an intimacy in thinking that the sound of human presence, all our movement and need, could actually sustain the green things we’re trying to cultivate in impossible places. That the very noise we apologize for, the acoustic chaos of people living on top of each other, could be feeding the vegetables we’re trying to grow.
There’s something almost parasitic about it, in the most generous sense. The plants take what we throw at them — our vibrations, our heat, our hunger — and turn it into food. We can’t quiet ourselves down enough to not disturb anything; we’re too loud, too present, too needy. But maybe that’s not a failure. Maybe the plants don’t need us to disappear. They need exactly what we are.
Aslan’s photographs merge humans and plants in these unsettling compositions, and I think that’s the real point. Not that we can engineer some perfect symbiosis, not that music from a speaker will make tomatoes grow faster — though maybe it will, and that’s a whole other thing to sit with. But that we’re always already entangled with whatever we’re trying to grow, and the connection runs in both directions. We feed them our noise. They feed us.
There’s something oddly comforting about living in a city if you think of it that way. All the sound you’re making, all the pulse and rumble and hunger, isn’t wasted. It’s going somewhere. The plants are listening, if you want to believe that. Maybe they need us more than we want to admit. Maybe the problem was never that cities are too loud for anything to grow — it’s that we thought silence was a prerequisite for life.
I can’t remember the last RPG I played with genuine devotion. Chrono Trigger, maybe. Final Fantasy 9. Or Pokémon—I must have checked every corner of those games a hundred times, looking for more, always more. I was relentless about it.
Everything after that I just sprinted through. Quest to town to quest, kill the boss, finished. Play through again with better gear? Explore the optional dungeons? Unlock bonus characters? Fuck that. I’ve got better things to do. Not really, but I’m not doing it anyway.
Some days I want to cry thinking about how easily I vanished into those games, how I never regretted a second of that time even though it could’ve gone to parties or getting in shape or actually talking to women. But that’s not quite the point—it wasn’t wasted. It shaped me somehow. Changed how I see things.
Now it’s the holidays and two perfect games exist simultaneously. The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword. The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. Both have perfect review scores. Both deliver everything they promise. Two massive golden gates to two completely separate worlds, and I can only pass through one.
I love Zelda. A Link to the Past, Link’s Awakening, Ocarina of Time, Majora’s Mask, even Wind Waker. I would’ve died for any of those games. But I’ve already played through so many Zelda games. By the time Twilight Princess came around, I was just trying to finish it. I want something different this time.
The Elder Scrolls games before this one didn’t do much for me. I’ve heard they weren’t great. But Skyrim has this hype that’s hard to ignore. Enormous dragons. A snowy wasteland you can ride through on horseback. It all sounds excessive in exactly the right way.
But the real reason I’m choosing Skyrim—and this might sound strange—is because I’ve always played games because my friends were playing them. Super Mario World because my friends had it. Pokémon because that’s what we were all doing. World of Warcraft for the same reason. I’m not just a follower, not about most things anyway. It’s more that I love the idea of people I actually like moving through the same world I’m moving through. Hitting the same walls, finding different solutions, discovering different secrets. Getting just as lost.
I can compare notes with them. We fail at the same boss fight but figure it out different ways. Spend hours on the same mystery or find our own paths. That shared experience—I thought I’d lost it somewhere in my early twenties, but it’s what pulls me back to games. The sense of playing alongside other people, even if we’re not doing it at the exact same moment.
So I’m installing Windows on my Mac, which should tell you how committed I am. Downloading Skyrim on Steam. For the next few weeks I’m going to completely disappear. Get pale and fat and lost in Tamriel. By spring they’ll have to drag me back out.
Sorry, Zelda. Maybe I’ll save you next time. But hello again, RPG love that I thought I’d killed off. If Skyrim can’t bring you back to life, then I’m finally done with all of it. Just Solitaire from here on out. Forever.
I spent way too much time reading German fashion blogs in 2009. Most of them were people in their bedrooms photographing whatever they’d bought from H&M, bad lighting, worse commentary. Then you’d find someone like Lisa who actually knew how to work a camera and had opinions about clothes that weren’t just “here’s what I wore.” The difference wasn’t effort—the bad blogs had plenty of effort. It was precision and taste, which you can’t really fake.
The whole German blogging thing was splitting then. On one side, people who took it seriously—WordPress on their own domain, consistent voice, actual discipline. On the other side, millions of people dabbling, posting once a week or not at all, treating blogs like they would treat Facebook five years later. Nobody was choosing blogging over social media out of principle. They were choosing it because their mom wasn’t on blogs yet.
The ones with personal voices did fine. Diaries, life writing, whatever you want to call it—if you were interesting enough and honest enough and could write, people read you. Clara, Sara, people like that. Everyone else was fishing in empty water.
Some blogs were just curation. Pull the best design stuff from the internet, post it constantly, build an audience of people who wanted a filtered version of their feed. Hypebeast, Beautiful Decay. It’s not a creative practice—it’s just taste applied at scale. But it worked because most people want someone else to do the work of filtering.
Music blogging made less and less sense. YouTube existed. Spotify and streaming were coming. What was the point of blogging about music if you couldn’t make the song play? The only blogs that lasted added something—interviews, writing about why something mattered, exclusive tracks. Just sharing new music was drowning.
Tech blogs somehow worked. People got obsessed with gadgets, with specifications, with the next phone or laptop. Engadget, Mashable—they built real publications because their beat was always moving and people needed information. There was no algorithm yet. Discovery happened through blogs.
The weird thing was the niche blogs. One person obsessed with sneakers. Another person obsessed with a specific music genre. Another tracking some corner of design that nobody else was paying attention to. They became authorities in tiny kingdoms. Outside their kingdom, they didn’t matter at all. But inside it, they were essential.
What I kept noticing was that success came from two places: being genuinely interesting as a person, or having such a specific obsession that the obsession becomes the voice. Everyone else quit after a few months or never started. The platforms didn’t matter. WordPress, Tumblr, whatever. What mattered was showing up and having something to say.
I don’t think most people understood that at the time. They thought fame or money or sex appeal would come from blogging if they just got good enough. Maybe it did for some people. But the ones who lasted—who were still blogging two, three, five years later—they weren’t doing it for any of that. They were doing it because they wanted to write, or they wanted to share, or they just liked having a place on the internet that was theirs.
Looking back is always embarrassing. Every decade you’ve lived through feels more pathetic in retrospect than the last. The 80s had the perms and studded belts. The early 2000s were some kind of fever dream. But the 90s actually shaped something in me, which makes it harder to laugh at.
I was too young to understand The Prodigy or Daft Punk when they hit—they were just there, felt but not processed. What I actually remember is dancing around my room to S Club 7 and Alice DeeJay, completely sure of myself, then turning around and pretending I was serious about Notorious B.I.G. and Dr. Dre. That swing between bubblegum pop and “real” hip-hop—that was the whole decade in miniature for me.
The Vengaboys sitting right next to House of Pain on whatever mixtape I’d made, no hierarchy, no shame yet. I just wanted in on something that sounded like it mattered. Something that didn’t sound like it was made for kids.
The weird part is that I can see how corny it all was now, but that doesn’t erase the fact that it shaped me. The embarrassment and the formative part exist at the same time. I hold both without resolving them, which is probably the most 90s thing about it.
King Krule creates music that sounds like it’s coming from inside a reverb chamber — cold, architectural, sometimes beautiful in a way that feels accidental. The visual work pulls from the same place: dark geometry, blurred photographs, textures that feel like they’re decomposing. What gets me is how deliberately unglamorous it all is, like he decided in advance that you won’t like it much, that you’ll have to work to meet him halfway. No hooks designed to catch you. Just sound and image that would rather alienate than seduce.
That song hits different when you’re alone at night with headphones on. It’s one of those tracks where Katy sounds actually vulnerable instead of performing vulnerability—the production pulls back, and you can hear her thinking through the loss. The whole Teenage Dream album was pop-perfect, but this one landed in a different place, less about the mechanics of heartbreak and more about the specific ache of remembering someone and knowing it’s not coming back. The kind of song that makes you scroll through old photos you should probably delete.
Rammstein’s always been honest about what they are—a band that doesn’t apologize for making heavy, violent, sexual music in a language that carries weight. The thing about them is they’re not rebels playing at provocation; they actually commit to it, which is rarer than you’d think. They’ve built this whole visual and sonic world around Germany, around the weight of that history, and they’ve made it theirs instead of running from it or performing guilt. There’s something I respect in that—the refusal to sanitize, the willingness to sit in uncomfortable spaces and make art there anyway. Their songs are these dark, propulsive things that hit you somewhere dumb and primal, and the design of it all, the performances, the imagery, it’s meticulous. It’s not accidental provocation—it’s crafted. I don’t know if I’d want to live inside that worldview, but I know exactly why they built it, and I know it matters.
Theophilus London was making music that actually mattered to him, moving between R&B and rap and pop without apology. His records worked because he meant them. ’Love Is Real’ captures what was essential about his approach—no tricks, no calculation, just the commitment to making something genuine. It’s harder to hold onto that than it seems.
There was this moment around 2014 when Iggy Azalea’s whole thing felt inevitable and then kind of absurd at the same time. She had the look, the attitude, the production behind her—everything lined up to make her the pop thing that worked. I remember the rollout, the features, the sheer confidence of it all. She was a white Australian rapper in a space that didn’t typically make room for that, and she moved through it like she already owned it. Whether you liked the music or not, you had to respect the nerve. Years later it all cooled pretty fast, as these things do, and the internet memory-holed her harder than it probably needed to. But back then, for a while, she had that thing—that specific moment where you could see exactly why someone would want to be the person everyone was paying attention to. The music’s fine. The real thing was watching someone decide they belonged somewhere and just go.
Jägermeister once threw a Wirtshaus tour in the Alps—a beer hall at 1300 meters near Garmisch-Partenkirchen, electronic music and traditional Bavarian drinking games all at once. Disco Heroes and The Teenagers (French synthpop) were headlining. Between sets: drinking games, foosball, darts. They shuttled people up from Munich, put them up in a wellness hotel.
The whole thing was called Drehmöser 9. Tagline: ’Der Berg ruft’—the mountain calls. That combination either makes sense to you or it doesn’t. Corporate sponsor, Alps, synthpop, beer hall. I liked it. No irony needed.
Walked into the Supreme store in London because I was passing by. Packed, like always — resellers and kids and people who just wanted to see what the fuss was about. Building’s nice, old London architecture that actually suits it. But standing in there I realized how thoroughly Supreme has dissolved into just another brand. They got so good at hype that the hype stopped meaning anything. Everyone still cares, but nobody can remember why.
African music in the West arrives pre-packaged: Shakira’s world-music borrowing, Bono’s charity-trip ethnography. The actual cassettes—what was made for local markets, never intended for export—sat completely invisible until I found Awesome Tapes From Africa.
It’s just a catalog of cassettes with downloads and covers and basic information. Zagazougou, Solomon Manori, Nã Hawa Doumbia. Artists nobody outside their region had heard of. Old tapes and new ones, back catalog and recent work, all of it sitting outside the channels I’d been trained to listen through.
The music is genuinely strange. Spoken-word rhythmic stuff from the 70s. Slick pop from the 80s. Tracks that seem to exist in impossible combinations of style and time, like the decades themselves are folded wrong. Some of it I hated. Some I returned to repeatedly. All of it felt made for people living somewhere specific, not engineered for international ears with good taste.
I sat with it for a while, eyes closed, head moving slightly. Not in rejection—in recognition. The kind of thing you find when you’re looking in the right place with the right expectations of what you might discover.
Now I think of it whenever I wonder what someone working in a Sudanese restaurant is actually listening to. Probably not what’s on my phone.
The Berlin-Brandenburg media authority filed a complaint against this journal for distributing pornographic materials. Specifically, two issues from July linked to adult websites. I didn’t think twice about it when I posted the links, which is exactly the problem.
Now I’m going through everything I’ve ever published here, pulling things, rewriting sections, and sitting in meetings with youth protection officers. It’s the kind of thing that forces you to think in a way you usually avoid — about responsibility, about the people reading who are actually children, about the gap between how you imagine your audience and who your audience actually is.
I get the logic of it all. There’s a real difference between being crude and free in your own voice and actively directing underage people to pornographic content. I crossed that line without thinking about it. The adult part of me understands why that matters.
The weirdly clarifying part is realizing that running a platform isn’t consequence-free, even when you’re not doing it for money or attention. Even when you’re just saying what you think. The freedom to publish comes with actual responsibility, not just the idea of it. And the interesting stuff — the actually honest stuff — happens somewhere in the middle of being completely sanitized and completely lawless.
I’m not going to perform a moral transformation over this. But I am going to be more careful. Not out of fear of the authorities, just because I actually care whether this place stays interesting and worth reading.
Die Antwoord showed up in the late 2000s like a bad smell you couldn’t ignore — South African, crude as hell, making music that was equal parts synth-pop and trash-talk, with visuals designed to make you uncomfortable. Ninja and Yo-Landi Vi$$er understood something about provocation that a lot of artists miss: shock only works if you actually mean it, or at least commit hard enough that nobody can tell the difference.
They had that thing where they’d say something offensive and you’d laugh despite yourself, or you’d feel guilty for laughing, or both at once. The whole package — the clothes, the aesthetic, the way they moved — was deliberate ugliness aimed at people who cared too much about taste. There’s something honest about that. Most artists are terrified of being uncool; Die Antwoord built a whole career on refusing to care whether you thought they were cool.
I’m not sure if they’ve aged well or if I just got older and stopped finding shock tactics exciting. They’re still out there, still doing the thing, still crude and unpolished. Part of me respects the consistency. Part of me thinks maybe there was always a gimmick underneath and nothing got deeper with time. Either way, they did what they set out to do — they made you feel something, whether it was laughter or disgust or some weird mix of both.
I knew way more about America than any American knew about Germany. German textbooks were packed with Columbus looking for shortcuts and finding fat continents, Vikings maybe, who knows. I watched American sitcoms with American families in American cities doing American things—King of Queens, Modern Family, That 70s Show. It’s fashionable now to trash America as a nation of the overfed and warmongering, and sure, that’s not wrong. But I was jealous as hell I wasn’t born there. Specifically because of their schools.
Not because the system is well-designed or gives graduates some golden future. Just because it looked so varied and full of possibility. Anyway, on television.
My school had exactly two activities outside mandatory classes. A theater program that lured in maybe three weird kids every year and then they disappeared forever. And the bathroom on the third floor, which worked the same way. Meanwhile American high schools seemed to have everything. Football, cheerleading, debate team, baseball, student newspaper, food fights in the cafeteria, apparently show choirs where everyone just sang and danced through the hallways like it was Glee or something.
I’d wake up and eat a full breakfast with my whole family—bacon and grapefruit and some magic cereal. Then I’d ride the yellow bus at sunrise. Once I got there I figured out where I fit. If I was lucky I was a football player or a cheerleader or the guy with the leather jacket. If I wasn’t, I was a loser or an emo or the acne guy. If I was really unlucky I’d died in a school shooting three years ago and just hadn’t noticed yet. But that was rare. Anyway, on television.
I’d have a locker decorated with photos and funny stuff. First period I’d watch the cheerleaders on the field in their colorful uniforms, screaming letter combinations at the sky while I waved at them like an idiot. One of them was definitely my girlfriend for that particular afternoon. Between classes I’d run to my locker, maybe hit the student newspaper meeting (the cool kind, not the trash nobody reads), then lunch at the regular time—one o’clock, every day. After that maybe baseball practice, or debate club, or we’d just sing something stupid in unison in the hallway.
I had two best friends in this version. The first one was a witty geek in all black with huge glasses and giraffes on his pants, the kind of guy who’d burn the best porn onto CDs and knew his way around the school computer system. The other was a sharp-tongued girl with a cute nose and red hair, had been my next-door neighbor forever, and I’d kiss her with my tongue at prom for the first time. That’s how it works on television.
Obviously this entire sick fantasy is based on years of watching TV and has nothing to do with actual American public schools, especially not the ones in New York City, and probably only exists in the suburbs Disney built. But anything even remotely close to this has to be a thousand times better than what I sat through in German school, day after day after day, for what felt like forever.
So if I’m lucky—if I don’t get reborn as cattle or as Boris Becker’s son—I have one wish: Please God, let me actually live through this. Put me in a real American high school, or at the very least in a sitcom. Anywhere but here.
There’s this person whose work you follow, whose voice or vision or style has been part of your thinking for years, and you feel like you know them. You’ve spent hours with what they’ve made. You’ve laughed at their jokes, cried at their stories, been moved by something they created when they had no idea you existed. And that’s it. That’s the whole relationship. You’ll never have coffee with them, never exchange a real conversation, never become actual friends. It’s not sad exactly — it’s just the shape of modern admiration. You’re grateful for what they’ve put into the world, and they’ll never know your name. There’s something clean about it, actually. No disappointment, no awkwardness, just the pure fact of their work mattering to you. I think that’s enough.
Kill Bill and you want a sword. Death Proof and you notice feet, like he’s rewired your neurology to see that way. Inglourious Basterds leaves you wrung out. His films don’t let you stay neutral.
What he does is build these claustrophobic scenes where people talk for too long, standing close, circling each other, and the violence arrives as a release. In Reservoir Dogs or Pulp Fiction, you’re deep in a conversation about nothing and then someone snaps. The dialogue is the whole thing. It’s where the electricity lives.
He’s got specific obsessions that repeat: the way bodies move, the sound of someone explaining themselves right before they get shot, the eroticism of a moment when someone’s exposed — a foot hanging out a window, a neck in frame, someone’s back. He doesn’t hide what interests him. His films are honest about desire and violence in ways that feel a little dangerous, like maybe you shouldn’t be watching.
Watching a video essay by Joel Walden that traced these patterns across Tarantino’s filmography, I realized I’d internalized his way of seeing completely. I notice things now because he taught me to notice them. I listen for the moment someone’s going to snap. I see a foot out a car window and think about vulnerability and power. That’s not accidental.
The thing about watching four or five Tarantino films in a row is that you understand why he keeps making them the same way. It works. It gets in. The dialogue, the violence, the specific way he frames things — it’s not a formula, it’s an obsession, and obsessions spread. By the end of a Tarantino marathon, you’re someone different than you started. Whether that’s good is not a question he seems interested in answering.
There’s that moment where you refresh and something’s dropped, and you have no idea what it’s going to sound like. Skream’s been moving through electronic music long enough that anticipation is the only honest response—dubstep one month, house the next, sometimes something else entirely. Not scattered. Just someone who listens to everything and makes what feels right. The wait is worth it because you never know what you’re hearing next.
Anatoly Moskvina had twenty-six bodies in his apartment. His parents found them when they showed up unannounced—sitting on the couch, lying in the bed, propped up in the closet like roommates. All women. All young, in the way that matters most when you’re dead: teenage girls and women in their twenties. He’d been exhuming them from graveyards across Russia for years, maybe longer, and just leaving them in his apartment to dry out.
He spoke thirteen languages fluently. He was a historian, the kind of person who knows everything about everything, the kind who should theoretically have options. Instead he was spending his nights in cemeteries with a shovel, digging up the dead and bringing them home. Most of them were teenagers when they died, stolen again years later by a man with a shovel and a very specific kind of loneliness.
There’s a darkness in collecting that way. The impulse usually starts small—you save things that matter to you, things that remind you of something you’re afraid of losing. Maybe he started with photos, or grave rubbings, or just visiting the same cemetery over and over. And then one night the line collapsed and he just started digging. The dead can’t argue with you or leave you or change their minds. They’ll sit wherever you put them. They’re perfect.
You read these stories and you’re supposed to feel horrified, and you should, but there’s also something almost pitiable about it. He’d built an entire life around something that ended the moment someone knocked on his door. And when the police took everything away, he had nothing. An apartment full of empty spaces, thirteen languages, a historian’s worth of knowledge, and absolutely nothing left.
Mister Heavenly makes indie rock that feels like it’s always been here—no pretense, just hooks and noise that stick in your head for weeks. There’s something about the way they layer guitars and vocals that reminds me of early Wavves, that same sun-drunk energy but with more teeth. The production is clean enough that you can hear what they’re doing, but rough enough that it doesn’t feel polished to death. Songs like this one have a way of becoming soundtrack to whatever you’re doing—driving, thinking, wasting time—and suddenly you realize you’ve had the same four minutes on repeat for an hour.
Yoshihiko Ueda is a Japanese photographer who drove into the forests around Washington one day and, far as I can tell, never came back unchanged. He spent decades photographing the Quinault forest — trees, moss, light moving through everything — and his work hangs in galleries across the world. It’s the kind of thing most people walk past without stopping, especially anyone raised in cities who thinks nature is something you experience through a screen.
His own description of first seeing the forest is almost mystical. The brush rustling, moss glowing green like the light’s coming from inside it. Colors saturated with rain and light, everything alive at once. He talks about discovering a kingdom of primordial chaos — something humans shouldn’t be allowed to witness. It shattered him. He was overwhelmed and grateful and then he thanked the forest gods.
The original post wraps this in thick German sarcasm, mocking people who’ve forgotten what a tree is. Then Yoshihiko’s voice cuts through and there’s no irony left. Just someone who let something fundamental undo him completely. Reading it, I wondered — did he eat mushrooms to feel all this, or did he just sit still long enough to let it matter?
What I respect is how he stayed susceptible to it, how he didn’t fight it or turn it into theory. He was an artist, trained to see and frame and compose — and he just let the forest dissolve him. For anyone who makes things, that’s the hardest part. Not finding beauty, not knowing how to represent it, but staying open enough that something real can still actually change you.
There’s a laser in California that burns the brown out of your eyes. Melanin removal, the whole thing takes twenty seconds. A guy named Homer spent a decade on it, got hundreds of emails from people wanting what he’s selling.
The pitch is always the same thing: eyes are the window to the soul, they say, and they want a clearer view. The brown pigment just gets in the way. What they mean is they want blue eyes, want what blue eyes supposedly come with—light, clarity, some genetic credential they’ll never actually have.
It’s a real technology. Still in trials, but the math works. Burn away the melanin, and what’s underneath is blue. In a few years it’ll cost about five grand, and it’ll be permanent. You can’t undo it.
I get the appeal on some level. Eyes are one of the first things you notice about someone, and certain colors get mythologized. Blue eyes in particular carry this weight in culture—they’re associated with everything from innocence to dominance, depending on who’s selling the idea. A hundred years of movies and advertising have trained people to want them. The fact that the vast majority of people on earth have brown eyes doesn’t matter. The mythology is stronger than the statistics.
But five thousand dollars to laser away your own biology because you bought the story that someone else’s pigmentation is better than yours—that’s the kind of vanity that loops back around to something sadder. Not just the money. The certainty that you need to change something fundamental to be the right version of yourself. The belief that the answer is in a procedure instead of a mirror.
Homer says the emails he gets are from people who genuinely believe this will fix something. And maybe for some of them it will—confidence is a real thing, and if you’ve spent your whole life feeling like the wrong eye color was a flaw, then getting rid of that flaw might actually improve your life. Or it might just mean you found a new flaw to worry about. That’s usually how it works.
I don’t know. It’s the kind of thing that makes you understand why people do desperate things in the name of looking right. Burn away the brown. Spend the money. Become the version of yourself that’s supposed to be better. The technology’s just waiting.
Six months after Tōhoku and the country was still digging out. Nearly sixteen thousand dead, a 9.0 quake, tsunami destroying the eastern coast, Fukushima threatening another meltdown. The government kept saying everything would be fine, that things would stabilize. They wouldn’t. So they announced a plan: if Tokyo gets destroyed in the next disaster, Parliament and the ministries relocate to a backup city.
IRTBBC—Integrated Resort, Tourism, Business and Backup City—is what they called it. Government acronyms always sound like that. Five hundred kilometers west of Tokyo, near Itami Airport and close to Osaka. Room for 250,000 people with offices, restaurants, parks, casinos. When the next disaster hits, the machinery of government just keeps running somewhere else.
Hajime Ishii from the ruling party called it a replacement battery. His logic: as long as the nation’s core functions were backed up, the system survives. He didn’t explain what happens to the other thirteen million people still in Tokyo. Maybe the next earthquake won’t be as bad. Maybe the backup city never gets used.
There’s something about watching someone work through the same movements over and over, the way they’re chasing something invisible in the mirror. Claire in the studio, sweat on her neck, the city’s noise muffled four stories down, and this small room where everything is precise and repeatable. You watch and understand that this is the opposite of spontaneity even though it looks fluid—it’s built on thousands of failed attempts, small corrections, muscle memory so deep it doesn’t require thinking anymore. The ballet studio in New York feels like a monastery: everyone there has chosen the hard thing.
The Kills make songs that sit underneath your skin without asking permission. ’Baby Says’ is mostly atmosphere—Mosshart’s voice flat and certain, like she’s stating something you don’t want to hear. The kind of track that sounds best at night when you’re thinking about someone or loss or the distance between people who should be close. There’s nothing extra in it, no attempt to convince you of anything. Just the sound of someone who knows what they mean and doesn’t care if you like it. That’s the whole band, really.
Angela turned eighteen that year, living in Viersen, one of those towns in western Germany you drive through without noticing. Between school and shifts at a perfume counter—selling expensive poison to rich old women—she’d disappear into the night with tequila, more of it than should be possible, though it barely seemed to touch her.
She was always going to be rich and famous, said it the way people say obvious things, with that certainty that makes them both inevitable and impossible at once. Porn got mentioned early, seriously, then stopped being part of the conversation. What she was actually doing was art. Photography mostly. Other people, but mostly herself. There was a series shot one night in a pool that stayed with me—no pretense, no setup, just someone young enough to look at the camera without flinching.
I found the leftover MDMA from Melt Festival under my bed on a Friday night, ground down to powder like cake flour, and instead of heading to whatever party I’d saved the cash on, I canceled everything and started actually cleaning this website. The drugs helped.
The problem was real: we were calling ourselves a serious publication while looking like an exploded Care Bear. No wonder the political press, the print world, anyone who might have actually respected what we were doing—none of them took us seriously. They saw the bright chaos and assumed we had nothing worth reading. Which was stupid because the crude sexuality, the weird tonal whiplash, the prepubescent irreverence—that was intentional. That was the work. But it doesn’t matter what you mean when the presentation looks like a breakdown.
So I stripped things down. Lighter, cleaner, less visual panic. The color coding that looked nice but served no purpose—gone. The unnecessary boxes, the framing that made everything feel like it was screaming. Simple principle: when everything’s fighting for attention, nothing gets attended to. You delete what doesn’t earn its space.
This wasn’t a revolution or some new theory of web design. It was just the obvious move that should have happened a while ago. More confident. More like we actually believed in what we were writing here. And we did.
And that’s the last of these posts about the site. Back to writing about things that actually matter.
Her tracks have always been about the body in motion. “On A Mission,” “5am,” all that intricate rhythmic work — the kind of grime and electronic production that makes you want to move without thinking about it. Katy B’s music doesn’t ask you to feel something; it asks you to dance, to let the rhythm sort itself out in your hips and shoulders while your brain goes quiet.
I came to her work through the London electronic scene, that early 2010s moment when dubstep was collapsing into itself and something more nuanced was emerging. She was there doing the complicated stuff — layering patterns, building pressure, making something that sounded effortless but was clearly meticulous. The kind of producer who respects the dancefloor enough not to condescend to it.
What stays with me is how physical her music is. Not aggressive, not emotional in the expected way — just honest about what dancing is. Movement. The thing your body knows how to do when the beat lines up right. She gave you that.
There’s something about a Halloween romance that works because the whole night is already half-costume, half-permission. Two people who don’t know each other, thrown together in the chaos of a pumpkin patch, the dark creeping in early, the season already making everything feel temporary and reckless. It’s the kind of setup that could be saccharine, but done right it’s just honest — you meet someone, time runs out, and for one night that matters more than it should. The best of that kind of story doesn’t pretend the ending is happy, just that it was real.
I spent a lot of time with their early albums — the way they’d layer electronic production with these organic, almost folk-like textures, strings and samples mixed in ways that shouldn’t work but did. They were never trying to be cool about it, just making pop music that sounded like they’d spent serious time in the studio getting the color right. There’s something about a band that treats the space between sounds as carefully as the sounds themselves, and Crystal Fighters did that. Their stuff felt small and intricate despite being bright and poppy, which is rare — most electronic bands are either too cerebral or too eager to please. They landed somewhere else entirely.
You try to watch one of the old videos on your phone and nothing happens. The player won’t load, just sits blank because it needs Flash, which your phone never had. I’ve been watching this problem spread for years—video trapped in software that doesn’t exist anymore, inaccessible unless you’re on a desktop. So I finally did the work: migrated the entire library to HTML5, killed all the Flash players.
Flash was the web’s video player for over a decade. It worked fine on desktops as long as you had the plugin installed. Then iPhones happened and Apple said no, tablets followed suit, and Flash became obsolete almost overnight. By the time mobile was standard, it was already a dead tech limping along, the software nobody wanted to install.
HTML5 video is what Flash was supposed to become. Native support, no plugins, works everywhere. Desktop, phone, tablet—one file format, one player, one experience. It’s one of those quiet technical improvements that just makes things work. Everything’s accessible now without the old workarounds.
There’s something about watching web standards become obsolete. Flash felt permanent for 15 years, HTML5 was the promised future and now it’s just the default. In another 15 years it’ll probably be replaced and nobody will remember why any of this mattered. The pattern’s always the same. You build something that works, people use it, it becomes essential, then it’s dead, and you start over. The whole cycle takes less time than a mortgage.
There’s a song that makes you sit with something you weren’t ready to sit with. Emeli Sandé has this way of finding the exact nerve—the quiet, specific ache you’ve been sidestepping. A song about a father isn’t just about a father; it’s about absence and presence at the same time, about what you inherit and what you can’t fix. You listen to it and something in your chest doesn’t move for a few minutes, and that’s the whole point.
I still think about Duck Sauce in that pocket of the late 2000s when electronic music could be shiny and dumb without any guilt. “Big Bad Wolf” was pure hook and bounce, A-Trak and Jillionaire refusing to make it complicated. The kind of track that burrows into your head not because it’s trying to be art but because it was built to stay there. Nothing wrong with that.
The moment we became close, I could feel the fracture beginning. That’s always what happens when you’re that close to another person — you hit a limit.
Wenke and I took over this blog after Hannah left, and over the past year we became genuinely close. Running it together meant no hiding — we shared days and nights, festivals, real moments and ones that wounded. But I knew from the start it couldn’t last.
I spend half my time pretending to be burnt out, incapable of real feeling. That’s completely false. I’m oversensitive. I get caught on the most disgusting and intimate things, and I can’t manage what my head conjures afterward. I’m probably the worst at it.
Wenke’s built the same way. We’re both the type to feel everything acutely, to be exposed in ways that are embarrassing. We kept running into emotional material that started as a joke but became impossible to laugh past — the closeness, the expectations, the weight of being inside another person’s interior life. We failed at the distance. We failed at ourselves.
It kills me that it ends this way. We couldn’t manage our own minds, and anything more would just deepen the damage. She’s stepping back from writing here, focusing on her own work. I’ll miss her voice, the way she disappears into thoughts, her instinct for music. But she’s not gone.
So here’s what you do: you say thank you for something real, and you let it go with a heavy heart. This is certain: we’ll hear from her. Once you’ve tasted something that vital, you want more of it.
What you sing in the shower is what you’re actually feeling. Thirty seconds under the water and it comes out—the real emotional weather. Happy? You’re belting something stupid and upbeat, the kind of song you’d never play for another person. Everything’s falling apart? You go silent, or you sing something slow and broken, your voice dissolving into the steam.
I made this as a companion for that space. For the time you spend under water when there’s nowhere to hide, nothing to do but feel what’s actually there. Alone or with someone. The shower doesn’t let you lie about it.
Music changes in heat and wet. Water swallows the sound and echoes it back distorted. Your voice becomes someone else’s for a moment. Those songs get stuck in your head for hours afterward, but under the spray they’re not a performance. They’re just what’s moving through you, made into sound.
This is for that. For whatever you actually are in that moment, when the water’s running and you’ve got nothing left to hide.
Patrick Swayze lifts Jennifer Beals high overhead in that moment everyone remembers, and for a second the film is just about the pure physicality of want—two bodies moving together with no distance, no pretense, just sweat and directness. That’s what Dirty Dancing is really about. It doesn’t dress up desire in metaphor or soften it for comfort; it’s there to be erotic, trashy, and unashamed. Everything else—the music, the cinematography, the whole summer setting—serves that. The film burns with wanting and doesn’t apologize for it.
Friends was always about coupling, that pull toward defining yourself through someone else. Rachel’s entire arc revolved around Ross — first wanting him, then having him, then not having him, the cycle repeating. You’d think the show would critique that, but it didn’t. Just kept playing it for drama and laughs. Which is weirdly the most honest thing about it. We all do this. Let someone else become the principle organizing our lives, even when we know better.
You don’t learn what real boredom is until you’re stuck in bed for three days with nothing actually wrong anymore—fever broke, you can technically move, but you’re too weak and tired to care. It’s a specific kind of limbo. Your body still wants things. Your brain knows you can’t deliver. So you scroll. Watch. Try to read the same page three times without absorbing a word. Nothing lands.
By day three, the sexual frustration is part of the boredom—they’re mixed together now. I used to think that was just being horny, but it’s different when you’re sick. Everything comes through a fog. A conversation doesn’t penetrate. A song washes past. A book sits there inert. The only thing that still cuts through is your own body doing something, creating some actual sensation. So you try it. Works for maybe ten minutes. Then you’re sore and somehow more bored, which is worse than before.
After that come the weird moves. Music on repeat until it stops being music and becomes white noise. TV shows rewatched backwards like you might find some hidden pattern. Bukowski because something about his way of writing about drink and failure and his own uselessness feels true when you’re lying in your own sweat. You check your phone constantly. Nothing’s changed. Nobody’s texted. The world’s just going on without you in it.
The strange thing is how fast recovery happens once it starts. You go from “I might actually die” to “I feel mostly fine” in a few hours, and suddenly the bed that was your hospital becomes a prison. You want out. You should probably stay another day. You always should, and you never do.
Gaddafi had a look. Not a sense of style — a look. One of those sustained performance-art projects that somehow got treated as real. He’d show up in a bedazzled military jacket, surrounded by female bodyguards in matching fatigues and designer sunglasses, and the world’s fashion press would nod and write it down. Vanity Fair called him a “fashion genius.” Time magazine seemed genuinely confused about what was happening but thought it was important enough to document. There’s a weird moment in media where an absurdity becomes so consistent that people stop questioning whether it’s intentional.
I’m not sure if he was actually that into fashion or if dressing like a Vegas strongman was just part of the brand. Probably some of both. The costumes were deliberate — enough gold and medals and fabric to fill a small stage — but also ridiculous in a way that made you unsure if he was in on the joke. That uncertainty is its own kind of power, I guess. You can’t dismiss a man who’s committed enough to the bit that you can’t tell if he’s serious.
The whole thing was absurd and fascistic and tragic and funny all at once, which is probably why people kept writing about it. It was easier to look at his outfits than at what was actually happening. A lot of tyrants try to seem powerful through restraint — the expensive suit, the measured tone. Gaddafi went the other direction. He dressed like his own propaganda film.
He’s dead now. The costumes are in museums or lost somewhere. The magazines moved on. But the images stick — the dictator as accidental fashion icon, committed enough to the costume that the costume outlasted him. Everything else disappears. The look remains.
By late October I realized I’d missed the monthly update. Just gone, completely forgotten. When I don’t have a schedule, when work is mostly theoretical and days blur together, I can lose an entire month without noticing.
But October left traces. Some things worked: anatidaephobia—that real anxiety that ducks are watching you. A band called Teenage Mutant Ninja Noses. Someone made strawberry-scented cologne for penises and someone’s buying it. “Hero Hitler in Love” exists as an actual film. Hair that looks exactly like Son-Goku’s when you wake up. Living on nothing but red wine. That character Tessa from some show I watched. A bathtub full of bubble tea. Charlie Sheen, genuinely missed. The fantasy of clearing your bank account and just leaving. Even the casual urge to punch a vegetarian in the mouth had appeal, especially one who won’t stop picking at their own lip during dinner.
Everything else was bad. Oasis. Android phones. Social media. Sex that only happens in beds. Sand in your eye. Coffee addiction. Reading the news and wanting to scream. Old men adding you on Google+. Bands already announcing 2012 festival lineups when it’s still 2011, knowing nobody will care in a year. Zooey Deschanel. Die Ärzte, Germany’s best punk band, and even they couldn’t fix October. Not being able to whistle “Beauty and the Beast.” The neighbors. Loud ones. Drunk ones. Especially the ones you could hear fucking at 3 AM. People tweeting during sex. Seventeen-megabyte press releases that say nothing. Running out of cold medicine exactly when you need it. Most people.
October just evaporated. You miss the deadlines. You notice the wrong things. The month keeps going.
Steve Aoki and Rivers Cuomo on the same track is a strange enough pairing that it works. One’s all bass drops and neon excess, the other’s carrying that tender, fractured voice from Weezer into increasingly odd territory. I have no idea what “Earthquakey People” actually sounds like, but the collision itself is enough to pull me in.
Holy Ghost! are this New York electronic duo making pristine, cold-blooded disco tracks. Alex and Nick. I never caught them live, but I remembered this thing where they did a concert in Berlin and let the audience vote on the setlist and visuals beforehand. It was obviously a marketing stunt tied up with corporate sponsors, but there’s something genuinely interesting underneath: when you vote on what you’re about to experience, you can’t blame the artist anymore. You’re complicit. The whole dynamic shifts—you’re not just a spectator anymore, you’re responsible for what’s happening.
Josh Schwartz is adapting Misfits for American television. I found out because the internet won’t shut up about it, and because this is how it works: something brilliant comes from elsewhere, gets noticed, and someone at a studio thinks they should fix it.
I watched The O.C. back when I was into that kind of thing. Schwartz made it, and it had something for a moment. But I burned out fast. Too much of everything—the wealth, the production design, the sense that you’re supposed to feel a certain way because the show is trying so hard to make you feel it. Gossip Girl was the same formula. Beautiful people problems. I got bored.
Misfits is different. It’s British, which means it doesn’t care if you’re watching. It’s mean and horny and stupid and about teenagers who get superpowers and then have to figure out what that means in real life. Real—meaning messy and ugly and full of sex and drugs and bad decisions. The show doesn’t apologize. Someone runs naked through the streets because his family threw him out, and that’s just what happens.
And now Schwartz is going to fix that.
American television has a law: if something brilliant comes from elsewhere, we have to fix it. Import something that doesn’t need fixing and watch it become exactly what it was running from. Call it localization. Call it adaptation. It’s still erasure with a network budget.
MTV did this with Skins. They took it and immediately softened it. Cut the actual sex scenes, toned down the language, made dysfunction look acceptable. One season and then canceled because everyone could tell what was missing. American Skins wasn’t that show anymore. It was an apology in episodic form.
I’m hoping Schwartz gets distracted. That the option lapses. That someone remembers Skins lasted one season. Probably not. Probably in a few years there’ll be an American Misfits that’s perfectly competent, for exactly the people it’s aimed at, and nobody will think twice about what got lost. The original will still be there if you know where to look.
I found Ellie Goulding’s records at a moment when electronic pop was still figuring itself out, and hers felt like the answer nobody knew they were looking for. Her voice in those high, thin registers, settling into synth arrangements like it had always belonged there. She made restraint sound like the only sensible approach to pop music, which was weird because everyone else was shouting.
Some nights you just need to disappear. Dim the lights, get into bed, let yourself dissolve into the music. A soundtrack for a night that’s going nowhere and somehow has to make it all the way through to dawn.
It starts with something like courage. First drink, first drag—the opening track catches you before you’ve fallen yet, and you’re still yourself. But late hours come around and something breaks. Your thoughts stop being yours. They punch you. They won’t let go. You want to scream. You want to hit something. Your hands shake. The walls close in. Everything pushes on you at once, and all you have are a few small sounds drifting through the dark, and you’re not sure if you’re hearing them or if you’re inventing them. Sleep is gone. You’re just trembling in the dark, too much happening at once, too much weight on you that you can’t shake off.
Then the window gets pale. The sun doesn’t ask for permission—just warmth and something like being held. The music is still there but it sounds different now. Quieter. Like it’s finished.
You close your eyes. The world is yours alone. A ray of light. The hum of traffic somewhere far away. The mixtape winds down. You fade.
That synth line hits you immediately and doesn’t let up—this bright, almost plastic sound that just keeps pushing. The whistle is the thing that sticks though, clean and simple. Anthony’s voice is buried way back, singing from somewhere distant. It all hangs together with this feeling of moving through a city at night, aware of the neon and the emptiness and a specific kind of loneliness that only happens after dark. The song has been everywhere, which should have killed it by now, but it hasn’t. It still works.
Fall of 2011 and the whole atmosphere shifted. There was this pressure that had been building for years—financial disaster, watching the people who caused it get richer while everyone else got wiped out. Then parks started filling with tents and suddenly there was a place for the anger to exist. The movement had no platform, no demands, no clear leadership—which made it easy to dismiss, but that was exactly the point. You can’t negotiate with a simple fact: the system is designed to concentrate everything at the top and make everyone else fight for scraps.
I’d pass the encampments and stop to listen. College graduates sleeping in sleeping bags, done everything right and still couldn’t afford rent. People in their sixties whose entire retirement had been vaporized in 2008, watched the government bail out the banks, walked away with nothing. For once nobody was spinning or performing. Just people describing what they’d actually experienced. The honesty was striking.
It lasted six, maybe seven months. The weather got bad, the police moved in, the energy fragmented into pieces with competing agendas. By winter the camps were breaking up. By spring it was already a memory, more symbol than movement.
Something in the baseline consensus had cracked, though. Not in a way that changed policy or slowed the machinery of wealth concentration—that kept grinding, still does. But you couldn’t fully pretend anymore that the system was neutral or fair. That particular myth didn’t recover. Whether that crack leads anywhere or just seals itself back up is still an open question. Probably it seals back up. But for a moment, reality had actually been visible.
The walls at Postbahnhof were the thing. You could watch them get painted — someone with a spray can actually taking their time, making something instead of just tagging and moving on. Young artists getting wall space. Some of it was sharp, some obvious, most of it exactly what you’d expect from people who actually know how to do this.
I went with David and Anna, and we worked through the booths. A photographer had made something about selfie culture that was technically right but circular — documenting narcissism through the mechanism that created it. Illustration, three-dimensional works, the usual spread. Someone had smuggled beer. The sushi tasted strange in a way I still can’t place.
You notice something at art fairs like this: everyone’s competent now. The bar for “young artist” used to mean something different. Now it just means you showed up and you can actually make things. Berlin gives you the wall and the permission, so you see what people do when they’re not fighting for attention. Some of it’s good. Some of it’s just fine. That’s generous, actually.
We left when the light got weird. Didn’t see everything. Didn’t need to.
Somebody said you wouldn’t notice if your neighbor crashed a plane into your apartment, which is probably right. Anyway, here’s what the weekend looks like in my head.
Red wine for two days straight. Doesn’t matter where it comes from or how much it cost, just endless pouring. That’s the baseline.
I’m actually looking forward to the new season of Misfits, which is already depressing because Nathan’s gone and he was the real spine of that show. The character that made it work.
Using the state of everything as an excuse to get significantly more wasted than is reasonable. It’s sound logic when you frame it right.
Someone showed me this gore website and I can’t stop picturing everyone around me orchestrating my dismemberment in increasingly creative ways. Paranoid and stuck with it.
Should probably eat more bananas. That’s just objectively true.
Those countryside day trip things sound miserable until occasionally something actually strange happens, the kind of thing nobody would believe if you tried to explain it.
I think about Halloween constantly even when it’s months away. By January I’m planning costumes. By March I’ve got ideas for stunts that seem completely fine to me.
There are specific anatomical questions I have that feel too stupid to ask anyone. Not important stuff, just small mechanical mysteries.
Jane Levy. That’s the thought. That’s it.
Arnold’s vacation photos are better than anything I’ve ever taken, which makes complete sense.
I get why Icona Pop works. “Nights Like This” is pure pop unconcern—a song that doesn’t need to be clever or complicated or self-aware, just good at what it does. There’s something refreshing about that kind of straightforwardness, especially when everything else feels over-thought.
Part of their appeal is that they seem genuinely happy to be making this music. Not performing happiness, just doing what they do. That directness is rarer than it should be.
The Jägermeister Wirtshaus Tour is one of those traveling beer hall concepts that shows up every year with the same setup: mounted deer heads on the walls, beer kegs, electronic music, crowds of young people getting steadily drunk. You can play darts and table football. It’s straightforward—a themed drinking night that doesn’t pretend to be anything else.
Bremen’s hosting the tour in October on a boat. MS Treue, October 20th. Some electronic acts from France and the UK are flying in. The boat is the kind of gimmick that actually works—it makes the same beer-hall setup feel deliberately different from your regular bar, even though you know it’s the same traveling concept they’ve done in five other cities.
What actually pulls you in is obvious: your friends are going, you want the excuse to go out, and you like the feeling of something that’s happening instead of just another evening at the bar. The boat helps with that feeling—mounted deer heads on the water, beer, music, everyone getting loud.
The Wirtshaus Tour doesn’t need to be clever. It just needs to exist, and it does.
Not sure where I first heard her, but something stuck. There’s a directness to what she does that feels rare—no fuss, no performance, just the work itself. That’s all it takes.
Gruff Rhys has spent decades making music that doesn’t fit anywhere, which is probably why it fits with me. Whether he’s layering Welsh folk against electronic noise in Super Furry Animals or chasing some half-baked conceptual tangent solo, there’s always this sense that he’s following something only he can hear. Whale Trail carries that impulse—a project that sounds like watching someone work through obsessions in real time, less concerned with the destination than with what gets discovered along the way. It’s the kind of thing that requires patience to sit with, but if you’re the type who finds beauty in the ungainly and the unresolved, there’s something worth hearing here.
’I Can See Through You’ doesn’t ask much of you. The Horrors keep it lean—guitars, bass, the weight of the rhythm—and there’s something about that restraint that makes it hit harder. The song finds this pocket where everything just locks in place, and you remember why people still care about this band. It’s post-punk that knows what it is without having to prove anything.
Around 2010 or so, I started seeing undercuts everywhere. Not in a theoretical way — actually seeing them in person, in the street, in bars, on people who probably weren’t thinking that hard about why they’d chosen to shave half their head. One side gone, the other side left long enough to fall across. Some people pushed it further, clippered both sides down to nothing, kept a strip of longer hair down the middle. The variations didn’t matter. The principle was the same: you looked like you were part of something.
We’d seen this before. A couple years earlier, every teenage girl in every German town had that Tokyo Hotel haircut — the swoopy emo thing, black hair covering one eye, deliberately feminine and deliberately not. It was unavoidable. The kind of trend that makes you understand trends aren’t really about aesthetics or individual choice. They’re about visibility. Someone popular does something, enough people see it, suddenly it’s everywhere, and then everyone else does it because it’s already everywhere.
Dubstep happened, and Skrillex was the face of it. Not the inventor of dubstep, not even the best producer, but the one visible enough — young, weird-looking, making music that sounded like speaker feedback, performing it aggressively. And he had an undercut. That probably mattered more than the music itself. The music was a vehicle. The haircut was the actual signal.
I watched people switch into it the way you’d expect. Club kids first, which made sense — dubstep was a club thing. Then it started spreading outward, into regular life, until it was just another available option at the salon, something you could point to in a magazine and say “that one.” I saw it on cashiers and bartenders and people who probably listened to everything and nothing, who just thought it looked cool and didn’t care about Skrillex or the scene.
What gets me is how efficient it is. You don’t have to explain yourself anymore. You cut one side of your head and people understand something about you immediately, whether it’s true or not. You’re signaling that you’re at least adjacent to something — edgy, alternative, part of a subculture, even if that subculture is just “people who like how undercuts look.” It’s a shorthand. You buy credibility with your barber appointment.
I know how this ends. It’s already ending, actually — the trend peaked a couple years back and now it’s settling into permanent option territory, like any other look. In ten years I’ll see photos from this era and feel that specific embarrassment that comes with recognizing your own time clearly. But right now it’s still happening. Every time I pass a salon I see someone in the chair with clippers against the side of their head, that other section of hair about to be released into the world, already knowing exactly what they’ll look like when they walk out. Part of something. For now.
I turned around and left. Not one of those teary soap-opera scenes, not screaming or smashing vases. Just sun on the pavement and me walking away. Last time I looked her in the eye.
It’s easier to show up at Berghain drunk and naked and covered in shit with a rabid dog and somehow get the bouncer to pat your shoulder than admit you failed at another person. Someone you put time and emotion into. Love, even—not the crushing kind, not something that owns you. Something lighter. Something that felt real.
We’d hug like the world was ending tomorrow. Wine until the bottle was empty, smoking and talking for hours, making these huge plans that seemed possible when you were high enough. Fucking until the windows fogged over and the weekend disappeared outside. It was simple and it mattered and I loved it.
The problem: I was the only one. Out of two people. And I didn’t even want to feel this way—not until that last day did I admit that feelings were actually fucking with my brain. Being in love is fine. We’re all dead inside; when something real cracks through, that’s something. But not for someone with the emotional range of a kid and a video game addiction.
What’s worse than failing at someone is knowing you’re not the first. There’s an entire line of us. Men who couldn’t get through her walls or who did and got destroyed because she’s fundamentally broken in ways she can’t see. She has beautiful hair. A beautiful face. Beautiful feet. Nothing in the middle.
So you invent reasons for your own unraveling. Why you can’t think. Why you’re jealous of every other man. Why you show up at parties drunk and yell and make insane ultimatums and cry the whole drive home and lose it over completely mundane shit that doesn’t touch other people but is destroying you.
Then you catch yourself sometimes. A song you like. A day that doesn’t feel like drowning. KFC that doesn’t give you diarrhea. You take a deep breath. Tell yourself tomorrow’s normal again, like it used to be. Jerk off to her picture one last time—promise—and tell yourself you’re fine.
The absolute worst part? Finally accepting she’s not to blame. She never lied. Never promised anything. Never loved you. Never understood why you’re acting like an electrified lunatic, turning nothing into everything. Because I’m Bert and she’s Ernie, and I’m the one who made this a tragedy when it was never even a story to her.
I thought it would end with me finding her somewhere degraded and finally having a reason to snap, to become a cautionary tale in some dark place while sad music played in my head. Instead I just woke up one morning and decided. Today. This minute. It stops. The pressure. Her face. My collapse. Mine. So I turned around. And left.
Yuksek makes electronic music that never settles. It’s propulsive, bright, restless—the kind of stuff that sounds like it was made at 3 AM in a studio that’s perpetually packed up and ready to move. French producer, been doing this since the early 2000s, and there’s this constant forward motion in everything he touches. Not anxious, exactly. Just… always chasing the next thing.
I think that’s the appeal. Most electronic music producers get stuck in a sound and milk it. Yuksek keeps moving, keeps iterating. You hear it track to track—there’s a DNA that’s unmistakably his, but he won’t let himself get comfortable. That restlessness is the whole point. It’s the sound of someone who can’t stay still, who thinks the answer is always around the next corner, in the next beat, the next production.
There’s something true about that. The best work happens when you’re chasing, not when you’ve arrived. He knows that instinctively. Most artists figure it out too late, or they burn out trying. Yuksek just keeps moving.
It’s late. I’m in bed with the lights off and the MacBook glowing, the neighbors finally quiet after they’d spent an hour screaming and breaking things in the stairwell. Dark everywhere except the screen. iPhone beside me. The shelf across the room has all the Apple books, the Jobs books, the whole mythology. In a desk drawer there’s an old blue iPod nano I haven’t touched in years.
The tweets started rolling in. Steve Jobs was dead. I felt it hit like something physical—cold and raw and stupid-emotional all at once. Not now. Not him. Not Steve.
Over the last few years he’d become a joke to a lot of people. Some cult leader in turtlenecks hawking thousand-dollar phones to startup bros, suing everyone, dying thin on camera for the internet to gawk at. It made me furious, actually. Sad. Because he mattered to me. He really did.
I remember sitting at the kitchen table with my mother, making this whole pitch—we needed a Mac, not just for us but for everyone, the whole world needed to get out of those gray plastic boxes Bill Gates had convinced everyone was normal. No Windows zombies here. We had taste. We had souls.
I disappeared into books about him. How’d he do it, this college dropout with acid trips and factory work and a spell in India, how’d he come back and make something nobody else could even imagine? He had a vision and the absolute refusal to accept that it couldn’t happen. That combination—vision and stubbornness—pulled at something in me.
Of course he was terrible in a lot of ways. Brutal with people. He denied his daughter for years. He cheated partners. I don’t want to whitewash that or pretend it didn’t matter. But there’s something in how he pushed through failure anyway, how he refused to live small, that feels important. For anyone trying to build something real.
The Stanford speech gets quoted all the time, probably too much, but there’s something true in it. He talked about death, about how knowing it was coming made everything else fall away—everyone else’s expectations, your own pride, the fear of getting it wrong. And what was left was just what actually mattered. That hit different after he died than it did when I heard it the first time.
I kept an internal conversation with him for years. Walking into something uncertain, I’d think: what would Steve do? Not to copy him, but to tap into that clarity, that refusal to settle. It worked often enough that it became a kind of secret life philosophy.
The battery’s almost gone. Outside on Twitter, the same photographs, the same quotes, the same goodbye. Goodnight, old friend. A dreamer, a nerd, someone the world won’t forget. Steve Jobs. God is dead.
The Stepkids operate in this space where almost nobody else is working—absurdist, committed, making stuff that shouldn’t connect but does because they believe in it completely. There’s something I respect about that. Building something for the people who are actually listening, not performing for some imagined mass audience. You spend enough time on the margins and you stop caring if you’re a legend to anyone but yourself. Maybe that’s where the best stuff comes from anyway.
The video for “Shake It Out” stuck with me — Florence dancing alone in a forest, the camera making everything look unsteady. The song itself won’t let you stop moving. It’s about trying to shake off something that won’t let go, the drums pushing you forward even as you know the shaking won’t actually help. The movement is the point, not the outcome.
Berlin was where everything converged in those years—artists from everywhere, all this raw energy, the sense that you could actually make something matter without anyone’s permission. Haindl was part of that, his work carrying that clarity and directness that made the city feel like the center of something. There’s a specific moment in creative history when one place becomes the place, and Berlin was it. The world doesn’t gather like that anymore.
Crush On You is the kind of track that works because nothing’s wasted. Just the vocal, the drums, the low end—Nero figured out that drum and bass could be minimal and still hit hard. I’ve been cycling through their stuff for like fifteen years. They never sounded dated because they never sounded like they were chasing anything, which is maybe the only way to make electronic music that lasts.
Deerhoof never made sense to me the first time I heard them, which is probably why I kept coming back. Satomi Matsuzaki’s voice is doing something I couldn’t quite track, the rest of the band moving in shapes that shouldn’t work but somehow do. They’ve been around long enough to have completely ignored every trend, every pressure to make something more palatable or easier to categorize. I respect that kind of commitment to not giving a shit what anyone expects from you.
Friday always feels like some kind of social ultimatum. The hard week’s behind you and you’re supposed to cram maximum fun into barely any time—drink, dance, get laid, get high, laugh, and wake up Sunday convinced you actually lived. Most people just scroll and sleep.
Used to fantasize about weekend missions—genuinely absurd challenges that might’ve actually made Friday matter.
One: Learn some dead language with friends and use it to talk shit about people. There’s something satisfying about having a code only you understand.
Two: Write the nuclear blog post. Every infidelity, every person you hate, all the photos—everything—and then move to Paraguay.
Three: Ditch all the apps. Text only through fax machines. Unhinged, but I’ve thought about it.
Four: Grab a family-size pack of those orange push-up ice creams and show up to a date with them. You know what happens.
Five: Time-travel back and get with one of the Spice Girls before it all went downhill. Or an orgy with S Club 7. Either one.
Six: Send someone a bottle of hair-growth serum with a note about focusing on real problems. Too cruel, but tempting.
Seven: Breed moose in trees. The mechanics don’t matter.
Eight: Host a movie night and flash subliminal messages on screen—”Give me money,” “Bring beer,” “Get naked”—for a few frames. See if anyone notices.
Nine: Walk up to random people on the street and ask if they want to sleep with you. Statistically one in a hundred says yes. Unless you look like someone’s uncle going through withdrawal.
Ten: Code an app that generates “your mother” jokes and randomly texts them to your contacts. Then wait to see if it goes to your boss. Or your mom.
That’s how you’d actually spend Friday if you had the nerve.
Twins in a rice field. That image stays. Kimmi and her sister, born together and spending a lifetime learning to be separate people. There’s an order to rice fields but nothing orderly about siblings—just two people in the same place slowly becoming different. A field is quiet enough for that to happen unnoticed, until one day you look and they’re not where they started anymore.
Good beats do something to a room. The bass hits and everything gets quiet in a different way—less silence, more pressure, like the whole space is focusing on one thing. I’ve had nights in Bochum that felt like that, where the bar became part of the sound instead of just holding it.
I spent Sunday afternoons at my grandmother’s house. She had cable, so I’d camp out in front of Xena and seaQuest and Hercules while she rested after lunch. Earth 2 was the one that really grabbed me though — a whole other world, aliens, jungle, mystery, monsters, everything layered on top of everything else. It got cancelled after one season because the budget was enormous. I never found out how it ended.
Now Terra Nova shows up on Fox, another shot at the same idea — colonizing a new planet — but they’ve mixed in dinosaurs. The year is 2149 and Earth is basically over. Pollution, overpopulation, everyone’s sick. Scientists managed to build a time machine and they’re shipping colonists back 85 million years into the Cretaceous to start fresh. The Shannon family steps through the portal into what’s supposed to be paradise. Turns out paradise has problems.
The pilot episode aired recently and I’m going to say it: Terra Nova has something. A whole planet to discover, mysteries everywhere, rebels with weapons, messy relationships, strange symbols on the walls, people carrying baggage, and dinosaurs that look a little iffy but somehow work anyway.
If they actually managed it — if they pulled off the mythology and followed through on all these threads they’re setting up — this could wipe out anything science fiction television has done in years.
But it won’t happen. Five episodes in, the network will get spooked by the costs and the ratings will dip and that’s that. Same as Earth 2. Same reason I watched at my grandmother’s house. Good sci-fi on network TV doesn’t make it through. You never get to find out what happens next.
CSS will destroy you when you’re not looking. You’ll spend three hours on something that should take twenty minutes, and it’s always the same problem: a property you’ve never heard of, a specificity issue that makes no sense, or browsers that can’t agree on what a box is supposed to be. You tell yourself you understand it. Twenty years of this, and you should. Then some flex property decides it’s feeling different on Safari and you’re forty minutes deep wondering if you ever understood anything at all. The worst part is that it works, mostly, and you can get what you want out of it, but only if you approach it sideways, only if you let it surprise you instead of trying to control it. It’s like knowing a person who’s generally reasonable but occasionally shows you a side you didn’t expect.
I spent entire summers on Super Nintendo RPGs—Chrono Trigger, Lufia, Terranigma—replaying them obsessively, hunting for secret endings and hidden content, reloading saves just to see what lay outside the map boundaries. That took focus. That took absence. I was a different person then.
Now I’m the busy kind of adult: deadlines, emails, that low hum of the internet insisting I’m missing something. No possibility of that old surrender. No time to disappear into a single game for weeks.
One gray afternoon I scrolled the app store and saw DeathSpank. Ron Gilbert made Monkey Island and Maniac Mansion, so it probably wouldn’t be garbage. I downloaded it without much expectation.
You’re a knight searching for magical thongs across a fairytale world full of goblins and witches. The side quests exist purely to make you laugh. The ending involves Christmas and makes no logical sense. It’s all deliberately stupid, committed fully to its own absurdity without any self-consciousness about it.
I played through Orphans of Justice and Thongs of Virtue in a few days. The games don’t pad themselves with filler or artificial length. They understand the specific amount of time someone like me has. You get in and out.
Then I heard The Baconing had come out, and I started it immediately. Like right now, actually, while you’re reading this. Assuming it hasn’t consumed every hour since. Because something about this series works in a way I’d stopped expecting from games.
A game that doesn’t demand your whole life is rarer than it should be.
Tove Styrke’s ’Call My Name’ sits right at that spot where production clarity meets vocal intimacy. There’s this moment around the chorus where the synth swells and her voice just cuts through it clean, and you realize she’s singing directly at whoever’s listening. Swedish pop in the last decade got good at that—making massive sounds feel private, like she’s in the room with you. The song’s got enough architecture that it holds up through multiple listens without overstaying. I keep coming back to it the way you do with things that don’t announce themselves but don’t let you forget them either.
Harajuku at street level is just different. Two teenage girls in full Mario and Luigi costumes are having a normal day. Someone’s decided their entire personality for today is cyberpunk—thirty-pound pants, tiger sneakers, the commitment is real. Another pair are playing fashion police. Nobody stops. Nobody changes their route. It’s just what’s happening.
Everywhere else has given up. Paris, London, Berlin—it all looks the same. Curated thrift-store restraint, the right vintage pieces, the right loud logos. There’s an invisible line, and you don’t cross it. The second your clothes start getting interesting, you stop being fashionable and start being a problem. So no one crosses it.
What kills me is how normal we’ve made the boredom. German cities especially—everyone’s in the approved vintage uniform, everyone’s making the same safe choices, everyone’s pretending that’s taste and not just fear. We’ve all agreed: don’t be too weird, don’t try too hard. Just pick a lane and stay in it.
Tokyo doesn’t have that memo. Or it read it and threw it away years ago. People dress up as video game characters on a Tuesday. People wear enormous decorated pants for no reason except they want to. And the city just accommodates it. There’s no tax for that level of weirdness.
I don’t know if it’s the culture or the density or something about how Tokyo’s wired, but it works. Tokyo Fashion has been documenting it forever, and every time I look at it, I remember that fashion doesn’t have to be this conservative thing we’ve decided it is in the West. It could just be trying something and seeing what happens. Not asking for permission first.
Anyway, that’s not where I live. But at least I know the option exists.
Alone for days, weeks, months in some kind of waking coma. Mad at yourself, mad at everyone else, everything. Loneliness rewires your brain—makes you question every decision that got you here. And it doesn’t matter how many friends or acquaintances orbit your life. You’re utterly alone.
The second you catch the idea that something about this life is deeply wrong, depression follows. You pull the covers over your head and genuinely can’t imagine finding the strength to get up. You’re going to die here. No question.
I came up with this theory once while drunk, and it’s never left me: the lonelier you are now, the better your friendships used to be. There’s always that moment—usually in your teens—where you had this perfect, unbreakable group. Just a handful of people you could show up to at any hour with your entire life falling apart and they’d just… be there for it.
You’d do stupid, reckless things together. Mock the cops in the street and run. Crash parties you weren’t invited to. Steal food. Stay up gaming, five of you crammed in one bed. Share secrets and shame and porn and skipped school and the kind of loyalty that felt infinite.
If you’ve felt that before, experienced what real friendship actually is, then everything after is just surface. Other people living in the same place at the same time. You get along fine. You have things in common. You see each other sometimes. It’s pleasant. But that specific bond—that particular combination of trust and shared history and secrets and raw survival—that’s gone. Just a memory now, getting fainter every year.
So you’re sitting in the dark at your computer, night after night, pouring wine down your throat, scrolling through the world’s garbage, and your brain spirals. Especially in autumn. The weight of it all presses down and you can’t breathe.
Was it smart to leave home? To chase money and meaning in the big city? Staying would’ve meant poverty and disappointment and no future, but at least you’d still have the people who actually understood you. The ones who knew you better than anyone else ever will. But you left them anyway.
Maybe that crushing loneliness isn’t an ending, though. Maybe it’s a signal. A sign that you need to move again—not back, but forward. The life you’ve built has settled into place. All the surprises are already behind you. You’re not growing anymore, just waiting.
So maybe it’s time for something actual. Travel somewhere you’ve never been and find out happiness isn’t waiting on the other side of the world—but at least you’ll know. Move to a city where you don’t know a single person and rebuild from zero. Finally do that one dream you keep thinking about before sleep, the thing you abandoned when life got complicated but never actually forgot. Anything but this slow fade.
It comes down to one question: Do you have the guts to actually do the things you think about constantly, the things that would make your life feel like something? Or do you stay and watch time disappear, so you can regret it later?
In New York, a group called The Outdoor Co-ed Topless Pulp Fiction Appreciation Society did exactly what their name advertised: they sat in parks reading serious books without shirts. Their motto was “Making Reading Sexy,” which was either sincere or ironic or both, and it didn’t really matter which.
The actual appeal is straightforward. Sensuality and intellect in one moment, without the usual distance between them. But what struck me was that they seemed to reach for the same books every time—the canonical stuff, the classics everyone pretends to have read. Which means either they had convictions about what real reading looks like, or they were all enacting the same fantasy of being a certain person: educated, unselfconscious, willing to be strange in public.
Probably both. When you commit fully to something absurd, it stops being ironic and just becomes true.
I never saw them in person, just in photos. The women looked comfortable in a way that made it work. You can’t perform something that weird and sexual and intellectual at once. You have to let it be genuine.
There’s something about Björk that exists outside the normal calculus of music. She’s been doing this for thirty years — refusing to settle into whatever worked last, refusing to be palatable, refusing to let you get comfortable. The moon thing, if we’re talking about it, is about that remoteness, that cold clarity. Her voice has always had that quality — something not entirely human, or more than human, something that exists in a space you can’t quite reach. I’ve never needed her to be warm. I needed her to be true, and she is. The production, the orchestration, whatever she’s decided to do in a given era — it’s never been designed to please. It’s designed to document something she’s seeing that the rest of us are barely aware of. That’s the moon. Not sentimental. Not soft. Just clear.
Your internet dies, so what — don’t just sit around irritated. Pick ten things to do instead. Dishes. Your room. Something decent for someone else. You weren’t going to do any of it anyway, so use the outage as your excuse.
Weekends are too short for actual productivity, so commit to absurd missions instead. Go to Fashion Week on acid and suddenly the clothes make perfect sense and everything looks incredible. Share gifs constantly until you’re communicating purely in images. Find some disease you’ve never heard of, the kind where your skin tries to grow a second version of itself, and read the whole thing. It matters that you know these things exist.
Hand a kid to someone important and yell “You can keep him, he’s basically the Antichrist,” then run like hell.
New features are always rolling out somewhere. Be the insufferable person in your group who gets them first. It’s completely meaningless but it’s still something.
Stop doing coke. That one’s not a mission — that’s something you actually have to do, and your grandmother is genuinely sad about it.
Go to a party wearing something that invites touch. Keep a napkin count. By the time midnight hits the handwriting’s illegible and eventually you lose the napkin entirely.
Seduce a fashion blogger. You know exactly which one. You’ve been thinking about it for months.
Walk up to random strangers and ask if you can buy them something. Coffee. A meal. Whatever they need. Most will say no and back away slowly. One might say yes, and then you’ll have changed the entire shape of their day for absolutely no reason.
That’s ten. The last one you already know about. The one everyone knows about. Do it anyway, or don’t — but you know you should stop.
Kent’s sweater came out of the trash. His dad threw it away, his mom fished it out, asked if he wanted it. Seventeen years old in Frankfurt and the sweater became his favorite thing. Carrot jogger, Dr. Martens, the dead man’s sweater. He worries he looks small in it.
Mai’s twenty-two and found a black-and-green pullover at a vintage sale that existed exactly once. Another woman had it first, didn’t want it, and Mai took it. That’s how she moves through fashion—Berlin, shooting photographs, dancing to whatever sounds good. A gold Inca chain from a friend, a brown fake leather bag from eBay because real leather brings customs hell, blue treggings and boots from H&M. When I asked if the clothes help you get laid she just shrugged. Maybe. Probably not. It’s the face and the person underneath that matters. The clothes come off anyway. What interests me is that she actually thinks about this stuff—she told me she looks better dressed than naked, which she explained this way: naked you just see the body, same every day. But dressed you can be a different person. You can try on multiple lives. She wears a pink bra without lace because lace costs fifteen or twenty euros and who pays that. White underwear with pink stripes and a little teddy bear on the ass. The specificity of it made her real to me in a way most fashion talk isn’t.
Jonathan’s twenty-eight, German living in Vienna, and he’s got this brocade vest that a Viennese tailor made to measure. First time he passed the shop he thought it was the Burgtheater selling off its costume archive. It wasn’t. Now he rolls his sleeves to show his forearm tattoo and the vest does what his old oversized pullovers couldn’t—it makes people notice. He won’t wear shorts. Not once the weather hits thirty degrees. Not really ever.
Three people, three different entrances into the same thing. They weren’t shopping. They found pieces that fit who they actually were—a sweater that came from the trash, a vintage pullover, a handmade jacket—and they kept them. No trends, no seasons, just real.
There’s a particular kind of dream pop that just dissolves into your day without asking permission—Asobi Seksu’s second album does this quietly, the guitars layered so thick they become texture instead of sound. You’re not listening to it so much as existing inside it, the vocals buried deep in reverb and melody, everything soft-focus and patient. It doesn’t demand anything from you, which is maybe why it works. Nothing sharp enough to hurt, nothing bright enough to wake you up. Just this sustained, floating feeling that lasts as long as you let it. The kind of album you realize has been playing for forty minutes and you’ve been somewhere else the whole time, but somewhere warm.
Amber Heard exists in this strange space where you can’t look at her work without the noise around her bleeds in. She’s a good actress—you see it in the smaller roles before everything happened. Whatever this is, whoever this character is, there’s something there worth paying attention to if you can get past the weight of her name. The thing about public figures who become synonymous with controversy is that their craft gets buried under the story. Sometimes that’s fair. Sometimes it’s a shame.
There’s something about Fenech-Soler that just sits right—synth-pop that never needs to prove anything, just patient layers of melody you sink into without thinking. Golden Sun is exactly that kind of record: easy to come back to, never exhausting, solid and pretty in a way that doesn’t demand anything from you. Most days that’s exactly what I want from music, something that works the way things should work, without all the production noise trying to convince you it matters.
I followed those Chile protests almost by accident, drawn into coverage of what thousands of young people were actually refusing: Piñera’s version of education, the math that said you’d go into impossible debt just to become anything. What struck me was the stubbornness of it—not media fury but a refusal, a basic no to the future they were being sold. Piñera thought anger fades if ignored, but that’s a fundamental misread. When a generation knows the system is designed to break them anyway, they don’t leave. They stayed. The demands got bigger. Not everything changed, but they proved something governments always count on us forgetting: that enough people saying no actually works.
The Big Pink make their best work in the space between gloss and sincerity, and that’s where Stay Gold lives. Everything’s processed, everything’s shimmering, but there’s something unguarded underneath all that production. I’ve always liked that about them — the willingness to be both slick and vulnerable at once. Most bands have to choose.
In early 2009, I started this website with Hannah—me a designer from Berlin, her fresh out of fashion school in Munich. It was meant to be nothing, just a junk blog, somewhere to throw ideas around. Neither of us understood what we were actually getting into.
Within a few years it had turned into something that mattered to people we didn’t know. They followed along with what we were doing, and some of them became actual friends. We poured everything into it—so much passion it felt like the whole thing might split open at any moment. We brought other writers on, dealt with agencies and online trolls, made endless mistakes and learned from them, tried things no one else was trying. I ended up writing about the messy everyday stuff; Hannah was the one who could write about pain and love and impossible feelings in a way that made you actually stop and feel it. When she went to Tokyo for a few months, she sent back these dispatches about what she was seeing. We’d take trips together and she’d write about those too. I even wrote her a love letter for a newspaper once—something ridiculous and completely sincere that was really about how much it meant to be building this with her.
But that’s what happens when two people work that closely on something they both care about. Eventually you start to hate each other. Little things at first. Then bigger things. By late February it was too much. We were screaming and crying and we just wanted it to stop. So she left, and the whole story we’d built together fell apart with her.
And now she’s coming back. Starting today. We tried living separately from something we’d created together and it didn’t work. She saw it first, believed in it when it was nothing. This is her project as much as mine, maybe more. I think we both realized you can’t just walk away from something like this. It’s too much a part of who you are.
She’s going to settle back in slowly. Writing again, handling the stuff that piles up behind the scenes. And having her back feels like we finally found our way out of something that shouldn’t have happened in the first place. You don’t just build something like this with someone and then leave it. Not really.
Autumn gets packaged as melancholy season. October comes and you’re supposed to feel the weight of it—the light draining, the cold coming, the whole seasonal affective checklist. Everyone’s supposed to retreat with dark music and wait out the darkness. There’s an aesthetic to the suffering. A romance to it.
But you don’t have to buy in.
The weather’s real. October hits different—the air sharpens, you feel smaller, the light goes away before dinner. I’m not pretending that doesn’t matter. But the music you play while you’re lying in bed at three in the afternoon is still your choice. You can stay under the duvet, nothing wrong with that. But instead of the expected parade of slowcore and melancholy, you put on SBTRKT or Aeroplane or Passion Pit. Energy. Motion. Tracks that make you want to move even if you’re just bouncing on the mattress.
It works. The song changes the room. Changes what the season means.
And maybe don’t do it alone. Invite someone over. Make the bed a place where something happens—talking, laughing, music loud enough that you forget about the weather for a while. The bed is perfect for that. Warm, private, nowhere you need to be.
Some of my best mornings are October mornings. Still dark outside, bed still warm, the right song playing. The season doesn’t get to decide your mood if you don’t let it. That’s the whole thing.
Cass Bird’s photographs feel like they’re not supposed to exist, like you’re seeing something private. There’s no performance in them—no posing, no waiting for the right moment. Just people being themselves, which somehow is the hardest thing to photograph. The title suggests something about what we carry from our parents, and that’s exactly what her work captures: the inheritance we don’t think about.
I was twelve in some hideout beneath pallets and cardboard, rat poison stacked in corners, when I reached over and traced my fingers down the bare curve of her ass and understood what I’d want the rest of my life. She wasn’t one of those girls who’d turn into something else — all makeup and polish and distance. She was my best friend, and that was the whole thing.
We were still doing Power Rangers moves off stacked earth bags, still beating each other bloody in the woods, still sneaking into her room late to watch pornography on a borrowed tape with her little brothers and laugh until we couldn’t breathe. That was the setup. You have to understand that part.
Three years later, at fifteen, she came upstairs from her mother’s restaurant where she’d been waitressing, and we talked until morning — dreams, the future, some R&B guy we both liked. I slipped her underwear off without thinking much about it, worked my way into her, and her little brother was asleep beside us grinning in a dream, the full moon coming in through the window like it was all arranged. A year after that she told me she’d always been lesbian, had wanted it since kindergarten, but that didn’t stop anything. We just kept going.
I’ve never been into the other kind. The annoying ones with the heels and the purses, the glittery mouths. Even though I dated some of them once or twice, just to check. What I wanted was a girl with an actual brain. Direct. Crude. The kind who wore boxer shorts instead of thongs, who got skateboards instead of sunburns, who had opinions and didn’t ask permission to laugh or curse or take up space. A girl you knew as a friend first, and then one day she’d be standing there with breasts and a cunt you suddenly knew what to do with, still the same person, still grinning.
A woman I knew once told me I liked this type because I never had a father, that I was trying to reclaim some lost authority. Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t stomach girls who say yes to everything, who need to fit some standard of what beautiful looks like, who giggle and flirt and never fart or grunt or throw a punch. What’s the point. You might as well date a doll.
The best years of my life were with women who were more friend than girlfriend. Who’d drink with me until dawn, do drugs with me, puke and yell and carry on, then come to bed soaked and fucked up but still themselves. Who had these small firm tits with puffy pink nipples because God apparently couldn’t decide which way to make them, couldn’t finish the job — and I was grateful for that, genuinely grateful. They’d go shit loudly in the bathroom, come back grinning, tell me something insane that just happened, and keep fucking me with beer and a salami sandwich in their mouth. Take blurry photos on whatever camera we had around and send them like it was nothing. That’s the real thing, the actual love, nothing to do with Disney or magazines or advice books. Everything else is trash.
I live fine without it most days. Sleep with the conventional ones sometimes. But I’m always waiting, somewhere in the back of my mind, for someone — loud and unhinged and shameless, the kind who burps and farts and drinks beer without worrying about her breath, who doesn’t own makeup, whose small breasts and pretty cunt and that specific knowing smile are all the invitation anyone needs. Someone who’s actually lived. Who’s got a history worth drowning in, with real peaks and valleys and favorite films that mean something and songs that stick to you. Who spent her childhood playing football instead of Barbie. Someone where you know in the first second that the entire rest of it — all of it — will be sex and beer pong and beating the shit out of assholes for fun and traveling to nowhere and watching sunsets and listening to music too loud and spending money stupidly and swimming naked and just existing together without apologizing. That specific grin you only get when you’re fucking your best friend. That’s the whole thing. That’s all of it.
Sneaky Sound System’s ’Big (The Moment)’ is the architecture of one specific moment. Everything stacks toward the instant when it all lands and you’re suddenly completely present—not the anticipation, just the arrival. The bass hits and your body gets it before your head does. The track commits entirely to that landing and doesn’t apologize for it.
Weekends are all anyone remembers. Tuesday bleeds into Thursday into Monday, and they’re gone—you can’t pull them back. A random Wednesday from five years ago? Vanished. You don’t know what you were doing, who you were with, why you thought it mattered. Memory is selective. It only keeps the weekends.
So you fill them. You stay up all night doing absolutely nothing—no phone, no food, no purpose—just to have proof you were awake for something. You hum cartoon theme songs from when you were seven until the person next to you actually breaks. You order something exotic at a restaurant, taste how boring it is, and that turns out to be the whole point. You find a song that pulls you backward two decades and sit inside it. You and your friends do incomprehensible things together and laugh at jokes nobody else would understand. You’re collecting evidence. Proof that you weren’t just here, that this time meant something before it disappeared.
The references get old. The heroes you’re orbiting collapse or become parodies of themselves. The restaurants disappoint you. The culture shifts underneath you. But the impulse never does. Friday night hits and you feel it again—that pressure to make these two days matter, to light them on fire, at least a little. To do the things that will stick with you, the weird and crude and pointless and ecstatic things, the ones that won’t dissolve the moment the weekend ends.
You know time is running out. You can feel it everywhere. So you fill the weekend with whatever you can—pleasure, chaos, senseless missions, rituals that mean nothing except that they prove you were alive. You make sure there’s something left in your memory of it. That’s all it ever is.
Mount Kimbie makes music that feels weightless. There’s an easiness to their approach—dubstep that doesn’t land hard, jazz samples that don’t announce themselves, percussion that sparkles instead of impacts. Listening to them is like watching something effervescent fold into something else, never quite settling. They’ve been doing this for years, staying clear of trends, staying themselves. I keep coming back to that.
Neon Indian’s music has this quality where you’re never quite sure if you’re falling into something or coming up out of it. The synths coast along like you’re driving through some neon-soaked nowhere at 3 AM, and you can’t decide if you’re trying to get home or running from something. It’s that particular kind of pretty that makes you feel alone in a good way, the kind of sound that existed in your head before you ever heard it.
2005, school trip, Prague. We’d just started the year with a mix of people I’d known forever mixed in with new faces. But somewhere on the drive down from Bavaria, it stopped mattering. We became this blob of friends. Drinking on filthy bus seats, kissing behind gas stations, laughing at nothing, someone’s guitar in the mix. The bus itself felt like it was made of happiness.
Prague was like this enormous temporary playground. We moved through the streets, the breweries, the clubs. Our hotel was some massive prefab building and we turned it into one long party. Burnt holes in the carpet with a shisha. Set a t-shirt on fire. Hannah’s room was full of pretty girls in their underwear and we sat outside it grinning, talking about the future, and then we threw empty beer bottles out the window. Of course we did.
Years later, I still pull up the specific moments. The drive back and suddenly snow everywhere, all of us piled on top of each other while Manu picked out “Californication” on his guitar. André. Meggi. Heinz, our bus driver, genuinely the best bus driver alive. Those are the moments you want to keep. We had a camera running the whole time, caught it all.
That blurry person in the footage with the long greasy hair and the dumb wet mouth? That was me. It was 2005. I was an asshole. It was perfect.
Anna Tatton’s drawing has this precision that never reads as overworked. Everything is packed in—figures, patterns, spaces—but it has this ease to it, like she knew exactly where each line needed to go. The title’s a Bosch reference, which makes sense, but she’s not doing homage or pastiche; she’s using that visual language as a starting point. The real skill is in the decisions—where to leave room and where to bury detail, so your eye knows what to settle on. Most work this dense tips into preciousness. Hers doesn’t. That restraint is what makes it land.
Charles Kelman was an ophthalmologist who looked at cataract surgery and thought there had to be a better way — which led him to invent phacoemulsification and basically change the whole field. But he was also a jazz musician and a scuba diver and just fundamentally couldn’t sit still with the status quo. I think that’s what the title’s about: that the baseline version of life, the one where you accept things the way they are, is genuinely boring. You need the restlessness, the refusal to settle, or you might as well be asleep.
Growing up in some small Bavarian town, getting to any festival at all felt like you were actually doing something. Rock im Park was about as good as it got. But after Hurricane and Melt, Berlin Festival was supposed to be the third one that year, the autumnal sendoff to the whole season. Music, crowds, stages. One more time.
The lineup looked decent—Beginner, Beirut, Suede, enough names scattered across the old Tempelhof airfield to warrant the trip. Three stages, bumper cars, food stalls, a mobile disco. The grounds weren’t bad for it. But the vibe never came together.
Odd Future cancelled last minute. James Blake got 2pm on a Friday—who’s even awake then unless you’re still drunk from Thursday? Fans paid extra for special shows. The whole schedule felt thoughtless, like someone filled time slots without considering whether actual human beings could attend.
The bands were ghosts from five years ago. CSS, Santigold, Yelle—I’d loved these, but there probably weren’t enough current artists willing to make the trip to Germany. It had that 2008 desperation, that reaching-back feeling. Gray weather the whole time. Thin crowds. And these marketing kids with clipboards trying to get you to join some brand community. I was half-waiting for one more approach just so I’d have something to tell the story about.
Buraka Som Sistema was the real thing. The singer was magnetic, the production clever, everything moved people. Silent disco worked even sober. The döner was the best I’ve ever had at a festival. Club Mate and a guy named Nike sweating through the whole set next to me.
Berlin Festival 2011 didn’t disappoint me so much as just not happen. Why not one ticket instead of confusing add-ons? Why not borrow that beach setup from Bread & Butter? Why schedule in September when summer weather existed? Details that added up to a missing experience.
I filed it under adequate and moved on. If you’re the kind of person who only leaves your favorite Berlin café once a year for music, you’re better off at Melt anyway.
I check in on this place once a year - sit down with wine and try to be honest about whether it’s actually getting better or just wearing its own groove deeper. This year I decided to stop talking to myself about it and ask people. Sent emails to people who read, or used to read, asking what they thought. No false politeness, just what works and what doesn’t.
The blog’s been a lot of different things. Different names, different shapes, writers coming and going, me constantly trying to figure out what I meant it to be. Some people have watched the whole ride.
The feedback came back direct. Timo said he liked the roughness, the sex-and-drugs energy, but it had gotten too cautious - more force would help. Julia had already left months ago, worn down by endless galleries of naked tattooed people. Paula missed the personal writing, the openness about relationships and thoughts nobody else would write. That’s what had drawn her in. The other writers felt like they were just filling space - nobody had the same gravity.
Karl appreciated the layout and format, but he was tired of forced Berlin cool, boring sex-talk, giveaways and PR disguised as content. He wanted actual substance, real writing, authenticity.
Karl also made a point about not getting defensive. Visibility means taking shots. You deal with it. You don’t waste time arguing about whether the criticism is fair. The whole “it was better before” thing, blaming it all on jealousy - that’s the wrong move.
The weird thing is I already know all of this. None of it’s surprising. Knowing and doing are different things though.
Midnight at some Berlin venue and they’re handing out currywurst next to the bars, celebrities with new breasts bouncing everywhere, free drinks in every direction. Either I’d made it in Berlin or I was just really good at sneaking in.
The first day of the festival hadn’t exactly been orgasmic, so when someone mentioned this thing at ewerk, this VW-sponsored networking night, I figured why not. The kind of event where the important people from the important companies in the important industries were dancing around, and somehow so was I. Still pretty drunk.
I talked to Wilson Gonzales Ochsenknecht about a festival we’d both been to, to Bonnie Strange about idols and friendship, and to a bunch of music managers about the state of the industry. Got some advice that if you say “business” five times in a sentence people take you more seriously — though honestly alcohol does the real work, and after a few drinks everyone wants to sign you or manage you or put you on a stage, regardless of who you are or what you actually do.
The crowd was mostly sympathetic to itself. Celebrities annoyed at other celebrities, music people annoyed at music people, everyone united in their contempt for this guy Karl-Heinz who’d somehow won his way in and spent the night calling his girlfriend to report every famous face he’d spotted. “That girl from Jungle Camp is here, she’s got huge tits, she’s at the bar right now!”
But the catering staff had figured out the truth long ago: celebrities are just people. By 2am they were crowded into this tiny side room, throwing glasses and bottles around, stumbling through a seventy-meter line just to get a sausage with red sauce. Like right after the war, everyone desperate for a hot meal.
Eventually I’d had enough of half-naked models on coke and soap actresses pressed against me slick with sweat. I stage-dived my way to the exit in my neon blue jacket — the jacket of the oppressed — and left without even taking the goodie bag. I owe thanks to the band whose name I’ve already forgotten but who smuggled me in through their guitar case, and to Bruno the bouncer, who I gave a quick lick on the way out. He never asked another question after that. God protect him.
SBTRKT makes music that feels designed for the inside of your head. Pharaohs is cold and precise, the kind of thing that makes thinking easier. I come back to it when I need to clear space around whatever’s bothering me. The beats have weight but don’t demand anything from you except attention.
Weekends are supposed to be freedom, but they’re actually just two days of having to invent your own purpose. No job to complain about, no colleagues to resent, just you and the crushing question of what the hell you’re supposed to do with yourself. It’s paralyzing. So why not lean into it? Why not actively sabotage the whole thing?
Quit your job on a Friday morning. Not gradually, not with two weeks’ notice—just walk in, leave something foul on your boss’s desk, and shout obscenities on your way out. Suddenly you have unlimited weekend. Or become stupidly irresponsible for two days straight. Let yourself fall apart a little. Cry about something stupid, something that doesn’t deserve tears but you give them anyway. Listen to the worst music you can find, the kind that makes your skin crawl, and play it loud enough that you can’t think about anything else.
Take your jealousy and let it run wild. Stalk someone, suspect everything, find reasons to be angry at people who aren’t even here. Don’t eat anything that’s red or yellow or green—pretend you’ve discovered a new consciousness through food color deprivation. Scream at people who dare talk to you. Tell them they’re not your mother. Actually, go to a couples’ sex therapist with someone you barely know and get professional instruction on things you’ll never be able to do together again without thinking about the therapist’s voice.
Or just pray. Really pray. The full production. See if this time, finally, something actually changes. Then sit there knowing it won’t. The weekend doesn’t need winning. It just needs surviving.
Summer didn’t fade into September the way it usually does. No golden leaves, no gentle transition. It just stood up, took one last look, and took a massive shit on everyone’s head. Everything’s slowly getting sick and I’m hating autumn with everything I’ve got. But there’s still September to get through, and I need to know what’s actually worth my time.
Outdoor cinema if I can still catch something. The new phone before everyone has one and it’s boring. Some quiet moment for all the terrible things that happened a decade ago. Sleeping in parks eating ice cream. Bars for once instead of clubs. Loving something new just to feel something. Drum and bass when you finally get it. Dancing in a way that feels like not pretending. Glitter. Curls. Britney Spears. Terry Richardson. Indian summer. Your mom. A new plant that you keep alive instead of killing. Writing something that matters. Keeping your clothes on in bed sometimes because it’s hotter that way. Just pausing for no reason.
September feels like possibility even though I know better. It’s the month that makes this promise: next month, next season, next year—something will finally click. I’ll want different things. I’ll be different. The same bullshit will matter less. None of that is true, but September is very convincing in its lies.
And then there’s all the shit that comes with it. Tuition bills. Bug bites that swell into these weird grotesque things. The people who exhaust you. Standing on tables in bars like you invented it. Ordering overpriced cocktails in the wrong places. The ones who stayed too long on one obsession. Fruit flies in your kitchen. Slow internet when you need it fast. Warm sushi. Breaking up with someone over Twitter because you couldn’t face the phone. Google+ pretending to be a thing. Blackberries still existing somehow. People who won’t stop going on about how superior printed words are. People who try too hard and ruin the vibe. The older men who won’t stop jerking off to girls in bikinis. Empty heads. The same shit you hated last year and the year before that.
By the time October hits most of this is forgotten anyway. But September is the month where I think something’s going to change. It never does, but I think it anyway.
LesMads posted ten times a day. Sometimes more. When Jessica Weiß, Julia, and Schnati started in mid-2007, fashion blogging didn’t exist yet in Germany—or at least nobody had a name for it. It was just three women writing about clothes and taking mirror selfies in Berlin tower blocks on a website that shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. A publisher backed them. The fashion industry, which had no category for blogs, learned to take them seriously. Awards came. Thousands of readers. They became exactly as big as a blog could become.
Then Jessica left. Not because it failed, but because it had succeeded completely, which meant the only thing left to do was watch it become something else.
She’d wanted to be a writer as a kid. Then a TV presenter. Then somehow ended up running the most influential fashion blog in Germany. Looking back, it makes sense. She was smart and ambitious and could actually write, which put her way ahead of everyone else doing this at the time. But when she talked about leaving, she didn’t sound disappointed or bitter. She sounded like someone who’d finished. We accomplished everything. There’s nothing left. Done.
The work killed her first. Four and a half years of ten posts a day. Your love for something can carry you through insane hours for a while—you’re climbing, building, every post matters. But past a certain point the fire dies and what’s left is just the grind. She eventually made a rule: no posting on weekends. That was her compromise with having a life. That’s how far it had gone.
Then came the readers. When LesMads started, they shared everything—family stuff, actual thoughts, the real texture of their lives mixed in with the outfit photos. That’s what made it real, what made you care about what they were thinking. But readers multiply and a percentage of them are the kind of people who turn vulnerability into ammunition. You share something genuine and someone mocks it or uses it against you. After it happens enough times you stop sharing. You become professional. The diary becomes a platform and you’re not a person anymore, you’re a brand answering 150 emails a day from people who all want something from you.
The third thing was the other bloggers and the people who hated her. The ones who showed up the moment she succeeded. Blogs copying without credit and then resenting her for being more successful at it. Readers who felt rejected and turned that into spite. After a while you don’t even read the comments. You just know they’re there, and you know what they say.
So she took a job at Interview Magazine, running their online division. A completely new project, building from nothing. When someone asked if she’d do LesMads exactly the same way again, knowing what she knows now, she said yes. Immediately. No hesitation. Even knowing the cost. Even knowing how it would end.
That answer didn’t sit right. Not the choice itself—you can understand why she’d make it. The work mattered. It was real. But the “I’d do it exactly the same” part, the complete absence of regret or hesitation. That sounds like someone who would burn the exact same way again if she had to. Maybe she will, in some other form.
Kusters spent years photographing yakuza in Tokyo, which seems impossible until you realize that access is just another thing you can build if you show up honestly and don’t lie about what you want. The photographs are straightforward: men in everyday moments, ordinary and resigned and trapped in a structure they maintain because it’s the only structure they know.
What gets me about the work is that it refuses to perform a reading of the subject. He doesn’t frame yakuza as noble rebels or villains or symptoms of something. They’re just people whose life choices have constrained them in ways they’ve accepted. The photographs do what all good photography does — they make you look at something you’ve already decided you understand and recognize that you don’t actually know anything about it.
There’s a discipline to that kind of documentation: showing up, staying quiet, letting the work speak. No narration, no theory, no message. Just evidence that these lives are real and strange and ordinary all at once.
Summer’s fading. Late August and the light’s already changing angle, the heat releasing just enough that you remember you can breathe. I’ve got a playlist for this moment every year—just songs that mark the turning without being about it. The Weeknd, Destroyer, Little Dragon. Nothing fancy, nothing that means anything except it felt right when the season was shifting.
I’m tired of summer by August anyway. Tired of the heat, the people, the pressure to be doing something with your time. There’s something clean about knowing the dark months are coming, the quiet after this loud season.
The playlist will probably disappear by October. But for August, it’s the small proof that something was worth noticing, even if it was just the light and the right song at the right moment.
The internet makes you fat. You spend every day sitting—office chair, café bench, some basement—barely moving except to plug your phone in the computer or grab tissues when you’re having a minor stress breakdown, and you’d rather sleep than actually go outside and exercise, no matter what your calendar says you should be doing.
Food has to be fast. You’ve got a project that’s due, code that needs testing, someone you need to interview—probably via email because leaving your desk is basically impossible. So pizza, pasta, burgers—roll up to whichever place you trust, shove it in your face, back to work. The internet never stops. It doesn’t sleep.
This is happening to me right now. As I type, I’m literally shoving my stomach aside so I can fit fried chips in my mouth. And I’m too lazy to even leave the house to eat anymore. In the last two months I’ve ordered delivery so many times my loyalty points could rebuild a small nation. So tomorrow I just order again.
Then there are those rare days when I force myself to bike somewhere instead of transit, when I skip the double burger and fries for an actual goat cheese salad and water. All I remember the next morning is waking up at 4 AM puking in a fast food bathroom, screaming for bacon nuggets and a Whopper with extra patties. Make it a nine-piece of something fried while you’re at it. Goodbye.
And of course it’s not my fault. It’s TV. It’s advertising. It’s society. Not me. I’d be perfectly fine eating fruit and hand-raised chicken if corporate advertising didn’t spend billions telling me how boring that is. You’re buried in fast food ads everywhere. If I ever quit eating Colonel Sanders, he’d chase me through my nightmares in a giant cornfield. You assholes are the problem, not me.
Except that excuse is getting thin. Because I’m starting to notice something worse than getting sluggish and tired and foggy from all the garbage—the food doesn’t even taste good anymore. Burger King can rebrand their entire menu every six months and it tastes identical. Like burnt regret. Always. The delivery place drowns their pizza in so much grease they’ve probably sterilized half their employees just from the vapor. And I’d rather get deployed to a war zone than eat from those tourist-trap noodle places again.
You’re not supposed to fall apart like this working online. Fashion people manage it. Though I guess they survive on marriage proposals from middle-aged stalkers. Anyway.
The answer is obvious. I need to actually exercise. Bike for an hour without hacking up a lung. Sit outside with a book. Do something that isn’t the screen. Get away from this at least once a week. And remember: jerking off doesn’t count as exercise. This isn’t about quitting the internet and becoming a gym rat or moving to the countryside—it’s just accepting that you can’t hide behind a monitor forever before your body actually gives out. And maybe have sex again. With an actual person. More than once. So we end the year as something resembling a functioning human. But that starts tomorrow. I’ve still got McDonald’s coupons burning in my wallet.
There’s something about bands that come out of the noise and refuse to sand down their edges. Weed, that grinding sludge, the kind of thing that plays basement clubs to maybe thirty people who actually get it. Born to Lose—the whole Johnny Thunders philosophy, the punk refusal to become digestible. These aren’t bands trying to break through. They’re doing the opposite, making music that actively repels the casual listener, that demands something from you. You show up because you know what you’re in for. Not to be entertained. Because this is real and it doesn’t care if you’re listening.
Fran Allen won the Turing Award—the Nobel Prize of computing—and you’ve never heard of her. She worked at IBM in the 1950s and 60s on compiler optimization, which sounds like nothing until you realize it’s the invisible machinery that made computers computers. By the time she actually won recognition in 2006, late in her life, the world had moved on to other names. It’s not malice exactly. It’s just how history works. The foundational stuff gets buried. The architecture disappears into the background. Allen’s legacy is something you use every day without knowing it, which might be the loneliest kind of impact.
Weekend hits like a car with no brakes and suddenly it’s here. I’m in the bathroom with Solarium-Sonja and this guy Benny—don’t ask—getting ready for a kids club, which definitely sounds wrong when I say it out loud. There’s a Rihanna song on repeat, maybe with a Bieber remix, something that won’t die, and I’ve got one thought stuck: tits, tequila, ten little missions.
One. Start a troll gang that bounces from blog to blog burning everything down. Posts, images, videos. All of it gone. Already exists? Doesn’t matter. Two. Buy a paint-by-numbers kit. Lock the door. Don’t come out until the painting looks like a Caspar David Friedrich painted it. Close enough is fine. Three. Look at the American Pie Reunion poster. Feel yourself aging. It’s all downhill from here. Four. Smile at the sun. It’ll shine longer for you. Might be bullshit but worth trying. Five. Download Minecraft. Play for five minutes. Uninstall forever. Bad graphics, pointless, or the porn folder’s calling—pick a reason. Probably all three.
Six. Find some far-right political posters and cover them with jokes. Stand at the polling booths trying to convince old people not to vote for the party that hates immigrants and gay people. It won’t work but someone has to try. Seven. Write a boring press release starting with “Dear Blogger.” Send the follow-up full of death threats and hate speech about their boss and his family. Here’s the thing: nobody reads past the greeting. All that hate just evaporates. Eight. Go to the fish market and buy the deadest fish available. Become their best friend. Notice how long they are. How slimy. How they’re split open inside. That hole. Being a man. Nine. Post online about how Pokémon discriminates against disabled people because there’s a move called “Paralyze.” Then drown quietly because apparently no real problems exist in the world besides this one. Ten. Get happy.
You get to a point where music is just everywhere, and most of it doesn’t stick. Friends forwarding things, labels dumping releases, YouTube rabbit holes at 2am. But every once in a while something actually lands.
Blood Orange is Devonté Hynes, 25, who’s done a few other projects already—Test Icicles, Lightspeed Champion—before settling here. Coastal Grooves sounds like it came together in a bedroom late at night. New wave 80s atmosphere, romantic without being obvious about it. It’s the kind of album where you can hear the person behind it, not trying to impress, just making something real.
Active Child is one guy—Pat Grossi—making something that sounds like a full orchestra. The album sits between folk melancholy and theatrical harmony, lots of layered voices with synth underneath. Fleet Foxes is maybe the closest comparison but without the preciousness. He understands how to write something that gets under your skin.
B. Fleischmann started as a drummer before getting serious about electronics. The Austrian composer founded the Charisma label. Pop Loops for Breakfast is intricate instrumental work, dense and methodical. One of those albums that sounds different each time you come back to it.
Takagi Masakatsu makes film and music in Japan. Apple found his work precise enough to use in their ads, which says something. Eating is peaceful and exact, no wasted moments. The kind of thing where every note is exactly where it needs to be.
Then there’s Bang Bang’s Cover Me mixtape—old songs done new. Björk, Coldplay, The xx. Most covers don’t work because people don’t understand that covering something means rewriting it completely. These ones got it right.
I met Katha at one of those farmer parties at the edge of my hometown. She was tall, beautiful, long black hair blowing in wind that smelled like cheap beer and puke in corners. Obviously she had a boyfriend. Three years with Ferdinand. He was in the military somewhere, in a barracks or deployed or whatever — the point is he wasn’t here with her. His loss.
My too-small conscience checked out around three in the morning when we left our drunk friends behind and went to her older sister’s apartment and did what we came to do in the moonlight, swearing eternal love between rounds. I remember it felt like something that mattered.
Next morning my phone exploded. “You stole Ferdi’s girlfriend? Dude…” One friend was calling me a hero. Another called me an asshole. Her best friend said “Good luck” — which I’m pretty sure wasn’t about wishing us happiness, but more about my physical survival, because Ferdinand had a reputation. Even concrete walls couldn’t stop him, people said.
I could tell you about a few days later when I barely escaped whatever he was planning (probably not actually a machine gun, more like a stick he was waving around), running to the bus stop in my underwear, begging some flower lady for change. How Ferdinand called Katha crying, swearing his eternal love, talking about marriage and kids, then tried to kill himself when she laughed and hung up. How she sent me nude pictures of her with her favorite teddy bear afterward. But that’s not really worth dwelling on. We lasted four weeks anyway.
The thing that’s stuck with me since (not really stuck, if I’m honest — I traded my conscience for internet points a long time ago and I’m going to hell regardless): how bad is it actually to steal someone’s girlfriend? If she’s unhappy in the relationship anyway? If you genuinely think you love her more? If you’re just really, desperately into her body and the feeling of her skin and the way she looks at you?
Or should you just wait for nature to take its course — or in this case, human inconstancy — so you can swoop in after the breakup and be the shoulder to cry on? Except wouldn’t you speed things up by actively destroying their relationship? Wouldn’t that just be doing everyone a favor?
I ran into Katha twice after we broke up. The first time she told me about a spontaneous anal sex party with her boss and his girlfriend in the back of a Jeep. The second time she was announcing from the top of a bar table that she and Ferdinand were getting married in the spring in some little forest chapel. I was genuinely happy for them. I really was.
ZDFneo set up this thing called TVLab where viewers vote on which pilots get to continue. I spent an evening watching the ten episodes because I was bored and curious what a network nobody can actually watch was planning to make.
“German Angst” is Micky Beisenherz thinking sketches can cure racism. There’s something there—the paranoia, the casual xenophobia—but every joke gets its teeth pulled before it lands. And anyway, the people drowning in actual German Angst will never find this show because ZDFneo broadcasts into a void. It’s the worst kind of satire: singing to people who already agree.
Sarah Kuttner got bounced between channels for years, and now “Bambule” is basically just her being Sarah Kuttner on television for thirty minutes. Sounds like self-absorbed hell, and mostly it is, but it’s also just Berlin—the trams, the wine bars full of tourists, the underground music people. You hate it immediately if you don’t live there. If you do, something in it just clicks.
Hand puppets. René Marek made “Ausgekuschelt!” which is hand puppets fighting each other. The concept—celebrities in plush form scrapping—is almost clever. But I hate hand puppets the way some people hate insects. They make my skin crawl. They’re right there between clowns and roadkill on my list of television horrors.
“Scharfe Hunde” was winning votes when I checked, which I couldn’t explain. The setup’s fine—cop show gets a new partner, has to solve real cases—but everything else is limp. Wrong casting, zero tension, a pacing so flat my cousin could build something better with markers. They should just bring back “Dr. Psycho” with Christian Ulmen and call it even.
Nilz Bokelberg’s “Moviacs” was the one that actually felt like something real. Him and Donnie O’Sullivan trying to make movie conversation feel like actual life again instead of consumer content. Hating the blockbusters, riffing on films. The pilot’s rough around the edges—you watch early “GameOne” now and want to throw a Dreamcast out a window—but there’s permission there to be strange and real.
Tedros Teclebrhan doing stand-up in “Teddy’s Show” makes sense until nobody laughs. A couple of polite smiles. He’s trapped somewhere between a Dave Chappelle impression and a regional circuit comedian, which is not the middle of anything good.
“Wie geil ist das denn?” sends Caro Korneli through bucket-list items—ride a tank, get wild, whatever. She’s easy to like and the whole thing is warm, but there’s nothing in it for me. Watching her tick off the production-meeting checklist while I eat fries doesn’t make me want to get off the couch. The concept would run out of steam before episode two anyway.
“Neoexplorer” actually had a real idea. Two people traveling around the world, iPad viewers texting them where to go and what to eat. It’s modern and strange, the internet talking directly to the present moment. But the hosts are dull as paint, and the budget had to come from somewhere shady.
“Bullshit” is three guys pranking people in the city center. That’s it. The concept collapses immediately. Nothing lands.
Then “Liebe auf Speed,” which is speed dating with hidden cameras or MTV garbage or something. Dating shows are television’s radioactive waste. “Herzblatt” was fine when we were kids, and everything since has been a poisoning of the format. MTV did this. I’d probably date host Jeannine Michaelsen just to make a point philosophically, but I wouldn’t watch the show.
Moviacs won, which felt right or at least less wrong. Television voting for television is still just television—committees deciding art. But something that could actually matter made it through, which is more than usually happens.
The day after karaoke we were heading to Hamburg for some corporate event, Jägermeister sponsoring the chaos. Seven of us on a train—Nike, the two Wuschelköpfe, Josh, Ladyboy, the Audiofreak, and me. We spent the hours talking about nothing in particular. By the time we got to the hotel we’d managed to destroy a remote control and a hair dryer. This is what happens when you give a group of people a free room.
Minigolf in the afternoon against The Toxic Avengers or whoever showed up. We called ourselves Lägga Dörtschn and we won, though the VIP team claims they did. They’re lying. I remember standing in the sun with a warm beer in one hand, knowing we’d actually beaten the people we were supposed to lose to.
But the night was Langhaardackel Skrillex. This guy walked straight into a wall when he arrived—actually smacked his face against it—and I thought the DJ set was going to be a disaster. But once he got behind the decks, something switched. The place detonated. Dubstep and drums and bass that moved through your bones. Everyone’s sweat mixing. Jägermeister burning down your throat. The room was a single creature.
We crashed the barrier and threw ourselves in. David was in there somewhere, Nils, Marian with those eyes that genuinely unsettled you. I had a water gun at some point and I was hunting people through the venue. After that, the night gets fragmented. Glitter coating my skin. Bruises in colors without names. The hotel. Erika’s place. A shower where Nike and I were both standing half-asleep under running water. The order doesn’t matter.
The people who ran everything—Charlotte, Alex, Björn, Nele, Sara, Nadja—they made the machinery work. I’m not supposed to name them for legal reasons, which is absurd. The tour crew keeps getting better with each trip, and I like them more too. That’s unusual. You usually get tired of people.
One thing stays with me: the garden gnomes, the really depraved ones with leering expressions. We should have stolen one. We had the momentum and the darkness and we still walked away empty-handed. Cowards. That’s what we were.
I’ve always had a weakness for cartoons that completely lose their minds in the best way. Shows that demolish every convention and somehow stay brilliant doing it. “Ren & Stimpy” scrambled my brain for years. “Adventure Time” has episodes I’m genuinely going to read to my kids someday. “Rocko’s Modern Life” created an entire generation of weird, relentlessly creative people.
“Regular Show” is J.G. Quintel’s thing: two permanent fuckups, Mordecai the blue jay and Rigby the raccoon, who somehow landed park maintenance jobs and built their entire existence around it. They live with a buff yeti, a brain tumor that gained sentience and learned to walk, a ghost made entirely of a high-five, and work under a vending machine that talks. Every single episode the universe catches fire. Everything falls apart. Physics becomes optional.
It’s been on Cartoon Network since 2010, distilled stupidity running through completely unhinged characters. The “Beavis and Butt-head” comparisons make perfect sense because it’s the same DNA: American loser mentality, total refusal to grow up, the understanding that responsibility is negotiable if you’ve got snacks and time to waste. Mordecai and Rigby are every guy who’d pick literally anything over actual work.
The show gets what it means to want nothing to change. I keep watching because I see myself in that choice.
I started TOKYOPUNK with Asumi because Japan is constantly producing these wild things — music, art, videos, street style, pure cultural weirdness — that die the moment they don’t leave the border. Someone should be translating that into German. Someone should be showing people. That someone was us.
It was supposed to work out. We’d find the stuff, post it, things would grow. But Asumi has school and a real job and the kind of life that doesn’t leave room for a side project. I’ve got my own chaos. So TOKYOPUNK’s been slowly suffocating, and I hate that.
I still believe in it. The work being done in Japan right now is too good to ignore. So I’m looking for people who understand that — Japanese or connected to Japan somehow, doesn’t matter where they live — who want to keep this alive. The deal is straightforward: you find or write about something from Japan, we post it, we split whatever ad money comes in. It’ll be pennies at first, maybe forever, but that’s not really why anyone does this.
The content can be anything: music, art, design, fashion, books, events, whatever’s happening there that’s worth noticing. Write in English if you want — I’ll translate. Just write like you mean it. That’s all that matters.
I’m throwing this out because I don’t want to watch this die because we got too busy. If you’re interested, reach out. If you know someone, tell them. We’ll figure out the rest.
Summer arrived the moment I bought neon green yarn for a project I’ll never finish. That’s how it always goes — you buy materials, full of hope, and the season turns against you.
I’ve been thinking about the weekend, which is actually only two and a half days if you’re being honest about it. My brain keeps landing on small absurdities. Organizing a coordinated Twitter earthquake hoax — everyone in Berlin announcing seismic activity at exactly 3:15 PM Saturday, then watching how many minutes before some news outlet picks it up as real. Writing an actually hostile diss track about mosquitoes, because those things need psychological warfare. Skipping the whole going-out thing and instead performing a one-man show in your apartment, safe in the knowledge that nobody gets hurt except you. Giving drum and bass a genuine shot despite knowing I’ll despise it for the first three songs before becoming completely addicted.
There’s the random stuff that surfaces when you’re not busy with real life. Calling Steve Jobs just to ask how he’s doing. Getting unreasonably angry at tabloid journalism, which somehow continues existing. The logic that makes perfect sense in the shower at 2 AM — the sink-pissing thing, where it all goes down anyway, so what’s the actual objection.
Get yourself naked. Or your cat. Or your grandmother. Take photos. The weekend will be ordinary. But somewhere in those couple of days, if you’re willing to let your mind drift, there’s the possibility of something genuinely strange.
Von Unwerth photographs people caught in the moments right after—makeup smudged, defenses down, that strange transparency that comes when you think no one’s watching anymore. There’s an intimacy to her work that never feels like violation, more like she’s noticed something true about you that was already there. ’After After Party’ probably documents exactly that: the exhaustion and desire underneath the performance, the moment when the facade really does slip.
I didn’t have many role models growing up. There was Sandy Cohen from The O.C., that surfing single dad who actually listened—to his kids, his friends, his enemies, everyone. And there was Mian Mian, that Shanghai writer who didn’t flinch from anything—the heroin, the men, the chaos—and wrote about it in a way that made you unable to tell what was real and what she was inventing. But mostly there was Steve Jobs.
It was easy to disappear into his unauthorized biographies. I’d pull one off the shelf, tear through it, then grab another, and they’d all tell the same story with slight variations. The LSD kid from the Valley who built Apple into something that mattered. The guy who squeezed money out of suits in gray, who yelled and threw tantrums and pouted when he didn’t get what he wanted. The one who got kicked out of his own company, only to come back and make it all bigger and better and stranger than before.
Today he’s 56 and sick and done. He wrote a letter to the world saying what he’d always said would happen—that when he couldn’t do the job anymore, he’d be the first to tell everyone. And now he is. And it made me sad in that specific nerd way. If I ever had the ambition to build something, to take nothing and turn it into something, to be a pioneer and not apologize for it, I stole that from him. Every time I’ve wanted to do something differently, to cut the bullshit and just make the thing right, that came from watching what he did.
He was probably a monster. He screamed at his people. He ignored his kids. The stories say he could make someone miserable just by being in the room with them, that he had this presence—this energy that would grab you and pull you in even when you knew the idea was garbage and everything was falling apart. They called it the reality distortion field. He’d walk into a room and you’d be against him, a bird would fly past the window, and suddenly you were for him. That fast. That complete.
And so here’s the man who couldn’t be replaced, stepping away. He showed hope to everyone who hated Windows, made hipsters feel like individuals, gave permission to creative people to actually create. And he handed me a template I’ve been copying ever since, embedding it so deep inside myself that I’ll probably never shake it out. So fine, Steve. Take care of yourself. I’m going to miss you. And then I remembered he’s not dead yet.
It’s been ten years since Aaliyah died, and I spent the day listening through her catalog. Three albums is all she left, and they still feel untouchable—the production so clean it almost sounds conversational, her voice carrying this confidence that’s impossible to duplicate. You hear her everywhere in what came after, but there’s a distance between influence and the genuine article. Nothing that’s tried to follow has quite hit the same.
Thursday’s new record came at the right time. No Devolución pulls back from the usual post-hardcore fury—less wailing, more structure. It’s an album that demands to be heard as a whole, not parsed for singles. The thinking in the songwriting is obvious, and when they lean into instrumental passages they earn them rather than decorating around edges.
The Weeknd’s mixtape has been running alongside this, which makes an odd combination. House of Balloons felt like a genuine left turn in where R&B could go. Thursday treads the same territory but without quite the moments that hooked you the first time. It’s absorbing but less of a pull.
Netsky did something unexpected. I never paid attention to drum ’n’ bass before—always seemed too fractured, too much going on at once. But his self-titled has this sadness underneath it that just takes hold. At twenty-one he’s made something that feels completely finished, like he tapped into something he’s always known. The album’s taken up residence.
Toddla T’s Watch Me Dance does exactly what the title suggests. Hip-hop, reggae, electronics, soul—all of it moving together without seams. It’s built for the club but works anywhere because the composition underneath the party impulse is there.
This is why I keep coming back to music. Not everything connects, but when it does, it stays.
Cameras. Turntables. Synthesizers. Microphones. For thirty years at least, we’ve been fighting the same fight—digital or analog, and both sides convinced they’re right. Photography went digital and never looked back, except the people who insisted film would never die turned out to be right about something. Music production is mostly software now, but you still hear about the warmth of analog tape like it’s a myth you have to protect.
I’ve worked across both enough to know there’s no honest answer. Digital is precise and reproducible and sometimes soulless. Analog is full of character and also full of limitations you don’t miss when you’re not fighting them anymore. The real answer—which nobody wants to hear—is that they’re different and you pick one based on what you’re trying to do, not based on ideology.
When a party in Berlin leaned into this whole tension as its theme, called it Mix Fusion, got DJs like Columbus, Greg Wilson, and xXxXx in the room—people who actually live inside this problem and figured out their own answer—it was interesting not because it settled anything but because it refused to. The event itself became the point. You show up, the music plays, some of it comes from machines and some of it came from older machines that worked differently, and none of it matters the moment you feel it move you.
I think about the work I do. Sketch by hand first, always. Then straight into software. I can’t pick a side either. The sketch has something the software kills; the software can do things the sketch never could. I’m not interested in the purity argument anymore. Just the work.
Television had a monopoly for forty years because literally nothing else existed. You could choose between five channels or go outside. That’s it. The networks knew this. They carved out their territory and defended it by being the only thing to turn on. Quality? Irrelevant. Change? Risky. They’d found the minimum viable effort and they were going to do it forever.
Then everything changed and television just kept running the same program.
I don’t watch TV anymore. Not as a protest or anything — just one day I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d turned it on. The channels I used to know by number are completely absent from my life now. I don’t know who’s doing the news. I can’t name a show that’s currently happening. The whole thing is just gone. Replaced by whatever I pick instead of whatever I’m given.
The laziness is staggering. Every format is a duplicate of a duplicate. Casting shows where broke people cry on camera, news cycles that are three hours behind reality, dramas that got tired in 2001 but keep getting renewed. I saw this once — a show that went around the world checking what people watched. Same stuff everywhere. Australia, Germany, Brazil, Tokyo. The same five templates, just redistributed. It’s like television found the one algorithm that barely worked and decided to run it until the universe ends.
Here’s what killed it: Television kept proving it was worthless. Not streaming, not the internet. TV’s own refusal to change once it didn’t have to. It had forty years to figure out how to be worth watching and it decided commercials and reruns were the answer.
I don’t miss it. I thought I would, but there’s a lot of empty space where that habit used to be and I filled it with things I actually wanted to see. When you can choose, you realize how little you were choosing before.
Jana doesn’t wear pants. Twenty-two, from Osnabrück, and she just… doesn’t. I watched her in photos wearing a Minkpink blouse, Primark jeans if the moment called for it, Ash shoes she’d talked down to fifty euros. She says her style is as changeable as the weather, and looking at the photos that checks out. She told me about picking berries in the woods and then panicking about foxworms after eating one straight off the branch, which has nothing to do with fashion but explains everything about how she exists. Not calculating. Not trying. Just there.
Van Anh’s nineteen and lives in two separate universes. One where she’s preparing to leave Berlin for London to study economics and politics. The other is a fashion blog called Chopstick Panorama where she gets to be a different person every day. Her closet reflects it—all black one moment, color chaos the next. Sweet then rough. She can’t decide, she says. She’s got maybe months left in Berlin, so that might actually be perfect timing to keep all your options open. Topshop finds, H&M basics, no-name shoes when the money ran out. Everything feels provisional.
Marcel is twenty-seven and he’s been a student in Kiel forever. Counter Strike instead of exams, parties on Thursday nights, determined not to be earnest about any of it. When I asked about his style, he made a joke about naked women on the site—which is his way of not answering. The actual answer is visible though: same black socks always, same Tom Tailor sweater, Jack & Jones jeans. He decided once years ago and apparently never reconsidered. Except when I asked him straight up if he looked better dressed or naked, and he said clothes make the man—classic deflection—then he paused. “Though if we all just walked around naked…” He didn’t finish.
Still Corners moves through your apartment like smoke. You don’t notice it’s playing until you do, and by then the whole room’s changed temperature. “Cuckoo” has that same weightless quality—soft electronics and breathing vocals that feel less like a song and more like someone’s decided to share what’s inside their head. Not trying to convince you of anything. Just existing.
There’s a particular kind of music for particular times. The kind that doesn’t ask you to feel anything except the simple fact of being present, which is maybe the hardest thing to ask for. Still Corners understands this. They’ve built something that acknowledges you’re there in the dark with your thoughts, and that’s enough.
You can’t just bail on your job or degree or the people bleeding you dry every day. Quit and the consequences somehow multiply the stress you were running from in the first place. So you keep grinding because stopping costs more than staying, and eventually you’re just dead inside, running on fumes, watching it all happen to someone else.
The entire structure is designed to punish you harder for leaving than for enduring. So you endure.
Music is the only thing that actually works. Not meditation or apps or whatever — just music. Good music. TV On The Radio, Miike Snow, Passion Pit — stuff that doesn’t try to fix you or tell you anything, just creates this space where you can exist without the pressure mattering. Even for a few minutes.
That’s the whole escape. Not because it solves anything — it doesn’t — but because while it’s playing you’re not adding to the pile. You’re just there. Chill until you die.
Oh Land has that thing where she sounds effortlessly cool even when she’s being sincere, which is harder than it looks. There’s space in her production, and her voice sits in it like she’s not trying to convince you of anything. You either get it or you don’t, and she’s fine either way.
You go to clubs in German cities and it’s always the same. Overpriced drinks, a sticky bathroom, someone passing around a bag of MDMA that looks like dirty snow and smells worse. Depends what the dealer felt like that day, how white or yellow the crystals are.
Pretty easy to feel superior about. Just kids destroying themselves for a few hours of meaningless euphoria. The whole trashy nightlife narrative—there’s comfort in looking down on it.
Except it turns out the kids accidentally knew something real. Researchers at the University of Birmingham figured out that MDMA—modified slightly, still basically the same molecule—can penetrate blood cancer cells. Leukemia, lymphoma, plasma cell cancers. The drug somehow makes the cell membrane softer, more permeable. The fatty acids in the membrane get attracted to the compound, the whole structure weakens, and suddenly the drug can slip in where it normally can’t touch anything. Healthy cells stay locked up. The drug just slides off them.
It’s an elegant mechanism. Weird and elegant. Like the drug was designed specifically for this problem, except of course it wasn’t. Just dumb luck that the molecule that’s been in party kids’ bloodstreams for decades is also a potential cancer therapy.
Right now the therapeutic dose would be lethal. Obviously. But the researchers are talking about testing a modified version in a few years—something you could actually survive. They use that careful scientist language that means they think they might have found something real.
There’s something funny about it, in a weird way. The kids aren’t thinking about cancer, they’re just trying to feel something other than where they are. But maybe somewhere in a few years, the thing that got passed around in club bathrooms becomes what saves a life. Not that anyone should be self-medicating with party drugs—you’ll just die a different way. But it’s weirdly honest. Salvation can come from anywhere, even from the places nobody admits to looking.
My first real girlfriend was fourteen, blonde, and had enough dark hair under her arms that it made you understand people had to work to keep it off. She didn’t shave. Not as a statement—she just hadn’t started. Had the money for razors, had soap, had no reason yet to think her body needed editing.
For about a year we were together in the way you are at that age, whenever we could find a place that wouldn’t get us caught. Her room. The public pool. Her drunk father’s desk. I spent a lot of time exploring those territories, tasting the soft dark hair she had arranged in this neat trapezoid. I named them after things—TV characters, whatever came to mind—stupid teenager stuff she never knew about. I was worshipping something in her body without knowing what it was or that I was doing it.
Then we broke up because she slept with her cousin. Around that same time the razor thing started spreading through the girls at school, like something you could catch. By the next time I saw her she was smooth like everyone else was becoming.
Now I sit with a glass of wine watching pornography and see all these hairless bodies and something sits heavy in my chest. I think about what disappeared, about all those girls making a choice or making a choice without knowing it was a choice. About being a fucked-up kid who loved something he couldn’t name and couldn’t keep.
The Hairy Pits Club exists—women growing it out deliberately, measuring it, dyeing it, treating every inch like a small victory. Most of them aren’t doing it for men anyway. But there’s something that matters about refusing the machine, about saying no to what Gillette and Wilkinson decided your body should look like. The war isn’t over. It’s not settled.
There’s a moment in “Holocene” where the instrumentation just opens up. The space becomes obvious. It’s the kind of track that reveals why Bon Iver recorded in a cabin — the room is audible in it, all that cold air.
I first came to this song years ago when everything felt too big to handle. Work, relationships, the general noise. Put it on and something about the scale of it — the way JJustin Vernon’s falsetto floats over those minimal guitar lines — made my own problems feel smaller in a way that actually helped. Not in a dismissive way. More like being reminded that everything is larger than it feels, which is oddly comforting when drowning in the details.
It’s become one of those songs I return to without thinking about it, like a route driven so many times the road stops registering. The lyrics are there if I listen closely, but mostly it’s just the feeling of standing somewhere vast and empty, looking out, breathing.
Some songs age poorly because they’re clever or trendy. “Holocene” just gets quieter with time, which is harder to describe but more valuable somehow. It doesn’t ask for anything. It just exists in the room.
The weather’s this bad - there’s no winning. You’re wet or you’re cold or you’re both. So the weekend has to become something else entirely.
I bike around pointlessly. I jump into the nearest lake naked because why not, let the perverts in the bushes enjoy the view. I find the kids everybody avoids and we start a terrible band. I sing Katy Perry on the morning train at full volume like I don’t care what anyone thinks.
None of it’s productive. None of it’s dignified. It’s all just increasingly absurd ways to forget that outside is a punishment. The missions keep spiraling - each one more crude, more willing to cross lines you’d normally draw. But that’s the whole point. You’re not trying to have a nice weekend. You’re trying to actually exist one.
A French fashion label called Jours Après Lunes put out a children’s underwear collection, and the American internet decided it was a pedophile conspiracy. Basic stuff—cotton underwear with designs, the kind of thing that’s been in catalogs for decades—suddenly became evidence that civilization was collapsing.
The outrage came fast. Someone on Buzzfeed said she nearly lost her mind, that anyone buying these should be executed. Fashionista wrung its hands: should four-year-olds really be in bras? (No. But that’s not what this is.) Weeks before, French Vogue had gotten raked over the coals for photographing a ten-year-old named Thylane Blondeau in a way that didn’t read as sufficiently innocent. When asked, the kid’s mom just said at least she was clothed.
The fury had that particular American flavor to it—the kind of moral panic that only really lives online. Same people screaming about grooming at totally normal fashion photography, completely unable to look at a thing and see what it actually is. It’s like the moment a kid appears in an image, something switches in everyone’s brain and they start manufacturing predators.
There was one reasonable voice in the noise. A woman named Brittany said she didn’t understand the outrage. Girls need underwear. She would have loved having decent options as a kid. These are just clothes. That was the only sane comment in a sea of “There should be a law!” and “This is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen!”
The label never responded, just took the abuse on Facebook while people performed their outrage to each other. I don’t know exactly what the photos showed, but I know that Americans have developed this reflex where they see an ordinary moment and their brain produces the worst possible story. It’s not protection. It’s the feeling of being awake to something everyone else is missing. It’s the pleasure of being right, and loud.
There’s something strange about being young and opinionated in public. Tavi Gevinson knew this before anyone else did—or at least before anyone was paying attention. She started a fashion blog as a middle schooler, then somehow became an actual voice in a world of adults who usually just talk at teenagers, not with them. The title probably references that uncanniness: a girl too smart, too articulate, too sure of herself. The kind of kid that makes people uncomfortable because she refused to perform humility. I’ve always respected that. There’s no worse curse for a young person than being exactly what they are without apology, and she seemed fundamentally uninterested in being palatable. That’s rarer than people pretend it is.
The Naked and Famous make the kind of indie pop that gets into your head and stays there, all bright synthesizers and these driving rhythms that make you feel like something’s about to happen. “The Sun (Where’s My Head)” has that quality—restless, a little dreamy, the vocals sitting back in the mix like someone thinking out loud over coffee at three in the afternoon. New Zealand does this particular flavor of pop really well, caught between cerebral and bodily, and this song lives right there in that middle ground. It’s the kind of thing that makes sense when you’re moving through a city, or driving somewhere you don’t especially want to go. Not transcendent, but real.
There was a morning after a long night, sun coming through the window, my favorite song playing, and for a moment it felt perfect. Like I’d figured something out. Like Berlin was finally worth the price of admission. Then my phone buzzed and the feeling evaporated.
That’s the thing about this city. It sells you a dream in brief flashes and then makes you work to reconstruct it. The first year you buy it. The clubs feel important, the late nights feel like you’re part of something real. By year two you start noticing the seams. Same warehouse, same overpriced beer, same people having the same conversations they had last month about the same problems.
The city doesn’t let you stay new. It smooths you down, toughens you up, teaches you to distinguish between what’s actually happening and what’s just performing importance. You stop saying yes to things. You learn to walk past things that look like they might be transcendent. And in learning to protect yourself, you also learn how completely the city can swallow people who don’t.
I knew several people who disappeared into it. Not metaphorically. They went into the nightlife, the drugs, the promise of 4am enlightenment, and they never really came back. They thought they were alive in a way normal people aren’t. What they were actually doing was disappearing. I see them now and they’re haunted by it, full of apologies, trying not to think about how much time they lost.
The real moments here are quiet. They come when you’ve stopped looking, with people who aren’t trying to be anything, in places that aren’t famous. A night that doesn’t feel like an achievement. A conversation where no one’s performing. Real contact in a city where most contact is just transaction.
But even those moments feel temporary. Four years in and I’m starting to feel done with the story Berlin tells about itself. It was the narrative I needed for a while, but I can feel myself moving past it. There’s somewhere else, something else. I don’t know what it is yet. Maybe that’s the only honest thing Berlin teaches you - that it’s not the end of anything, just a chapter you needed to live through.
I took an old blog that was dying—suffocating under the weight of Nyan Cat memes and viral covers—and demolished it from the inside out. Put the rubble through a transformation so complete it had no recognizable features left. What came out the other end was TRASHTEEN: a dedicated archive of internet garbage.
The content is what the name promises. Bloody GIFs. Videos that should never exist. Butts. Pokémon content edited by someone at 3 AM who had no reference point except their own boredom. Superhero clips. People who know exactly what they’re doing and people who have no idea. Balloons exploding in slow motion. Every piece of garbage the internet produces when nobody’s watching.
What makes it work is the complete absence of judgment. There’s no philosophy, no curation strategy, no attempt to make things cohere. Just the feed from the weird corners where people post without thinking about their brand. Each article lands like its own small catastrophe—guaranteed to make someone laugh in a way they won’t admit, or feel genuinely uncomfortable, or just keep scrolling without knowing why.
I have no idea if this matters to anyone besides myself. Doesn’t really matter though. It exists. It does what it was designed to do.
I should spend my weekend doing something meaningful, but I’m broke as hell—no cash for drinks, so I’ll probably just sprint into walls a few times. Before I do that, here are ten things I think you should actually do.
Go find some soul. You look depleted. Do something that makes your heart pound with genuine purpose, the kind that matters. You’ll at least walk around Monday with some dignity.
There’s a bar in Berlin called Kater Holzig—everyone talks about it, everyone wants to go, and honestly they’re right. Go there if you haven’t been. Visit your old friends while you’re at it, the ones from home you haven’t seen in forever. Bring cake. Bring actual good mood. If you get lucky, someone will put on Michael Jackson and you’ll remember what it felt like before everything got tired.
Build a memorial for Verena Koch on someone’s balcony. We won’t forget her. We can’t.
Make up code words with people you trust. It feels good. Protects you. Don’t be a drag about everything—just be a queen about it. Have fun protecting yourself.
The pigeons are rats with wings. They had it coming. And if you’re thinking London for the weekend, don’t forget the baseball bats, the gasoline, the matches. Seems to be what’s expected.
Mostly though: dive into something this weekend like you actually mean it. That’s how you survive the week. That’s how you stay sane.
Charlotte Free buying toilet paper somewhere in public—it’s the kind of moment that makes the rounds because it’s so mundane. Here’s this model, known for glamour and aesthetic perfection, just doing something as ordinary and necessary as anyone else. What made it funny was how it punctures the fantasy, that separate reality we imagine these people inhabiting until a photo like this surfaces and suddenly they’re just human.
Daisy Lowe had that look — sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, the kind of face that belonged in high fashion but somehow ended up in Playboy, which was already trying everything to stay relevant. There was something poignant about it, using a model from the real world to prop up a magazine that had become a ghost of itself. You could feel the end coming, but it looked good anyway. The whole thing felt like the last moment of that particular kind of glamour, calculated and beautiful and completely beside the point.
August is still the best month, genuinely. Summer break, pools, grilling outside, riding everywhere, looking for someone to fuck in the open air—the entire month is basically permission to want things. We’re supposed to grow up and forget how that felt, but I never quite do, and August reminds me I’m right.
The good stuff is straightforward. Crashing your bike and surviving it. Sweating through cologne in clubs that smell like wet hair and other people’s deodorant. Days where you’re actually living instead of performing productivity at a desk. Making memories so embarrassing they become precious—laughing at yourself in front of your grandparents, waking up strange, having ideas that seem incredible until morning. Dancing in rain because why not. Cheap wine for whatever mood takes you. Cooking food from scratch because the act matters, not the result. Going to bed because you’re exhausted, not because you gave up.
The bad stuff is equally obvious, though slower to recognize. That pale basement-dweller look August isn’t supposed to let you keep. Hangovers that stop being funny. The binge that was actually damage, not adventure. Your mom calling and calling, the specific guilt of not picking up. Not being able to bake anything real. Being good at small talk and hating yourself for it. Your phone on silent because you’ve done something you need to not think about. Forgetting to go to movies. Sex jokes that land flat. Conversations at 2 AM that felt profound and were nothing by morning.
Then there’s what doesn’t fit. Donating to causes when you’re already broke. Missing 500+ episodes of a beloved show because English licensing only covered the first 130. People who’ve climbed above the things they loved, decided they’re too sophisticated now. Empty club nights where nothing happens. A whole weekend sober. Raw food because you can’t be bothered to cook. Passwords that vanish from your laptop. That one sound effect in an otherwise perfect song.
August doesn’t care what you’ve decided is good for you. It just opens itself up and runs, and you either run with it or spend the whole month wishing you had.
Looking back at the last seven days is pointless, but I’m doing it anyway. Monday was nothing but rain. Tuesday I think Two and a Half Men was on somewhere. Wednesday the bathroom light died. Thursday is basically gone. And now it’s Friday, which means I need to come up with reasons to forget any of it happened.
Tomatoes in the living room. Calling everyone on Facebook and dumping all my half-baked wisdom on them. That game where you replace every G with an H — doesn’t fix anything but I’d try it. Beating up some Nazis, if I’m feeling that energy.
There’s an interview about Lara I should listen to, some psychedelic nightmare she went through. The kind of shit you don’t want sitting in your head, but at least she got out of it.
Food as a tool. Eat the right things and your shit comes out gold glitter. Apparently that’s what we’re all chasing. Music. Just get music. Keep getting it. Music forever. That’s not a terrible way to live.
The dog needs a walk. Thirteen years in a basement isn’t kind to anything. That moment alone in your house where the door stays unlocked because the danger is the point. Adrenaline doing half the work.
If Mike and Kelly are around, maybe we end up dancing to something that shouldn’t exist. Just looking at each other while it plays. Eyes locked. Garbage pouring out of speakers.
Katy B makes electronic music that sits somewhere between UK garage and grime, all twitchy synths and vocal loops that burrow into your head. Witches Brew captures that restless energy—her voice floating over beats that never quite settle, never quite give you what you’re expecting. There’s something about the way she uses space in her production that feels like watching someone move through a crowd. You catch glimpses, lose them, catch them again. Not quite pop, not quite underground. Just Katy B being Katy B, which is enough.
Jerry Hsu’s work—his videos, photographs, graphics—all come from the same place. He doesn’t perform or gesture at meaning. He just watches what’s there and figures out how to show it. That’s a skater’s understanding of space and light and timing: you learn to track movement and see where things work. Once that’s in you, it colors everything. His work has that quality—clean attention, no showing off, just the thinking made visible. You get the sense he’s always working something out rather than explaining something he’s already solved.
I hadn’t felt that snap from an album in a long time until SBTRKT. Aaron Jerome, masked guy, made this debut that grabbed hold of you. Breakbeats and melodic dubstep and these sparse minimal touches that shouldn’t have worked but did. He’d pulled in Jessie Ware, Little Dragon, Sampha—people who got what he was trying to do. “Hold On,” “Wildfire,” “Trials Of The Past.” The whole thing felt necessary in a way that most albums don’t. Usually you get some good songs and some filler. This one felt like every move mattered.
Aphex Twin operates in a completely different space. Richard D. James makes music because he wants to, not because there’s a market for it, which means he’s free to do whatever comes next. That album of his—intricate, intelligent dance music that’s actually rhythmic enough to move to, packed with these sound design moves that land in your brain and stay there. It demands something from you. You can’t half-listen to Aphex Twin.
Múm’s Sing Along To Songs You Don’t Know came out a few years back, and it’s got this strange nostalgic pull. Not for anything real—more for some dream version of the 60s that probably never existed. All sun and flowers and naive optimism. It’s the kind of album you put on when you want to slide into someone else’s memory, a time that never happened. It does what it’s supposed to do.
Wu-Tang brought something back. Four years between albums, and they came out with Legendary Weapons and suddenly you’re back in the 90s. “C.R.E.A.M.,” all of that mythology and weight. Termanology, Cappadonna, Sean Price in there too—people who knew what they were doing. Sharp lyrics, the kind of rap that makes you feel something physical. It still sounds like home.
Theophilus London’s debut is strange in a good way. Pop and rap and indie and electronic all folded together, and instead of sounding like a mess it just sounds like Theophilus London. It’s the kind of music that works for disappearing. Alone for hours or dancing naked on your balcony at midnight—either way, it covers the loneliness. Doesn’t matter which version you pick.
I spent a stretch going through music without really hearing it, and then I found all these records clustered together and something shifted. I started listening again instead of just putting things on.
Cushman shot New York in color during the 1940s, which is wild because most photographs from that era are black and white. His work doesn’t have that faded, nostalgic feeling—the colors are just there, immediate and clear. He wasn’t making art, just documenting the city. Corner storefronts, people in their coats, light hitting a building facade. No self-consciousness in it, no attempt to prove anything. Just recording what he saw, and now we get to look at it exactly as it appeared to him.
Chaz Bear’s been making music so specific to something I can’t quite name that I keep coming back to it. There’s this clarity underneath the electronics, a warmth that doesn’t apologize for itself. When something hits like that—when you know it immediately, without needing to decide whether it’s cool—that’s the moment you realize what you actually like.
Saskia was twenty-one, heading to design school in Florence, already refusing to nail down her style. She wore what felt right that day—chic, mixed, rockish, whatever. American Apparel, vintage Levi’s, Prada shoes, a linen jacket. Not a cohesive philosophy, just a collection of pieces she liked. When asked to describe her aesthetic, she said there wasn’t one. She loved all of it equally and wouldn’t be locked in.
Björn was the nurse and noise rock musician—twenty-nine, carrying records in a suitcase he’d found somewhere, wearing what worked. People kept asking why his sunglasses went on backward. He never explained. Asked point blank if he looked better naked or dressed, he said both looked equally terrible, which was the only honest answer anyone gave.
Daniel was nineteen, near Vienna, photographing and thrifting through back-street shops. He called his style “indie” because he was young and broke and that’s what you called it. He’d even dressed his sister for the photo. When asked the same question about naked versus clothed, he said naked looked best, especially naked while eating—something about that moment bringing out his true self.
Three versions of not thinking too hard about it. Three different ways to refuse the premise that your clothes define you, while clearly thinking about clothes. That’s usually where something real lives.
There’s something about the way Lykke Li builds a mood that makes you feel like you’re witnessing something private. Jerome sits there quietly, patient, the kind of song that doesn’t announce itself but slowly fills the room until you realize you’ve been holding your breath. It’s sparse enough that every sound matters—her voice layered soft against itself, space between the notes doing as much work as the notes themselves. She has this way of making vulnerability sound like a decision rather than an accident, like she’s choosing exactly how much to let you see. The song doesn’t try to convince you of anything. It just exists, and you either meet it there or you don’t.
Standing in front of Tokyo Tower, all that red steel and confident geometry, I understood what the designer was after. It’s technically obsolete — shouldered aside by endless glass towers — but there’s craft in it, proportion, an understanding of how to make something matter without needing to be the tallest. A tower that knows what it wants to be.
Vikings and samurai wouldn’t die of old age. Neither would Amy Winehouse. There’s something about going out young and hard that makes you a story worth telling. Growing old and disappearing is just what happens. There’s no narrative in it.
How you die is what people can’t stop talking about. They might love you or hate you while you’re alive, but the way you go—that’s what lingers. It defines you. If you die doing something embarrassing, they’ll whisper about it for years. Slipping on your toothbrush. Bleeding out on a surgeon’s table. Catching some disease the news turned into a panic. These are deaths people don’t know how to talk about. They’re just sad and stupid.
The heroic ones are different. Some guy pulls thirty orphans out of a burning hot air balloon and then flies it into a hidden military base. That’s the death people tell. Or you die grinning in the middle of something completely depraved and sexual with people who actually mattered. That becomes a legend.
Most of it’s just context. A junkie overdosing in a train station bathroom is awful. A famous musician dying the same way is tragic and fascinating. Some old guy collapsing on a Wednesday afternoon in a nursing home is pathetic. That same guy peacefully falling asleep at his favorite lake—that’s almost enviable, even though it’s basically the same thing.
But most of us don’t get to choose. A car crash. A heart attack in the grocery store. Some diagnosis that slowly eats you down. Nothing cinematic. Nothing anyone’s going to retell as a story. Which means how you die might not matter at all. What mattered—what’s been mattering the whole time—is whether you had enough moments worth living for. Enough times when you felt like you were actually here instead of just waiting for it to be over.
The question you can’t escape is how you want to go. As if it matters. As if the ending gets to define everything before it. Maybe the only thing that counts is whether there were enough good moments to make dying seem less like the whole point. And you won’t know until it happens.
Nina Zivkovic was one of those people whose presence just registered differently. Not because she was performing or trying, but because some people have this thing—a kind of visual and personal confidence you can’t fake. The way she carried herself, everything she chose to be, it all felt deliberate without looking like effort. That’s what made her stick in your mind.
The parties worth going to are the ones built on friction. Elegant next to raw. High design bumping against total indifference. That creates actual energy. Everyone’s slightly unmoored. Nothing feels predetermined. That’s when something real might happen.
Most people don’t consciously think it through. They just know whether they had fun. But if you look at the ones that actually worked, they’re always holding two contradictions at once, and the contradiction is what makes it work. It’s the same reason the best spaces aren’t the ones where everything matches—they’re the places where different things are allowed to exist side by side and create some real tension.
Every weekend tips column is the same. Ten missions. Be kind to yourself. Do something stupid. Here’s what actually happens: you get home Friday and immediately don’t know what to do with yourself. You take a bath with wine. You pull on clothes you haven’t worn in years. You spend three hours searching the internet for photos of yourself, and around the time your neighbors might be wondering why you’ve been in front of a screen this long, you stop caring. You cry at a song you know is bad.
The thing about weekends is you need permission to waste them. The world says optimize, improve, become someone. But mostly weekends are just survival—five days of holding it together, and then thirty-six hours of trying to remember what it feels like to not want anything from yourself. That might be a bath. That might be a movie you watch twice because your brain isn’t working right. That might be standing in your closet at 2am in a weird mood.
Some people turn their weekends into projects. Good for them. I think the best ones are the quiet ones where you disappoint no one, especially yourself. Where you exist for a while without a plan. Where the only goal is to feel less tense on Monday morning than you did Friday night. Everything else is just killing time until then.
The flannel shirts, the vintage band tees, the carefully curated record collections — everyone at NYU seemed to have gotten the same memo about what cool looked like that year. The funny part was how self-aware everyone was about it, how intentional every choice was, how much thought went into looking like you didn’t care. A reality show documenting it just made the whole thing more explicit, but the feedback loop was already there, everyone already performing for invisible cameras. It wasn’t fake exactly, but it wasn’t not-fake either. That’s probably what made the whole thing interesting.
“Crystalline” is austere but never cold. Björk’s voice carries all the warmth while the production stays precise and minimal, building gradually from almost nothing into something intricate. It’s from Biophilia, probably her most deliberately designed album, and the precision shows in every placement.
I keep coming back to it when I want something that feels both sparse and complete, stripped down but somehow full.
There’s something pathetic about starting a conversation about the weather. Everyone does it. But this summer the weather was just bad — gray, cold, refusing to arrive — and the whole season never showed up. You know it won’t come back either.
So I made a mixtape. Beach Fossils, Calvin Harris, Robyn. Three artists who together keep you moving through the dead hours. Beach Fossils give you that hazy, nostalgic thing — like you’re remembering summer instead of living in the broken one you got. Calvin Harris is bright in the way that actually works. Robyn’s been at this forever and knows exactly what a song needs.
I called it Broken Summer because that’s what it was. Not a season at all. Just the idea of one without the reality. The playlist doesn’t restore anything. But it convinces you for a while that summer still exists somewhere else.
Spend half your life online—actually spend it, more hours in the browser than with people who matter—and you start seeing something obvious: the internet doesn’t do new things. It repeats. The technology shifts but the patterns hold. Same cycle, every few months, forever.
Watch what happens when disaster strikes. Someone dies, something breaks bad. Within seconds there’s your establishment media running sensational garbage for clicks, and your bloggers pointing out how sensational the garbage is, except their posts are just as engineered for shares. The loudest voice wins. That’s the game.
Social networks are the same way. People ignore something for two years, then suddenly it’s revolutionary. A new platform appears and everyone acts like they discovered enlightenment. Invites get spammed around, everyone rushes in saying everything before now was garbage, Facebook was always terrible anyway (we said so), and three weeks later when it’s just some random and a teenager with nothing better to do, everyone disappears and pretends they were never there. Nobody even mentions they had an account.
Celebrity deaths follow the exact same pattern. Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse, whoever. RIP becomes a hashtag. Songs get shared. Everyone mourns. But then someone shows up like “Well people die in Africa too!” and acts like he just discovered morality. He’s not technically wrong. But we didn’t feel Africa because we didn’t experience Africa. We felt something from Michael. That’s not hypocrisy—that’s how being human works. But nobody’s comfortable with that answer, so instead everyone performs guilt at each other and pretends they’re better for it.
I could list more. Politics, drama, shitstorms, it never changes. And here’s what actually drives it all: people want attention, so they take a position against whatever the crowd thinks, whether they actually care or not. It’s faster than being sincere. You watch people do this constantly—throw out some opinion they don’t give a shit about, wait for reaction, then move on to the next outrage and act like it never happened. Like a kid yelling to get the group’s attention but with nothing real to say when you actually look at him. He just wants to be included.
So when the internet repeats this exact thing next week, don’t act shocked. Different names, same behavior. Different platforms, same people. Watch long enough and you stop being surprised. You just sit there numb, knowing you’ve seen this a thousand times and you’ll see it a thousand times again, and there’s nowhere to go. The internet doesn’t progress. It just circles.
Readers hitting scrambled prose so mangled it looped back to being almost beautiful—that’s how I knew the Google Translate thing was a disaster. But I’m getting ahead.
Started in the eighties when I thought every word I wrote deserved an English translation. Someone actually volunteered. I paid them in shoes, lunches, and sex I didn’t think much about.
Worked fine until the financial crisis. Suddenly I was in a basement writing dozens of articles a week—twenty-eight on the worst days. Translating all of that into English while barely sleeping made me sick, so I stopped. Just fed everything through Google Translate and published it.
Some institute released a study claiming I caused four out of five brain tumors in the Western Hemisphere. Obviously bullshit, but it had a certain logic to it.
I killed the English site. Pulled it all down. German-only now. Better that way. Can’t pretend to be global when I’m just one person barely keeping up with one language. The Russian, Swedish, Japanese plans are dead too.
That weekend was rain, properly—thunder and gray everything, the kind of weather that makes you want to disappear. I had this old list called Ten Little Missions, made for exactly this kind of day, so I decided to work through it while the sky fell.
One: Put SBTRKT’s self-titled album on repeat. Do something romantic enough that all your candles light themselves. Two: Dance in the rain until it stops, then spend the rest of the day feeling empty and pointless. Three: Get everyone you know to play Lego with you, like you’re all eight. Four: Commit to every couch-potato thing at once—bath, movie, popcorn, sleep for twelve hours straight. Five: Change your gum, finally. Even I couldn’t stand the same flavor anymore.
Six: Drive out to Buchloë and confirm there’s no reason to go back. Seven: Download the new OS X Lion and then beat your monitor for an hour over backwards scrolling and spell-check that won’t shut up. Eight: You know. It’s the best position. Nine: Grow a third nipple and name it Harry. Ten: Order from every food delivery service you can find at the same time and let it arrive all at once.
I probably only made it through number six before giving up, which I think was the point.
There’s something resistant about Valerie Phillips’ sculptures—the way they seem designed to reject easy consumption, to push back against being turned into decoration. Aluminum and steel and awkward angles, nothing soft, nothing that lets you rest your eye on it for long. The title says it plainly: this isn’t about seduction or elegance. It’s about making something that doesn’t apologize for taking up space in an ugly way.
Bread & Butter in summer was that gathering where fashion and music and interesting people all converged. You’d walk through and see the risks people took with clothes, the small choices that made them stand out. The whole thing was as much about watching each other as whatever was on stage. You’d leave tired with a stack of useless flyers, but feeling like you’d seen something worth seeing.
This week scattered across different moods. Jazzy Jeff and Ayah’s “Back For More” is soulful and frictionless — the kind of album that Ayah’s voice carries without anyone noticing she’s doing the work. It’s free, which feels right.
CREEP’s mixtape hit different. Two Laurens from New York, same exact taste, and they’ve assembled Gil Scott-Heron next to Jamie XX, slipped in Nosaj Thing, even Einsturzende Neubauten. It should not cohere but it does, and it makes you listen rather than asking permission first.
Zoot Woman’s “Living In A Magazine” won’t stop playing. It’s synth-pop that sounds simple until you realize the work underneath — every synth line placed exactly right, lyrics about cars and romance and what media does to your brain. “It’s Automatic” is the kind of song that just exists without apology.
Lil B’s “I’m Gay” does what it says on the label — provocation, entertainment, and this strange meditative undertone that actually works. This is what happens when you spend years multiplying yourself across the internet and somehow convince Kanye and Wayne to pay attention.
Pigeon John made “Dragon Slayer” entirely alone — wrote it, produced it, played it. Songs like “The Bomb” have hooks that grab without feeling desperate about it. The kind of thing that makes you move even when you’ve decided not to.
The Cool Kids’ debut finally landed. The hype from years back is gone, but the boom bap’s still there — Ghostface Killah, Bun B guesting, all the caliber you’d expect from people who’ve already done the work. It’s summer music, and there’s still something about boom bap that makes sense when the heat’s on.
Incest. Betrayal. A kid gets thrown out a tower. This is how Game of Thrones introduces itself, and it’s nothing like the medieval fantasy I thought I was signing up for.
The series is based on George R.R. Martin’s novels, A Song of Ice and Fire — HBO’s version of it. Ten episodes. The plot structure is massive: seven kingdoms, three major families tearing each other apart over one throne, an approaching winter that’ll change everything, undead things waking up north of the Wall, Dothraki barbarians moving south with no concept of mercy.
I came to it expecting the usual medieval fantasy stuff — solemn music, heroes with honor codes, landscapes that are beautiful in a way that makes you forget how miserable the world actually is. Game of Thrones is not that. It’s built like a soap opera. Sex and power are the same thing. Betrayal happens in the next scene, and the show doesn’t pause to make you feel bad about it — it just moves forward.
It’s crude and doesn’t apologize. There’s constant nudity, constant violence. Bodies are part of the machinery of power. When a character seduces someone, the desire and the calculation are both playing out — no separation. That willingness to be ugly is what grabbed me.
The intricate plotting requires attention — too many names, too many schemes stacked on top of each other. But the show knows how to deliver immediate satisfaction: a shocking death, a revelation, someone losing their head for saying the wrong thing. The spectacle hooks me while the deeper story accumulates underneath.
What’s strange is that the trashiness doesn’t work against it — it’s part of why it works. The show doesn’t hedge or apologize; it commits fully to the ugly stuff. The sex and violence aren’t decoration; they’re the story. That kind of commitment is rare.
A few years ago I would’ve written it off as juvenile garbage. Instead I’m invested. The first season just wrapped in the States, and Germany gets it in November, though obviously people will find it online before then.
Three kids from New York who figured out how to make hip-hop sound like the opposite of everything hip-hop was supposed to be — aggressive and stupid and funny all at once. Mike D, MCA, Ad-Rock. They’d take a sample, chop it to nothing, rap over it like they were barely awake, and somehow it’d hit harder than things people actually put thought into. The thing about the Beastie Boys was they never cared if you got the joke or if there even was a joke. It didn’t matter. The attitude was the subject. They were just better at being themselves than anyone else around, which is probably the only real rule in music that ever actually mattered. By the time they figured out how to make something genuinely beautiful — and they did, later, when nobody expected it — they’d already proven that you didn’t need to prove anything at all.
That video was everywhere around 2011, the kind of thing you’d see on Tumblr and wonder if it was real. Kyary Pamyu Pamyu in that candy-colored nightmare of a room, the song itself almost childlike in its simplicity—just that one repeated phrase, a melody that doesn’t try to be anything it isn’t. The genius of it is how unconcerned it all felt, like she knew exactly how stupid it looked and didn’t care. That visual sense, the way she understood that pop music could be deliberately ugly and weird and still work—it was design thinking applied to pop. The costume, the prop work, the aesthetic chaos of it all. She made something that looked like it could only exist on the internet, and it did.
Mona Kuhn’s color photography has this warmth to it that’s almost unsettling — there’s comfort in the framing but something else underneath, a private quality that feels invasive to look at. Home on the Sun probably does what her best work does: treats light as a kind of mood rather than a technique. I’ve always been interested in photographers who understand that distinction. Her compositions suggest a quiet confidence, like she’s not trying to convince you of anything, just showing you what’s there.
Something I need: endless distraction. Spend enough hours on the internet doing whatever it is I do, and you crack if something isn’t running on the other screen. Films work sometimes. What you really want is a series—animated, preferably. Something funny. Something you don’t have to work at.
I’d made it through all the obvious ones. Simpsons, Futurama, Family Guy, Bob’s Burgers. Once you hit those, you’re digging through cable looking for something new. That’s where I found Adventure Time.
It’s about a kid named Finn, his shape-shifting dog Jake, and a place called Ooo that is thoroughly broken in the best way. Candy Kingdom with a hot dog princess. An Ice King who won’t stop stealing her. Giant horny snails. Wizard magic. Korean unicorn rainbows. Everything in that world is fractured and nobody there gives a shit. Every episode my brain pops.
One of them had stuffed animals throwing a rave inside a depressed monster’s stomach, then crawling out its ass. Another had zombie businessmen taking over by making everyone fat. The Ice King is just a sad old man obsessed with kidnapping princesses. Nothing connects. Nothing needs to.
Season three just started and I’m one of those people now. Can’t stop. It works perfectly as background noise—weird enough that you want to actually watch it, dumb enough that you don’t have to think, and every few minutes something so surreal happens that you look up just to catch it.
What hooks me is how far it’s willing to go. The logic of that world is simple: if it’s funny or weird or sad or scary, it works. No need for anything to make sense. I watch it and think about how I want to draw like that—not the style, but the thinking. The refusal to explain. I don’t know if I’ll still be watching once the novelty wears off, but right now I’m properly hooked.
Handsome Furs sounds like what happens when synth-pop and punk-rock refuse to stop fighting. Dan Smith’s voice cutting through everything like he can’t wait to get to the next sentence, drums and synths piling up behind him. ’What About Us’ is them operating at full force — pure hooks and momentum, every song knows where it’s going. There’s this thing about the record where it feels both desperate and completely in control, and that’s the whole equation. You could put it on alone or at a party and it hits the same, which I guess is why it stays with you.
Icona Pop makes pop music that doesn’t perform. “Manners” is two minutes of efficient melody — bright synths, a solid hook, nothing grasping for your attention. There’s a deadpan quality to it, a refusal to blow things up or manufacture drama. The production does its job. The melody stays in place. It is what it is. There’s something cool about a song that knows its limits and doesn’t pretend otherwise.
Friday night and I’m at my computer instead of at some festival. No money, no friends, the weather’s being shit—whatever the reason. But it’s fine. I’m genuinely fine with it.
And there’s something to do with a weekend like this. Sleep as long as your body will let you—wake up, pillow back over your face, sleep more. Wake up again to your own snoring and just think, yeah, okay, more of this.
Stand outside naked in the rain and sing “I Always Love You” completely off-key. No one’s listening. That’s the whole point.
Bake a cake. Eat all of it in five minutes. Then bake the same cake again because the repetition does something to you.
Have a fart competition with whoever’s around. The loudest one wins. It’s stupid and somehow it’s always funny.
Wear sweatpants the entire weekend. Don’t take them off unless it’s genuinely necessary. Just commit to it.
There’s that ugly guy from the corner bar—Giesbert or whatever—the one nobody talks to. Hook up with him. He’ll appreciate it more than the handsome ones ever would, and he probably needs it more.
Watch cartoons naked. You appreciate them better that way. There’s no reason for it but it works.
Order a burger “with everything” and mean it. If it’s not right, send it back. Make the cook figure it out.
If you ever have kids, give them terrible names. Not trying-to-be-edgy names, just genuinely bad ones. Claire. Jacqueline. Justin Britney Fernando Stephen Krautschkowski. Make them own it their whole lives.
And the weekend just kind of dissolves into itself. Saturday becomes Sunday becomes Monday and you’re still in the sweatpants and you’ve forgotten why the festival mattered.
Fernando Tsuchiya exists in that strange space between myth and memory. He’s a real person who did actual things on actual roads—drifting a black AE86 through Tokyo in the ’80s, learning to drive sideways when nobody else understood why you’d want to—but by now he’s become something else. An idea. A ghost story that Japanese teenagers tell each other. The original. The legend that got filtered through anime and manga and video games until the boundary between the man and the myth collapsed completely.
That gap between who he was and who he became, between the street racer in the actual night and the saint that exists in other people’s imaginations—that’s what gets to me. He’s somewhere and nowhere at once. Still alive, still real, but also untouchable. A name that means something to people who’ve never seen him drive, who know him only as a character, a reference, a whispered origin story.
July hits because you’re either in it or out. Festival season, pond-dredging season, the nights where you throw your arms around whoever’s next to you at three in the morning and it feels necessary. You should be watching for monthly trend lists, but you’re too busy living, so here’s what actually works in July and what absolutely doesn’t.
What works: chocolate straight from the box. Potting new office plants. Calling your whole life “patio season” for a month. Swinging until you black out. Cheap boomboxes. Visible abs on people who actually move. Every neon color. The festivals worth going to. Telling strangers they look beautiful and meaning it. Breakfast that lasts three hours. Clothes that breathe. Taking photos of literally everything. Spilling cheap beer on overdressed people. Hugging the people you love. Beanies even in heat. Wedge heels making sense.
Uncontrollable laughter. Hamburg in summer. Dubstep somehow still working. Graffiti nail polish. Flavored tobacco. Playing stupid while thinking clearly. Rubber boots in the heat. That moment when you’re totally sure of yourself. Sex that wears you out. Japanese everything. Eyes that match what you’re wearing. Grilling whatever’s frozen. The exact landscape of attraction. Knowing secret formulas nobody should know.
What doesn’t: chronic sniffles. When drugs become a job. Sunburned eyelids. Loud slurping. Stealing weed from retirees. That empty feeling. Canned beer. Pit stains. Your chest locking up. Small talk that goes nowhere. Bed at 10 PM in July. Umbrellas. Puking next to the toilet. Legs spread on transit. American television. Illegal streaming. Internet that actually destroys your life. Saying “swag” without irony. Whatever social network is new this month.
Some actor’s face on everything. Things that smell wrong. People performing their beliefs. Soggy situations. When someone’s clearly faking an accident. Bad kissing. Ignoring care homes when you’re wasted. Neighbors fucking loudly. Plastic everywhere. X-O kisses. Sad minor characters. Looking at yourself during the comedown.
There’s something about resistance that doesn’t require a reason to keep going. You can be dragged into something kicking and screaming, the whole way down, and still find yourself sitting there afterwards, not sure when you stopped fighting. Maybe that’s the thing about being pulled toward something—eventually your body relaxes into it, even if your mouth stays shut.
Standing at a hotel bar with Irina and Erik. Irina’s the kind of woman magazines were invented to feature. Erik’s the kind of man who speaks with his hands. I’m there because money requires it, which means I can’t tell Irina what I’m actually thinking, and I can’t tell Erik what I think of his business plans. First we have to do the small talk. The exchange of words that mean nothing, performed by people who mean nothing to each other, in service to an obligation that costs us more than it’s worth.
I hate small talk. I hate it with the kind of intensity that should probably concern someone. The fake interest. The eyes that have been trained in their lifetime to look engaged while you’re actively dying inside. The assumption that you have to pretend to like each other before getting down to business. And I hate most people, genuinely can’t stand them, so the whole thing becomes this special circle of hell where I have to feign affection for someone I’d cross the street to avoid. Dogs sniff each other and move on. Humans invented this.
The weird part is how little of it serves any actual purpose. If I cared about what Erik’s building, I’d ask. If I wanted to know about someone’s weekend, I’d ask. If this was actually about Irina as a person and not just her body, I wouldn’t be standing in a lobby pretending to care about small talk. But I do all this instead. I stand and pretend. I smile and nod. I talk about nothing, performing interest in things that don’t matter, burning time to avoid the actual moment.
Here’s where I lose all credibility: I’m completely hypocritical about this. I despise small talk when I’m forced into it, but I absolutely require it when I’m the one being approached. Someone wants something from me? They better have done their research. Know my favorite color. Have thoughts on Munich summers. Say what I’m thinking before I think it. The rules are ironclad. And yes, they’re stricter the less I know you and looser the more attractive you are. I know I’m a fraud. I don’t mind.
So here we are. Erik’s talking about his vision for some website nobody asked for. Irina’s slowly evaporating. I’m sending mental signals to the bartender: slip me a knife, pull the fire alarm, give me permission to start singing obscene jokes in operatic form. Anything. Nothing works. Champagne arrives instead. I lift my glass. I smile like I’m having a good time. I laugh at his punchline like I haven’t heard it a thousand times before, like it’s the first funny thing anyone’s ever said. I’m such a lie.
The weather was shit, but we went out anyway. Not to demonstrate or escape—just to be in the street together, to move, to celebrate what was left of summer or what we imagined it could be. The music was Bon Iver, The Go! Team, Nneka. The kind of soundtrack that lands at exactly the right time and feels like a secret everyone already knows.
We danced through the night, the kind of dancing where you stop thinking about anything except this. I don’t remember most of it now. That’s the thing about nights like that: they feel permanent while they’re happening and then they’re completely gone.
But something stuck. There’s a particular pleasure in moving your body with other people who decided to show up on a terrible evening. In that street. In that happiness.
Stuart Mitchell’s photographs have this quality of being taken in rooms you recognize but can’t quite place—somewhere between a friend’s apartment and a memory of it. The Walnutwax series feels like watching someone arrange their life in front of a camera, domestic scenes lit so cleanly they almost seem staged, except nothing about them feels performed. There’s a particular eye at work here, someone who understands how light falls on skin and fabric, how a small gesture reads across a frame. You look at the images and you’re thinking about texture—the nap of a sweater, the finish on an old table—and about color in the way you only do when you’re paying attention. It’s the kind of work that makes you want to slow down when you’re moving through a room, noticing the actual world instead of just walking through it.
It was one of those days again. Up early, grabbed a cold Starbucks from the fridge, sat down, opened the laptop. Connection established. The first article from yesterday is still broken somewhere — some system error eating at me since six. Emails from PR people in five time zones. A translation needing work. Image research. Corrections. Another article. Chats. Social media. Some guy asking if I can write about his band by Friday. Meanwhile I ordered food from the Greek place, jerked off, took a call, and by the time I looked up the sun was gone. I hadn’t been outside.
I just stood there, angry, thinking: Is this it? Is this actually my life? When did I agree to this? Fresh air is luxury now. Time with people who matter is negotiable. Sex is something you fit between deadlines. Everything real is scarce because everyone I know is drowning in the same thing — overworked, online, rotting in jobs or school or both, no dog, no relationship, no travel. Just work. Keep it running. For me it’s worse because I get too deep in everything.
I looked around and saw everyone in the exact same position. Everyone. Sitting at screens day and night, hunting through the world on their phones, always connected, never stopping. Because rest is dead — something new could break any second. A photo. A video. Disaster. Tweet tweet tweet, blog blog blog, post post post, chat chat chat, refresh refresh refresh. Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Formspring, Google+, Skype, WhatsApp, Reddit. It doesn’t stop.
Sometimes I want to grab people and yell: Does this actually make you happy? You’re typing your life into the void every minute, watching two seasons at a time, keeping up with the internet better than any real journalist, and you think you’re balanced? You think this is a life?
The worst ones have completely merged with their online image. They make fun of World of Warcraft players but mourn every follower who leaves. They use TinyChat for intimacy and wake up soaking wet at five because they dreamed someone unfollowed them. Everything is screens now. They obsess over Wikipedia edits. They update DailyBooth every night from the office. They buy food on eBay. They know SoundCloud by heart. They click a weather app instead of looking out the window. Their actual bodies are foreign to them.
I love this place. I love what I do. I love most of the people I’ve met through all this. But sometimes I want to pack it all up, find some street vendor with something magical, and escape to a different world. One without Tim Berners-Lee or Mark Zuckerberg or Bill Gates. Just old villages like the ones in Astrid Lindgren’s books. Those kids in Bullerbü seemed genuinely happy. Michel from Lönneberga too, at least when his father wasn’t hitting him.
I don’t know who’s dumber anymore. The ones who surrendered completely and don’t feel guilty because they’re digital natives and they work online (when their mom calls asking what the hell they’re doing). Or people like me, who think it’s all insane but can’t remember the last time they shut down the computer.
What I’ve figured out is that the internet hurts least when I actually live some kind of real life at the same time. Movement. Sunlight. Sex when it happens. That’s it. A good evening with actual people. A week driving somewhere. Discovering something new. We have to know when to close the laptop and turn off the phone. Because the days when you can’t leave the computer have become normal, and if we’re not careful we’ll all become zombies in some government-funded recovery house by a lake, drooling the words circles and algorithm and meme.
The Alexis Taylor mix is eighty minutes of pure hits. Bohannon, Jay-Z, Aphex Twin, Shit Robot—names that shouldn’t work together but do. It’s the kind of mixtape you find on a random Tuesday and think: this is exactly what I needed without knowing it.
That’s what happens when you listen to a lot of music fast. You start chasing it. This week alone I’ve cycled through N.W.A and Selah Sue, which is absurd unless you get that sometimes the conversation between styles is everything.
Straight Outta Compton opens with that warning: “You are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge.” It still lands like a threat. Ice Cube and MC Ren write the lyrics, Dre and Yella build the production, and nothing apologizes. You put it on and it lives in your chest. Hip-hop from that era gets treated like history, but the thing that made it matter is it didn’t care if you were listening.
Then there’s Selah Sue, this Belgian kid who’s twenty-two and sounds like she’s been smoking in a club since sixteen. Her debut pulls soul and reggae and hip-hop into pop, which shouldn’t work but does because she has taste. Everyone will call her the next someone, which is code for “she doesn’t exist in her own right yet,” but she will.
The Studio 54 soundtrack is pure disco. Diana Ross, Sylvester, everyone who understood that a dancefloor at three in the morning is transcendence. The drugs and the sex and the party are just the container. The real subject is the music’s refusal to stop.
Scott Matthew makes these minimal chamber pieces with his voice androgynous and unsettling in the best way. There’s no performance of sadness, just sadness itself. But underneath it there’s something else—not quite optimism, more like a current that doesn’t drown you.
Bloc Party remixes Silent Alarm, which could be pointless nostalgia except Kele Okereke and the band know you either cling to the originals or let them be rewritten. “Blue Light,” “Helicopter,” “Plans”—these songs are slippery enough to survive it.
This is how listening goes sometimes. You take in everything at once and the mess becomes a kind of document of what actually caught you that week.
The Wirtshaus Tour didn’t apologize for mixing tradition and modernity — it was just a traveling beer hall that would set up in different cities with electronic music and DJs instead of polka bands. Someone figured out that you didn’t have to choose, that you could have both in the same room, getting drunk together. The concept feels obvious once it exists, which is usually how you know it’s good. There’s something right about a subwoofer rattling the wood and brass of a beer hall. It’s the kind of collision that shouldn’t work but does.
Google spent years trying to crack social media and never quite got there. Orkut worked in certain countries but not the ones that mattered. Wave was supposed to replace email but nobody knew what it was for. Then came Google+ in 2011, this whole big attempt at building something that could actually compete with Facebook. I remember it feeling important somehow.
The pitch was solid. Circles let you organize who could see what — separate your boss from your friends, keep family in their own corner. Facebook threw everyone together indiscriminately. Sparks fed you content you might actually care about. Hangouts was just video chat but the feature worked. Everything about it was thought through, designed with more care than Facebook’s crude brutality. It looked like Google had actually paid attention.
I got an early invite, back when that still felt exclusive. The interface was clean. The privacy controls actually did what they said. You could share something with just friends and it would stay that way, instead of Facebook’s theater of control while they vacuumed up everything. For a moment it felt like a real alternative.
But nobody else was there. Everyone I knew was still on Facebook. You’d post to Google+ and it disappeared into silence. The features didn’t matter because what matters in social media isn’t thoughtful design — it’s momentum. It’s the simple fact that everyone’s already somewhere else. Facebook had captured all the oxygen. Google, for all its resources, never managed to break that.
Google killed it a few years in. By then I’d forgotten about my account entirely. There was something almost honest about shutting it down instead of letting it become a ghost town. You can’t convince people to show up somewhere they don’t want to be, no matter how elegant you make the interface.
There’s something genuinely funny about the idea that you can’t fully party when your parents are watching. The epileptic strobes, the bass that liquifies your organs, the beer-sticky floors — they’re all fine until you spot your mother at the bar, then suddenly you’re performing your own enjoyment instead of actually having it. That gap between generations at a club is real, and I think everyone who’s ever been to a rave knows exactly what that moment feels like.
Beck’s Black Currant threw a party in Hamburg that leaned into this absurdity. They rented out the Oberpostdirektion, an old imperial postal building, and booked DJs that spanned the age spectrum — the young club regulars, the established electronic acts, and Ruth Flowers, who was 70 and still calling herself Mamy Rocks, spinning regularly at Karl Lagerfeld’s Chanel parties. She was the real draw.
The venue had retro stuff scattered around — Carrera slot car tracks — which sounds gimmicky but also honest in a weird way. Of course you can race toy cars at a rave while somewhere else in the building people are eating sausage sandwiches and getting slowly drunk. That’s Germany.
What made it work was Ruth Flowers herself. She wasn’t a novelty act playing ironic grandma nostalgia. She was a proper DJ who’d been DJing longer than some of the other acts had been alive, and she was still booked by major fashion houses. The party wasn’t about merging generations so much as it was saying: some people just never stop. You don’t age out of electronic music and dancing and wanting a night out. Ruth Flowers didn’t get told she had to, and she didn’t go home early.
The black currant beer was just the thing to hold in your hand. The real thing was watching a 70-year-old woman DJ at a packed club in Hamburg like it was the most normal situation in the world.
Berlin runs constant vintage styling competitions, which is either the most Berlin thing or the most ridiculous thing depending on your mood. This one had two contestants, Helen and Isabelle, each presenting three outfits for internet judgment. Winner gets a catwalk slot somewhere.
There’s genuine skill in it. Finding pieces that work together, that read as worn-in rather than costume-y, that add up to something intentional. Most people never figure that out. But the moment you turn it into a numbers game, something changes. Style becomes performance. You’re not wearing clothes anymore, you’re running for office.
Wear something nice, bring a tablecloth and wine glasses to McDonald’s, have dinner there like it’s an actual restaurant. The people around you won’t know what to do with it. Download a CSS song and dance—for hours, for days, whatever.
Close your blog with zero explanation. Just gone. No goodbye post, no farewell message—the people who followed it for years will wake up to a 404.
Grow a Ryan Dunn beard. Get black-out drunk with friends and just push through. Lick everything for a full day, coat to doorframe to whatever you touch, and when people ask, blame childhood trauma. Tell someone you’re in love and give them the complete list: ten specific things, from romantic to explicitly sexual, and don’t leave anything unsaid. If they think you’re insane, move on to the next person.
Donate to the WWF because they do real work and the panda logo is actually kind of perfect. Stop watching cat videos. That’s the whole thing.
SBTRKT makes music that exists in the margins between precision and dreaminess, every element placed with purpose but arranged in a way that lets it dissolve into something larger. There’s control in the production—you can hear the discipline, the design work—but it never feels rigid. The space between the sounds is as important as what’s making noise. Wildfire carries that forward, patient and intensifying, the kind of track that rewards attention but doesn’t demand it.
Stirton’s photography doesn’t flinch. He photographs what breaks down — ecosystems collapsing, bodies marked by disease and conflict, the raw material of documentary that most outlets won’t run or want to see. The title itself, Rotting Souls, suggests something theological in the grimness, but it’s really just what happens when you point a camera at the parts of the world that profit from invisibility. He works for National Geographic and other publications, but the pictures don’t feel corporate — they feel like the only honest thing in a room full of polite lies. I’ve always respected photographers who know that clarity requires unflinching proximity.
D’Angelo’s Voodoo is the kind of album that makes everything else sound thin. It’s not complicated—just this thick, warm production and D’Angelo’s voice doing exactly what it needs to do. Brown Sugar got him noticed, but Voodoo is where he became unreachable. I keep coming back to it.
Chilly Gonzales rapping over a chamber orchestra shouldn’t work, but The Unspeakable actually does. There’s real composition happening here, not just beat-switching. James Charles Beck studied jazz and it’s audible in every choice—strings replacing drums, actual movement instead of repetition. It’s strange enough to get your attention and good enough to keep it.
Portishead’s ability to assemble a mixtape without turning it into a sampler collection is almost unfair. They understand mood and texture in a way that feels less like taste and more like fundamental comprehension. You could mix their collection with Caribou and PJ Harvey and everything still feels like one statement.
Häzel’s Playground is this soft, almost narcotic R&B thing. He’s been producing for Drake and everyone else for years, but Playground feels like he’s finally doing what he actually wanted to do. No rush. Just this intoxicating quality that doesn’t announce itself.
Songs for the Deaf by Queens of the Stone Age is heavy without being crude about it. Josh Homme’s voice has this weird pull to it, and the songs don’t just bash—they hook. It’s an album you can actually live with instead of just getting battered by. The interludes don’t kill the momentum, they underline it.
The Jackie Brown soundtrack is what happens when someone understands groove better than they understand anything else. Randy Crawford, Bobby Womack—these aren’t references, they’re the actual thing. Tarantino picked them because they work, not because they impress. That’s the difference.
Carpark North were the kind of band you could trust not to oversell what they were doing. Danish, straightforward, naming themselves after a parking lot like it was nothing. They made rock music that felt lived-in rather than performed, which meant their records had this quality where nothing needed to grab you—it just sat there being true. That’s harder to pull off than it sounds.
Put on Yuck and you’re not waiting for them to show up with some big idea. They’re just there, making songs that fit into your day without demanding attention. Shook Down’s the same way—honest stuff that doesn’t oversell itself. The kind of record you forget you’re playing until you realize you’ve heard it three times this week.
Your head fills up every day. Thoughts about people you can’t have, money you’ll never see, the constant hunt for something to feel alive on. It’s genuinely remarkable nobody loses it completely.
So you run. Find a club, find a field in the sun, get in your car and drive with the windows down. Throw yourself at something—anything. Play the music loud enough that it swallows the thinking.
It doesn’t fix anything. But catch the right song at the right moment—Lykke Li’s voice, Owen Pallett’s strings, Miike Snow’s melody hitting exactly where you needed it—and something gives. Not forever. Just long enough to stop panicking.
You’ll go back to the clubs, back to the highways, back to playlists that promise to clean your mind. They never clean anything. The bad thoughts come back, usually worse. But for those few hours your head’s empty, your body’s moving, and that’s what matters. That’s all there is.
Four stages blasting alternative rock for three days straight, mud, beer, crowds thick enough to lose people in, and that weird electricity that happens when thousands of drunk humans compress themselves into a field. That was Hurricane Festival 2011. I went with a group — Sara, Isa, Thang, Flo, Alex, Christoph, Thomas — all of us there with press passes that made us simultaneously invisible and enemies of the actual festival-goers.
The setup was almost absurdly comfortable. While everyone else was sleeping in tents that slowly filled with rainwater, we were in a guesthouse with beds and running water and a kitchen. When the weather came in hard, which it did constantly, Wenke and I would drift into the press tent where they had dry facilities and a bar and screens showing the stages. You could stand there and experience the entire festival without actually being in the festival, which sounds great in theory but felt like cheating in practice.
We couldn’t exactly advertise this. The second someone clocked the laminated pass, clocked that we were clean and dry and well-fed while they were covered in mud and regret, we’d become the thing to resent. So we’d put on a stressed expression, move quickly past security with some half-lie about being late, keep our heads down. The irony of that paranoia — that we were so worried about seeming soft that we actually stayed soft instead of just enjoying it — is not lost on me now.
I missed Lykke Li, who was actually the only reason I’d scheduled this whole thing. It was the one act I actually cared about seeing, and instead I was somewhere pretending to be busier and more committed to the festival experience than I actually was. Stupid. That’s genuinely one of those moments you don’t get back, you know? Some of it was unavoidable, but some of it was just cowardice dressed up as professionalism.
The bands themselves were hit or miss in the way festival lineups always are. Hercules and Love Affair were good. Glasvegas were genuinely terrible. Blood Red Shoes put real effort into it, William Fitzsimmons was aggressively boring. Flogging Molly hit harder than expected. My Chemical Romance felt like a band that nobody had told it was 2011 yet. The rest blurred together, which is what the rest always does at these things.
What stays with me is the weird stuff that’s not really a story. Teenagers in various states of dissolution stumbling out of the portable showers. A conversation in the grass with Wenke where neither of us said anything for maybe twenty minutes because we were too tired and the silence felt less awkward than words. Walking past people’s tents at 4 AM and feeling this strange mix of superiority and guilt. The way a field smells after three days of rain and crowds and no real sanitation — not good, but distinctive, memorable in its own gross way.
Katja Hentschel shot photographs over the weekend, and whatever she actually captured is better than what I remember seeing. I haven’t looked at them in a long time, but they exist somewhere. That’s how things last, I guess — not in the experience itself but in the frame you caught of it, the angle, the moment someone else decided was worth keeping. Everything else just erodes.
Donald Weber photographed interrogation rooms in Ukraine — the same institutional space, fluorescent and blank, where people end up after arrest. He spent years getting access, building this archive of the moment right after someone’s been picked up. No names, just a list of what they did: theft, prostitution, smuggling, drugs, rape. You see the face and you know which crime belongs to that person.
What gets to me about this work is the refusal to make it mean anything beyond what it is. No context, no compassion angle, no art-world gloss. Just a photograph of a person and their fact. Over and over, different faces, same white walls, same system grinding forward. There’s something almost violent about how honest it is.
I keep returning to these images. They’re what I’d call essential — the kind of photography that works because it doesn’t try to move you, doesn’t perform morality or insight. It’s just evidence.
Battles finally put out Gloss Drop after the wait. They’ve added more vocals this time, and it sounds strange until you realize it works—everything still feels off-kilter in the best way, the kind of thing where you remember that instruments are doing something. It’s still their experimental, fractured style, just with voices in there now.
Michael Jackson’s Thriller sits in music history like a fact. Not perfect, just inevitable. Billy Jean, Beat It, the whole thing—you listen and understand why he became what he became. It’s not complicated, just true in a way that matters.
Cinematic Orchestra’s Ma Fleur from 2007 showed up at the right moment. Fontella Bass’s voice moving through these tracks, Patrick Watson threading through everything, the band following the current. Smooth without being slick, intimate without working too hard.
James Drake’s Mixtape shouldn’t work. Two artists that don’t belong together, hip hop and post-dubstep and soul and electronic all bleeding into one another without fighting. It sounds both new and familiar, which you don’t hear that often.
The Cure’s Greatest Hits is Robert Smith being Robert Smith. The whole aesthetic thing isn’t separate from the music, it’s just how it comes out. Dark, atmospheric, moody as hell but hitting you somewhere personal anyway.
Paul Kalkbrenner made Icke Wieder—sixty minutes of instrumental tracks that sound like he’s not trying to prove anything. Minimal, direct, the emotional part still there even when everything else is stripped away.
They all keep rotating through. Some new, some old, some both. That’s the thing.
I’ve been watching street fashion for long enough to know that everyone’s got an opinion and most of them are wrong. The white sneakers thing has gone on too long—endless parade of the same unblemished Adidas clones, or neon abominations that hurt to look at. What nobody’s doing is blue with stripes. Just blue. Simple blue with a stripe. That should be the move this summer but I know it won’t be.
People in Teletubby costumes are always suspicious. Not sometimes—always. There’s something off about them, like they’re either headed to rob a bank or scoop up toddlers. The ones I see lurking around clubs definitely have a dealer somewhere and I want that number.
Then there’s the metrosexual hipster thing that won’t die. Boys without any actual manhood, worried about their skincare routine, terrified of a full beard. Girls keep saying they want real men—stubble, sweater, something warm in the eyes—but they keep ending up with these hairless creatures anyway. Someone’s lying, probably everyone.
I watched a girl stand in the corner of a club in grey everything, perfectly invisible, blending so completely into the dark walls that nobody saw her arrive or leave. She just slipped past security like a ghost. That’s its own kind of style.
Fashion is half confidence, half not giving a shit, and that girl had both. You can’t buy that. The Japanese kid with the pink polka-dot tote? Perfect accessory, perfect moment, and yeah, all the photographers showed up for that bag more than anything else. It works because it’s uncomplicated.
Tights and pantyhose should be burned. I remember being a kid, that impossible constriction, that awful genital feeling, the way they rip and cling. Nobody needed to invent those. Summer means ditching them entirely and I’d throw mine in a fire if I wore them.
What really gets me is how little blue actually shows up in street fashion. Everyone plays it safe—black, white, neon, grey. But there’s something about a solid blue with a stripe that just works. Understated. Not trying. That’s the move.
I owned an iPhone for a few years. I know all about the consumer hysteria around it, the calculated need, the way it accumulates. I had enough friends with regular phones to see the distance, and yeah, I’d heard the jokes about Apple disciples. But you use an iPhone for a while and you stop questioning why people get hooked.
I never got a real Apple account, so I scrounged free apps instead. Chic Feed pulled together the best from fashion blogs every morning, even though the photos were terrible and slathered with ads. There was a Dr. Oetker recipe app that suggested meals based on how much time you had and what the occasion was. I never actually cooked anything from it—the real cookbooks were already stacked up, and I prefer holding a book to staring at a screen, especially when your hands are greasy.
Some apps I installed and forgot existed. Shazam. Barcoo for scanning barcodes, which never worked right. Stuff that promised to help but mostly just took up space.
The ones that actually mattered: FM4 for news, Zeit Online for breaking stories, Skype. If you travel, those feel like genuine gifts. Then there was Facebook. Before the iPhone I had some discipline about it—checked once or twice a day. Once the data plan kicked in and notifications arrived every fifteen minutes, I couldn’t stop responding. That same day, at least. It felt like I was paying attention. Over time it just became a need I couldn’t turn off.
The phone doesn’t destroy your attention all at once. It’s subtler. The minute you can be productive every second—checking news, responding to messages, looking something up—the gaps where you’re not doing that start feeling wasted. Standing in line at the store, you think, why not use these two minutes? Why let them just sit there? So you scroll. And you miss the guy behind you putting his beer next to your milk because you’re deep in a stranger’s profile pictures from last semester.
I lost the phone eventually. The reasons don’t matter much. But the loss led to complications, bureaucratic nightmares I still haven’t dealt with, and one of those sent me to a part of the city I’d never been. I’d looked up the route beforehand, checked the map, but stepping off the bus I was completely lost. I’d forgotten how to get anywhere without that blue dot moving toward the red one on a screen.
For years I’d relied on GPS and it erased something basic in me. I started walking, hoping something would click, but nothing did. Then I stopped and asked a stranger for directions.
He gave me a full description. A real conversation. Real attention. And I actually listened, actually absorbed where I was supposed to go, actually saw the streets as I walked. For the first time in years I walked upright through the city. I heard the noise. I saw faces. I noticed I was alive in the place.
It’s funny how the thing that’s supposed to help you find your way can actually lose you. I got where I needed to go. More than that, I found my way back to something I’d almost lost: the ability to look up and actually see.
It was actually a nice evening. We were staying with a friend, shoving warm wraps into our mouths, streaming terrible movies from the internet. Big bed, plenty of space. Then someone mentioned HIV. The thing about it is it starts like the flu—you hear nothing about it for ten years—then it hits you all at once. I’ve heard the story a thousand times. But this time the thought just kept circling in my head all night long.
The next day I was Googling every symptom. Fatigue—yeah, I had that. Headaches—my constant companion. Rash on my right thigh. Diarrhea. A cough that felt like my lungs were trying to escape. General malaise. The internet is a genuine asshole when you’re already paranoid.
For a solid week I was absolutely certain I had HIV. The final stage. Game over. I watched YouTube videos of young people who were infected but somehow still cheerful. Documentaries about new medications. Blogs from gay activists. Guides on how to tell my family. My coworkers. My gym buddies. My girlfriend. Everyone. I had my whole new life mapped out.
So I went to the Berlin AIDS help center and got tested. The waiting room was covered in pamphlets about disease and homosexuality and weekly social gatherings for patients and their families. I was already imagining myself as a full member, finally finding real friendship, meeting the love of my life—all courtesy of a killer virus. Maybe this was where my actual life began.
The staff were all nice. Detlev and Roman in the hallway, the campy receptionist, the over-talkative counselor, the round-faced doctor. Everyone was nice. Was this your first test, they asked. Yeah, I said, embarrassed. After they took blood, I had to wait half an hour. I sat on a bench in a small park around the corner and thought about basically everything.
I ran through my sexual history like a reel of film. There was Sabrina at some terrible party, though she was only sixteen but something about—never mind. Bianca, who in certain circles was known to be very accommodating, suddenly made sense. She always smelled weird down there. Then there was Melanie. Melanie. Haven’t heard from her in years. Wonder if she’s even still alive.
Of course I was scared. When you’re sitting on a wooden bench having convinced yourself for a week that you’re dying, mapping your entire sexual history onto possible routes of infection, already sure the test will come back positive, you’re terrified. Genuine, sweating, numb terror.
Back in the waiting room they called my anonymous number. I shouted “Here!” and stumbled to the desk. The counselor glanced at the most important document of my entire existence and said, “Um… yes… let’s go to the counseling room. We’ll have privacy. Sit down first.”
Sit down first? Sit down first?! Jesus Christ, I would’ve rather called my mom, run to church to confess, built a time machine and punched myself from six years ago in the nuts rather than fuck Sabrina, anything but sit down. Not sitting. Not happening.
Of course the test was negative. Otherwise this would be written in a voice dripping with melancholy and shame, the kind of thing that would make even Julian Assange cry. She just wanted to show me what the rapid test looked like and pocket my fifteen euros. That was it.
So life went on. No social gatherings with the AIDS community. No new best friends. No grand love affair. I went back to normal almost immediately, and I was almost disappointed by it. I kept waiting for that movie moment—where you suddenly realize how lucky you are, see everything differently, book a flight to Tokyo, donate to African orphanages, reorganize your whole life around family and meaning instead of slowly dying in an office waiting for retirement. It never came.
We celebrated with beer and MDMA and danced until sunrise at some dingy bar in Kreuzberg, but mostly because it was a holiday the next day. The euphoria, the gratitude, the transformation—none of it stuck. Why? Maybe because those moments only exist while you’re in them. Maybe because too many kids actually get the diagnosis they’re terrified of. Maybe because HIV and AIDS are still out there and still killing people for real.
The only thing that actually stuck is that now whenever I’m about to ditch a condom because I’m horny or I’ve decided to trust someone, I hear her voice: don’t be stupid. Who knows what’s already been in there. Or better yet, don’t do it at all. Just have a nice evening instead. Warm wraps. Shit movies. Good friends.
Adam Tensta makes music that doesn’t pretend to have answers. ’Scared of the Dark’ sounds like the kind of track that sits in discomfort instead of trying to escape it—naming something you can’t quite articulate, the particular loneliness of nighttime thoughts. That’s harder to do than it seems. Most people want to fix it or make it beautiful. He just lets it exist.
Red Bull buried treasure chests across German cities one year. More than sixty of them scattered across more than sixty cities, each one hidden according to coordinates released online. Inside: event tickets to their sports spectaculars, limited-edition refrigerators, codes that unlocked more prizes. Transparent marketing machinery, obviously.
I looked at the website, grabbed the coordinates for my nearest city, and did nothing with them. But friends who actually went out and found one—they had this genuine excitement afterward that caught me off guard. Not about the stuff inside. About the hunt itself. About stepping into the city with a map and coming out of it having found something real, like they were kids again.
Red Bull understood this. They knew you don’t really stop wanting to find treasure; you just stop looking because you’re supposed to be grown up. So they created a space where looking again felt allowed. The strategy isn’t subtle—you can see the design of it—but that doesn’t make the experience feel false. Treasure hunts work. They always have.
There’s something efficient about it. They identified something genuine that people want (small adventure, discovery, things that feel found rather than bought) and attached their brand to it. The machinery is visible but the longing is real.
I never found a chest. But maybe that’s part of it too—the possibility, the fact that somewhere people were looking, that small corners of the city were briefly organized around mystery and the chance of something good turning up. For a moment the city is different. And then it isn’t.
Some songs hit you somewhere you can’t point to. They work on you without asking permission. That’s why I make playlists—to catch that feeling before it dissolves.
This one’s built from frequencies that work quietly. Nothing you need to parse or think about. Just let them sit in your head. The best ones are the ones you stop hearing because they’ve already burrowed in and changed something about how you move through your thoughts.
I keep playlists the way I keep notebooks—not for answers, just to hold onto a state while I’m actually inside it. This is one of those. Put it on when you need something that doesn’t demand anything. Just sound doing its thing.
Best Coast doesn’t make a huge deal about anything. Bethany Cosentino’s voice is there—dreamy but solid, never reaching for something it doesn’t have. The guitars sit underneath like they’re thinking about something else. It’s the kind of indie rock that gets prettier the more you listen, not in a technical sense but in a way that feels accidental, like she stumbled into the production rather than built it. The band appears and disappears on its own clock, which is fine. You don’t need constant news from people you care about.
I never cared much about data privacy. Ran a blog where I posted everything—relationship drama, school stress, family bullshit, whatever. Left my settings wide open on every service I touched. I’m the type who’d throw a selfie with my dick out on some porn forum if the moment felt right, keep my phone tracking my location constantly, and feel something like satisfaction knowing Google has my entire life mapped out. Google Knows Me, So I Exist—that phrase hit different when the web felt new.
Most people aren’t wired like that. They’re regular people with jobs and kids and things to lose. They don’t live online. They find privacy policies incomprehensible, they’re genuinely afraid that one wrong click will destroy something real, and when the news cycle hits them with another story about Facebook stealing data or Google cataloging your search history, they panic. Which is actually reasonable.
And then we mock them for it. They’ll keep Google away from their houses but trust Facebook with their faces. They post their entire vacation in real time on Twitter but worry that Apple can track it. They fear glitchy ATMs but move money through sketchy bank portals. We point out the contradiction. We’re technically right. But we’re missing the point: they don’t understand what they’re doing. They’re not being hypocritical on purpose. They’re overwhelmed.
Here’s the thing nobody says out loud: the privacy problem is designed to be confusing. There’s always another company, another service, another set of terms that changed last week. It gets more opaque, more fragmented, more impossible to track every week. And if you’re a person with an actual life—a job, family, hobbies, sleep—you don’t have the mental space to understand all of it. Not because you’re stupid. Because it’s engineered to be incomprehensible. You give up. You make half-informed choices. You stop trying.
I have the luxury of apathy. I live in this stuff. Whatever they know about me doesn’t scare me, or at least I’ve decided it shouldn’t. But that’s a position of privilege. Some people have real skin in the game. A reputation that matters. A job where the wrong thing surfaced could end it. A family that won’t understand. And we—people who understand how this works—we don’t usually spend much energy on compassion for that. We just laugh at the hypocrisy.
Maybe the better move is to stop laughing. If you understand this stuff, you could explain it without the contempt. You could see someone being protective of their data and recognize it as reasonable fear, not stupidity. Most people are doing fine with what they know. They’re not idiots. They’re just trying to keep their lives intact in a system that makes that harder every month.
The real problem isn’t that privacy matters less to regular people. It’s that understanding privacy—actually, genuinely understanding it—requires more time and attention than most people have. And everyone’s too busy to learn.
There was this moment, maybe 2006 or 2010, where everything new that showed up felt like a gift. Not everything, but enough to make you mixtapes, enough to build a taste that stuck. Certain names became essential.
Atmosphere’s The Family Sign is the kind of hip-hop that works because Slug actually means it. The storytelling matters more than the technical display, and Ant’s production knows to stay in its lane. It’s efficient—emotional without being corny, skilled without being showy.
Lauryn Hill’s Miseducation still hits different. “To Zion,” “Doo Woop,” “Nothing Even Matters”—the praise isn’t overstated. It’s just generational talent doing what only it could do. I still get genuinely moved by it, which is embarrassing at my age but also fine.
Gaga’s Born This Way was pure you-either-get-it-or-you-don’t. “Judas” and “Government Hooker” felt right even when the safer singles didn’t. It was exactly what she was trying to be, for better or worse.
Bon Iver’s self-titled brought in collaborators and got ambitious. Vernon’s falsetto still sounds like it’s coming from some other dimension. The best tracks stick with you years later.
Fink does warmth well—the kind of singer-songwriter stuff about feelings and relationships that doesn’t feel false. Seeing him live is worth the time invested.
CSS, though. That Brazilian band captured a specific feeling about that era, and I miss what it felt like discovering them. Not just the music, but the moment. The energy of it. That window closing.
The site was garbage. Pop-ups that spawned pop-ups, sketchy links that looked like they came from a 2004 forum, design that hurt to look at. Kino.to was the place you went when you were desperate and broke, with no other options. When they raided it a few years back, shut it down with some kind of police operation, my first thought wasn’t sadness or anger. It was relief. Finally, one less place to feel ashamed about.
But here’s the thing everyone won’t shut up about: the moral panic. All this hand-wringing about piracy, about law and order, about how everyone who downloaded a movie is basically a criminal. Stricter laws, they say. More prosecution. More shame. The usual sanctimonious bullshit.
And yeah, I used Kino.to sometimes. Not often—the experience was miserable enough that most of the time I’d just give up and buy the movie somewhere. But I did. I watched shows I couldn’t get legally, movies that hadn’t come out in my country yet, stuff that was already expired or never had a proper release. And then—because I actually liked the thing—I’d go buy it. Or I’d go to the theater. Or I’d subscribe to a streaming service. The two worlds coexisted just fine.
That’s the actual reality everyone’s afraid to say out loud: we all do this. Everyone. The person lecturing you about supporting artists probably has a folder somewhere. The executive worried about piracy has definitely pirated something. We grew up recording songs off the radio onto cassette tape while also buying CDs. We’ve always lived in both worlds at once. It’s not a scandal—it’s how culture actually moves.
Piracy exists because legal distribution is broken. It’s not complicated. If people can’t watch something legally without paying fifty bucks for a subscription they use for three episodes, or waiting six months for a theatrical release that’s half-coded for Chinese audiences, or dealing with regional locks that punish people in smaller markets—then piracy fills that gap. That’s not a moral failing. That’s just math.
The shutdown of Kino.to changed nothing. There are ten new sites now. There will be ten more after that. Because the underlying problem isn’t technology or willpower or enforcement. It’s that the people in charge of content distribution are still living in 1995, still acting like scarcity matters, still pretending that making something hard to access makes people want it more. They’re right about that last part, actually. They’re just wrong about the lesson to draw from it.
I don’t feel like a criminal for having used illegal streams. I also don’t feel morally pure for buying movies. I’m just a person trying to watch things I care about. Some of those things I buy. Some I didn’t. And everyone reading this has done the exact same thing, even if they’ll never admit it.
Every day brings another wave of PR garbage. Agencies worldwide flooding inboxes with warm, nauseating prose about bands nobody wants to hear, products designed to fail, videos that exist solely because someone’s job depends on them existing. They ask you to publish it for free, as if they’re doing you a favor just by asking.
Most of it gets deleted. Bad music, disposable products, nonsense “partnerships.” I almost feel for whoever has to write those emails, pretending garbage is essential.
What survives the first pass goes through a real filter. Event invites that sound interesting, creative work from artists who actually made something, things that would matter to read about. If it’s good—genuinely good, the kind of work that stops you scrolling—it goes up. No payment, no hesitation. When a young artist sends real portfolio work or a band sends music that actually connects, I publish it because it deserves to be published.
Big agencies backed by big money work differently. They pay. Not because I’m greedy, but because they’re asking for advertising disguised as content, and they have budgets for that. I’m careful about who gets in though—only people who actually fit what I do here, otherwise it’s pointless for everyone. When they reach out, I send back a price and an offer: for that amount, I’ll write them something funny and smart and genuine, the kind of thing that doesn’t read like an ad because it actually means something. MTV took that deal. Nokia. Telekom. They came back.
Then there are the ones who either don’t understand how the internet works or think they can manipulate you. Shocked emails asking how you could possibly charge for this honor. Others trying to seduce you with gift cards and worthless “collaborations” and link trades. It’s either delusional or contemptuous, and I can’t decide which is worse.
Running this site costs real money. Server fees, rent, food, taxes, time. The only way to sustain it is if some of the work I do generates revenue. Sponsorships from companies with actual budgets. Without that, this doesn’t exist. It’s not complicated.
But a lot of bloggers make it worse by saying yes to nothing. When big companies mass-mail desperate creators offering maybe a trip or maybe nothing, and those creators accept, the companies win. They profit off your work while you chase a maybe. It’s unpaid labor wearing a different name, and every blogger who takes it undercuts everyone else trying to stay alive.
The simple version: bloggers, stop getting played. Companies, pay for real work. The internet could have been different. Don’t wreck it by making everyone cheap.
It’s Monday again. Bin Laden’s still dead, which is somehow supposed to relieve something, but it doesn’t really. There’s always going to be some apocalypse on the news—the variables change, the panic stays the same. Today it’s EHEC, which I already know about because my email homepage deemed it important. I’m eating lunch without cucumber or tomato, very deliberately safe, watching Punkt 12 with the sound on. Katja Burkhard is doing the concerned face again. I’ve watched her do this same face for swine flu, bird flu, whatever three-letter plague the news decides to fear this week. She doesn’t have to practice it anymore—it’s built in. That seriousness, that “something terrible is happening” expression. It’s the same one every journalist in Germany uses. It’s the family-tragedy-in-provincial-town face. It’s not actually different from the others.
What gets me is that she hasn’t aged. She hasn’t been taken by any of the things she reports on with such gravity. She’s been doing this for years, staying exactly the same, reporting on plagues that come and go while she stays perfectly anchored to her desk. I wonder sometimes if there’s something going on with Peter Kloeppel, if that’s why she’s immortal and untouched. But that’s not what I’m supposed to be thinking about while I watch the news.
The report starts with four giant red letters on the screen. The music does that thing where it sounds ominous but you’re not quite sure why. I look back at my plate to make sure there are no vegetables on it. Clear. No cucumber. The report promises something real this time: corruption, a mystery, the kind of conspiracy that exists on television. No sex, no money, but actual substance—the sort of story where things get added to shipments and people disappear at station stops in Cologne.
A merchant in Spain—call him the “official source”—sent cucumbers to the Hamburg market. 600 kilos less than what arrived there. Which is the wrong direction. The Spaniard had measured them, checked them, confirmed they were clean. But somewhere between Spain and Germany, between the field and the wholesale market, something was added or something was wrong or something happened at a stop in Cologne. In a functioning market economy, nobody adds 600 kilos of anything to a shipment for free, especially not contaminated vegetables. The correspondent is investigating vigorously. The footage is blurry, privacy-protected, pixelated into meaninglessness—except for the man in the RTL jacket with the microphone, still perfectly visible. He’s preserved, worth protecting. I’m pretty sure I see a forklift in one shot. The report cuts off before it gets anywhere, before any answer appears, promising resolution on a future broadcast. Like a German soap opera. Which is fitting, because this is pure theater.
I get skeptical and search online for actual information. The more I read, the less afraid I get and the more annoyed I become. Every headline is another panic message, another reason to feel something is fundamentally wrong with the world. Instead of fear, I just feel defiant. I decide: no more cucumbers, and I’m done thinking about this. I don’t have the patience to wait for them to solve this mystery. The source of whatever this is will probably stay hidden or it won’t, and either way it won’t matter to me by the time the answer comes. It was probably cucumbers or probably animals or probably something else entirely. At least with the other outbreaks the names told you something—bird flu, swine flu—you could figure out where the danger supposedly came from. This one’s just a question mark in a warehouse somewhere.
What I know from watching this stuff my whole life is that it doesn’t matter. People panic and the news amplifies the panic and then something else happens—Champions League matches on the same channel, vacation time opens up, some other scandal breaks—and everyone just forgets. The financial crisis, the suffering in the third world, EHEC, all of it fades the moment you stop looking. You go away for two weeks and the whole thing is gone. You watch football. You get distracted. I’ll probably forget about cucumbers entirely by the time anyone reads this. I’m counting on it. And I’m not worried because there’s always going to be another scare right after, a new thing to be afraid of, and most people will respond the same way: they’ll turn off the television and move on, which is actually the only sane response to any of this.
That LFO song keeps ending up in my head years later and I’m still not sure why it works. It’s just a relentless catalog of late-90s pop culture—New Kids on the Block, Spice Girls, Mariah Carey, whatever was on MTV that week, crammed into the opening seconds. There’s nothing clever about it, no distance, no irony, just a song that commits completely to being exactly what it is. You laugh at how dumb it is and by the third listen you’re singing along, genuinely liking it. Which might actually be the whole point.
K.I.Z.’s back with “Urlaub fürs Gehirn” and they haven’t softened at all. Tarek, Maxim, Nico, and DJ Craft are making crude, funny, aggressive music — there’s literally a track called “In Your Mother” — but the provocation isn’t the whole thing. The musicianship is there too, it’s just not what anyone would call respectable. That’s kind of the entire point. Songs like “Abteilungsleiter der Liebe” show they can do romance if they feel like it, but that’s never going to be their lane.
Austra is almost the opposite. Katie Stelmalas sings with this trained, operatic clarity over minimal synth and clean production. It sounds cold until she opens her mouth. There’s something about that restraint — reminds me of Fever Ray or The Knife — that becomes more intense the longer you listen. “Feel It Break” doesn’t waste space. Everything in there earned its place.
Chiddy Bang’s “Peanut Butter and Swelly” doesn’t try to be clever. Summer rap from Philadelphia, electro samples, bouncy bass, Chiddy rapping in something close to grime. It’s pure soundtrack material — the kind of thing you put on for the park or the pool or Friday nights when you’re not thinking too hard, just moving. It knows exactly what it is.
SebastiAn from the Ed Banger crew finally dropped “Total” and it’s the least immediate of these, but weirdly the more interesting too. There’s something almost wrong about his melodies — this small deliberate wrongness in tracks like “Love Motion” and “Ross Ross Ross” that makes them impossible to forget. He knows exactly how close to the edge he can step.
Four Tet’s 2001 release, “Rounds,” is something else entirely. The production is so intricate and granular that listening feels like watching something restructure itself in real time. It’s hallucinogenic without the drugs. The album sounds like elves and fairies like the original description said, except I actually mean it — there’s something genuinely alien about the sound design. It makes you wonder what’s possible with synthesis.
And then Battles with “Mirrored” — just pure math rock mayhem. Complex polyrhythms, glitchy synths, no melody, no regard for ease. It’s aggressive in a way that most rock music isn’t anymore. Gets my heart rate up just from sitting with it.
Summer comes and everyone wants their feet out. No shoes, no socks, just skin on concrete and dirt and whatever else gets stepped on. There’s something honest about it—the pretense stripped away—though you notice it’s usually the people whose feet don’t look like crime scenes who actually do it.
I don’t know why I watch what people wear as carefully as I do, but I keep doing it anyway. There’s the American Apparel thing where people get trapped in 2008 and seemingly never reconsider: oversized everything, worn by the same person year after year like a uniform they made once and decided was final. Nothing wrong with the clothes, but there’s something paralyzed about it.
The ’90s soaked into us. Disney, cartoons, anime when it still felt foreign and strange. Now people wear that nostalgia openly. Oversized anime shirts, pajama pants as legitimate clothing, the deliberate absurdity of not looking at your own kid’s face. It’s honest in its way—you’re saying this is what made me, instead of pretending you emerged fully formed and refined. Growing up in that stuff doesn’t leave you, it just gets worn on the outside eventually.
Fashion gets sexual in ways I don’t fully understand but also don’t judge. People want specific things, sometimes things that shouldn’t logically cooperate. You learn not to ask why. Just let people have their interests.
Then there’s fashion that comes back because it has to, like headbands. In school they were the saddest thing—worn by people desperately trying to become something other than what they were. Though that’s probably just what being young is. Now they work better. Messier. Less precious. Everything cycles back eventually, different enough that you don’t notice you’re doing the same thing for the second time.
I keep thinking about the video. Two and a half minutes of a body—thirteen years old, face purple, covered in cuts and burns and bullet holes, genitals mutilated—with someone describing each wound. His name was Hamza Ali al-Khateeb. He was arrested at a protest in southern Syria in April 2011 and disappeared for a month. When his family got him back, he was like that.
When a body shows up that destroyed, it becomes something else. People started screaming his name in the streets. “We are all Hamza Ali al-Khateeb.” Facebook made him a martyr. He became what every uprising needs—a body so obscene that it can mean everything to everyone fighting back.
I understand the logic. I understand how some things are obscene enough to crack something open in people that won’t close again. But understanding and watching aren’t the same thing.
What got to me wasn’t the politics. It was the moment right after. I closed the video, scrolled to the next page, and there was Google’s Doodle for International Children’s Day. Something bright and colorful and happy. A celebration of childhood.
It’s just after four in the morning. Night. I’m the only living person in this unwieldy office complex, apart from the black shadow that drifts across the bare walls and makes me question my sanity. Empty Red Bull cans scattered around me. Fast-food wrappers. Magazines. My eyes stay fixed on the monitor. I’m not going home tonight.
A month ago I moved this operation into Betahaus and turned what used to be a hobby into an actual job. With set hours and meetings and brainstorming sessions. Or, in our case, stumbling through the door in the afternoon still wired on whatever was left in our systems, flinging coffee around the courtyard, staring at the office plant until it becomes a weapon. But whether you believe it or not, these past few weeks have meant something to me and the rest of the team that I can barely process. The weight of it keeps me up.
Most of the new people following this have no idea who’s actually behind it. My face, my past, what I’ve lived through. Sometimes I think that’s a shame, but mostly it makes sense. The real intimate stuff doesn’t make it into these dispatches anymore. The people who know me from way back know I’m basically chaos in human form. The attention span of a mayfly with a grudge. So any semblance of professionalism from me almost qualifies as a miracle.
And yet I’m surprisingly good at the job. Calendars, spreadsheets, meetings with people who matter and some who don’t. Writing my way through whatever the week throws at me. Sections, themes, reliability. Ideas I steal from the next table over at lunch, some tiny Asian restaurant, sometimes Sudanese. The machinery runs.
But nothing goes exactly as planned. There was a Wednesday where we drank wine and beer straight through the night, ate our way through every vegan spot we could find, and watched some terrible Australian film about women with too much of everything. Woke up the next afternoon three-deep in a bed in Wrangelkiez with hangovers thick as fog, then had to evacuate because of a bomb they found nearby. Work was impossible. I wanted coffee and sun and whatever painkillers I could find.
It’s always risky to try and monetize the thing you love. Financially, sure, but also in your head. I only believe we’ll actually pull this off because I love what we do and I trust the people doing it with me. We’re friends. That counts for something—the arguments and the faith and all the stupid talk in between.
The month taught me how fast everything moves. The idea never sits still. You learn something every day when you’re not busy throwing things at each other or just messing around. It’s like a real-world role-playing game where you don’t know what happens next—chances and failures, decisions you’ll have to live with.
So I’m changing too. Trying new things, bringing old stuff back. We’ll probably move again soon, to some broken-down artist commune a few blocks over. This is Kreuzberg, after all—it has to be. The world domination thing keeps looking closer. Not that I trust any of this will actually work, but at least the exhaustion feels purposeful, and the chaos feels like mine.
That song sits at the exact center of what guitar music figured out in the 90s and then mostly gave up on. The shift from the pixelated synth opening into the actual riff is the technical equivalent of a door opening. It’s controlled, architectural, nothing wasted. Thom’s voice carries something wrecked in it even when the lyrics are oblique — you hear the nerves underneath. I put it on less often than I should because it’s so completely itself that there’s something almost confrontational about it. Most songs let you in. This one makes you come to it.
Joy Denalane’s been back in my ears. Maureen came five years after Born & Raised, and her voice has that quality where it settles into a room and makes you hear what you’re already feeling—clarifying rather than amplifying. Soul in its simplest form: just a voice and whatever it touches.
DJ Mad’s mixtape is free, which changes everything. Nas, Kid Cudi, Gil Scott-Heron in the same pocket. It’s the kind of thing that plays in the background of a summer you barely remember until it’s over.
What’s Going On is impossible to listen to without hearing the anger underneath. Marvin made this against everything Motown wanted—against Vietnam, against Tammi Terrell’s death. You hear the fury in the horns, the way they cut at you. Raw in a way that polished soul records never are.
A Tribe Called Quest’s Anthology doesn’t need defending or reissuing. The songs are still here, still exact.
Monarchy’s behind their masks throwing remixes into summer. It works.
Still waiting for Phillipa Brown to release new Ladyhawke. The 2008 album was as close to perfect as pop-electronic gets. I check obsessively like she owes me something, knowing she doesn’t.
You’re sitting in a parking lot during a storm, chai getting cold, and someone asks what you’re doing this weekend. You don’t know, so you start making a list. Ten ridiculous things. Not because you’ll actually do them. Just to have a plan.
One: Chase a metric that doesn’t matter. Facebook followers back then. Bluesky followers now. The number doesn’t matter. The emptiness is always the same.
Two: Go on a date with someone weird. Order the saddest meal—salad, water. Sit across from them and feel the silence.
Three: Paranoia as a project. The original was joking about viruses. Do something preventative that makes no sense. Wrap a condom around a vegetable. Protection against nothing.
Four: Watch something you hated again. Avril Lavigne, pop-punk era. Maybe you’ll like it now. Probably not. Doesn’t matter.
Five: Borrow someone else’s attitude for the weekend. Han Solo doesn’t care if you’re watching. Try that.
Six: Do something sexually weird with someone you trust. Not as a punishment or a game. Just because you can be strange with certain people in ways you can’t with anyone else.
Seven: Destroy your own future before anyone gets the chance. That application you sweated over—don’t send it. Throw it away. You’ll never feel ready anyway.
Eight: Move your body pointlessly. Jump on a trampoline. On your balcony if you’re brave. You’re not trying to be healthy. You’re just moving because it feels good.
Nine: Make the call you’ve been avoiding. Dentist. Whoever. Commit to a time and actually show up.
Ten: Help someone with something that won’t actually help. Donate. Show up. Do the effort even though the outcome doesn’t matter.
That’s the list. None of it changes anything. The point was the parking lot, the storm, making a plan out of nothing. That was the whole thing.
Mikhailov’s Case History is brutal in a way that most photography isn’t — it doesn’t court your sympathy or frame its subjects as victims. He’s documenting the homeless in Kharkiv, the body’s slow surrender to living on the street, and he does it with a directness that feels almost callous until you realize there’s nothing condescending about it. He’s not using them to make a point. He’s just looking. The photographs are ugly and unglamorous, sometimes barely composed, but that’s the whole thing — no artifice, no distance, just what happens when you point a camera at someone the world has decided doesn’t matter. It’s the kind of work that stays in your head not because it’s beautiful but because it refuses to let you feel noble for looking at it.
Beer gets warm in five minutes. That’s the main thing I notice about summer — everyone’s in the park like it’s freedom itself, and maybe it is, but there’s always this undertone that if you’re not there, you’re wasting the season. The media pushes it relentlessly. TV stations basically check out in the afternoons, radio fills the silence with festival listings and cinema schedules, and the whole culture tells you the same thing: outside is where life happens. Inside is where failures live.
I get it. Summer looks good in other people’s photos. But there’s something almost coercive about the expectation, the way people storm out of their apartments the second the sun shows up like they’ve been ordered to be happy, to be social, to prove they’re living the right way. The ones who stay in become invisible failures in their own minds.
But I wonder how much of that enthusiasm is real. How many people actually want to be packed into a crowded lake in August heat, and how many are just terrified of being the one person who stayed home? I used to think the ones going outside were emotionally stronger, more able to resist peer pressure, but now I think the opposite might be true. Maybe they’re the ones who caved.
The real weirdness is that we’ve made this binary. Outside is living. Inside is dying. As if joy can only happen under open sky, as if a good book or a quiet afternoon requires justification.
I think the truth is simpler than any of this. Outside isn’t mandatory. You don’t owe the season anything. You can sit in the park with a beer and friends if that’s what you actually want, and you can stay inside if that’s what you actually want, and neither of those things makes you a better or worse person. The summer’s going to happen regardless. You might as well spend it doing something that doesn’t feel like an obligation.
JJ’s work sits somewhere between visual art and music production, which is the kind of boundary-blurring that usually annoys me but somehow doesn’t here. There’s something about the restraint in what they do — the refusal to explain or perform — that feels distinctly Swedish, or at least what I imagine Swedish restraint to be. Clean lines, careful color, deliberate silence where noise could fit. I keep coming back to it because it doesn’t demand anything from you, which in a creative landscape where everything is screaming for your attention feels almost radical.
Kern’s been shooting explicit photographs since the eighties, and the work doesn’t apologize for itself or for the women in it. There’s a directness to his stuff that makes most art photography look precious by comparison—he’s interested in what people actually look like, how they actually move, not some mediated version of sexuality. The ratio in the title is his own joke: how much face, how much body, what’s the right proportion for the picture to work. It’s funny and it’s honest, which is rarer than it should be.
Katy B stripped “Easy Please Me” down to almost nothing—just her voice and minimal production, which was a strange move after building her reputation in the UK garage and grime world. I remember the first time hearing it, waiting for some elaborate flourish or a second voice to arrive, but it never did. There’s something genuinely stubborn about it, refusing to be exactly what people expect even after you’ve proven you can nail that formula. Quieter than you’d think, which somehow feels more honest than anything that’s trying to prove something.
Sasha Kurmaz’s work sits in that space between documentation and dream. “Those Who Came” carries the weight of a title that asks you to imagine who, from where, under what circumstances. There’s something about the restraint in that—the refusal to explain itself immediately—that pulls you in. I don’t know if it’s a film or a series or something harder to categorize, but that uncertainty is part of what makes it work. It asks questions without pestering you for answers. You finish it and you’re left with the specific texture of something, not a lesson.
Xzibit’s “Pimp My Ride” is what happens when someone with money decides to decorate a car with every impulse at once. LEDs, subwoofers, custom paint, whatever. The result looks like a vision board threw up on a Cadillac. It’s not taste failing—it’s the complete absence of any framework for taste at all.
So Mazda and Vice did a design competition for the Mazda2 where they brought in actual designers. Nik Nowak, a few people doing experimental 3D and digital work. Not car guys, not marketing people—actual people who spend their time thinking about form and proportion. The descriptions mention “urban 3D designs,” “silhouettes,” “color storms.” Language that suggests they’re designing, not adding.
The difference between customization and design comes down to intention. Customization is what you do to something that already exists. Design is the thing itself—proportions, how surfaces work, what you choose to leave alone. Most cars are so buried under regulations and marketing research and cost targets that design barely survives in them. Every decision gets defended by a spreadsheet.
I don’t know if the competition resulted in anything real. Usually these things don’t. But it was interesting that someone at Mazda decided to let people who actually think about objects come look at a car and reimagine it. No brief, no research, no approval from the brand committee. Just: here’s a platform, go design.
Most cars are compromises. The ones that stick with you are the ones where someone actually made a choice.
Blake’s always been chasing something — that space between beats where the emptiness matters more than the sound. Lindisfarne, the island, is all that in geographic form: isolated, austere, historically sacred but actually just stone and grass and the weight of time. The album feels like that too. Not harsh, just spare. He strips things down to what actually moves you, which turns out to be very little — a voice, a synth line, the space between notes. I keep coming back to how patient it is, how willing to breathe. There’s no urgency here, no trying to convince you of anything. Just someone working through something quietly, and you’re allowed to listen if you want to.
It’s the kind of album you don’t really hear until you’re alone.
Moby’s Destroyed showed up in my week made of hotel rooms and airports. Fifteen songs, each one sitting in its own quiet space. You don’t notice it’s playing until you’re twenty minutes in and realize you’ve been listening instead of doing whatever else you were supposed to be doing. Recorded on analog gear — doesn’t matter, just sounds right.
Deichkind’s Arbeit nervt comes at you with the opposite energy. Fat beats and lyrics that sound like they came from someone three days into a party who still has strong opinions about everything. Crude and fun and doesn’t apologize for any of it. That’s the whole thing.
Danger Mouse and Daniele Lupi took five years making Rome. Five years with Jack White and Norah Jones somewhere in the mix, building something patient and real and completely free of digital bullshit. You feel the work in it.
Natasha Khan — Bat For Lashes — has a voice that just catches and fills the room with something strange when she uses it right. Two Suns is older now, couple of years back, but she writes about love and pain in a way that doesn’t get stale. You want new stuff from her constantly but you keep coming back to this one.
Die Schlümpfe made a techno album somehow. The Smurfs doing dance music in 1995 and it actually works. It’s dumb and perfect and I have no idea why it exists, but here we are.
Tracy Chapman’s self-titled first album is what teaches you what’s possible when someone actually knows what they’re doing. Her voice alone — she just understands something. Every song hits you different and leaves you better. That’s not me being dramatic, that’s just what listening to it does.
The Rifles played an unplugged set at Cookies in Berlin, this little indie band from London, and it was actually good. It was a charity thing — all the proceeds going to Trekstock, which works with young people dealing with cancer — and usually those feel like obligations, like you’re being voluntold to have a nice time for a cause. But this one landed different.
The evening started at the Ben Sherman store down at Hackescher Markt with an exhibition of guitar picks. Signed ones, collected from bands and musicians for an auction that would kick off later. Mando Diao, Maximo Park, Michi Beck, some other names — they all showed up to sign something. The whole thing had this casual, almost understated energy. Not a big production. Just people who wanted to help out, showing up, signing a pick, moving on.
Then everyone moved to Cookies for the actual show. The Rifles played stripped down, no extra production, just the songs. There’s something about watching a band like that when there’s no stage machinery, no light show to hide behind — you either have it or you don’t. They had it. The room was packed, maybe 500 people, and you could feel it. The kind of show where you remember you actually like live music, where the whole point comes back.
The auction for the picks felt right too. Not framed as charity porn, not milking it. The idea was simple: these picks are signed, they’re going to a good cause, you can buy them if you want. Something small, portable, actually collectible. A guitar pick is basically nothing, but there’s something about a physical object that someone held and signed that hits different than just donating money to a website.
I came away thinking about how rare it is for these things to actually work. Charity events usually feel like they’re written by committee, designed to check boxes. This one had taste. Someone actually thought about what would matter — a good band, a venue that fits, merchandise that’s actual merchandise, not just stuff. And the cancer angle, which could’ve been maudlin, just sat quietly in the background. Trekstock gets the money. The band played. People bought signed picks. That’s it.
Those Dancing Days was a Swedish band doing that kind of indie pop that sneaks up on you—melodic, a little precious, but sincere about it. I can’t remember where I first heard them, probably some music blog from the mid-2000s when that was still how you discovered things. The song stuck around in the back of my head the way good pop does, light and specific at the same time. Their records had this optimism to them, this belief in the potential of a three-minute song to be enough, to matter. They’re not household names and they’re not supposed to be. Sometimes the best thing a band can do is make something beautiful that finds exactly the people it was meant to find, and everyone else walks past without noticing. That’s its own kind of gift.
I watched the first Pirates in 2003 and remember being surprised by how weird Johnny Depp was allowed to be. The whole thing moved like something half-sunk, all excess and randomness, and it shouldn’t have worked but it did. Two more sequels followed and by 2007 it felt like the series had reached its natural stopping point. Then Disney made another one.
This time the object is the Fountain of Youth. Penélope Cruz plays the romantic interest (Keira and Orlando are gone), and the plot hits every beat from the previous three. Sword fight. Betrayal. A ship. A magical MacGuffin. Depp swaying and making weird faces. Barbossa showing up. Keith Richards in a pointless cameo. It’s technically competent, which is almost worse than if it were openly bad, because it means someone was comfortable with just repeating themselves.
The fourth Pirates isn’t a failure. It’s the feeling of watching a photocopy of a photocopy. The first three had something because Depp and whoever was writing seemed to be discovering the character as they went. This feels like someone filling in a template. The effects are bigger, the budget is bigger, the expectations are clearly bigger. But there’s no actual spark. Just the same moves executed with more money.
Without Keira and Orlando, something shifts in the dynamic that this movie doesn’t acknowledge. They provided counterbalance—characters you could believe in, reasons to care whether any of this mattered. Without them it’s just Depp and Cruz on a ship, and Cruz is capable, but she’s a different kind of presence. The whole thing plays wrong without that anchor to something resembling normalcy.
Depp’s still the only thing worth watching. He commits to being the weirdest presence in every frame in a way that’s almost generous—he’s really giving you the strangeness, the physicality, the commitment to not making sense. But even his full commitment can’t quite overcome the fact that I’ve already watched this. Three times over. I don’t need to watch it again.
The trilogy didn’t need to continue. It ended at a place where you could walk away satisfied. A fourth movie feels like the moment a band puts out a reunion album that nobody asked for—technically competent, financially sensible, spiritually empty. Once something becomes a formula, it’s done, even if they make ten more. Pirates became a machine that prints money, and machines don’t get weird. They just repeat themselves in slightly different lighting.
Ryoichi Maeda makes work that stays with you in quiet ways. His digital pieces and installations have this quality of being both extremely deliberate and somehow half-accidental—like he’s discovered something and is showing you the edges of it without explanation. You look at them once and they register. You think about them later and they register differently. There’s a precision to how he builds space, whether through video or sound or light, that suggests he understands something most of us are still learning.
Café Kotti is where you end up when you’re in Kreuzberg and the afternoon stretches out with nowhere to go. The coffee is correct, the crowd is familiar and strange at once, the walls are covered in layers of stickers that have become their own kind of wallpaper. It’s the kind of place that stopped trying to mean anything and became essential by accident. You can sit there for hours and nobody minds.
We were at the Maritim for some event I’ve half-forgotten. The lobby was all brass railings and glass—the kind of hotel that made you feel like you should be doing something important just by standing there. Wenke was better at that than I was. We found a quiet corner somewhere and sat without much to say, which was fine. I remember her face in the light from one of those big windows, and thinking how right she was in that space, like the hotel had been designed with her in mind.
Austra’s music did something to me years ago—this electronic precision combined with a kind of emotional distance, like observing your own disintegration from the outside. The arrangements are so controlled, so careful, but the songs themselves are about things falling apart. ’Lose It’ sits right in that tension. I’m not entirely sure where the production ends and the songwriting begins, but the effect is clear: this work doesn’t let go.
I can’t stop playing Burial’s “Untrue.” There’s something about the sound—dirty like basement floors, drugged and beautiful, the kind of record that feels like aftermath or anticipation. It’s the record that defined dubstep and probably always will.
Tyler the Creator finally dropped “Goblin,” and this nineteen-year-old kid from Odd Future just commandeered the whole conversation with beats and flows that shouldn’t have worked but do. There’s an edge to it that still feels urgent.
The Knife make electronic music that moves through your body without asking. “Deep Cuts” is hypnotic in that way—the kind of record that locks you in. You put it on and the rest of the world just falls away for as long as it’s playing.
The Kickdrums made a summer mixtape that doesn’t take itself too seriously. Cee Lo, Kanye, Lauryn Hill, all of it rolling into something you can just move to without thinking about it.
Prefuse 73’s “The Only She Chapters” is built on a premise that sounds stupid—every track starts with “The Only”—but Guillermo Scott Herren made it work by bringing in different singers, different textures. It’s less about beats than composition, more structured than his earlier work.
And Raphael Saadiq’s “Stone Rollin’” is as close to authentic seventies soul as you’re going to get. The man brings it—love, heartbreak, actual funk. The kind of record that makes you want to actually dance.
Every month was like a new life. That’s what the Incas knew before they predicted the end of the world and got it completely wrong. So one May I went hunting trends with the tools of someone operating on instinct—butterfly nets and broken bottles, which was as good a method as any.
What came into focus. Odd Future. Popcorn. The specific transformation into a festival version of yourself, shedding your regular self like a skin. Lactase tablets for anyone with a standard stomach. The pleasure of getting fucked and upfucked in the same breath. Mixtapes as gifts. White socks. Balaclavas even though it wasn’t that cold. Tyson as a name everyone was saying. The project of accumulating enemies like some people accumulate nothing. Barbecuing on the beach. Turning away at a toast because some things don’t need an audience. Fake Ray-Bans that somehow outperformed the genuine article. Coconut milk in the kitchen instead of butter. Pornography mentioned like the weather, no moral weight attached. Someone breaking past a crisis of confidence. The math of a day better than yesterday being a day you won. Fireworks. Arm wrestling as a real test. The detail of someone painting themselves with bright markers in a place no one sees.
The opposite side was equally clear. The trap of Excel spreadsheets. Office existence as a specific quicksand. Moods that poisoned shared air. Taking the subway when your bike was right there. Soy milk. High-tops that didn’t fit right. Big Brother broadcasting into the void. The anxious tracking of expiration dates.
Then the truly bad. Swallowing your ex’s contraception by accident—disaster and dark comedy at once. Confusing different kinds of people. Being too far left or too far right or stuck perfectly in the middle. Hiding someone away. Nuclear power as a question that won’t resolve. Horny pigeons. Allergies. The slowness that makes you want speed, the speed that makes you want slowness.
That May had texture. Not the kind of month to recommend to anyone. Just one to move through while paying attention.
A Swarovski film with no dialogue, no plot, just light and crystal. Bruno Aveillan directed, which meant the brand wasn’t cutting corners. Yiqing Yin designed the world. Two figures searching through it without ever explaining what they’re searching for. Three minutes, and every second is composed.
It’s the kind of commercial that works because nobody tried to make you understand it. No voice-over, no message, no moment of meaning forced on you. Just movement through surfaces. Wordlessness gives you permission to not think too hard, just watch.
I don’t know if it changed anything or sold anything or mattered beyond itself. Doesn’t feel like it’s trying to. That might be the whole point. A luxury brand spending real money on three minutes of pure image, trusting that image is enough. It’s rarer than it should be.
Amadou & Mariam sound like two people who’ve been in the same room so long they stopped keeping score of whose voice is whose. He sings, she sings, they’re from Mali, they’re both blind, and after decades making music together their voices fit without thinking about it. The title says she went along with him, but listening to them, you’d think they just agreed on something once and never had to agree again.
The vantage point from the café above Görlitzer Park is the right distance from the chaos. Close enough to watch it happen—the dealers, the kids on the grass, the old men at the picnic tables, everyone pretending they’re not watching everyone else—but removed enough that it feels like you’re observing a machine, not getting ground up in it.
Berlin has a lot of parks but Görli is the only one that feels like it has a pulse. There’s no pretense about making it pretty or keeping it clean. It exists and the city flows through it: people buying, people selling, people just lying in the sun because they have nowhere else to be. There’s something honest about that.
I went up there one afternoon and just sat. The light was doing that thing it does in late spring—not quite gold but getting there. A band was setting up in the corner. Tourists were taking photos of the same thing everyone else has already photographed. The park didn’t care. It kept being what it was, which is a place where you can see how the city actually works if you’re willing to look at it without judgment.
You come back to Görli the same way you come back to a bar that doesn’t try—not because it’s great, but because it’s real.
Palladium boots don’t ask for anything. They’re solid canvas and rubber, military-born, no fashion angle. In L.A. you see them on skaters and photographers and people who actually work in their clothes. They’re not trying to be cool, and that’s what makes them work. I’ve worn through a few pairs without thinking twice about why. Some things just make sense.
Chris Hemsworth’s Thor gets thrown down to Earth depowered and furious, and the moment he walks into a diner and breaks everything trying to order coffee, you know exactly what kind of movie this is going to be. A god with all the wrong instincts. Natalie Portman finds him, plays it cool for about thirty seconds, and then they’re investigating this mythology together. Kenneth Branagh’s directing, and he seems to understand that the whole thing works better if you don’t take it seriously. If it tried to be epic and tragic, it would crater. Better to just let it be what it is.
Which is: a man learning humility through being mortal, falling in love with someone actually present and smart, and figuring out that power doesn’t matter as much as choice. Thor doesn’t choose the throne because he’s become a hero. He chooses a person, a place. The script could’ve made that corny. Instead it feels like something earned.
Hemsworth plays the confusion and fury of a depowered god well—there’s actual frustration there, not just pretty-man-looks-confused. Portman stays curious rather than swooning, which matters more than it should. Tom Hiddleston’s Loki in the background doing theater-kid scheming doesn’t try to be profound; he just understands his own absurdity.
The action’s competent. Asgard’s expensive-looking. The mythology works as set-dressing because the film doesn’t ask you to care about it as mythology. And honestly, by the time Thor’s realizing he actually cares about Earth, it lands because you’ve watched his arrogance crack into something real over the course of the film. The banter with Jane feels actual. The choice to stay feels like it means something.
I don’t know what else I expected from a Thor movie, but this was it. Not trying to be profound, not reaching for Shakespearean weight, just confident enough to let the ridiculous parts be ridiculous. A god confused by coffee. A scientist skeptical of mythology. A film that understands exactly what it is and doesn’t apologize for it.
Hurts are one of those bands that made you feel less alone in the dark. Their whole thing—the synths, the reverb, Theo Hutchcraft’s voice drifting through all that neon melancholy—it was perfect for late nights and the kind of thinking you don’t do in the daytime. They never got huge, which feels right somehow. The biggest bands are rarely the ones that actually matter to you.
There’s a royal wedding this weekend. All over television. All anyone’s talking about. Ignore it. It’ll end in divorce, they always do. Get outside instead, find something good to eat, let yourself sweat a little.
Subscribe to whatever keeps you feeling alive, even if it’s just for minutes at a time. Spend a whole afternoon being stupid—wearing shirts you’d normally be too old for, listening to music like you’re seventeen and the rules don’t apply. Eat meat. Real cooked meat, the kind you actually want. Pile it on a plate and eat all of it.
Masturbate. Nobody else is going to do it for you. Get up early some morning and run through wet grass with your arms out, completely alone, no phone, no music, nothing. Just you and whatever’s in your head. Then make enough money that you stop worrying about it. Teach some kids something real instead of the version adults are supposed to tell them.
Shave whatever you want. Grow whatever you want. Your body, your rules. And then punch something. Or someone. Or yourself. For logical reasons.
The Weeknd’s House of Balloons is authentic R&B, the kind that doesn’t dress up what it’s about. Abel Tesfaye knows the music is there to make you feel what you’re already feeling, and he’s efficient about it—just voice and beat and whatever you’re thinking about someone specific.
Katy B’s debut is half great, half filler. The dubstep-influenced tracks have something real going on, all space and air, but then it settles into the same generic pop everyone’s making. You want more from her. She’s got something, just hasn’t figured out what to do with it yet.
tUnE-yArDs requires a certain amount of embracing weirdness. Merrill Garbus doesn’t make easy music—it’s experimental and off-kilter, chilly in a way pop usually isn’t. If you can sit with something that deliberately strange, she’ll take you somewhere actual.
Frank Ocean is floating around the Odd Future scene through Tyler, the Creator, but he’s got soul that most people don’t even aim for. His label signed him and then ghosted him, which is beyond stupid, but you can feel it in his music—not anger exactly, just complete defiance. He doesn’t need them and he knows it.
The Beastie Boys came back like they’d never stopped, which is both incredible and kind of crazy to think about. Hot Sauce Committee Part 2 opens into this early-80s New York thing and it actually works. They can still make everyone else in the genre look like they’re trying too hard.
Snoop’s been doing this forever—this is his eleventh album—and you can hear it. The Doggystyle thing is decades gone. Everything’s slicker now, more produced, more 2011. But Snoop hasn’t changed, which might actually be the whole point. The voice is still there. Everything else moves around it.
Frankfurt had a Jägermeister tour stop in 2011 with Frittenbude and Tom Deluxx. I saw it through someone else’s camera—photos and video from colleagues who were there. That’s how you know you weren’t. Everyone else gets the memory. You get the documentation, which is its own thing.
Lykke Li’s sadness doesn’t perform. There’s no redemption arc in her work, no healing narrative or lesson learned—she just moves through heartbreak with the kind of honesty that most artists spend their whole careers avoiding. Listen to the albums where she leans all the way into sorrow and you notice she’s not interested in making you feel better, only in being true to what she actually feels. That’s rarer than it should be.
The most effective provocation is something that genuinely makes you uncomfortable. Vomit as art, the body turning itself inside out—it’s the opposite of what celebrity is supposed to perform. Millie Bobby Brown getting involved with work like this gets at something real: your image, your brand, your carefully maintained surface mean nothing to your body. It will reject everything when it needs to.
There’s a kind of honesty in that. Making art from what you’re supposed to hide.
Lou O’ Bedlam’s Girls Portraits sit in this uncomfortable space between technical mastery and deliberate wrongness. The faces are rendered with almost photographic precision, but there’s something off about every one—the proportions aren’t quite right, the expressions feel both familiar and alien, the color choices are deliberately unsettling. It’s the work of someone who understands beauty well enough to know how to break it. There’s a dark humor underneath, not the kind that announces itself—more like a private joke, or maybe an insult wrapped in a compliment. I keep coming back to them because they refuse to be likable.
Kate Bush made records that sounded like nothing else, and then she’d disappear for a decade and come back stranger. The production, the voice, the refusal to let anything stay simple — it all still holds up. You listen to her work now and it doesn’t feel dated because it was never chasing what was current. Just following where the idea went.
You want to dismiss corporate charity—H&M using AIDS awareness to polish their brand feels like the textbook play. But the company has reach that most nonprofits would kill for. They’ve got stores in every city, young audiences streaming through them constantly. Point that infrastructure at a public health message and things actually happen. The self-interest is obvious. And the awareness still builds. I stopped trying to separate the motives a while ago.
The best part of any night out is the morning after, when you step outside and the sunrise hits you directly in the face. Everything’s quiet. No one else on the street. You’ve moved through the night into this—from drunk to hungover, from clubs to sunrise, headphones on, whatever playlist you threw together at 3 a.m.
Mine had Neon Indian, The National, Miami Horror in it. Songs that somehow still work at that exact hour, caught between the pounding bass you just left and the silence around you now. The day’s about to start, the hangover’s about to kick in, someone’s selling shawarma somewhere. But for this moment it’s just you and the music and the sun, and honestly that’s better than the actual party.
Found it after a day of searching—one illegal tour and everything was clear. Betahaus. This was the place. The best desk in the best room, and I claimed it immediately. Decorated it with whatever was lying around: magazines, pen holders, cola bottles. That’s how you stake territory in a shared workspace.
Moving the whole operation out of an apartment into actual office space meant dealing with the chaos we’d let accumulate. We needed structure. Plans. Actual systems instead of just vibes and luck. The goal was straightforward: more articles, better work, more variety. And suddenly, sitting at a real desk with other people working around you, it felt possible.
There’s something almost obscene about how grown-up I’ve become. I commute to work instead of rotating between the park and whoever’s apartment. Lunch is scheduled. We have meetings about the future that sound like actual plans instead of reassuring ourselves it’ll work out somehow, which is also, let’s be honest, how we actually operated before. But there’s something satisfying about the routine now, the structure, the pretense that we’ve figured something out.
The whole thing is funded by comments. Every troll comment, every pointless flame war in the comment section—that becomes money in the account. I’m not going to explain the mechanics because if the trolls figured out they’re literally paying for this, they’d stop. And we can’t afford to lose them. So let them keep coming, keep saying dumb shit. They’re quite literally funding the desk, the workspace, eventually a nice plant. We owe them everything and they have no idea.
I’m in the office with beer and sun coming through the windows. We’ve got maybe fifteen minutes before someone—probably me—jumps into the flooded conference room. We know we should be professional about it. We never are.
I found this list of ridiculous missions from somewhere, and I figured they were worth dusting off if you’re going to be bored over Easter. Rearrange Andreas’s furniture while he’s still at home—write your will first. There’s something to the idea that some people only look good from behind, so don’t turn around. Someone here managed two and a half hours on the non-stop Nyan Cat thing. The office plant we called Billy basically witnessed all our terrible decisions. Being more like Bender wouldn’t be the worst thing. Mom would appreciate it.
Listen to Uffie’s “Wordy Rappinghood” and Santigold’s “Go” and pick between them, then record the winner onto a cassette for your grandmother. Rent Liechtenstein for the night if you’ve got fifty thousand euros burning a hole in your pocket. Sleep with your best friend’s mother. Pure chaos and stupid, but it definitely works.
I should get back to work. The conference room’s still waiting.
There’s a specific quality to summer rides—the heat radiating off the asphalt, the way the air tastes like dust and cut grass even on the freeway. You’re moving through it all at speed, window down, some song on repeat that you’ll remember for years not because it was great but because it was there. The landscape blurs into a general impression of green and sky. Your arm rests on the door. You’re not thinking about anything in particular, which is maybe the whole point. By evening you’re somewhere else, and the day has that quality of small adventure—nothing actually happened, but you got there however you wanted, and the getting was the thing.
I’d catch these Japanese countdown shows late at night, flipping through channels, and suddenly forty-five minutes have gone by and I’m waiting to find out what’s actually number one. There’s something stupidly effective about the format—the suspense, the performances, idols looking like they were designed in a computer somewhere, the glittery set that’s been the same since maybe 2010. You don’t need to know the songs to get hooked by the structure itself, the way they drag it out, the climax they’re building toward. Once you start watching, you’re committed to seeing it through. It’s probably the most efficient music delivery system ever invented.
Turn off the heater, turn up something good. The sun’s actually warm now. I grab the fixie, text everyone I know is free, pull the hula hoop from whatever closet’s been holding it since last summer. Craft Spells starts playing. Wolf Gang next, then Yuksek. This is the summer playlist, the one that makes me believe this summer’s actually mine instead of just something that happens to people in nice places.
The hula hoop was never about skill. None of us had any. It was just something to hold while standing around waiting for life to get interesting, hands busy with something useless while someone’s phone made the moment feel intentional. I know this will feel exactly like last June. The same people, same songs on a different year’s streaming service, same belief that something’s changed. But the music makes it feel possible anyway.
That’s what Craft Spells, Wolf Gang, and Yuksek do. They exist in that narrow window before you know better, when a decent song and friends and summer sun actually feels like enough. They’re the soundtrack for believing this will be the year, the summer, the one that actually matters.
By August I’ll have forgotten all this. But standing here with my hands on something pointless and my phone playing the right songs, the world is small enough to actually be mine.
Berlin with these three felt like wasting time in the best way. We’d walk around with no plan, stopping for coffee that somehow always tasted wrong, then beer that was better. Karo had an opinion on everything we passed. Janos laughed at jokes that weren’t funny. Paul didn’t say much. I remember being in some basement bar—I don’t even know which one anymore—and the light was all wrong for the time of day, and everyone looked good in it anyway. That’s the kind of thing you forget but can’t quite shake.
I remember when Gamers Heart Japan happened—this campaign where the gaming community just showed up with money. No grand gestures, no morality plays, just people with enough disposable income deciding it mattered and giving. The donations added up. There’s something I like about that: straightforward, quiet, no need to turn it into content or virtue. Just people helping.
We were on ZDF one afternoon. Wenke and I talked about something—Berlin, our work, whatever they’d asked us to talk about—while the crew adjusted our microphones and checked the lights. Between takes she made me laugh so hard I nearly fell off the stool, which the producer did not appreciate. When it was done, we walked back out into Berlin like regular people, and nobody on the street knew or cared that we’d been on national television five minutes earlier. That distance between being on camera and being forgotten felt like the whole story.
The way I’d describe re:publica 2011: take the two biggest nerds from every high school graduating class, the ones even teachers won’t talk to, hand them each an iPhone and iPad, and lock them in a hall with beer and Club Mate for three days. Except it’s real and it costs money to get in.
I went expecting something—I’m not even sure what. The promise of it, maybe, this place where people were building things and thinking clearly and creating without someone telling them what was acceptable. Instead I found a lot of people very serious about the wrong things. Two hours of talks about ancient defunct social networks, parties that felt like a church youth group discovering Club Mate, endless lectures about which Facebook button was newest.
The only moment that landed was when actual outside people showed up—people doing real work somewhere else—and talked about their actual lives. Everything else was people treating the tools like the point itself. Some kid in glasses giving solemn lectures about APIs while someone projected badly flirted messages on a screen. By flirted I mean people basically screaming “please fuck me” in 140 characters and calling it digital communication.
What got to me was realizing these people had become the official representation of German internet culture. Nobody elected them. They were just loud and on Twitter. And now when regular people encountered “internet culture,” it was filtered through people who wanted nothing more than to be known for being known. No wonder people are scared of the internet.
I know the actual internet is nothing like that. I know the real work happens elsewhere, with actual curiosity, with people who aren’t constantly harvesting attention from the same platforms. But it doesn’t matter. These people are in the press. They’re at the conventions. They’re what people see.
You can watch something die in real time and be completely powerless to stop it. The possible-self of the whole thing—where something real could happen—got buried under people who were never interested in anything bigger than existing publicly. And all you can do is watch.
I’d accepted the numbness by then. Months of it — couldn’t laugh, couldn’t cry, just this hollow thing moving through Berlin from party to party, person to person, never really present. Everything had flattened into gray. I looked everywhere for something to break it and found nothing.
Then it flips. No explosion, no dramatic moment, no reason. Just something in my head that switches. Suddenly I have to move, have to escape, have to get out of this dead routine that became permanent.
I’m walking through the city with tears on my face. Not from love or death or loss or pride — something simpler and worse. Something I’d buried, filed away as dead, suddenly ignites. And I can’t hold it, can’t understand it, I want desperately to keep what’s been destroying me, and it’s already gone and I’m falling apart because of it.
I call my friends drunk at 3am begging for something — order, reason, an explanation, anything. But nobody can give it to me because we don’t know what the problem is. What is my problem, exactly? So at 5am I write these pseudo-depressive texts and by morning I want to throw the computer in a dumpster and watch it burn.
No music touches this. Nothing works. So I wait, rocking back and forth in bed, wondering if I’m imagining it all or if it’s just too much beer, too many people, too much darkness that keeps looking at me and shrugging toward the next sunrise — like the sunrise will finally know what to do.
I’m a sad lunatic in the dark, rocking. All the color’s gone from my eyes. Waiting for something to hit, some word or piece of news that turns me into a fireball, that lets me finally join in the burning of this small world I built. Because one second is all it takes. Everything changes, and I’m still here waiting for it to land.
There’s something about Manchester Orchestra that gets under your skin without asking permission. Not flashy, not trying to be clever—just these raw, wound-up songs about doubt and desire and the way your life can feel like it’s collapsing while you’re standing still. Simple Math was the album that did it for me, that moment when a band stops holding back and just writes what’s actually happening in their chest. The mathematics of it is brutal: you add up all the small failures and betrayals and lost moments, and you get yourself at three in the morning wondering what it was all for. That’s what this record is. No answers, no neat resolution. Just the shape of that question.
Ran into this somewhere online and had to sit with it for a minute. The idea that you need to get your life in order, sort yourself out, do the responsible thing — and then maybe, only then, you’re allowed to lose your mind chemically. As if the clean room is the entry fee. As if discipline and dissolution are on a timeline. The whole thing is funny in a way that actually stings a little.
Somewhere in the Austrian mountains during Volvo Snowbombing 2011, Fatboy Slim played a set in an actual igloo. I got to talk to him afterwards on a sunny terrace, asking the kinds of questions you ask someone who’s been on the road forever and has somehow found a way to keep making it work.
He looked spent in the way DJs do after a set—not from the music itself but from the noise and the bodies and the heat you have to generate for people who’ve been drinking since morning. The igloo gig had been packed with English tourists who wanted exactly what he gave them: party music at volume, the kind of thing that makes you move before your brain catches up. He laughed about it, said a good DJ reads the room and gives people what they’re actually asking for, not what you think they should want. Fair enough.
What struck me was that after all that, after the sweat and the noise and the crowd jumping around him, he’d gone back to his hotel room and made himself a hot cocoa. Sat there alone. Because touring isn’t the romance of it—the sunlit terrace, the mountain setting, the igloo—it’s the repetition. Gig, rest, travel, gig. He’d been in Chile and Brazil and was headed to Slovenia and Indonesia. The world as a series of airports and festival sites. He mentioned a baby at home, said he tries to be there during the week, that it matters to him. You could hear the actual care in it, not the performer’s care but something real underneath.
He’d tried to get back to Germany but had a Berlin Festival date pulled when the police shut the whole thing down. He said he loves the country. You hear that enough times from touring musicians that it becomes background noise, but there was something genuine in the frustration—not at the cops, just at the interruption of the pattern, the missed connection. He wasn’t sure when he’d make it back.
As for new music, he wasn’t producing much at the moment. Said the right idea has to collide with the right time and he wasn’t there yet. Fair enough. Some people need the pressure of a deadline. Some people need the opposite—permission to wait for something that actually excites them. Hard to tell which Fatboy Slim was, but he seemed okay with not knowing.
No Jesus, no redemption arc. She was done at twenty-three after five years in porn and just said it plainly: no regrets. That was what made Sasha Grey actually different. She didn’t need to reframe what she’d done as something it wasn’t, didn’t need to pretend she’d been damaged by it or saved from it. She just did it, and then she stopped.
What made her an actual icon was that she seemed genuinely unbothered by the shame that’s supposed to cling to that kind of work. She collaborated with Terry Richardson, gave interviews where she talked about the industry with a frankness that made people uncomfortable. Not defensive, not performing virtue, just honest. She looked like she was having the time of her life in a way that didn’t require any moral reckoning afterward. That’s rarer than it should be.
By the time she left, she’d documented it all in a book with Vice. No scrubbing of the past, no desperate redemption arc. Moving into “serious” acting felt almost incidental—just the next thing, not a statement, not a recovery. Just time for something else.
What stuck with me about it was the clarity. Someone who did a thing completely and then left when she was ready, without needing the thing to have changed her in some fundamental way. The work was the work. She was still herself. Then she wasn’t in that world anymore. That’s it.
Cintia Dicker photographs the materials of beauty: light, fabric, bodies in motion, the texture of ordinary life. The title sounds like a motivational poster — ’Pretty Is Everywhere’ — but her work is the opposite. She’s just looking carefully at what’s already there, things most people walk past every day. There’s no trying in it, no attempt to make the mundane precious. Just attention. Just clear seeing.
Berlin. Three days in the Friedrichstadtpalast talking about the internet. The usual crowd showed up — social media consultants packaging their opinions as expertise, actual Twitter personalities, bloggers wondering if they’d become irrelevant, company people in polo shirts trying to look interested.
Teresa Buecker was going to talk about love. Sascha Lobo was explaining why internet trolls were fundamentally stupid. Heiko Hebing had something about politics and the web. I was there to cover it for the blog, but mostly because I wanted to be around people who still thought this stuff mattered enough to show up for it.
The whole thing had a particular energy. Nerds, actual conversations, actual belief that the internet could be shaped by people like us, that it might be ours to build on. This was before everything hardened, before the algorithms took over, before it became clear that it was never going to be what we thought it was.
We had this stupid code word for readers — Bananarama. If someone spotted me around the conference and said it, they got to choose between blog stickers or a kiss from my date. I recommended the stickers. It was dumb and harmless and felt transgressive in a way that’s hard to explain now.
Looking back, it was just a conference. But the internet felt different then. Felt like it had potential beyond what it became. We believed it, anyway. We believed it could be ours.
Burger King’s selling something in Japan now called the Meat Monster. Two beef patties, two slices of cheese, three strips of bacon, chicken, and a sprawl of lettuce, tomato, onion, sauce. Just kept stacking protein until it stopped being food and became pure provocation. I want it badly—want to bite into it and feel nothing but grease and salt and the specific pleasure of eating something excessive and pointless and unnecessary. Part of me knows wanting it this much is stupid. I don’t spend much time with that part.
There’s a bit where Peter gets into a fight that’s shot like a Street Fighter II arcade game—health bars, fight music, the whole thing. It’s pure Family Guy, which means they take a reference and just hold it until it loops back from unfunny to funny. The joke isn’t that it’s a clever mashup; it’s that they’re completely committed to this stupid premise. Watching his health bar tick down while cartoon violence plays out, there’s something about that extra layer of game mechanics that makes it feel more satisfying than a regular animated fight ever could.
The best listening happens alone. And I mean alone — no one else in the room, and ideally not much on you either. Not in some scientific way, though the obvious reading is just that: sound without barriers hits different. It’s more that being alone is when you stop managing how you feel.
Pretty Lights builds something you have to pay attention to — that production is generous, unfolds over time, reveals itself. Scott Matthew does something similar, just voice and nothing else. MDNR has that same energy. None of it works as background.
Music in a room full of people is always social. Even alone but half-listening, you’re still editing. But when it’s just you, when you’ve cleared everything away and there’s nothing between you and the sound, that’s when you actually hear it. That’s when a song becomes something real instead of something you’re supposed to like.
So yeah. Shirt off, speakers up. Let the sound do what it does.
He dies without a word, the way he lived. Link was never meant for speeches or goodbyes—just a boy with a sword in a world that needed saving. No fanfare, no final stand, just the simple arithmetic of heroism: you go in, you finish it, you don’t come out the same. Or you don’t come out at all.
Rania Matar’s photographs of teenage girls in their bedrooms are the kind of intimate documentation that feels almost invasive until you realize how much permission is embedded in each frame. These are spaces people have shaped for themselves when they think no one’s looking — the posters, the clutter, the careful arrangements that make a small room feel like the entire world. There’s something both vulnerable and defiant about letting someone photograph your private space, and Matar captures that contradiction. You’re seeing what someone needs around them to feel less alone, the small details that say more about a person than any posed portrait ever could. The work reminds me that the rooms we make are the first draft of who we want to be.
Adam Green makes horror movies and music like he’s the only person in the room who actually gets the joke. His stuff has this cheap, scrappy energy—low budget but high conviction. You watch a Hatchet film and it feels like he’s daring you to admit you’re having fun with something that doesn’t pretend to be important. There’s a clarity to his taste that’s hard to fake. He knows what he likes and he keeps making it. Most people don’t have that kind of confidence about what bores or thrills them. He does.
Saturday, 3 a.m. We’re in a shuttle to Munich, all half-dead, each of us holding four beers because at that hour the logic was that we couldn’t let them go to waste. My stuff is still in the hotel room. Not getting that back.
That’s how the week at Volvo Snowbombing in Mayrhofen ended. The festival’s premise is absurd—ski in the morning, live music at night, repeat until you can’t stand up. Somehow it works.
The British crowd that shows up is genuinely happy about it. Thousands of them, wasted, and yet polite. No brawls. The people running it—the PR guys, the journalists—are actually cool, not the usual dead-eyed festival machinery. That matters.
I was supposed to interview Mark Ronson, Ms. Dynamite, Fatboy Slim at some point. I did. I have no memory of what I asked them. It doesn’t matter.
The performances blur. The Prodigy played, 2manydjs got the crowd moving, Magnetic Man was there. Pendulum is the one I remember. I was awake when they played, more or less, and it was the only set I could watch straight through. Everything else is strobes and bass and Black Bull stealing the rest. There was a guy in the hotel bar playing keys to maybe thirty people, and he was probably better than half the headliners. Just him and a keyboard, no production, no mystique.
A week where half of it I don’t actually remember, and it’s still one of the better weeks I’ve had.
The Jägermeister Wirtshaus Tour is designed around a simple inversion: instead of building a venue that directs all attention toward the stage, they built a space where you can sit down, play cards with the musicians, have an actual conversation. The infrastructure serves community instead of spectacle.
It’s a small thing, but worth noting because most venues work the opposite way now. Everything is designed to funnel attention toward performance—the layout, the lighting, the volume. Even intimate clubs have that built-in hierarchy: you’re there to witness something. The Wirtshaus flips it. The music happens, but it’s almost incidental. The real design is that you can sit.
The tour travels through Germany in a converted vinegar factory. Frittenbude and Tom Deluxx are playing Frankfurt on April 21st. Neither band is remarkable, but that’s kind of the test of the concept—can a venue be interesting when the entertainment isn’t the point? Apparently, yes.
It’s the kind of space I’d want to design: one that trusts people to be there without performing their presence, that assumes conversation is the default and music is the bonus. That’s harder to pull off than it sounds.
We bumped into Mark Ronson at Snowbombing, somewhere around 2,500 meters up, that weird altitude where everything feels slightly surreal. He was about to DJ for a crowd of young people who would treat him like a god, and he seemed relaxed about the whole thing. I asked if he had a few minutes to talk, and he did. We’d been listening to Record Collection obsessively since it came out, so the timing felt lucky.
I told him the album was sitting permanently on my iPod, which might sound quaint now but felt like the highest compliment you could give a record. I asked about the next single, what was coming next. He said they’d been working on remix versions because the album landed so well. The next single would come from that, he figured—the album was packed with collaborations, so why not mine them. Boy George, MNDR, Ghostface Killah. These were people he actually wanted to work with, not names on a contract.
They’d done it in Brooklyn. He kept coming back to that—the place itself, the people in the room together, the creative atmosphere you can’t manufacture. He said it was unreal in the best way. I asked if the weight of all those names, all that star power on one album, felt like a lot of responsibility. He said it wasn’t always easy, but mostly it was fun. The right people in the right room tend to make good things happen.
When I asked if he was satisfied with how it turned out, he didn’t hesitate. Best album he’d made, he said. The remixes were going to be incredible. I believed him. He was already thinking about the stage, about getting up there, about the show. The conversation wound down naturally. He told me to enjoy the weather and the music. Then he was gone, off to his set, and we never really said goodbye.
There’s a moment in Birdy’s cover of “Skinny Love” where her voice just disappears into itself, all breath and fragility, and you realize she’s not trying to match Bon Iver’s falsetto or own the song in some younger artist way. She’s just following the melody wherever it goes, pulling you with her. The whole album sits in that space—pale and hushed, full of covers that sound less like interpretations and more like she’s overhearing something private. It’s the kind of thing that feels almost uncomfortable to listen to, like you’re intruding on somebody’s morning. That was the whole appeal, I think. Not mastery or reinvention, just someone very young making these songs feel even more exposed than they already were.
I went to Mayrhofen with a bunch of media people and hangers-on under the pretense of covering the Volvo Snowbombing Festival, but it felt more like a school trip someone had spiked with speed. On the bus from Munich we were already drinking. The crew was this strange mix—music editors, winter sports guys, PR managers. Wilson Gonzalez Ochsenknecht was there, and his fiancée Bonnie Strange, who was the kind of person who made everything louder just by existing.
We made terrible cocktails on the hotel bed the first night. I played foosball with some British security guys and smoked on the balcony at sunset, feeling stupid and happy. Then we went out.
Mayrhofen had ten party spots, but everyone ended up at the Racket Club—basically a converted sports hall that had been turned into an enormous dance floor. The lineup that year was impossible. Pendulum opened the first night and nearly killed us. I remember thinking I might actually die. Professor Green, Ms Dynamite, 2manydjs. The whole week kept building like that.
Mark Ronson played in this ridiculous ice palace on a mountain with sun pouring in. By the end we were seeing The Prodigy, Fatboy Slim, Jamie Woon. I was exhausted and soaked and grinning.
It was stupid. It was perfect. That’s what a press trip is supposed to feel like when you’re young enough to believe going to places and seeing things matters. Looking back, I’m pretty sure it didn’t matter at all. But I’d do it again without thinking.
There’s this thing that happens in April where everything feels provisional. The weather can’t decide. People half-commit to new versions of themselves—short hair, pink hair, whatever. The culture starts moving in directions it’s not sure about yet.
The good stuff feels obvious in hindsight but strange in the moment. SLR cameras were having this resurgence where people wanted weight and intention in their hands again. Waffle shops and vintage stores were the places to waste an afternoon. Second-hand everything, because new felt aggressive. Pastel nail polish and white eyeliner—these small, almost imperceptible shifts in how people presented themselves. You’d see couples out like it was a recent invention, short-haired men with actual beards instead of the baby scruff everyone else was doing. Someone would cadge a cigarette off you and mean it.
What wasn’t working was anything that tried too hard. Facial tattoos felt desperate. Leggings everywhere felt like everyone had given up. The iPhone was somehow still off-putting—too clean, too designed. People who claimed to be trash but were actually just suburban felt transparent. Unkempt feet in spring felt like a betrayal. Those androgynous men in cut-out shirts trying to look dangerous—they just looked uncertain.
The weird oscillation between what felt authentic and what felt false was the real April tell. Bike culture was happening but it had to be the right kind of bike. Fashion was recycling the 80s but only the cool parts. Everyone was navigating this narrow bandwidth of what was acceptable to care about while still seeming like you didn’t care at all.
You could tell a lot about someone by what they were willing to do in April, which things they’d abandoned and which ones they were doubling down on. It was shallow, obviously—just cultural trend-spotting, the kind of thing that matters only because enough people decided it should. But that’s exactly how culture works. Someone noticed pink hair. Other people noticed someone noticed. By April it’s a thing. By June it’s over.
I used to watch those Japanese countdown shows and just zone out. The format was so clean—songs ranked, performances live in the studio, no filler. There was something satisfying about seeing what people were actually listening to that week, no algorithm tampering with it. And the performances had that live edge where artists would either nail it or look uncomfortable in real time. That tension kept me watching. Just the numbers and the music, week after week.
No one around to shake the day off—no friend, no dog, not even a massage stick. The stuffed animals are what you’ve got. Pull the dusty things out, light some candles, and work with it. Silly, but it does the job. Like being five, except deliberate this time.
Frank Ocean slows everything down. Massive Attack for the weight and the pull. Paul Kalkbrenner for that thinking quality, a song that flows through you as much as around you. The right music already knows what you need.
There’s something about old fabric, the way a pillow gives, the comfort built into something designed for holding. The candlelight warm and dark enough that everything else disappears. Twenty minutes where nothing else exists.
After that you clean up. Everything goes back. But there was a moment when that was your whole world.
Wenke dragged me through Berlin on Saturday so I wouldn’t completely fall apart heading to a week in the Austrian mountains. Snowbombing festival. Cold, snow, mountains—that’s the whole thing. We basically just drank the entire afternoon and called it shopping, which is ridiculous but somehow I ended up with sunscreen, so maybe it counted.
Mark Ronson’s going to be there. The Prodigy. Fatboy Slim. Jamie Woon. And a few thousand English people ready to turn wooden mountain cabins into the loudest, most sustained drinking performance of their lives. I’ll be the one in the middle trying not to become an actual ice sculpture.
If I somehow survive the first night—and that’s far from a given with the cold, the altitude, and the amount of alcohol that’s already scheduled—I’m supposed to wander around asking people stupid questions. Interviews, basically, but everyone’s drunk and confused. That’s the whole assignment and I’m not going to pretend I understand what that means, but here I am.
I’ll post pictures on Facebook if my phone doesn’t die. Complain on Twitter. Update this website assuming I’m still conscious. Whether any of this makes me a better, tougher, smarter person is basically a punch line, but that’s what I’ll tell myself on the drive back.
Send good thoughts. Send survival tips. Honestly, send anything that might prevent me from becoming a frozen corpse at a mountain rave. I’ll take whatever I can get.
This is a memory now, but at the time it felt almost impossible. Burda wanted to make a magazine out of the website. Real paper, real copies, real newsstands. The whole thing had been locked down so completely that I couldn’t mention it to anyone. My parents had no idea. My friends had no idea. It was this secret sitting in my chest for months.
They’d identified what they called a publication gap—a space in the market that nobody else had even noticed. They wanted us to fill it. The name was too long for a cover, so it became A&P instead of AMY&PINK. Three letters. It sounded more official that way, more like something that actually belonged on a newsstand.
The test issue was going to be bilingual, limited print run, available at newsstands across Germany and Austria in May. €3.50. They were flying in international correspondents. Everything was bigger, glossier, more permanent than the website ever felt.
I didn’t actually believe it would work. Print felt like the wrong bet even then—the internet was already happening, and committing to paper seemed like fighting an obvious tide. But I also couldn’t stop thinking about what it would mean to hold something physical that I’d worked on, to see it on a newsstand, to know it existed as an object and not just a URL.
We were going to have to buy so much of the print run ourselves just to make sure there was enough money for a second issue. Nobody said this directly, but we all understood: the only way this magazine existed beyond the test issue was if we supported it ourselves.
That uncertainty—standing right at the moment when print still seemed possible, before everyone agreed the internet had already won—that’s what I remember most.
Torralba’s work does something most artists are too polite to attempt—she sits with the awkwardness of bodies, the wrongness of proximity, the way desire and revulsion can occupy the same frame. Her photographs don’t seduce or apologize. They just watch. There’s a coolness to it, a refusal to make the body into something noble or transcendent. Just flesh, just texture, just the gap between what we want and what we’ll actually do. It’s uncomfortable in the way that matters.
I fell down a Reddit rabbit hole about desire — specifically the kind you can never act on. Thousands of people working through the same uncomfortable question: if gay people didn’t choose their sexuality, and pedophiles and zoophiles didn’t choose theirs, what’s the difference?
The answer is consent. Homosexuality can exist between consenting adults. Child and animal abuse can’t, because there’s no consent possible. One person’s freedom depends on another person’s powerlessness. That’s not ambiguous.
But that’s not what stuck with me. It was the question underneath: what’s it like to be someone whose sexuality points permanently in the wrong direction? You didn’t choose it. You can’t change it. You spend your entire life suppressing it. You can’t talk about it. You can’t seek help without legal consequences in most places. Society tells you you’re broken, sick, dangerous — and they’re not entirely wrong, because acting on it would hurt someone defenseless.
The comparison to gay history kept coming up. Fifty years ago, society told gay people the same thing: unnatural, sick, evil. And gay people had to hide for generations. Eventually we changed our minds. We decided consenting adults should be free to love who they love. That framework shifted and suddenly the weight lifted.
But it won’t shift for this. It can’t. There’s a real difference, not just a social one. Homosexuality causes no harm to anyone. These attractions cause harm the moment they’re acted on. So there’s no future where this becomes acceptable. No light at the tunnel’s end.
And I don’t know what that does to someone. What it’s like to have your entire internal world permanently at odds with the world, forever, with no reconciliation possible. I think about it sometimes. But I don’t have answers. I’m not sure anyone does.
Adidas made a shoe once with sensors built into the soles that would transmit your movements to a laptop and generate beats. The Megalizer. Designed for breakdancers, rappers, hip-hop dancers — basically anyone who needed their footwork to do double duty as production equipment.
They got Les Twins to showcase it. Lamine and Mounir — the French b-boys who are actually legitimately incredible. If anyone could make this work, those two could. But watching the demos, you can feel the gap between the pitch and the reality. The shoes aren’t dancing. They’re just recording what the dancers already know how to do.
There’s always been something that bothers me about that. A skilled dancer doesn’t need technology to make their movement interesting. The whole point was supposed to be that the sensors enable something new, something impossible without the tech. Instead it just sits there on your feet like an afterthought, a computer proving it can capture motion. We already knew it could do that.
But — and I hate admitting this — the core idea is actually solid. Your body becomes the instrument. Movement becomes input. Dance becomes sound. That’s genuinely cool to think about, even if wearing these things in practice was probably ridiculous.
Their synth-pop doesn’t let you coast. Everything about it pushes forward—layers building, the beat relentless, no space to zone out. There’s something exhausting about how insistent they are, this refusal to step back or simplify. But that’s the whole thing. The Dø aren’t interested in making background music. They want to be all you’re listening to.
Chris Corner makes music that doesn’t fit neatly into anything. IAMX pulls from industrial and pop and electronic sources, but what actually sticks is how direct the songs are. “Kiss & Swallow” is properly catchy. “Missile” works in a club or alone at night. He isn’t coy about the subject matter—sex, death, desire, obsession, the stuff that matters.
He’s never rebuilt himself between albums or chased whatever was trending. He’s been making IAMX records since the early 2000s, and they sound like IAMX records. Moved to Berlin, became part of something real instead of staying a curio. Built an audience of people who actually care about the work.
There’s a type of underground electronic artist who proves you don’t need massive visibility to sustain yourself. Corner is one. The shows fill up because the people who find him actually listen.
The records hold up partly because he wasn’t chasing sounds. The production is clean without being sterile. Melodies are strong. The thinking is clear. Songs from 2003 don’t feel dated because they were built on something solid.
Three laws of electronic music: You can always have one more beer, no matter how many you’ve already had. Electro is Techno, or maybe the other way around. Everyone wants Marteria.
I’m not sure when that last one stopped being a joke and became fact. Sometime in the 2000s, the guy from Rostock just became inevitable. Not through marketing or push—just because he showed up and made complete sense. He had the charisma, the talent, the kind of presence that doesn’t need explaining. He was everywhere because everyone had already decided that’s where he belonged.
German electronic music doesn’t work like regular celebrity culture. You’re not famous because you chart on the radio; you’re famous because you’re already all over the clubs and festivals and the actual world that matters to people. Marteria was that. So by the time anyone organized a meet-and-greet, it was almost beside the point. He was already the scene. Trying to package that as a special event was like trying to sell someone something they already owned.
There’s something strange about how Mario became the thing that defined video games—just a little guy in red, no story, no character beyond the movement. The design’s so clean it barely registers as design, just a figure that responds exactly the way you want, a jump that lands when you think it should land. I spend a lot of time thinking about how things feel to control, how that immediate feedback between your hand and the screen is almost the entire point. Maybe that’s why it stuck around when everything else got complicated and forgot what made it fun in the first place.
Good music’s nearly impossible to find anymore. The labels don’t care, the radio has shit taste, and your friends are useless.
It takes something like divine intervention to land decent music in someone’s hands, and yet here it is, every evening. Friendly Fires, Justice, Lykke Li: not obscure, not trying too hard. Just genuinely good records.
The kind of stuff you play on repeat because it does what the rest of the week’s music can’t quite manage. Every evening, the same search. Somehow still worth it.
Japanese countdown shows are weirdly compelling for something so straightforward. You watch songs ranked backward from wherever the count starts, and the format itself generates all the suspense—who climbs to number one, what’s actually connecting with people, whether the rankings surprise you or confirm what you already thought. The shows have this clean, no-fuss aesthetic and the hosts seem genuinely interested in the songs. There’s no manufactured enthusiasm here, just people discussing what’s popular and what resonates.
You die all the time in games and stop noticing after a while. Reload, respawn, back to the checkpoint. The repetition strips death of any weight. You stop flinching after the hundredth time. It’s just a mechanic, as routine as walking or jumping.
There’s something strange about rehearsing death so often that it becomes meaningless. I played a game recently where dying was the whole design—relentless, punishment-heavy—and after a few hours of getting knocked around, the deaths just felt like breathing. Die, reload, continue. The death lost all its teeth. Just another rhythm in the game.
So you keep dying, keep reloading, until death in games feels like something that happens to someone else. A feature, not a failure. A reset button you never think twice about pressing.
Rick Genest was sixteen when he decided to cover his entire body in zombie tattoos. Not partially, not as a statement that could be walked back—completely. Skull cap peeled away, jaw rotting, every visible inch committed to the vision. By his mid-twenties he’d spent over seven thousand dollars on it, mostly with Frank Lewis, a tattoo artist in Montreal who got what he was building.
He started in freak shows. Traveled all over North America with his body as the attraction—the tattooed guy, the fire-eater, the sideshow prop. He was quiet about those years, but he got tired of being hired as weird. Wanted something that was his.
Then fashion noticed. Thierry Mugler, Paris and Milan shows. He became the male Charlotte Free—the exotic, the beautiful committed freak, proof that someone could choose an aesthetic so completely that it becomes inseparable from who they are. There were rumors about Lady Gaga. The magazines cared. The industry loves that kind of vision, that kind of irreversible decision.
But the affection doesn’t last. These things have shelf lives. A new interesting person appears and the interest just evaporates. You’re still covered in zombie tattoos. Still the same person who made this choice at sixteen. But now you’re outside the frame, and the frame is the only thing that matters.
You meet all kinds of people. Some make you ashamed you’re the same species. Others you just want to respect — the kind who go out and make their city slightly better without anyone paying them or asking. Knitting around lamp posts. Cleaning public bathrooms. Planting flowers in places nobody told them to.
There’s a thing called Sunflower Guerrilla Day. April 15th. The premise is simple: buy sunflower seeds, go scatter them around your neighborhood. Between buildings, along curbs, in the forgotten corners. That’s it.
Imagine if enough people actually did it. Imagine a city waking up in a few weeks and finding itself drowning in yellow flowers. Not because a government contracted it. Not for Instagram. Just because some people decided their street looked better with color, and they did the work.
There’s something clean about that impulse. No angle, no performance, just: this place is uglier than it needs to be, and I’m going to fix that small thing because I can see it and I don’t like it.
Someone made a world map of average breast sizes by country. Russia and Scandinavia at the top, Asia and Africa at the bottom, Europe hanging around the comfortable middle with C and D cups. It’s dumb enough that you can’t look away from it.
I’ve examined this map far more thoroughly than necessary. Not because the data means anything — it obviously doesn’t — but because someone bothered to visualize something this pointless, and now it exists in my brain. You see a map of the world and your eyes are drawn to completely the wrong thing.
My actual taste doesn’t follow any geographic pattern. Small breasts, large breasts, whatever — it all depends on the person, and geography has nothing to do with it. Still, the idea of treating this map like a travel guide is weirdly funny. Start in Southeast Asia, work your way up through the rankings, end somewhere in Scandinavia like you’ve completed some kind of strange world tour based entirely on this chart.
The internet’s compulsion to quantify and rank everything is kind of relentless. This map is probably one of the most harmless examples of that impulse, which might be why it stuck around.
Steve Aoki’s one of those figures in electronic music you can’t quite pin down. He’s been running Dim Mak forever, he plays everywhere, and there’s something genuinely committed about the way he approaches his sets — that all-in energy that makes you think he actually cares. His music is solid enough, the label has released real records, but something about him has become so commercial, so much the face of a certain version of electronic music, that I find it hard to take seriously. The cake throwing bit lost its charm years ago. Still, I can’t fault the work ethic or his actual presence in the scene. I just don’t think about him much when I’m not hearing his name.
I’ve noticed there’s a specific song for every substance and every stupid decision that leads you there. Not like I’m recommending anything - I’m just saying what I watched happen.
Wine and beer are the warm-up. You’re getting loose with people who don’t bore you, not trying to leave the planet yet, just trying to loosen your shoulders a little. You put on something like Solar Bears or Thievery Corporation - music that’s got enough going on that you don’t notice the silence, but not so much that you have to think about it. Maybe Jon Hopkins if you want time to feel thicker. This is the foreplay before anything real happens.
Weed is about slowing everything down and noticing things. The day gets wider. You listen to Nightmares on Wax, Shuggie Otis, Bob Marley if you’re willing to be that obvious, and the music just sits there understanding that you’re trying to turn your brain off for a few hours. It’s not trying to prove anything.
The fast stuff - coke, MDMA, speed, whatever you can find that makes your body feel like it’s vibrating at its own frequency - that needs beats that own the room. Deadmau5, Röyksopp, the kind of house music that doesn’t ask you anything. You’re not listening to this music anymore, you’re being moved by it. Your heartbeat becomes part of the track.
Hallucinogens are different because you’re using the music as a steering mechanism now. You’re looking at colors that don’t exist and your brain is remapping itself and you need bright songs to keep from sliding into the bad part of the trip. Empire of the Sun, Ellie Goulding, that Japanese stuff that sounds happy without trying hard - the brighter it is the less likely you end up staring at something dark inside your own head. Someone I knew took acid once without any music and said it was like watching a film with the sound off, which sounds about right.
I stop thinking about the music after that. The people who went for heroin either disappeared or came back as different people, and I don’t know what they listened to because they weren’t around to say. Maybe Burial. Maybe that murky Massive Attack stuff. Maybe nothing at all, just the sound of waiting.
Sometimes I’ll hear a song and remember being in a room with people and whatever substance and the hour when everything lined up and made a kind of sense that nothing makes anymore.
In Berlin-Mitte, you’re basically invisible if you’re not working on the internet. Working in a digital agency, freelancing, consulting on social media with that particular flavor of hipster obsession. Your Mac and iPhone out at all times, refreshing Twitter, watching your digital dashboard. The more money you’re making from this network of systems, the more you matter in this closed world of mutant nerds. A construction worker would just laugh.
Back in the Bavarian town where I grew up—where I spent those vicious years of adolescence—you’re already future-proof if you can get through signing up for Facebook without a panic attack. That’s the technological ceiling there.
When my little cousin asked me on chat what I do for work, I told her with a wink: “Something on the internet.” She just went quiet. I could feel her confusion through the screen. “But what exactly?”
So I tried to explain. SEO, online marketing, WordPress, digital communications, social networks, public relations, blogging—all the stuff I do. None of it landed. So I simplified: I design websites. Lokalisten, Yahoo, OnlyParty—things she recognized. At least I didn’t have to admit I used to paint flyers for a living.
And that’s when it hit me that maybe I’ve just floated away completely, lost all ground in this bubble of status updates and software patches and Apple products. Maybe I’m trading an actual life for something hollow and pointless.
Or maybe the world outside Berlin is just years behind, and by the time they discover what I’m already drowning in, I’ll have already fused my consciousness with a smartphone and cloud storage.
The sane move would be to let UMTS whoosh past sometimes. Do something actually analogue. Give my battered mind a rest, maybe avoid the quarter-life crisis I can see coming. Next time my cousin asks what I do, I could just tell her: “I lay on a sunny field and read a book.” Everyone gets that.
There’s something about the way they build a song that makes you feel less alone. TV On The Radio doesn’t try to be straightforward — their sound is this restless thing, always shifting under you, like they’re working something out in real time. The music moves between tenderness and noise, between control and something breaking apart. You can hear the care in it, the intelligence, but also a kind of raw need.
I’ve always been drawn to artists who refuse the obvious choice, who layer things until the whole becomes harder to categorize than any single piece. That’s what they do. A song can be devastating and strange at the same time. It can be beautiful without being pretty.
What keeps me coming back is that they sound like people who actually care about the work — not in a precious way, just in the way that matters. They’re thinking about texture, about how the voice sits against the instruments, about what a moment needs to feel true. You don’t get that everywhere.
Their music has been part of my life long enough now that it’s hard to separate the songs from the memories attached to them. That’s the mark of something real.
Porn actors apparently train for three core competencies over their two-year career. Stay hard. No acne. Moan like the neighbors should hear it. That’s the entire skill set.
In actual German bedrooms, it’s quieter and more one-sided. When someone makes noise, it’s her. He stays silent. Polite about the whole thing.
I’ve spent some time thinking about why that is. Two questions, mainly. Why do guys go basically mute except for that pathetic noise at the very end? And why do girls feel obligated to provide this entire vocal performance throughout?
The first one I can answer. You need to concentrate. It’s not simple—there’s a lot to manage physically and mentally, and the whole time your brain is running through this massive library of images and memories and whatever else keeps you focused. Any sound you make kills that concentration. Moaning and focus are incompatible.
The second is harder to parse. Maybe girls need to breathe that loudly because the physical effort is genuinely exhausting. Maybe it’s all performed—just automatic feedback for the guy on top. Maybe it’s some mixture of both. I honestly don’t know.
What’s clear is that moaning works when it’s real. When you oversell it, it doesn’t. Fake moaning is worse than silence. And somewhere in all this, girls are probably wishing we’d make more noise while we’re wondering why you have to announce the whole thing to the rest of the building. Could be we’re just good at what we do. Could be you want the woman in the next apartment over to absolutely know you’re having sex. Probably both.
Sonic was cooler than Mario, and I believed it. He had the attitude, the speed, the whole vibe. But he couldn’t sustain it. The games got worse, the character got weirder, and I moved on. Now he just shows up in whatever they throw at him, a childhood icon reduced to a brand. Even now, there’s something deflating about that.
You get emails asking where everyone went. Where’s Ines, where’s Hannah. The easy answer is people change, things end, that’s life. But nobody really wants that answer.
I built this site around people with actual personalities. Types you either loved or hated. When half the team walks in a matter of days, it’s not nothing.
Ines was always stretched thin—full-time work, distance university, everything else. When she got an offer to write her own book, the choice made itself. I would’ve done the same. I’m curious what she makes of it. But it was the first crack.
Hannah left a few days after. We’d been fighting—the kind of friction that builds when you work closely with someone day after day. At some point it stops being worth it. She decided to go. I asked her to stay, a few times. She said no. That was that. Not fired. Not forced. Just over.
The rest unraveled quickly. Asumi got buried by school. Mischa was out doing readings. Raphaela couldn’t find her place. A lot of that was me—I was drowning, trying to hold everything together, and I wasn’t actually there for any of them. Running this site is a full-time blur. Topics to hunt, text to write, images to find, code to fix, design to tweak, feeds to manage. The pile never shrinks. You just get smaller trying to match it. At some point I made the call to pull back and just run it with one person, to breathe again.
I loved those people. They were thoughtful and serious and generous. Most of what went wrong was on me. I couldn’t give them what they needed. You can’t scale attention the way you scale an audience.
Then it started leaking out—personal stuff, hurt feelings, people choosing sides, the narratives that get built around a friendship ending. I get it. But it doesn’t help. And it has no business being out there. Hannah and I shared a lot over five years. More than just a website. It seems wasteful to burn that because we couldn’t figure out how to work together anymore.
I don’t know if it comes back from here. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. But that conversation, if it happens, won’t be in public. And I’m done explaining it.
I wanted a horse as a kid. Not in that gentle, nurturing way — the actual desire for speed and control, something untamed that was yours to command. Money was tight, so I lived it differently: Wendy reruns, cartoons, afternoons at riding stables where I felt like I was getting closer to something.
All of that was building toward something, though I didn’t know it at the time. Turns out it was this: a party with an actual horse. Girl Talk and Rainbow Arabia and Kleerup spinning. The specific strangeness of it — that someone decided this was worth doing, that it exists at all — makes it more real than the childhood fantasy ever was. Some things take years to arrive, and when they do they’re weirder than you thought.
I loved Skins. No show has ever gotten to me like this one did—a bunch of Bristol teenagers wrecking themselves in every direction. What the producers created was beyond love, almost worship. It fucked me up.
The first two generations were pure emotional carnage. Cassie and her eating disorder, Sid falling apart, Effy suicidal, Freddie strung out, Maxxie trying to survive while Michelle just clung to him. Every kind of pain. Tears, laughter, things you can’t unsee.
Season five didn’t have that punch. The stories felt light, the relationships hollow. Characters doing things I couldn’t believe in. It was like watching someone do a Skins impression without understanding why Skins actually worked.
Except Liv. She was the only person who felt real. Actually suffering, not performing it. Her episode had everything that made me love this show—sex, drugs, love, pain, good music, those scenes that blur between dream and watching someone’s life collapse. In your face.
So I’m saying goodbye to season five quietly. Dog Is Dead’s ’Glockenspiel Song’ from the finale won’t leave my head, and a few scenes actually landed, but mostly I’m left with questions that won’t get answers. Who Frankie ends up with, whether Mini’s actually a lesbian, why Matty has the same expression in every scene.
Die Antwoord and Harmony Korine on Umshini Wam: that’s provocation without the irony. Ninja and Yo-Landi just being themselves — crude, sexual, violent — and Korine filming it straight with no softening, no apology, no frame to make it respectable. It works because nobody’s managing your reaction. They’re just committed. That’s rarer than shock.
What stays with me is how it doesn’t flinch. Nathanael Turner and Bloody Brooklyn—a person and a place. The story commits fully to what happens between them. No softening, no distance. That kind of unflinching narrative does something to you. You finish it and it’s still there.
Stevie’s one of those characters from Malcolm in the Middle that you suddenly remember years later and want to know what happened to. You know it won’t change anything, but you look it up anyway — what does he look like now, where did he end up, is he still acting or did he step away. That’s the thing about growing up with a character: they stay with you in this low-key way, and sometime around 2 AM you find yourself checking in on him like an old friend you haven’t thought about in years.
Television raised me. Not father figures, not real people—just the glow of a screen, American families, cartoon characters pushed to absurdity, and the dream of living inside that flickering world. While my mother worked and my friends were grounded, the TV was my teacher, telling me what was good and evil, how to break my life into neat episodes with resolvable problems, always ending with something fixed as the credits rolled. That was the deal. It worked.
Now I can’t stand German television. What used to feel colorful, with actual culture mixed in, is just sludge—endless rotations of the same faces, reality-TV desperation, shows built around filming people having crises like it’s entertainment. The private stations especially are shameless about it. And the public broadcasters just stand there with their educational mandate, retreating into time slots nobody watches anymore because everyone already knows TV is dead. It makes me want to smash something.
So I sit with my laptop downloading shows I actually want. “Mad Love,” episodes of “Skins,” old “The O.C.” reruns—everything that won’t hit Germany for years, if it gets here at all. I refresh, wait for the files, move them into folders like I’m building a library. It’s cleaner this way. I watch what I want, when I want, without commercials or schedules or German bureaucracy deciding what’s acceptable.
The thing is, I know I’m being a hypocrite. These shows have to be funded somehow, and I’m not paying for them. If most of the country stayed plugged into cable, networks would have money to keep making things worth watching. I know this perfectly well. But the logic is simple enough to ignore—why give my attention to something broken when I can get better on my own terms? It’s a comforting argument and probably won’t stand up to scrutiny, but here we are.
Television’s dominance is ending anyway. It’s only still alive because of habit now, inertia, money, the fact that most people don’t know where else to look. The next generation will grow up online, shaped by whatever they find there instead of what someone in an office thought was suitable. Whether that’s better or worse, I have no idea. I’m aware I’m not helping the cause either way. But I’m not waiting around for German television to get good.
There’s something perfect about a shoe that’s been the same for sixty years. The three stripes, the court aesthetic, that specific kind of leather. Adidas did something most brands can’t manage — made something so clearly itself that knockoffs just prove the point. I wore Superstars in the nineties when they weren’t cool yet, back when everyone else was buying Jordans and Dunks. There’s a kind of confidence in wearing something that’s just sitting there, not trying, not talking. The shoe doesn’t perform coolness because it already is cool, and coolness is just what happens when you leave something alone long enough.
Ke$ha in a bikini is a reminder that the party-girl persona was never the point. The point was the shamelessness, the refusal to apologize, the complete comfort with being excessive and ridiculous. That’s the thing about genuine swagger — it doesn’t really age. She’s gotten older, the tabloid machine moved on, and now there’s just the person underneath. Still interesting.
Linda’s drunk again, singing some half-remembered song, the kind of offkey that makes Bob’s customers pretend not to hear. Gene’s making noise at the counter. Louise is watching everyone with the contempt of a preteen who’s already seen through all of this. Bob’s looking tired in that specific way a man looks when he’s gambled everything on a burger restaurant and is slowly losing.
Bob’s Burgers doesn’t try to be funny. There’s no laugh track telling you when to laugh, no setup-punchline rhythm, no moment designed to land with an audience. It’s just these people existing, and the comedy lives in how they exist—the specific absurdity of their situations, the texture of how they talk to each other. A health inspector convinced Bob’s making burgers out of people. A cow that keeps showing up. Gene’s never-explained but absolute commitment to noise.
What gets me is how much restraint there is. After years of The Simpsons doing the thing where the joke has to be the loudest thing in the room, and Family Guy swinging for the fences on non-sequiturs, this show just trusts you. It sits in its own world and lets the characters live in it, unperformed, unannounced.
The voice thing is strange. Loren Bouchard had nearly everyone voiced by men, including Linda. You’d think it would sound wrong, but it removes a layer of performance that usually matters in animated comedy. Linda’s just this person—unfiltered, wine-drunk, in love with ponies, never trying to be traditionally feminine because the voice doing it isn’t trying either. It flattens something. It lets the character just exist.
I can’t fully say why a show that just follows these people around their world, that doesn’t chase anything, does more to me than the ones that are always reaching. There’s affection in it, not announced, just present if you’re paying attention. Something about the monotony of it—same voices, same animation, same quiet rhythm—becomes lovely after a while.
When ’My Jeans’ showed up, Jenna Rose committed to it completely. No irony, no winking at the camera. Just a kid absolutely certain that a song about her jeans needed to exist. The internet demolished it almost immediately—the mocking, the remixes, the inevitable death spiral. But I think about how sure of herself she must have been. That kind of unironic confidence in something this stupid is almost admirable.
Mayrhofen’s a ski village in Austria that becomes a festival site for one week every April. Snowbombing runs the 4th to the 9th this year, and they’ve stacked the lineup with actual acts — The Prodigy, Fatboy Slim, Jamie Woon, Ms Dynamite, Yasmin. The idea is you get mountains, music, snowboarding, après-ski, all of it packed into one week at altitude.
It’s a weird concept because ski resorts and electronic music festivals operate in completely different registers. One is about precise movement and cold air and the quiet of mountains. The other is noise and derangement. Somehow they work here. The scenery’s beautiful enough to look at while you’re miserable, which is more than most festivals offer.
What interests me is how unapologetically silly the whole thing is. No festival trying to be important would book this setup. There’s no brand narrative, no cultural mission. It’s just: the town’s full right now, so we’re putting bands on and letting people figure out the rest. That kind of refusal to be serious is actually rare.
Actually going means committing to the trip. Flights, accommodation, time. It’s not something you fall into. But if the dates line up and you want one week of snow and music and everyone else stupid enough to make the same call, there are worse ways to spend April.
There’s this moment in the song where everything drops away except his voice and a single string line, and it feels like he’s singing directly into your ear in a dark room. Jamie Woon had this gift for making R&B feel intimate without being small — even when the production swells around him, there’s something nakedly honest in how he phrases things, how he sits just slightly behind the beat. Lady Luck was one of those songs that soundtracked a particular kind of late night, the kind where you’re alone but not lonely, where everything feels possible and impossible at the same time. His voice has this weathered quality, like he’s lived through something, and the song moves like he’s trying to remember what hope felt like.
Sometimes you just need it. Not for any reason. Not because you’re celebrating or because you deserve it or because some wellness influencer said it’s fine to indulge. You just need the feeling of something dissolving on your tongue, the shock of sugar, the way your brain lights up for a second and everything else gets quiet. It’s the most honest appetite there is — no story attached, no justification required. Just that moment before you eat it and the moment after, when the sweetness is still there and you’re not thinking about anything else.
That space between leaving a party and sunrise is its own kind of hell. The city’s abandoned, or feels it anyway. Everyone else is asleep like they have sense. You’re still buzzing, or were ten minutes ago, now just tired but can’t settle into it. The sky’s that color right before light takes over—red and dark at once. Your brain’s doing laps with conversations you’ll forget by noon.
I used to know these hours better than I wanted to. Stumbling through whatever bus station, still wearing someone else’s smoke, too wired to actually sleep but too exhausted to stay awake. The kind of night where nothing feels real and you wouldn’t mind just disappearing. Probably didn’t learn anything. Definitely won’t remember.
“Night Will Be Forever” is the soundtrack this deserves. Toro Y Moi’s production keeps things moving even when everything’s standing still. Radiohead sounds different at 5 AM—everything gets more true and more hollow at the same time. Little Dragon is the part after you’ve stopped fighting it, where sleep’s just taking over and you’ve made peace with losing control.
I don’t need these songs much anymore, but I remember what they did. Made the empty streets feel like they were mine for a moment. Made exhaustion feel like a choice instead of a failure. The sun comes up the same way either way.
Russia’s Sesame Street has a character named Bouncing Balls—Pryzhki Shary. It’s a weird choice, the kind of name that leaves you wondering what the thinking was, but there’s something honest about it. These international variants pop up and remind you how differently each country approaches the same thing.
Some games were so locked to their moment—the controls, the rendering, the tiny screen—that getting them out of that context actually feels necessary. But most remakes just sand down the edges without understanding why those edges existed in the first place. The games I keep thinking about are the ones with a real idea that nobody’s quite finished exploring. Not nostalgia. Just actual unfinished business.
I laughed going through my closet at all the stuff I’d convinced myself I’d wear. Expensive intentions everywhere, tags still attached. The things I actually reach for are cheap and worn through. I think spending wisely just means paying attention to that gap—between what you buy and what you use.
There’s something about a Kanye-Katy Perry collision in 2011 that felt like the pop world briefly deciding to get weirder. The whole alien angle — not subtle, but committed. Kanye on a Katy Perry track felt like an odd-couple thing at the time, his deadpan flow against her synth-pop shine. The song sat somewhere between earnest and absurd, which is maybe the only place a track about extraterrestrial attraction can actually land without embarrassing itself. It wasn’t revolutionary, but there was something confident about it, the willingness to lean fully into a dumb premise and just stay there. That era of pop had a different energy entirely — less careful, more willing to sound like nothing had to make sense as long as it felt right. I still remember the production having this glassy, synthetic quality, everything perfectly buffed and deliberate. It was the kind of collaboration that made sense only to the people making it, which is usually when something is worth paying attention to.
Femen shows up bare-chested with marker slogans, makes chaos at an embassy or parliament, gets photographed and arrested. You see the images and sometimes catch what’s written across their ribs, sometimes don’t. I usually didn’t.
But that was kind of the point. The message isn’t in the text. It’s the gesture itself—naked bodies as argument, spectacle as substance. You see it and you know something’s wrong, even if you can’t read the words. Maybe that’s exactly what they wanted. They weren’t trying to convince you with rhetoric. They were betting on the image doing what arguments never could.
Someone took the StarCraft 2 trailer and swapped in My Little Pony characters. It’s the kind of thing that should be obnoxious — smash two unrelated things together and call it a joke — but it works because the original trailer is so overwrought. All that grim sci-fi intensity, the dramatic music, the portentous narration about interstellar war, and then you’ve got ponies doing the same poses with the same dead-serious delivery. The contrast is everything. I watched it twice.
The food industry pumps our meals with chemicals that are classified as actual poisons. Pesticides that cause cancer. Aspartame—marketed as NutraSweet—only got into the food supply because its manufacturer faked the safety studies. Bisphenol A in plastic bottles. They tested all this on animals. The animals developed cancer and died. We know this. We eat it anyway.
Marie-Monique Robin made a documentary about it, “Unser täglich Gift”—literally “Our Daily Poison”—and does the straightforward reporting that apparently counts as investigative work these days. She visits Orissa in India where people farm and eat their own food without industrial agriculture. Cancer there is rare. Obesity is basically unknown. Compare that to the West, where we’ve spent fifty years consuming engineered garbage, and somehow everyone acts surprised when disease rates climb.
Knowing that companies fake safety studies and hide data is one thing. That’s expected. The stranger part is that we have access to the actual information. You can read about it. You know that processed food is engineered to make you want more, that lobbying keeps labeling obscure, that normal snacks contain substances that shouldn’t exist in food. And most days I just eat the convenient option anyway.
I think about changing it sometimes. Buying glass bottles. Eating actual fruit. Cooking meals instead of outsourcing them. It wouldn’t be that complicated. But complicated isn’t really the issue. The issue is that knowing the poison and eating it anyway has become the default, like that’s just how it works now. Maybe that’s the actual trick—not the chemicals in the food, but convincing ourselves that knowing about them doesn’t change anything.
The song is exactly as bad as you remember. Tinny, rhythmically confused, lyrics that sound like they were workshopped by someone who’d never actually talked to a teenager. But here’s what gets me: a thirteen-year-old girl hired a producer, dropped a single, and became the most mocked person on the internet for the crime of not being good. The internet decided she was the thing to hate that week, and it was vicious. Everyone had a bit, a meme, a reason to pile on. The song is forgettable; what lingers is the cruelty of it, how quickly we turn on something unfamiliar just because we can. She can’t even hear the song the way we do — she’ll never have that clean first listen that most artists get. It’s already been poisoned.
There’s something disarming about seeing Zelda like this—before all the crown, before the prophecies and the kingdom, just a kid. The design captures that sweetness without making her a baby, which is its own trick. You get why artists gravitate toward this version of her. There’s a gentleness there that the games rarely let her have.
Saturday night is when everything from the week stops mattering. Whatever was supposed to happen either did or it didn’t, and now there’s just the night itself—no obligations, no guilt, no waiting. The Germans have this phrase: Dann kann’s ja losgehen. Then we can get started. You feel it happening around nine o’clock, when the air shifts and people move a little faster, a little looser, like something’s finally been released.
Those Dancing Days were a Swedish indie pop band from the late 2000s who made these intricate, strange records. Weird production, melodies that didn’t give themselves up easy, all this care underneath the prettiness. They never got huge, staying mostly in certain internet corners, and they’ve kind of scattered and reformed a few times over the years. But I still think about their albums more than seems reasonable for a band that never broke through in any obvious way. The kind of thing you find at exactly the right moment and can’t shake.
Asumi was in Takeshita with a friend when the ground started moving. Not unusual for Tokyo, but this was different. Longer. Harder. The earth and trees were shaking and people were running out of buildings, and she and her friend stood there not saying anything, just watching everyone else realize what was happening. A man near them said it wasn’t normal.
They got a taxi home as far as they could when the subways closed. Her brother Kotaro was there with a friend, already watching the news. She couldn’t reach her mom at first—the networks were down, then no answer—but when they finally connected, her mom was safe at work, just stranded, no power, trying to find a way back. Kotaro was handling it fine. They’d done earthquake drills at school just the month before, so he knew what to do—ducked under a table when it started, then figured running outside was better.
The aftershocks kept coming. Small ones and big ones mixed in. There was a fire at a refinery in Chiba. The Tokyo Tower had bent at the top. Helicopters circling the city. Everything shut down.
She had relatives in Sapporo she couldn’t reach. Just silence on the other end when she called. That helplessness of calling over and over, no answer, is what stays with me most—not the earthquake itself, but that specific emptiness.
By the time we talked she was planning to stay home and watch the news, wait for updates on the tsunamis and aftershocks coming. There was something calm about it. Japan has survived worse, she said. We’ve survived worse. And somehow that mattered more than the news reports.
Bavaria never changes, and I recognize it instantly. The low hills, the particular quality of the afternoon light, the way the streets and gardens just sit there being themselves — exactly as I remember them. I’ve been gone long enough that it should feel foreign, but the moment I see a photo or video, I’m back there. It hasn’t shifted at all. There’s something reassuring about that, I guess, and something unsettling too.
Swedish pop from the 2000s sits in a strange place for me now—too close to clubland to feel like rock, too willing to be sincere for pure dance production. Robyn was the singer who made that intersection matter. Body Talk came out and it was intricate: synths underneath, her voice somewhere between intimacy and announcement, the whole thing designed for dancing but never stupid about it.
Seeing her meant understanding that part of yourself—the capacity to move and feel simultaneously, to let a song about sex or loneliness become the thing you move your body to. Hamburg’s TV studio was an odd venue for it, all industrial concrete and cable runs, but there’s something about pop music done with that kind of precision that works in any room.
What I remember is how present she was. Not performing, not running through a set, but actually inhabiting these songs like they still belonged to her. That clarity matters. It’s what separates someone singing their hits from someone still living in them.
The trailer hits different when you’re someone who makes things. Abrams framing it around these kids in the seventies shooting their own film, the whole thing filtered through that warm blown-out Super 8 stock—it’s not subtle, but it works. There’s something about watching people actually *create* on screen, even fictional people, that gets to you in a way normal hero’s journey stuff doesn’t.
I remember being the age those kids were, thinking a camera and some friends were all you needed to make something that mattered. You don’t make anything that mattered, obviously, but you don’t know that yet. Super 8 gets that feeling—the possibility, the earnestness, the sense that you’re on the edge of something real happening. Whether the film itself delivers on that is another question, but the trailer convinced me it might.
Arctic Monkeys hit at the right time for me, when I still believed being clever about music made you better. Their early records had that nervous energy, all Sheffield wit and wordplay, the kind of thing you could feel smart liking. They’ve evolved far beyond those songs since, which is what good bands do, but something about the tension in those first albums works on me—not nostalgia exactly, just the reminder that I once thought a guitar band could change everything.
Fixies kill people. Stephanie’s wearing a Where’s Waldo shirt and blue shorts like that’s the notable part, not that she’s somehow alive.
There are genuinely ugly kids in the world. Their parents could do everyone a favor with a bag, spare them the damage of being seen, but that’s not going to happen. At least in theory someone would be happy.
Ankle chains disappeared from fashion for no good reason, which is a shame because they actually work on thin legs in summer heat. Karla never got the memo. She wears them constantly, like she’s rediscovered something everyone else deliberately forgot.
Camo in 2011 takes guts. Kalle and Rüdiger pulled it off. Their other fashion choices were questionable, and I’m choosing not to think about them.
Workshop Will’s proud of Thunder Doris. The tattoos, the rivets, the complete package. I’m not pretending—I’m just jealous I can’t fuck her.
The sun comes back after months of dark and suddenly there’s this girl in a yellow hoodie, blonde, smiling like she means it. Everything bouncing right. It’s almost aggressive how bright she is.
If you’re not emo, not hipster, not part of any tribe, ghetto clothes actually work on you fine. Don’t push it though. Smoking Steve knows where the line is. Be him and everything falls into place.
There’s this problem where I look good enough that random people take photos of me on the street. This shirt fixes it. Says: fuck off with your camera.
Vintage never really dies. You visit your grandmother, steal her old dresses—the wine-red flower prints, the forgotten stuff—and suddenly you’ve got something real. That’s how fashion should work. No thinking, just taking what’s good and running.
I’ve always liked men who created something entirely their own through sheer narcissism and actual talent, then blew apart whatever conventions were standing in their way. Jobs. Lagerfeld. Dov Charney. The ones who clearly never asked permission.
American Apparel for me was never really about the clothes. It was the fact that the whole company was just Dov—his sensibility, his refusal to play by the industry’s conservative rules. He paid his workers better than he had to. He ran campaigns like “Legalize LA” and “Legalize Gay” that connected T-shirt sales to actual causes. He posed naked in his own ads. He treated high fashion and pornography as if they belonged in the same conversation. Everything about it was contempt for the traditional way of doing things, and he didn’t care who understood.
That kind of integrity felt clean. Until it wasn’t.
Irene Morales was eighteen when Charney invited her home from an American Apparel store in Brooklyn. What happened there—sexual abuse, stalking, pressure to send naked photos—fills a lawsuit for 250 million dollars. The kind of details that make you wish you could unsee them.
Here’s what kills me: he’d made it all seem coherent. A man building an empire on breaking sexual taboos suddenly had perfect cover for assault. What made him interesting—that total disregard for rules and consequences, that confidence he knew better—was also what made him dangerous. Maybe they were never separate things. Maybe when you spend your career tearing down every boundary, you eventually forget which ones existed for a reason.
American Apparel was already finished—he’d squeezed what he could from it and mismanagement did the rest. The lawsuit is just the final nail. And I’m stuck with the memory of admiring someone who turned out to be a predator, with no way to cleanly separate them.
The “fuck you” spirit that once felt like freedom now looks like cover for hurting a teenager. I can’t unknow it, and I don’t want to pretend I can.
Japanese countdown shows have this specific texture that makes sense once you understand the country’s relationship with ranking and order. Everything gets counted down, measured against itself, and that’s not neurotic—it’s just how information feels best. The format is almost meditative: host, graphic, clip, song, repeat. You’re not learning anything except what people are listening to right now, which turns out to be enough.
What gets me is the aesthetics. The graphics are always slightly ahead of what seems necessary, the host’s enthusiasm is professional but genuine, and there’s no irony in the whole thing. Nobody’s performing detachment. It’s just a show about music that people care about, and the caring is allowed to be uncomplicated. In a world where everything gets a wink or a sarcastic frame, that directness feels rare.
Dominique Young Unique doesn’t try very hard and that’s the whole point. ’War Talk’ is him just talking, production stripped back, saying shit plainly and trusting that the weight is already there.
Wedding, Berlin smells like dog shit and döner. The homeless are friendlier here than anywhere else. Mobile phone shops and betting parlors line the street like some commercial joke. I’m on the second floor of a pseudo-old building near the ghetto center, and my neighbors make sure I’m never bored.
Sara and Paul moved out and I figured it’d get quiet. That’s not what happened.
Upstairs: Ulrike and Ferdinand
Late eighties, somewhere on the A3 between Oberhausen and Aschaffenburg, a gamma bomb accident. They’ve been massive green creatures ever since, and they now occupy the flat directly above mine. Sunlight doesn’t work for them, so they sleep during the day and start moving furniture around midnight. Not normal furniture. Anvils. Wrecked airplanes. They wear steel armor and iron boots and dance to some kind of Czech ancestor music until sunrise. I go through earplugs like water.
Next door: The Prtzuioplsxvbmd family
The father works at the crematorium in Weißensee. When he gets home, he starts yelling. Four and a half hours without a breath. Just at the wife, the kids, the cat, until his brain empties. That’s when she hits him with a frying pan while yelling louder. The kids join. At some point the cat is involved. It usually stops about thirty minutes before the Hulks wake up. Then it starts again. This has been going on for years. It’ll probably end when he gets fired or runs out of animals to burn.
Downstairs: Chantal and Rolf
Chantal’s actually nice. She dropped out at fifteen, never worked, watches RTL soaps all day. Her boyfriend Rolf looks like he might be a Nazi. When Rolf and his friends show up with a 94,000-watt system, Chantal’s place becomes an underground club. Monday through Sunday. The bass is so heavy I have to grip the window frame. Sometimes a baby cries down there. I don’t know whose baby and I don’t ask.
In my head: Swedish models
Two blonde sisters named Elin and Hanna live somewhere in my head. Swedish, gorgeous, models or something. Very eager to spend time with me. When I think hard enough about them, they call me over to bake cookies. They spill milk on themselves while laughing. We have naked pillow fights and listen to ABBA. Then they use telepathy to detonate everyone else’s heads—the Hulks, the Prtzuioplsxvbmds, the Nazis, all of them.
After that they convince the landlord to fill the apartments with girls like them. I become king of the whole place.
A cat in the sun has figured out something the rest of us are still chasing. It doesn’t try to impress anyone, and it doesn’t wonder whether it’s doing this right — it’s just completely at ease in its own existence. You watch one for hours, barely moving, unbothered, and you see what contentment actually looks like. No performance, no strategy, no overthinking. The cat doesn’t need to understand itself to be happy. The cat doesn’t worry. The cat doesn’t scroll. The cat just exists and that’s enough. Meanwhile, I’m over here making everything complicated while the cat’s just fine with everything. The cat wins.
The original ’85 trailer. Yeah, I know — I was supposed to want Molly Ringwald. But Ally Sheedy got me more. There was something about the way she carried herself in that film, like she actually didn’t give a shit about any of it.
I needed something to disappear into, and this mixtape showed up at the right moment. Gold Panda opens it up with all those details, production that feels generous and warm. The Go! Team brings this restless energy, keeps everything moving. Neon Hitch cuts through when it needs to. Three artists that don’t demand anything of each other, just make space.
There’s something about the density of it that works. Not overthought, not slick, just the right weight to sink into for a while. The kind of thing that becomes the texture of your day without you thinking about it too much.
I came back to it a week later and it held up, which is how I know it was the right mixtape at the right time.
The Jägermeister Wirtshaus Tour was a converted space that traveled from city to city with live bands and decent beer — basically a refusal of the standard basement-club model. The appeal was obvious if you’ve ever spent an hour wedged in a sweating crowd while the sound system distorts and the only exit is a six-foot climb over three rows of people. The Wirtshaus just… had room. Air. A place to actually stand or sit without working for it.
Cologne got a date in March 2011 with The Subs and Proxy on the bill, which I didn’t make it to but heard was fine. The format never really stuck. Traveling venues need consistent curation, decent logistics, and an audience willing to show up even without heavy marketing. Most of these things failed at step two. But the impulse — to do something besides “pack them in and bleed them out” — was right.
That’s the kind of failure I have some respect for. Someone looked at the way venues worked and decided it was stupid, then spent the effort to try something else. Even if it didn’t last.
Aliens land in South London and the teenagers already there—gang members, dealers, kids with their own problems—decide they’re the only defense. The film never hedges. No speeches, no montages, just teenagers with whatever they can grab against something that clearly didn’t plan for this. The humor works because everyone plays it straight. You remember it because it never apologizes for itself.
You see them at every show and party—some guy convinced that coke and attitude are currency, that being loud and reckless makes him important. The music scene’s been full of this type forever. He’ll be relevant for a few months, alienate everyone around him, and then disappear into something normal. And nobody will think about him again.
Soup is survival on the cheap. You take whatever’s rotting in your fridge, throw it in a pot with water and salt, and in twenty minutes you’ve got something that’ll keep you fed for days. No skill required, no expense. I’ve been poor enough to know this by heart—soup is what you make when you’ve got nothing, and it’s still better than takeout. It doesn’t ask for anything. No technique, no presentation, no pretending. Just heat, water, and time. The kind of meal you can make wrecked, half-conscious, or when you’re too busy to care.
Shiny Toy Guns reunited with Carah Faye. It’s been long enough that I’m curious what they sound like now, though the kind of synthpunk they made doesn’t really fade. It was one of those bands that felt both stupid and necessary at the time, which basically sums up the 2000s.
Getting the original voice back matters because that sound is tied to hers. The fact that they’re tying it to the end of winter makes it feel deliberate, not just another reunion tour. I’m actually curious to hear them again.
I remember wanting both—Wu-Tang Clan on headphones, the Game Boy in my pocket. Two completely separate impulses, no connection except they occupied the same moment in the 90s. The clan had the swagger, the Game Boy had the games. They didn’t need to be related. That’s what I miss about that era, I think: you could have totally different obsessions and they’d all feel equally important, equally cool, without any of them needing to justify themselves by referring to the others.
Charlie Sheen’s personal life during the mid-2000s and early 2010s was essentially a full-time content stream — the kind of reliable chaos you could check on like weather. The question ’which ones’ is basically the entire discourse. There were the actresses (plural), the escorts, the women from parties and rehab clinics and legal depositions. The tabloids kept score like he was a living leaderboard.
What was interesting, if you cared enough to notice, was how much of it happened in public. The arrests, the restraining orders, the statements, the rehabs he’d check into and immediately leave. It was all there. He wasn’t hiding it; he was performing it. The ’Winning’ catchphrase, the interviews where he’d ramble about goddesses and tiger blood — it was theater for people who were bored enough to watch a man’s complete public unraveling.
By 2011 he had become less a person and more a format. The joke was writing itself. You’d wake up and there’d be another incident, another woman named, another breakdown broadcasted. The media and Sheen had found a perfect symbiosis — he needed the attention, they needed the clicks, and nobody had to think about what any of it meant beyond the immediate spectacle.
Looking back, what strikes me is how normal it all seemed at the time. This was just what celebrity looked like for some people — a rotating cast of women, money, substances, legal problems, rinse and repeat. The people asking ’which ones’ weren’t scandalized; they were bored and entertained at the same time. It was the first age of that particular kind of celebrity sludge, where you could watch a famous person deteriorate in real time and treat it like a meme.
I was drinking red wine and half-watching old Bored to Death episodes when the message came from Facebook. Another picture flagged. Violation of community standards. One more incident and they’d delete the whole account. As always, no explanation of which image or what specifically was wrong, just the threat.
This had been happening for months. Every few weeks something would disappear. Facebook didn’t offer reasons, just enforced arbitrary rules to keep you uncertain and manageable. It’s an efficient system when your goal is compliance.
So I stopped asking permission. I pulled together everything we’d wanted to post but couldn’t, everything that got flagged, the crude unfiltered stuff, and put it somewhere beyond their reach. No moderation. No American sensitivity standards. Just what we actually wanted to make.
The thing that surprised me wasn’t the content itself — most of it wasn’t even that transgressive. What mattered was that we weren’t waiting anymore, weren’t softening things, weren’t calculating what might trigger the algorithm. We’d taken back the decision.
Everyone tries learning German through an app and quits after a week. The grammar is brutal and there’s no real incentive to keep going. But the language sounds right somehow, sounds like it means what it says. I’ve never actually learned it, just picked up fragments from travel and watching untranslated films, enough to stumble through a menu or understand what’s happening. That’s probably all anyone actually wants anyway.
I stumbled into Japanese countdown shows and got stuck there. Same format every time—the hosts, the transitions between artists, the drama of rankings—and something about that repetition works. The way performances get their slot based on where they land in the charts, the clarity of it all. It’s completely disposable but it teaches you something about how Japanese pop works, what matters in that industry. I’ve watched way too many of these at weird hours, but the predictability is hypnotic in a way I don’t fully understand.
I’m a total mess about Nintendo and Japanese game music. Yasunori Mitsuda, Nobuo Uematsu, Yoko Kanno—those names mean something to me. The soundtracks from Chrono Trigger, Final Fantasy, Napple Tale, those immaculate 16-bit and 32-bit compositions—they’re in my bloodstream. It makes sense if you think about it. While other kids were outside or learning what bodies could do, I was at a console, burning through RPGs, just one shitty game after another, but the music kept pulling me deeper.
Those melodies shaped everything. They were the atmosphere for every moment that happened afterward—running through villages, fighting in caves, losing hours to exploration. Slow or fast, delicate or overwhelming, they went straight in. I’ll forget the names of my own kids. I’ll lose control of my bladder. But play the underworld theme from Terranigma and I’m on my feet, whistling it through my teeth, and it’s all right there.
So when Square Enix packaged More SQ—taking those old themes and forcing them into the present, making them electronic and contemporary while keeping their essence intact—it felt inevitable. Modern production, fresh arrangements, but pitched so you recognize every melody underneath. The obsessed part of me wanted to just dissolve into a singing fireball.
There was a concert a few weeks back at Shimokitazawa Garden in Tokyo. Rocketman, Sazerock, Jabberloop reimagining the classics. Even if you don’t care about any of this, there’s something in the acoustic electro, the layers of jazz and orchestration, the way the pieces breathe differently when they’re not contained in a 16-bit palette.
But if you grew up with these songs, if you still need them to keep from burning everything down, you’ll end up on the floor somewhere between laughing and crying, desperate for your mother and your old console. The music never left. It just got better.
Photography that stays in domestic space has a different weight than anything shot in public. There’s nowhere to hide when you’re photographed in the place you actually live—the light comes from the lamp you chose, the walls hold the color you picked, everything is a choice made over time. Akila Berjaoui’s work with Vanessa catches that kind of presence, the ordinary weight of someone in their own rooms. It’s the opposite of a photoshoot. It’s just someone existing where they exist, and that contradiction—being looked at while being nowhere but home—is what makes it matter.
She was everywhere briefly in the early 2010s, that particular moment when UK dance music felt like someone actually wanted you to dance and feel something at the same time. Katy B had this brightness over the dubstep and garage tracks—a voice that didn’t disappear into the production but pushed against it, made you listen. The thing about that era is how fast it dated and how little it matters now, except when it suddenly does. The music still lands in a particular way when it comes up, not corny the way you’d expect something that trendy to age, but instead kind of genuine in how it wanted you to move.
I’m thinking back to February 28, 2011, the morning everything shifted. Hannah and Ines left, and the whole structure of the thing that had kept us together just… dissolved. Everyone else went with them. We’d started this as rebellion against loneliness, just putting our thoughts somewhere because we didn’t know what else to do with them, but it had rotted from the inside into this service provider mentality. Rules everywhere. Obligations. The complete opposite of what we’d actually wanted.
There’s this moment when you can feel the pressure start. When the audience shows up, expectations follow, and suddenly you’re not writing what matters to you anymore—you’re managing what other people think. Every word gets weighed. Hannah and I kept trying to make space for the things we genuinely cared about, but it was like trying to build something in a storm. The emails and opinions and commitments just kept burying us.
By the end of that week I wasn’t sleeping. Too much red wine and the kind of panic that doesn’t resolve into anything except the realization that you’ve completely failed at the one thing you loved. Everything I was writing felt like garbage. Everything about how we worked felt corrupted. I remember thinking: this can’t be how it ends. So I burned it all down.
What came back from that fire was simple: absolute freedom. Post an essay or just a photo. A song. A video. Whatever Sara and I wanted. No performance. No framework. No obligation to be anything except honest and personal. After managing everyone else’s expectations for so long, it felt like breathing again.
I think about Ines and Mischa and Asumi a lot. Especially Hannah. I wanted to thank them for the nights and the texts and the memories. It was genuinely great. But some things have to end.
It’s been nine years of this. The drugs and the sex and the stories and the absolute refusal to be boring—that survives. The rest was just scaffolding to keep it standing.
There was this thread, or maybe a whole community—some space online where people went to destroy fashion bloggers. I’d drift in sometimes, never quite sure why. Mostly young women. Someone would post a photo and the pile-on would start: your body’s wrong, your face is wrong, you’re pathetic. And everyone did it like they were righteous.
What got to me was how convinced they were. Like calling someone ugly was criticism. Like mocking a teenager’s body was judgment, not just cruelty dressed up as something else. It was just meanness and they called it honesty.
I think I read it because I was curious what people actually say when they think no one’s watching. This felt real in a way curated social media doesn’t. No filter, no performance, just hungry. Just wanting something to tear apart.
The whole thing’s gone now, of course. Those spaces evaporate like they never existed. The people who got ripped apart are probably fine now. The people doing the ripping moved on to something else. It’s one of thousands of forgotten internet moments, the kind you remember randomly and realize: yeah, that was real.
I never made a mixtape for my sister. We weren’t the type. But I’ve made them for people who felt like sisters — the ones you see without planning to, who show up when things go bad, who you’d wreck yourself for without thinking about it. You build the playlist slowly over months, songs that mean something specific about what they mean to you. By the time it’s done, it’s less a mixtape and more a confession. That’s the weird part: the music says what you never would out loud, and they get that.
Udo and I went to one of those Jägermeister-branded tour events in Friedrichshain back in 2011. They ran these things everywhere that year — basically an excuse to get people drunk on cheap liqueur and film whatever stupid things happened next. We Have Band played, then Yuksek. I didn’t know them and didn’t care much. The draw was the free drinks, which arrived in unlimited quantities and were the entire point of being there.
I remember the basic fact of going and almost nothing else. We mugged for someone’s camera at some point. I remember thinking the free liqueur was fine, which is the kind of thing you notice when something costs you nothing. The venue is gone from my memory — warehouse, bar, some space in Friedrichshain, I couldn’t tell you. These sponsored events exist in a weird middle space where you’re not quite present while you’re there. You’re thinking about the video that might surface, or the story you’ll tell, or the next drink. You’re not really living the moment; you’re already half-remembering it.
Libya in 2011 was phone videos, shaky footage where a cleric describes watching a tank roll over a car with two people inside. Just flattened them. Gaddafi had ruled for forty years and apparently his answer to protest was mechanized. Soldiers, helicopters, his own son’s unit. Some cities seemed to fall to rebels. Other reports said they were holding. You never knew what was actually happening, just fragments coming through before the internet got cut.
Everyone shared the videos. Tunisia and Egypt had both kicked out their dictators and Libya looked like it might be next. That feeling of witnessing something change, of being there in real time even though you’re not there at all.
Nothing came of it. Gaddafi got killed but the country never recovered. It just collapsed into something worse. I don’t remember when I stopped paying attention to Libya. There’s no moment where I consciously decided I didn’t care anymore. It just evaporated from my feed, then from my mind.
What stays is the gap between watching and doing. How you feel like you’re part of something by seeing it, sharing it, knowing about it. How quickly that feeling disappears when you realize you never actually did anything. It’s the safest kind of engagement—you get to see the world falling apart and then go back to your day.
Kanye’s “All of the Lights” does something rare—it sounds like overwhelming sensory input the way life actually is, not the way songs usually pretend it isn’t. First time I heard it, I was in a car probably doing something dumb, and the track just seized the whole experience. Everything compressed and bright at once. The song doesn’t apologize for being maximalist; it commits to the excess like that’s the point. Hard to listen to casually. Harder to forget.
I know a photographer named Johnnie. Don’t know his last name—doesn’t matter. He photographs dogs that don’t know what’s happening to them. Black men in bathtubs. Girls with dark, heavy forearms. There’s something compelling about his work, even though I have no idea who he actually is. That’s kind of the whole thing.
Valentine’s Day is the perfect con. Flowers and chocolate and whatever those double dildos are supposed to do—it drains couples of their money while it drains singles of their sanity. Couples feel obligated to buy love. Singles feel broken for not having anyone to buy love for, so we buy extra ice cream and get pets and fantasize about violence.
Of course I want what everyone wants. A relationship. Someone who actually loves me. Regular sex. A partner who makes life feel like it matters, who loves me anyway despite how badly I fuck up the world.
We could walk through the park together, kick small dogs into the lake, scream at the sun. Meet her parents and turn completely red trying to explain what I do for a living—something on the internet, nothing real. Probably shit myself from sheer terror in front of them. But it would be worth it.
I’d spend years in bed with her. Every filthy thing I’ve learned from exes and late-night internet searches, we’d work through together. The neighbors would bang on the walls. The pillow would split open. Weeks of fast food, months of cheap wine, years of just her.
We’d stumble into the streets eventually—bloody mouths, soaked clothes, delirious with the miracle of it. That this one person, out of billions, landed here with me. That we learned love together. Real love. I’d look at her and feel like I was dying. Let me stay in this. We belong together. She’d nod and smile.
Of course she’d cheat with her personal trainer and drive off to Belgium in the middle of the night, but that’s fine. I got to suck on her toes while she did homework. I got to show her the videos I made. Maybe it was never going to work anyway.
So I sit here hating Valentine’s Day because no one’s sending me a homemade card full of love and nudes. Because other people are happy and getting laid and the world apparently still believes in tenderness. Go ahead and celebrate the worst holiday ever invented, gorge yourself on flowers and chocolate. I’m going to sign up for a dating service. Then I’m going to burn something down.
“Lotus Flower” does something different from the rest of The King of Limbs. That driving beat, everything else stripped down—it pushes forward like it doesn’t need your permission. The real pull is the video though, Thom’s body moving without self-consciousness, like it’s the only true thing in the frame. Not a performance, just presence. I watched that more times than I listened to the song.
A friend sent a list at 2am. Ten little missions. Not serious, or not entirely. It was the thing people text when they’ve run out of actual advice — so you list impossible things instead, half-joking, half-genuine.
Darken the room, open wine, watch Skins until you cry. Watch it again. There’s always something new the second time, not because you missed it before but because you’ve changed. The show stays the same. You don’t.
The rest got wilder. Beyblades. Berlin, then away from Berlin. Yuksek. Street Boners and TV Carnage. A liter of milk. Jesus returning as a super zombie. Most of it was a joke. Except the last one: write three rules for yourself, then break them all that night. Not because the rules were bad or breaking them was good. Just because remembering you could choose mattered more than whatever the choice was.
I did maybe two of them. The list went into a notebook and stayed there. But something about having it — about someone taking the time at 2am to reframe paralysis as a set of options instead of a wall — that shifted something. Permission dressed as a joke. The only way some things get said.
Noboru Iguchi’s Robo Geisha is the kind of film that exists to prove that cinema can be whatever the hell you want it to be. A geisha gets her limbs amputated and replaced with machine guns, swords, and flamethrowers, and the movie treats this as a logical plot development rather than the premise for a joke. The action sequences are genuinely skilled—practical effects, creative camera work—applied to the most deranged concept imaginable. It’s not ironic; Iguchi is dead serious about the absurdity. You watch it and realize that sometimes the difference between a masterpiece and garbage is just whether the person making it cares about the work. He clearly did, even if the work is a woman who ejaculates acid and explodes. There’s something honest about that.
Gregory Bojorquez shoots where he lives. East Los Angeles, the neighborhood people have opinions about but rarely see clearly. He started photographing his neighbors in black and white, work that doesn’t announce itself but stays with you. LA Weekly noticed, and it felt inevitable—the kind of specificity that only comes from actually being somewhere, living in it.
What gets me is how he moved from that root into a wider range: youth, celebrities, rappers, musicians. Still grounded in proximity, still that understanding of light and the right moment. And then there’s the side thing—life tips on his website, a new one with every reload. It’s the photographer’s version of something I’ve always respected in creative people: the willingness to share an actual thought, not the performance version. A photograph and a sentence. That’s the thing.
Felix Cartal builds sets like he has all night. Progressive house mostly, though the lines blur. The appeal isn’t drama or novelty—it’s patience. You follow him through a long arc and somewhere in the second hour you stop thinking about anything else. That’s the skill. Not the peak moment but the sustained movement. Most DJs want to be remembered for a drop. Cartal seems more interested in making you forget what time it is.
Back when toy companies hadn’t figured out how to bleed us dry with trading cards and plastic shit, you could just sit down in the afternoon and watch anime about soccer without feeling like you were participating in some grand marketing machine. Just kids on a field, spinning stories, figuring out who they were.
I never got close to actual soccer. Physical ed teachers, bullies, the suffocating machinery of school sports—I wanted out of all that. But anime soccer was different. There was something about watching these kids that felt honest, even if they were drawings.
I couldn’t pick a side though. Two shows kept pulling at me: Tsubasa and Kickers. Tsubasa was the big one. It had weight. Professional. That sense of destiny, of players groomed since childhood, moving through a grand narrative toward inevitable greatness. Tsubasa himself was this golden thing, polished and untouchable.
The Kickers were nothing like that. Eleven kids from a village who nobody cared about, playing because they loved it. No grand design. No talent scouts circling. Just friends who showed up and kicked a ball around.
I won’t lie—Tsubasa had real appeal. The skill, the high stakes, the matches that felt like they mattered.
But the Kickers did something else. They made friendship feel like it was enough. There was this relentless sincerity to them, this refusal to pretend that winning was more important than the people you won with.
I boot up the computer, pull down my pants, and fire up the internet at full speed. “Russian Teenagers Gangbang In Summer Camp” or “Black Girl Choky Loses Virginity To Four Strangers.” Pick one, download it, settle in. I don’t have forever—I’ve got a doctor’s appointment later.
The real problem isn’t the girls or the setup. It’s the fucking music. That corny 90s porn track, all breathy and obviously fake, layered under every scene. The moaning sounds like someone auditioning for a school play. My grandmother coughs hotter than this. And the cameraman won’t stop talking, won’t stop laughing that stupid laugh. Okay. Mute.
Now it’s just me and the moving image and whatever’s going through my head. That’s better. It’s working. And then the neighbors start hammering on something and a baby cries somewhere else and I’m sitting here thinking about everything except what’s on the screen. Fuck. All right, music back on.
What do you even listen to when you’re doing this? Not Regina Spektor. Not Bat For Lashes—that’s for when someone else is actually in the room. Rammstein is too theatrical. But something harder. Uffie. Snoop Dogg. Kleerup. Something with a beat, something that doesn’t require thinking too hard.
I’m focused now. Did I charge my iPod? Doesn’t matter. The girl on screen is working hard so I need to pay attention. The Mayer Hawthorne remix works better than the original anyway. I’m close. I’m right there. I’m about to finish and then the video cuts to black. Everyone’s done. Everyone except me.
Head on the desk now. Screen’s black. Staring at nothing. Who’s to blame? The music. Because you can’t exactly load up your actual playlist while you’re in the middle of this. Your real music doesn’t fit. It requires too much of you. All it does is get in the way.
You look at these styled photos and what gets to you isn’t the coordination. White top, gold chain, the expensive sneaker — nice to look at, but that’s not it. It’s the face. Eyes, mouth, the specific shape of their features, how the light falls. That’s what you can’t unsee.
There’s something to a fully put-together look. You feel it — the careful styling, the right shirt, the bike that photographs well. It’s attractive. Does something to you. But that’s not what matters if you’re paying real attention.
The ones that actually land are where something true shows through. Not the perfectly composed ones, the moments where they’re not performing the outfit anymore. That’s when you see the actual person, not the curation.
Style is fun. There’s real pleasure in a beautiful outfit, someone who knows how to present themselves. But it’s never what sticks with you. It’s always the person underneath.
Six weeks into 2011 and I’m already wondering where my better life went. When January first rolled around, I had plans. Real ones. Ambitious ones. Lists on paper, lists in my head, all stacked in the drawer by my nightstand. The kind of thing that gets crumpled by March, except I didn’t even make it that far.
I stand naked in front of the mirror and take an honest inventory. What follows is not encouraging.
Career. I could’ve done the whole circuit in the past six weeks — design conferences, web summits, places where important people network and pretend disruption matters. Could’ve built a proper portfolio, played the client game, thrown myself at someone with a pitch about my amateur genius. Could’ve actually sat down and learned Photoshop, memorized every product Apple ever made, made something worth showing. Didn’t. Didn’t even try. Watched that ship sail without a backward glance.
Love. This one’s easy to measure. I look at my wedding picture on the nightstand — me and my right hand, hairy and devoted. Can’t blame myself though. I’m just waiting for my impossible woman. Emma Watson mixed with Megan Fox, red-blonde hair, freckles, the artist living in some old Berlin apartment with exactly the right amount of cool and exactly the amount of availability I require. She doesn’t exist. Never will. So I keep dating myself.
Body. My stomach laughs when I even think about it. Chip bags from every corner of the world stacked in the cabinet like trophies. Kebab and curry ketchup and fries with mayo cycling through my system like that’s all I deserve. Gym. Broken. Bike. Broken. Running. The weather’s shit. Swimming. Yeah, right. I look at myself and see someone who gave up so completely he stopped even pretending by week three.
I’m sitting in my little apartment in Wedding, the Berlin neighborhood that’s just poor enough and just boring enough that nobody’s desperate to move there. Not some 200-square-meter loft in a district anyone’s heard of. Still ordering things online that a man uses alone, having to maneuver around my own stomach to reach them. Thirty pounds heavier, zero dollars richer, no closer to anything I imagined on New Year’s morning.
Bloc Party at three in the morning because the quiet has become too loud. James Blake next—something about the way he makes space inside sound fits how things feel right now. Hercules and Love Affair after that, which breaks the mood except it doesn’t. A mixtape is just songs arranged in an order, but sometimes the arrangement matters more than what’s being arranged.
Music doesn’t actually do anything about loneliness. It doesn’t replace people or create connection you don’t have. But it exists alongside the silence. You can play it again and again and it won’t get tired of you. There’s something in that—not quite presence, but something close to it. Enough to sit with.
There’s something almost amusing about making a mixtape for yourself. No surprises, no discovery of someone else’s taste. Just your own brain reflected back in the order you decided on. Every choice visible. At three in the morning, in that kind of silence, that transparency is either the loneliest thing or the most honest one. Probably both.
You get about thirty thousand days if you don’t spend them eating garbage and staring into nothing. Thirty thousand orbits to actually make something happen.
And we spend most of it looking at glowing rectangles. Hours a day, years of it, time that just evaporates into email and scrolling and content nobody remembers. We all know it’s stupid. We’ve known for years. On the deathbed — if you get one with time to think — you’re not going to wish you’d spent more time on your browser history.
The weird part isn’t that we’re lazy. It’s that we don’t actually know what we’re supposed to be doing instead. That’s the bottleneck. If you genuinely knew something was worth the trouble, you’d do it. Not eventually. Now. You’d just move toward it like the decision made itself.
So what is it? What’s the thing that, when you imagine being old and done, hits you as a real loss? Not the version you’d post somewhere. The version that scares you a little, or would actually cost something. The version nobody needs to know about.
Time’s moving. That’s the only honest motivation. Not inspiring, just true.
Raphael Saadiq’s music exists in that particular pocket of soul and R&B where everything feels both inevitable and hard-won. I’m A Good Man carries that same quality—there’s no striving in it, no reaching for validation. It’s the sound of someone who’s made peace with the kind of person he is, or at least the kind he wants to be. His voice does something specific when he gets there—it settles, goes quiet, lets you in.
I came up with this idea for weekends: ten pointless missions to trick myself into thinking I’d accomplished something by Monday. Like a checklist would matter.
The first few were almost reasonable. Adopt a cat—called it President Mubarak—and actually take care of it. Scratching post, decent food, the works. Second: jerk off to “Get Your Body” by Bigga Threat and call it fitness. Third: sign up for a social media academy and let them tear me apart. Fourth: stop showering. Save water. Fifth: find Elvis.
From there it just got stupid. Sixth was to demonstrate for women’s quotas in sex work, then realize halfway through that the whole thing was a bigger waste of time than standing on a traffic island. Seventh: avoid red food. Eighth: get physically close to my best friend in public and let other people watch. Let them get something out of it. Ninth was the normal one—send a postcard to my parents, tell them it’s nice out, mention what I’d been doing.
Tenth was just to suck a dick.
I’m not sure what the point was supposed to be. There probably wasn’t one. Just something to do with a weekend that would happen anyway.
Twitter had this stable of women who showed up in the replies — good photos, the kind of thing that made you stare, that made you want to say something. I’d scroll through their tweets and timelines like I was learning who they were, but really I was just looking at them. There was a weird distance in it, close enough to feel like knowing, far enough that I could pretend it meant something.
The old way was to hide this shit. Be polite, pretend you weren’t thinking about their bodies when they walked past you. The internet just made it public. You could say what you actually thought and everyone else would pile on and say it too. Honesty as a feature, not a bug. But it came with something else — the person getting compressed down to that moment when their appearance worked on you, that’s all they were in that context.
The girl in the photo isn’t the girl tweeting about her day, and neither one is who I thought I was getting to know by scrolling. Social media creates a specific kind of distance — close enough to feel like connection, far enough that you’re not actually connecting with anything real. I knew what I was doing. I kept doing it.
Two artists who exist in their own registers—Bonney with that precise, almost conversational flow, and Li with her ability to make a voice feel like it’s folding in on itself—somehow find the exact pocket together where everything lands. The song moves without rushing. You listen and it’s the kind of track that makes you realize how rare it is to hear two musicians actually talking to each other instead of just taking turns. There’s space in it, and restraint, and something genuinely unhurried in the way it unfolds. That’s harder to pull off than it sounds.
Karin Amamiya was a freeter—one of Japan’s disposable workers, replaceable at any time, living paycheck to irregular paycheck. She was also the singer of a punk rock band, The Revolutionary Truth, and at twenty-five she wrote a book about suicide, not as abstraction but as the logical endpoint of a society that has no use for people who won’t conform. She’d seen too many people she knew choose that way out.
Japan spent decades building itself into an economic powerhouse by asking its workers to trade individuality and freedom for security and structure. Corporations became families, colleagues became your siblings, and you became the company. That was the deal. Work harder than everyone else, climb higher, fit into the mold precisely, and you’d have a place. But that deal was starting to crack by the time Amamiya’s generation came of age.
A new kind of person was emerging in Japanese cities—the freeter, the part-timer, the person who’d either refused the system or been rejected by it. NEETs went even further, refusing employment entirely. They were ghosts in their own culture. But they were also beginning to organize, to articulate what they’d discovered: that the system that had built Japan’s wealth was also building its body count.
These young people gathered in internet cafes that stayed open all night, working odd jobs just enough to pay for a booth and some instant noodles, spending their days making art, writing, thinking. There was a strange underground forming, a counter-culture being born from the gaps in a system that had been designed so perfectly that it couldn’t account for anyone who didn’t fit. Amamiya and activists like her were trying to name what was happening—not as personal failure but as a problem with the society itself.
There’s something clarifying about watching a culture’s contradiction become visible. Japan had been so successful at its work ethic that it had created a class of people it could no longer employ, and because the society had no real use for unemployed people, it was losing them to despair. The rebellion of the freeters and NEETs wasn’t loud or particularly organized. It was quieter than that—it was people choosing to exist outside the system at all, living in the cracks, insisting that there was something other than work, consumption, and silence.
I’m not sure what happened to that movement after. Whether it shifted anything, whether it’s still happening in a different form. But I think about Karin Amamiya sometimes—a punk rock singer who became a voice for people the system was designed to discard—and I think about what it means that Japan’s young people had to rebel against their own culture’s core values just to stay alive.
William Fitzsimmons has that rare quality where his voice alone can make you feel like you’re intruding on something private. The fingerpicking guitars are modest, almost apologetic, and the songs move at their own pace—no production tricks, no rushing to the chorus. There’s something about his music that doesn’t ask for anything from you except to listen the way you’d listen to someone confess something true in a quiet room. I keep coming back to these records because they ask nothing and somehow that’s everything.
My friend told me his girlfriend’s pregnant. Wasn’t planned—condom broke or she missed pills, one of those accidents. And hearing him describe it, caught between excitement and panic, I realized I don’t actually have an answer for myself. If that happened to me, would I keep it? Push for an abortion? Honestly, I have no fucking clue.
The theory is that you’re supposed to have figured this out by now. Right partner, right job, right savings account. But nobody I know has actually figured it out. People have kids at 22 and at 42. Some get abortions and move on. Some leave them with family. Some just get trapped and muddle through. I’m 27, which theoretically gives me time, but I can feel the clock underneath everything, ticking, reminding me that forever isn’t actually how time works.
What actually terrifies me is how completely it takes over. Kids consume everything—money obviously, but mostly just time. Your entire existence becomes about someone else for the next 18 years. Sleep becomes negotiable. Privacy disappears. The relationship becomes a management problem instead of something pleasurable. I have friends with kids and they look aged beyond their years, hollowed out by the sheer relentless weight of it.
Then there’s the partner thing. You’d have to want someone in your life that intensely, that permanently. Through the parts where you grow to hate each other, where the kid becomes a wedge instead of a bond. My parents had me and then got divorced. I remember understanding, even as a small kid, that I was part of what broke. Not the cause exactly, but a pressure point—the thing that made leaving harder than staying. Do I want to be that? Do I want to trap myself and someone else that way?
The mechanics are simple. You don’t use protection. She forgets her pill. Eventually someone’s pregnant. Nature doesn’t care about your career plans or your relationship timeline. But the actual decision—the real yes or no—I’m still sitting in the middle of that. Some nights it feels inevitable, like something I’m going to have to deal with. Other nights it feels like the worst possible trap. Most of the time I just try not to think about it.
I made a mixtape called “Broken Soul Journey.” Twenty tracks that fell into place as I was building them—no master plan, just a sequence that worked. Ups and downs and weirdness in the middle. Remixes next to originals where the remix was the right call. The kind of listening that takes you somewhere without explaining where.
It’s the thing you make when you need to feel something specific but can’t articulate what. I’m putting it out there now. Not because everyone needs it, just because it exists and because maybe someone else needs it to exist too.
Wildfox’s always made graphic tees and playful references, the kind of stuff that’s deliberately uncool in a cool way. A French collection plays into that perfectly because it’s exactly the kind of thing they’d normally make fun of, so doing it straight is the smartest move. The designs probably lean into every cliché—berets, wine, the whole bit—which is the only way that works. Actual fashion would find a clever angle and kill it. Wildfox doesn’t care about clever. There’s something solid about a brand that understands irony and sincerity have collapsed into each other now, and you can’t separate them anymore.
I’ll prove it simply: there are exactly three things that matter in this life. Double cheese on a pizza is always better than single. Any decent party needs Ladyhawke playing at least once an hour. And Friends is unquestionably the greatest TV show ever made—still, forever. Or at least it ties with Skins and The OC. You know what I mean.
I hadn’t been outside much the last couple weeks. Partly the weather in Berlin was garbage, partly I had projects that actually mattered or so I told myself. Really I’m just someone with no friends who’d marry his laptop if it were legal. So I did what any reasonable person would do: I watched all ten seasons of Friends back-to-back. All of them. And now I can’t get my head clean of it.
The title song burrowed into my brain like a parasite. I started greeting my IKEA lamp with “How you doin’?” Last night I dreamed I was on some detective adventure train crossing the Orient with the whole cast—sandwiches, murder, guitars, the works. Mischa Barton showed up and took her dress off, but that’s normal for my dreams.
My best friends and I used to cast ourselves in the show. Ham-Eniz was Joey, Mille was Chandler, and I got stuck being the goofy Ross. At least he got Rachel.
No other show on earth taught me as much about how to actually live as this one. Six people in New York. The idea that friendship and love are the whole point. That most of the things that wreck you can be solved by talking it out and hugging. That you need a little Joey in you.
If I had my way they’d never have taken it off the air. And we can all agree to forget that spinoff garbage in Los Angeles—that doesn’t count. Everything that’s tried to grab our hearts since is just a pale copy of the Central Perk gang. Our lives got measurably better the moment they decided they’d be there for you. Because they will.
There’s that moment in a song where you recognize yourself in someone else’s regret, and suddenly you’re remembering someone you hadn’t thought about in months. Emilio Rojas has that pull—the way he sits into a melody about wanting back what he lost, not because he’s particularly clever about it, but because he sounds like he actually means it. It’s the kind of track that plays in a car late enough that you don’t immediately skip it, and by the second verse you’re just sitting with it, thinking about who this is really for. The specificity of the title—not just a song about missing someone, but specifically about an ex, about that particular flavor of regret—is honest in a way that a lot of music isn’t.
I remember the supermarket fluorescent lights, the sticky floors, the Super Nintendo in the corner where parents abandoned their kids for twenty minutes while shopping. One day they put Donkey Kong Country in the machine. We went absolutely feral. The colors, the animation—nothing we’d ever seen looked like that.
I spent last week playing through Donkey Kong Country Returns on the Wii, chasing that exact feeling. Same formula: fat monkey, little guy with the red hat, enemies stealing bananas, side-scrolling platforming. Everything else has been turned up. The levels are legitimately hard but never cheap. Enemies are weird and creative. The backgrounds move constantly—detailed enough to distract you, dangerous enough to kill you if you’re not paying attention. You die a lot. It’s kind of the point.
The design is what gets me. Secret exits that make sense in retrospect. Bonus coins hidden everywhere. Puzzle pieces for people obsessed with completion. Hours of content if you’re the type to hunt. It’s clearly made by people who understood what made the original special, not people who just looked at the formula and tried to copy it.
I was genuinely worried going in. Rare’s not involved anymore, and most revival games feel hollow—made by people who did a book report on the original without understanding why anyone cared. But Returns isn’t like that. It has actual personality. Real humor. Technical craft. It feels like the actual successor, not a corporate recreation.
Getting that exact supermarket feeling back—the mix of frustration and joy, difficulty and discovery—might sound stupid to most people. But there’s something pure about it. The game just works. And sometimes that’s the whole point.
I’ve been following Chaz Bear’s work for long enough that I’m not sure when he stopped being a discovery and became just someone I listen to when he puts something out. That shift happens gradually—you start checking in, then you’re just there. Toro Y Moi’s always been restless, jumping between moods and textures like he can’t sit still in any one sound, and that’s part of what keeps me coming back. There’s no arrogance in it, just genuine curiosity about what the instruments can do when you push them sideways.
This newer material has that familiar hunger but with more space in it—less layered, more breathing room between the synth lines and drums. It’s funkier in places, more direct. There’s something almost vulnerable about stripping away some of the production density he used to hide behind, letting the songs sit with less armor. I catch myself looping the same four bars over and over, which usually means something’s landed. It’s not revolutionary, but it feels honest, like he’s just playing what he actually wants to hear rather than what a Toro Y Moi record is supposed to sound like.
I found Those Dancing Days sometime in the mid-2000s and never moved on from them. Swedish indie pop, the kind that doesn’t announce itself—just plays, and you realize somewhere in the second or third listen that the melodies are perfectly constructed, every note in the right place. There’s no effort in it, or maybe all the effort is invisible, which is the same thing. You play their records and something unclenches. You’ll play them forever not because you’re trying to feel something specific, but because they’re already how your brain works now. Some music just sticks.
Underground clubs in Berlin had all become the same extraction mechanism by 2011—packed basements, chemical drinks, the entire operation designed to cram in as many bodies as possible and call it culture. Authenticity was just the marketing.
The Jägermeister Wirtshaus Tour arrived with a different proposal: convert a factory into an actual tavern, cap capacity, book We Have Band and producer Yuksek, and treat the event like a gathering instead of a container. Play cards, drink something real, hear the music.
I’m not sure if it mattered. But someone had identified what made the club scene insufferable and tried a direct answer. That gesture itself was worth something.
Zombie hunters—the underdog with a weapon against the undead, taking the ridiculous dead seriously. There’s something about that premise that works even when everything else falls apart. No irony, no self-awareness, just the practical work of survival. I’ve always liked that energy in these stories, even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones.
Late Friday night or early Saturday morning—the timeline gets blurry at fast food places—I bought a mixtape from a group of girls hanging around McDonald’s. They had that ghetto-hipster thing going. The transaction was straightforward: a couple of greasy cheeseburgers and a large Coke with something poured into it. They handed me back a handwritten note decorated with hearts, dicks, and skulls, listing the favorite songs of Lauren, Nesrin, Daria, and this blonde girl who was fat and had neither style nor any voice to speak of. That was the whole deal. That was the mixtape.
During those first weeks of the Egyptian protests I kept hunting for actual news and kept ending up on Al Jazeera, which shouldn’t have been surprising but was. The American networks were all kind of there but not really there—CNN doing CNN things, MSNBC with some okay segments, Fox News somehow unclear on where Egypt was located—and then you’d flip to Al Jazeera and just find… reporting. Real reporting. Sometimes from a hotel room when their offices got raided. Sometimes over the phone. But actual journalism happening.
Their live feed got hit twenty-five thousand times more than it normally did. Most of it from Americans. Which meant that if you wanted to know what was actually going on in Cairo, you had to watch the network nobody had heard of, not the ones with all the money and infrastructure and cable news logistics. That’s a pretty damning thing to realize about the system you grew up with.
The German channels were a different kind of sad. n-tv, N24—they were running documentaries about construction equipment and reality TV while something genuinely significant was unfolding. I remember thinking even then, before I’d thought much about media or institutions or anything like that, how obviously this was broken. Not in some dramatic way. Just in the way a system breaks when everyone involved decides there’s easier money elsewhere.
What stuck with me wasn’t the anger at any particular network—it was the banality of it. A bunch of people who were supposed to explain the world to the rest of us had decided it was easier not to. They had the resources. They had the reach. They just didn’t have the appetite. And so an Arabic network that nobody’d expected anything from ended up being the only one doing the job.
I don’t know what happened to that momentum. American networks didn’t suddenly get better. German TV didn’t rethink their schedule. Al Jazeera just kept being Al Jazeera. But for a minute there you could see the actual limits of the thing. You could see that it was broken not because it was sabotaged or attacked, but because the people running it cared more about other stuff.
I met this girl with a body that made thinking impossible. Dark, no kids, and she actually laughed at my jokes—the full Charlie Harper bit, all of it. We talked about this German actress for like an hour, hypothesizing what she’d be like in bed. That passed for seduction. She wanted to come over, and I’d actually cleaned up—thrown out the trash, dealt with the dishes before they evolved.
We got upstairs and moved fast. I went down on her and found myself in a lake of blood. Dark and sticky. Not what I expected, or maybe exactly what I should have expected if I was thinking at all.
I knew what it was. Wasn’t a kid anymore. Didn’t bother me. I was already there. Moved from her breasts down to her navel and she just shoved me off the bed. I landed on dumbbells I’ve bought but never once actually lifted, which felt appropriate for how that night was going.
“What are you doing?”
“I have my period.”
Right. I sat up and told her what I’d always heard: a brave pirate sails the red sea. I probably shouldn’t have done the Ramones thing. “Hey ho, let’s go”—that definitely wasn’t the moment.
She pulled her pants up, kissed me on the forehead like I was a small child she was leaving at school, called a taxi, and vanished into the night. Not even late enough for anything decent on TV. I was left alone with an erection and a real, honest question about whether I was a monster.
Is this strange? Does nobody else think about this? Do people really just shut it down and wait a week? Every single month, just a gap? She came to my apartment knowing what was going to happen. What did she think we were going to do—ski jumping?
I lay there on blood-spotted sheets with my forehead pressed into the pillow and my dick pressed into the mattress. My mind was everywhere. Video game worlds. Fire. Lava. Meat Boy. Chunks. Tampons. Seas of liquid. Neverland was red that night. And there I was in the middle of it all, hard and alone, genuinely wondering if I was the only brave pirate left in this whole country.
Wacko Maria doesn’t give a shit what you think the name should be. A Japanese brand that treats provocation like a design principle — not shock for shock’s sake, but an actual refusal to perform respectability. The clothes are good, the cuts are solid, the fabrics feel expensive, and then the tag or the hang tag just says something completely stupid and unapologetic. It’s the kind of thing that would get a brand meeting full of nervous notes in most places. Here it’s just the baseline.
There’s something genuinely punk about not softening anything. Not for retailers, not for Instagram, not for moms. You either get it or you don’t. The collection names, the graphic placements, the little details — everything reads like someone’s actual taste instead of a focus-grouped product line. That matters more than most people admit. Most fashion is scared. This isn’t.
The Egyptian government switched off the internet. All of it. January 2011, Cairo burning, the government decided communications were a problem and they solved it the only way that would actually work — they killed the whole network.
Banks went offline. Schools went offline. Millions of people at home staring at dead routers, nothing to connect to. It wasn’t a tactical move like other governments had tried before, cutting off Twitter or Facebook to slow coordination. Egypt looked at that half-measure and decided it wasn’t going far enough. If you want to stop people from organizing and broadcasting to the world, you turn off everything.
One provider stayed online — Noor Group. Nobody ever figured out why. Maybe an oversight, maybe someone in the bureaucracy didn’t get the order, maybe there was a deal. Hackers started threatening to attack government websites in retaliation. There was a kind of poetry to it — the global network defending itself against the country that tried to unplug from it.
But what actually got to me was how calculated it was. They knew the cost. Shutting down your own internet infrastructure destroys your economy in hours. Banks can’t function, businesses can’t operate, supply chains collapse. They did the math and decided it was worth it. Worth crippling your entire country to lock down the signal. Once you prove you can do that, once you show it’s possible, every authoritarian regime in a crisis is going to think the same thing.
I’d been online for fifteen years at that point. The internet was background radiation, something you don’t even think about. But watching it go dark made it feel thin. Provisional. Like it was only there because we hadn’t been desperate enough to turn it off. Nothing felt inevitable after that.
Lykke Li’s “I Follow Rivers” works with almost nothing—just her voice caught against some sparse synth that doubles back on itself. There’s something both fragile and cold about it. The song became inescapable for a while, everywhere at once, which usually kills anything dead, but this one survived it. Maybe because it never tried to be anything more than what it was—just a simple thing repeated until it starts to mean something.
I keep getting emails from people saying the missions are too hard. “Nobody can do that,” they say. “You’d have to be superhuman.” They’re right. So I decided to lower the difficulty this time. Make it fair. Just kidding.
Turn off the internet and wait for CNN to report something bad. Extra points if civilians are involved. Jump in a bathtub with someone and see what happens—sex, clean toes, the pointless ecology of it all. Put on “Chocolate Rain” again. Still works. Prank some bloggers while you’re at it. That’s how you make money now. Look up the word “reibach” and think about why we even have a word for it.
Skip the coke this weekend. Speed’s more reliable if you’re going in that direction. Binge all of “Friends” and feel your consciousness dissolve. Rescue someone from something. Download the Dave Sitek remix of Lykke Li’s “I Follow Rivers”—it’s free and it’s good. Donate twenty bucks to whatever. Some cause. Just do it.
That’s the list. Half of it’s jokes. Most of it’s stupid. Some of it might be good. Probably not.
A hundred German blogs got caught taking money to write about Tenerife vacations and Paris hotels. The payments were small—thirty to seventy euros per affiliate link—but they came with non-disclosure agreements that threatened 5,000 euros if you talked about the deal. Sascha Pallenberg, a writer who actually investigates these things, exposed the scheme, and the bloggers involved started emailing him to say they regretted it. They knew it felt wrong.
Everyone understood by then that blogs could make money. Banners, sponsors, the usual. But this was different. You’re taking a reader’s trust—the whole idea that a personal voice is honest—and trading it for pocket change. And you have to lie about the trade. That’s the part that kills things.
I’d been writing online long enough to recognize the moment. The first payment feels fine. Everyone has to make a living. But the first payment you have to hide, the first time someone says “write this but don’t tell them I paid you,” that’s when something breaks. Not immediately for the reader, but eventually. They sense it. Your voice changes when you’re serving someone else’s interests, even if neither of you can articulate why.
The scandal didn’t matter much in the end. Blogging kept going, money kept flowing, and the form kept mutating into something else. But for a minute it was clear what had happened: the boundary between what you actually thought and what you were willing to say for money had become permeable. And once that happens, you don’t get it back.
Patrick Wolf’s music sounds like late nights in cramped apartments, all goth theatricality and glitchy synths, the kind of thing you play when you’re too young to understand why you’re depressed but old enough to want to feel it anyway. His albums are dense — layers of strings and electronic noise that feel almost overwhelming on first listen, then somehow intimate after the tenth. There’s something about how he structures his melodies, this minor-key vulnerability wrapped in production that feels expensive and strange, that made sense to me when I was figuring out what taste was. You either get it or you don’t, and for a while there, getting it felt like proof that I understood something true about the world that other people didn’t. Which is stupid, obviously, but that’s what good music does at a certain age. It makes you feel like you’re the only one paying attention.
Half of Berlin’s walking around like this and I still don’t know where to start. The pants, the earrings, the knit stuff, the hats, the chains—even some blue bag somehow got in on it. Why? I have no clue.
Last week I said something about hoodies and Kelly took it as a green light for spring. She found something that actually lets you breathe. Smart move.
Pregnant women don’t have to look like shit for nine months. Dark jewelry with a white top actually works. It’s subtle, restrained, good. Shame I’m not the father.
We’ve all wondered. Love or sex? In bright yellow? Pink pants trying to tell a different story. But we know better. Love or sex? Love? Or sex? What is it actually?
You’re fat, you’re hairy, you’re old. Grab a ratty Coke t-shirt and throw it on your belly and watch the magic happen. That’s the move.
Are black horn-rimmed glasses still in style? I’m calling my eye doctor tomorrow. I can’t watch this anymore. Wear those for two years and you turn into Satoshi—missing an eye. Get rid of them or find an alternative.
I have no idea what Vashtie actually does with her time, but I’m a fan. Music, videos, cool stuff. She’s cool enough to wear anything she wants. Forever. That’s what cool gets you.
The yellow pants on that Tarzan guy are going to haunt me. They’re burning into my brain right now. Goth skaters, red lips, the whole scenario. Genuinely creepy. I can feel it already.
I learned about Egypt’s revolution through a Reddit post from some anonymous guy begging people to spread the word. Twitter was already blocked. Facebook would be next. “Here people are dying,” he wrote. I checked CNN and Al Jazeera and found nothing. It was strange — the only place the news existed was this scattered thread of desperate pleas.
Tunisia had just had its moment, and Egypt was ready. Tens of thousands in the streets asking for things that shouldn’t have to be revolutionary: the right to gather without permission, a president who actually had to leave after two terms, a wage that didn’t starve you, an end to thirty years of martial law. They wanted the interior minister’s head. They knew exactly who to blame.
The government shut off the internet. Shut off the phones. It was almost funny how direct it was — you can’t stop people from being angry, but you can stop them from talking about it. At least three people died that first night in Cairo, and somewhere the president’s family was booking flights to London.
What got to me was the moment the connection cut. Everything went blank. It wasn’t like the news was being censored. The actual event was disappearing. People dying in the streets, and I couldn’t see it anymore. Nobody could. The government had basically reached through the screen and switched off my ability to know what was happening.
The whole thing felt like it was supposed to prove that the internet changed everything. That connection meant power. That if people could just talk to each other, they could organize themselves into revolution. Maybe that was true for them. Maybe it wasn’t. But watching them try to erase the whole thing by just cutting the signal — that felt like the government admitting they were terrified of it.
I don’t know what happened to the guy who posted on Reddit. The revolution happened. Mubarak left. And then it got complicated in ways that don’t fit into neat narratives. But I remember checking that thread obsessively, refreshing a page that would load slower and slower, trying to see what was happening in a country where the government had decided my ability to see counted as a threat.
Cloud Nothings make songs that feel like they’re drowning in their own feedback—walls of distorted guitar and Dylan’s voice barely pushing through, like he’s singing from inside the noise. There’s something almost suffocating about it, the production so heavy it becomes the whole point. You listen and you’re not sure if you’re supposed to be moved by it or just endure it, and maybe that’s the appeal—everything they do feels like too much by design.
I’ve never been with a woman older than me. I’m 27, so that’s over a decade of dating, and somehow it never goes that direction. I wasn’t tracking it as a rule—it just happened that way. And I’m pretty sure I’m not unusual in this.
It’s the pattern everyone pretends isn’t a pattern. Older guy, younger woman, everyone’s fine with it. The celebrities make it obvious: Lothar Matthäus, Bruce Willis, Hugh Hefner. But it’s not just the famous guys. It’s assumed. It’s what happens.
The reasons are stupid and obvious. Younger women are fun—they have energy, less history, fewer demands. They find you interesting. They want stability, money, someone who looks like they have their shit together. For a while it works. He gets to feel capable and desired. She gets taken care of. Two people getting something they want out of it.
Until you realize something’s been off the whole time and you just weren’t looking at it. The sex stays good, but everything else starts to split. She wants to be out late; you want her home at a decent hour. She’s becoming someone; you’ve already become someone. The dynamism that felt exciting starts to feel like performance you have to keep up.
I don’t know if there’s actually a rule here. Some couples with twenty years between them seem to make it work somehow. Others are just trading—he gets the young woman, she gets what she thinks she needs, the clock ticks. Maybe that’s the whole point: figuring out when it stops being about desire and starts being about the power dynamic. When you can feel the leverage shift. You probably know which side you’re on. Whether you care is another question entirely.
M.I.A. said her third album was shit. Not diplomatically, not with caveats about artistic vision or misunderstood intentions—just, directly, that ///Y/// was bad. She had listened to it again and finally agreed with everyone else.
I remember when she mattered differently. ’Paper Planes’ had that perfect ugly vitality, and the first two albums felt like someone had real things to say, about dislocation and survival and violence that wasn’t performed for effect. Then something happened. The third one didn’t land.
What’s stranger than making a bad album is admitting it publicly. Most artists do the thing where they defend it as misunderstood, or they pretend it doesn’t bother them, or they just move on. Mathangi Arulpragasam actually looked at what she’d made and said yeah, that doesn’t work. There’s something honest in that, even if it’s grim. She knows she doesn’t want to be a pop machine, knows she can’t be one. The question is whether she figures out what comes next.
I hope she does. Those first two albums meant something.
Massive Attack live is nothing like the records. The studio versions have space, room to breathe—every synth and drum hit sitting in its own pocket of air. But live, with the band onstage and the sound filling the whole room, it all compresses into something heavier, more immediate. You feel the bass in your chest. The samples land harder. There’s this moment in the middle of a song where everything stops except a single vocal loop repeating, and the crowd holds its breath, and you realize how much of what made you love these records in the first place was the space between the sounds, the negative space, and live they’re filling it all in. It’s not worse—it’s just different, more visceral, more now. By the end your ears are ringing and you’re soaked through and you’re already thinking about the next time.
Summer disappeared this year in what felt like a couple of weeks. Heat, light, the whole lazy stretching of it—gone before you could actually settle into it. Now winter’s coming back around.
There’s something about putting together a playlist that tries to bottle that feeling. Miike Snow has that bright, synthetic pop that catches sunlight. The National brings something darker underneath, that autumn-aware melancholy even in summer. Mark Ronson knows how to make production shine without overselling it. The three of them together don’t feel like a calculated vibe—they’re just the actual mix of what summer is.
The thing about these songs is they know summer’s not actually that long. You get your moment in the sun, and then you’re looking back at it from November, trying to remember what the air was like, why July made you different. A good playlist does that work for you. It holds the moment still.
Music’s probably the only reliable time machine. You can hear one of these songs in February and suddenly you’re back there, heat on your skin, the whole season compressed into three minutes. Not the Instagram version of summer. Just the actual thing, captured.
Berlin has three things to see: the TV Tower, the Brandenburg Gate, and a guy on a bike who sells drugs. When you finally settle into the city mentally instead of just renting an apartment there, it takes about two weeks before someone introduces you to him. He knows someone who knows someone. Before long you’re standing in a bar somewhere and this guy shows up with kind eyes, you talk about life and love and death, he hands you some bags, he disappears. Until next time.
In 2009, 1,331 people in Berlin died from drugs. The capital leads the nation in overdose deaths, year after year. But no one I know lets this fact change their plans. The party nights in the trendy districts are punishing—loud, exhausting, relentless. Without speed or LSD or ecstasy, you can’t sustain it. Everyone knows this. Everyone knows where to get it and how.
No one thinks of themselves as dependent. Taking pills or powder is just part of it, like Red Bull and kebab at 4 a.m. It’s fine to do once. To stay up. To push through the fatigue, the hollow feeling, the weight of your own head. The image of a junkie in the corner doesn’t match the person you think you are. But everyone I know has a friend who meant to quit and didn’t. Who got stuck somewhere between once and always.
Demonizing drugs as a thing for addicts and losers is easy but wrong. They’re embedded in every layer of society—beer, cigarettes, pills, heroin. The law says no, which sounds serious until you realize it doesn’t stop anyone. It just makes everything quieter and more matter-of-fact.
A little experiment is fine. We’re here once. What’s the harm. Try this once, try that once. The problem is when once becomes routine. When Tuesday morning you’re doing a line with your breakfast cereal, just to see. When you’re popping stimulants just to function. When weed takes up more time than cooking or sleeping or anything else that’s actually supposed to sustain you.
The trick with anything that can grab you is keeping balance. Between trying something and depending on it. Between playing and needing. Between existing and disappearing. If you’re going to let something control your consciousness, you don’t just accept the consequences—you have to stay aware of the line. The one between experiment and habit.
I still go to Berlin sometimes. I still know where to find it. I still know the people. And I still tell myself it’s just this once, just for the weekend. I’m pretty sure I’m lying.
The Naked and Famous make the kind of synth-pop that sounds like it’s trying to escape from inside your own head. There’s something about their production—clean, mechanical, but never cold—that gets under your skin. All of This Forever has that same restless energy they’ve always had, the sense that they’re chasing something they can’t quite name. I’ve never been able to shake them once they’re in rotation, which is both the appeal and the problem.
Saturday night, cheap wine and bad pizza in a second-floor apartment while Berlin’s Fashion Week happens somewhere else without us. Ghostbusters on the screen, the weather channel after that, and the specific paralysis of knowing we could do literally anything tonight and yet here we are. At some point—wine-drunk, maybe around 11—I start thinking about what an actually good weekend would look like. Not aspirational. Not the kind of thing you’d post. Just… what would make this feel like something.
First idea’s stupid but persistent: buy a dead domain on eBay and turn it into something ridiculous. nerdcore.de as an organic fruit import operation. Something nobody would ever verify, which is the whole point. Or get on the U-Bahn in July with cheap vanilla ice cream, shorts, sandals—make summer everybody’s problem for forty-five minutes. Just sit there and make them think about heat.
Then it gets more personal. Not touching yourself for a whole weekend just to feel what Monday morning actually tastes like. There’s something honest about that kind of self-denial, almost religious. Same logic as hunting dead Furbies at the flea market and burning them on the street—watching plastic go back to what it always was. Or just staring at someone beautiful for long enough that it stops being a choice, that your face just stays there and you can’t do anything about it.
The weirder stuff comes next. Apparently Sweden’s doing this thing where you lick your own armpit. I don’t know if that’s real but it feels like it should be. Building a bunker outside the city, stocking it, waiting for the bombs. At least when WWIII comes we’d have somewhere to party. Kidnapping Lykke Li and forcing private concerts until the cops show up. Sleeping with a friend and whispering something stupid and true in the dark—your lips taste like kebab and they’re soft like flatbread. Not performing it. Just saying what happened.
The last one lands different. Plant a tree. Like that would somehow balance the weekend. Like I’d actually follow through instead of just thinking about it while the city stays out there being important and we’re still here with cheap wine, watching the storm roll in.
She & Him sound like they’re recording in the same room as you, and that closeness—the space they leave, the way M. Ward and Zooey Deschanel listen to each other without pushing—just works. Their Christmas albums especially have this oddly comforting quality, the shelter you find in something deliberately modest and warm. It’s one of those things where the more you listen the more you notice how much precision goes into sounding that relaxed.
Before I cared about anything else, Nintendo was the only company I trusted. I remember the sound of Kangaskhan in the backyard. The fury when the power went out before I killed Koopa. The pure joy of sending my best friends off cliffs with Sheik. Nothing deep about it. Nintendo made the best things, and that mattered more than whatever our ethics teacher wanted us to talk about.
So yesterday Nintendo announced the 3DS and my immediate thought was: they’re actually going to do this. A handheld with two screens and a built-in 3D display—no glasses, no bullshit, just it working. March 25 for around 200 euros. It sounds competent. It sounds like Nintendo knowing exactly what they’re doing.
What gets me is the lineup they’re promising. Ocarina of Time and Star Fox 64 remade in 3D. New games too—Street Fighter IV, Kid Icarus. Your old DS games still play. Virtual Console brings back the fundamentals. It’s not revolutionary, it’s just Nintendo understanding that people want exactly what worked before, but slightly better.
The 3DS is technically a gimmick. A screen that makes 3D without glasses is a neat party trick, nothing you actually need. But every time Nintendo releases a handheld I fall into it. There’s something about the way they make them—the weight, the screen, the buttons. They make it impossible not to want.
I need to hold one first. Nintendo’s running demo events across Europe, so eventually I’ll stand in a crowd of people who grew up on Game Boys and try the 3DS and see if the 3D is real or just marketing. And then I’ll know whether this is another months-long obsession or if they actually nailed something.
But I already know the answer. I’m buying it. I’m just waiting for an excuse.
After a few years running a site, I got asked the same things over and over. How do you build something that actually works. How do you make money. What’s the secret. The honest answer is there’s no secret—just three things that kept everything alive for me.
First is image. Everyone develops one online, whether they mean to or not. One guy becomes the guy who destroys everything he touches, someone else becomes the omniscient voice, another is the weirdo who can say anything because that’s his territory. Nobody’s actually like that. But if you want to stick in someone’s memory, you have to be consistent. You commit to a version of yourself and then live inside it. It’s partly strategy, partly self-invention, mostly just not faking it every day. Because people smell the performance.
What you genuinely care about forms the skeleton. Where you live, what music hits you, what you read, who you spend time with—all of it bleeds into this internet version of yourself. The trick is making it real enough that you can sustain it without feeling like you’re performing. You magnify pieces of yourself that are actually interesting and fold in some ambition, some aspiration, until it feels true.
A website needs its own distinct image too, though it stays connected to yours. I used to think of it as a positioning triangle—pick three publications or sites you admire, put them at the corners, build something in the middle. A music blog at the top, a design magazine on the left, something journalistic on the right. That becomes your boundaries. Everything you publish fits inside those lines.
Design hits first, and it has to land. It needs to stop someone from scrolling past. Make them come back. And it has to convince brands and agencies that this is worth their money. From the moment the page loads, everything needs to feel intentional. Name matters. Hosting matters. Nothing rented.
The thing that kills most blogs is they can’t sustain it. One post and waiting doesn’t work. You’re publishing multiple times daily without the quality dropping and without losing yourself. You read obsessively in your lane. You curate, vary the formats, stay interesting. You have to love it enough that showing up is just what you do, not what you’re forcing yourself to do anymore.
The blogs that lasted were unmistakable about their obsession. Of course this person publishes six times a day. Of course this is all they care about. The ones that died—you could feel the strain from the beginning. The fatigue or the fakeness. You could sense the person running out of gas.
I don’t know if any of this transfers. Everyone finds their own path. But I saw it happen enough times to trust it: if you’re building something and waiting for it to explode without actually loving the work, without creating something true enough to live in every day, it’s going to fail. I watched it happen repeatedly. That’s not wisdom. That’s just what I observed.
Nokia was doing this campaign thing around Berlin Fashion Week — pop-up cafe, models, shooting for the C7. You could smell the panic dressed up as strategy. Partner with fashion, collaborate with photographers, put beautiful young people in your ads. It’s what you do when you know something’s wrong but you’re not ready to admit it.
I remember the posters. They looked great — solid photography, beautiful models, the whole aesthetic was right. But everyone already knew what was coming. The phone didn’t matter. The fashion tie-in didn’t matter. None of it could change the fundamental thing that was already happening. They tried though. They really tried. There’s something almost beautiful about that — a big company swinging at a pitch it knows is already past them.
René had spent years building something on that domain—a blog about Star Wars, zombie music, unhinged pop culture obsessions, whatever he felt like writing about that week. And then he made the mistake of calling the company hosting it assholes. In public. When the cease-and-desist came, he didn’t apologize. He just ignored it. So they lawyered up and took the domain.
Just like that. Years of work, an actual voice, readers who knew where to find him, and it wasn’t his anymore. The domain belonged to Euroweb now. It wasn’t even clear why—domain seizures don’t usually work that way, usually you lose the hosting and can move the domain elsewhere, but this time they just took it.
I found out about it the way you find out about most internet disasters—someone mentioned it, I looked it up, and there was the story. René’s Twitter was strangely unbothered about it. “Euroweb is right, whatever, it’ll be great.” Maybe that’s genuine. Maybe it’s just what you say when you’ve already lost.
What gets under my skin is that this is the exact fear sitting in the back of every blogger’s head who’s spent enough time actually building something. Years of work, a real voice, an audience that knows where to find you, all of it depending on a domain registered with a company that can revoke it whenever you annoy them enough. You’re renting an identity.
He apparently moved the whole thing to a new URL. The blog survived. The writing’s still there. But the address changed, and losing an address feels like more than just losing a domain. It’s someone else rewriting your history by moving the signpost.
The work didn’t disappear. But the place where it lived did. That’s the part that bothers me.
MTV announced an American version of Skins—the British cult series about teenagers navigating parties, sex, drugs, and all the shit that comes with growing up. Same first season, same basic story, different characters. It had already aired on BBC America, but apparently that wasn’t American enough.
The original Skins was genuinely good—a generational snapshot that didn’t flinch from what it was showing. Sex was sex, drugs were drugs, and the whole thing had actual teeth. So when MTV said they’d do their own version, fans immediately knew what that meant: castration.
I watched the premiere anyway. An hour of déjà vu with twenty commercial breaks cutting into whatever momentum might have built. Same dialogue, different actors. Same scenes, less courage. Effy’s now a blonde with nothing behind the eyes. Cassie’s got darker hair and less of the weird grace that made her interesting. The gay character is now a girl, I guess, because why not scramble everything that mattered about the original.
The censoring was automatic—bleeping profanity, no nudity, all the physical reality that made the show feel lived-in just erased. MTV needed something that could air with parents in the room, which is basically an admission that this was never for the same audience. It was for American teenagers who wanted the aesthetic of Skins without anything in it that might actually disturb someone.
The British show wasn’t a masterpiece because it was edgy for edginess’ sake. It was a masterpiece because it let characters actually exist as themselves, complicated and sexual and self-destructive, without the need to make it palatable. The US version is what happens when you take that away—you get the shape of something good with the actual substance hollowed out.
Real fans knew where to look. The real Skins was continuing, and no amount of network money was going to improve on what was already there.
Monday and you’re supposed to be somewhere. You could do anything else—wash a dog, kick a traffic light, fight Scientology, drink vodka at dawn, smoke shisha until nothing matters, organize years of computer files you’ve ignored, play Wii at an embarrassing age, burn down your kitchen trying to cook something ambitious, kiss someone because, make beds you’ll destroy in hours, go swimming clothed, water plants, quit your job, have sex, actually have an adventure.
Or just listen to a mixtape. Someone made it for you. Put it on and let that be the Monday instead of whatever was waiting.
Amanda Palmer’s the kind of artist who decided early on that being uncomfortable was more interesting than being liked. The performances, the refusal to apologize for sex or weirdness or taking up space exactly as she wanted it. That commitment to exist without apology, without the edit button.
I used to write things like this when the blog was all chaos and provocation. The year is 2076 in my head, there’s a war over the last can of Red Bull, and me and Udo are in some pink-unicorn rebellion in Radioactive City. We send a message to the past with ten missions that don’t make sense—report your ex’s new boyfriend, hand out condoms at nursing homes, get naked, send love letters to teachers, show up at Jehovah’s Witnesses with magazines about German Idol. If you complete all ten, maybe the apocalypse won’t happen. Which is stupid. Which was the point.
This was the blog’s voice back then. Absurdist, crude, sexual, pointless. You weren’t supposed to actually do any of it. You were supposed to get that we were all just in on some cosmic prank, that seriousness was the enemy and randomness was the only honest response to everything falling apart. American Apparel was still a thing. Skins was still cool. The internet hadn’t learned to be disappointed yet.
I can’t remember why I thought any of this needed to exist, but it did, and it felt right at the time. Looking back it’s just weird and a little sad—this artifact of a moment when irony felt like a shield instead of a trap. But it’s still there, still saying something about what it felt like to be online in that specific year, in that specific flavor of chaos. Unmoored. Crude. Refusing to make sense. That was the point.
Marty McFly exists in this perfect pocket where nothing about the movie feels dated—not because it’s timeless in the way people say that about good work, but because the whole thing is so clearly from its moment that it became its own world. Michael J. Fox had this hyperkinetic energy, all twitching restlessness and smart-aleck timing, that made Marty feel like an actual person rather than a teenager in a movie. The performance works because Fox never played it cool; he let Marty be anxious and funny and out of his depth, scrambling to fix things instead of knowing what he was doing. There’s something about that uncertainty—the way his face changes when he realizes something’s gone wrong, the little physical comedy that never feels calculated—that’s stayed with me longer than the plot itself. It’s one of those films that works for so many reasons that you can watch it at any age and find something different to hold onto. When you’re a kid it’s adventure, when you’re older it’s about your parents being actual people, and somewhere along the way it becomes about time itself and how you can’t fix anything no matter how fast you run.
Some internet genius at Kink.com had an idea: get a performer who’s technically still a virgin, let people vote on who deflowers her, film the whole thing, and put a camera inside her so you can watch the membrane break. It’s the kind of idea that would never make it past the first pitch if anyone involved had any sense, but that’s not how things work anymore.
The performer is Nicki Blue, which either is her real name or says something about her parents. She’s 33, or maybe 21—the story got updated, which itself is a red flag—and she’s been in hardcore films for years. The kind with titles you recognize if you recognize them at all. Anal scenes, gang bangs, the full catalog of permissible violence. But never standard penetration. Maybe it was a boundary that stuck. Maybe it was a brand decision that spiraled into its own weird mythology. At a certain point it doesn’t matter. She agreed to it. She probably knew exactly what she was agreeing to.
The fact that the internet gets to vote on it is almost honest, in a bleak way. Democracy as spectacle. Democracy as porn. Everyone gets a voice in how someone else gets fractured.
I remember the detail about the camera more than anything else. The technical sadism of it. The way technology strips the last inch of privacy away and calls it transparency. Someone has to install that. Someone has to work that night. Someone has to see what happens and make sure the video is good.
The whole thing is a perfect crystallization of what we’ve built. Not the internet as connection or knowledge or whatever we told ourselves. Just this: the infrastructure to watch, the infrastructure to vote, the infrastructure to broadcast any violation, and the absence of any good reason not to.
I kissed Tina at fifteen in the concrete stairwell of her apartment building on some hot summer day. Nothing complicated about it—we wanted to, we did it, she went inside. Walking home I knew I’d just ended things with Jasmine, and I was right. Jasmine never forgave me for it, like one kiss somehow negated everything else.
Things with Susanne were different. We spent a year and a half cheating on each other constantly, some kind of revenge cycle where we’d fuck other people and then come home swearing eternal love and meaning it, at least for a few hours. I can’t remember who started it. Maybe it doesn’t matter. What I remember is how much we both seemed to enjoy the destruction of it, how we kept pushing to see what we could survive. By the time we split in my early twenties I was worn out in a way I didn’t have words for yet.
Then came Sabrina, Regina, and Steffi, each with her own definition of the line. Sabrina said a kiss was cheating. Regina said thinking about someone else was. Steffi’s threshold was somewhere else again, and I kept crossing it because I was the kind of person who never learned where the boundary was until I’d already smashed through it. With my scattered, erratic nature, I just kept failing tests I didn’t know I was taking.
None of them talk to me anymore. Jasmine never forgave the Tina kiss. Susanne… I guess we both lost whatever weird game we were playing. Sabrina, Regina, Steffi—I burned through those too, same pattern every time.
The thing I should have figured out earlier, the thing I’d ask if I ever started something again: what’s cheating for you? Not as some relationship test, but as actual information about how not to hurt someone. I kept expecting that wanting someone badly enough would somehow bridge the gap of never actually talking about what mattered. It doesn’t work that way. You have to know the rules before you can break them, and by then you’ve already broken them.
Dirty Vegas understood restraint in a way a lot of electronic acts didn’t. Every synth line had purpose, nothing was decoration, and underneath the clean production there was this ache—something genuine searching to get out. For a band built on loops and programming, they felt surprisingly human.
Went back to “The Best Of” N.E.R.D. this week, which is never a good sign. Pharrell and the crew had this thing figured out—looked untouchable, surrounded by beautiful women, more fun than seemed legal. Listening now it’s just competent. Nothing wrong with it, nothing that makes you feel alive. That’s the worst thing an album can be.
JJ from Sweden shouldn’t work. The production is deliberately rough, the synths are thin, nothing polished. But there’s this urgency underneath that makes you listen. Sometimes the cheapest thing is the most honest thing.
Gorillaz made an album on an iPad and you can hear it—thin, hollow, like they were goofing around. “Clint Eastwood” was genuinely great. This isn’t. At least it’s free so you’re only losing time.
Chromeo is pure sex on a beat, which is their entire job and they execute it perfectly. The problem is everything else suffers. Around song five it all starts sounding the same. It’s fine for an hour at a club, but then the emptiness catches up with you.
“King Night” by Salem is the strange one. Those vocals are aggressive without trying to be cool, the synths deliberately ugly. The whole thing feels hostile in a way that feels earned, not affected. I played it three times and felt worse each time, which meant something was working.
Then there’s Peach Kelli Pop—a twenty-two-year-old making lo-fi bedroom pop where the imperfection is the whole point. It’s the record I’d least recommend to anyone, but it’s the one I keep coming back to for reasons I don’t fully understand.
There’s a corner of the internet where people with actual drawing skills have spent thousands of hours rendering the Simpson family in every conceivable sexual scenario. I found some of it once while going down a rabbit hole, and what got me wasn’t the existence of it—of course it exists, everything exists if enough people want it badly enough—but the craft involved. Someone animated Marge with the same meticulous attention to light and shadow they’d use on paying work. The dedication to such completely unhinged subject matter is almost impressive. Almost.
When you hear a Deerhoof song, it sounds like someone’s playing multiple songs at once—instruments all pushing against each other, nothing lining up, but it works anyway. There’s a commitment there to the genuinely strange, to following every impulse even when it gets uncomfortable. Every record feels like they’re chasing the next weird idea rather than repeating what worked before. That restlessness is what makes them work. You know they’re not trying to impress anyone. They’re just making something they actually believe in, and that kind of belief carries.
Bruce Wayne shows up at Gotham High with acne, insomnia, and an obsession with technology that makes him exactly the kind of kid nobody wants to sit with at lunch. Alfred’s watching from the sidelines, knows what this teenager’s supposed to become, but for now there’s just high school, just survival, just the ordinary crisis of fitting in before anything else.
Celeste Green and Jeffrey Thomas pitched this concept to DC, and somehow, impossibly, it almost got made. They had the storyboards. They had the artwork. They had a whole version of Gotham’s rogues gallery reimagined as high school kids—villains and allies broken down into ordinary adolescent hierarchy. Cheerleaders, outcasts, the ones who drift between groups.
The pitch worked on me. There’s something honest about starting with the wreckage before the costume, or at least alongside it. Kids figuring out who they are while one of them is already designed to become someone else. That collision—ordinary life against destiny—felt like the real center of something worth exploring.
But I could see exactly where it would’ve died in development. A few notes here, a focus group there, and suddenly you’re in MTV reality TV space—kids singing about their feelings in hallways, everything earnest and desperate and unwatchable. The concept had a narrow window where it worked, and that window closes fast.
The project got shelved. DC had other Batman things cooking, always does. I’m still not sure if that was a loss or a dodge. There’s a version of Gotham High that could’ve been brilliant. But there’s also the version that would’ve actually existed, and those are almost never the same thing.
The blue sky over Berlin is making you sick. Literally—there’s that feeling in your chest where you want to throw it all up, the weekend, the wine, the conversations you shouldn’t have had. You’ve spent three days picking up books and putting them down, drinking something that expired months ago, absorbing other people’s histories like they matter. Everyone here has a lesbian past or something close to it. The city’s full of people carrying stories that don’t belong to them. It all ends quietly, without announcement, just fades the way weekends do when you’ve spent them thinking instead of living.
That’s when you get outside. Not because it helps—nothing helps—but because staying with it feels worse. The sky’s still gray, you’re still tired, but you step back into it anyway. You find something worth listening to, something that matches what you’re carrying, and somehow the walk through the city changes.
Music doesn’t fix anything. But it gives your thoughts somewhere to go besides spinning around in your skull. There’s always a song that fits the exact moment—the taste of old wine, the weight of strange stories, the need to move forward. You find it, put it in your ears, and the city looks different. Maybe nothing actually changes. But different is enough.
A satirical magazine famous for running stories about aliens invading Earth and Megan Fox being secretly male published a fake interview where Mark Zuckerberg said Facebook was spiraling out of control, that running it had destroyed his life, and that he was shutting the entire thing down on March 15, 2011. Everything deleted. All the photos, videos, messages—gone forever.
Thousands of people fell for it. There was actual panic. Someone quoted a student named Denise asking something like, “I spend ten hours a day on Facebook. What am I supposed to do with all that free time?” It’s funny in that way things are funny when they’re a little too close to the truth.
Facebook denied it casually, like they were in on the joke. “We weren’t notified we’re closing, and honestly we have a lot going on right now.” Perfect response. Didn’t need to defend anything.
The fear underneath the hoax was completely legitimate, though. Half a billion people had built their social lives into this platform. It’s where you kept tabs on people you’d lost touch with, where you flirted, where entire relationships happened. And the thought that it could all just vanish because a founder woke up exhausted one day? That wasn’t paranoid. Platforms die. The internet is fragile in ways we don’t like to admit, even when we’ve built our days around it.
I remember the internet before Facebook existed. Smaller networks. LiveJournal, instant messenger buddy lists, forums where you knew maybe fifty people. You weren’t constantly aware of everyone you’d ever met, weren’t comparing your life to theirs. Once Facebook arrived, I didn’t miss any of it. Nobody did. The density of connection, the constant awareness, the sheer size of it—too addictive to refuse.
But I’d let myself become dependent on something that could vanish at any moment. Not because Weekly World News said so, but because it was obviously true. And I have no idea what I’d have done with that freedom.
There’s something about work that exists between disciplines—not quite art, not quite design, just someone thinking through materials and time. Eudes de Santana does that. His pieces sit in that space where the conceptual weight is real but nothing feels labored. You look at them and something lands that wasn’t obvious at first glance. The title here—all that German phrasing about lean years—suggests a shift, a threshold, maybe a period where resources thinned out and something different had to be made from what was left. I’m drawn to artists who work through constraint rather than around it.
Finally, the holidays are over. Christmas, New Year’s, birthdays — all those celebration days that pile up at once and devour your calendar. Gone. Now it’s just work, routine, the long stretch of nothing until summer. You’re stuck in it for months.
There was this list of ridiculous weekend missions I used to make. Not goals or self-improvement nonsense, just absurd things to do. Complete enough of them and you’d earn karma, you’d earn sex, you’d earn proof that the weekend meant something.
Like: build a time machine, go back to 1937, show Hitler an episode of modern reality TV. Convince him that humanity’s future is bleak enough that maybe the whole genocide thing isn’t worth the effort. Or steal a thousand euros and surprise your girlfriend mid-sex by flying her to Australia — I wanted to see what expression her face would make. There was one about eating a whole grain rice cake in public, just breathing loud and gross while you did it. Throw Chicken McNuggets onto a busy street and scream about mass animal slaughter while you’re on your knees, really commit to the drama of it.
Some were just straight-up cruel. Beat up some Nazis. Check that your genitals are still there (apparently they were stealing everything back then). Buy the new Juli album. I actually like Juli. And then watch reality TV. All of it. Every repeat, every interview, every follow-up report. Sit there and let your intelligence drain away on live television.
Whether you actually did any of it didn’t matter. The point was having something stupid to want, something that proved the weekend wasn’t just empty time leaking away. The shape might have been completely fucked, but at least it had a shape.
I never thought Ines would actually make it to 21. Not in a dark way—just that she always seemed like she’d stay seventeen forever, permanently wrecked from some village party, reeking of cheap vodka and bad decisions. The kind of person you figured time would just pass over.
Time doesn’t pass over anyone, though. The exhaustion just changes. Stops feeling earned and starts feeling like the actual weight of being alive. All those jokes about stretch marks and menopause—they’re savage, but they’re true. Time does exactly what you’ve always known it would. It just hurts more than expected.
I owe her anyway. The pieces she wrote about Tamagotchis falling apart, about kissing and wanting and that specific low-level dread of being young and stupid in the 2000s—they stuck with me. She found something true in all that confusion. And then there was the autumn in Munich, which was its own kind of education. The village parties that were genuinely foul, the drinking that was industrial, nights that were filthy and stupid and felt important because we were inside them. Probably none of it was as important as it felt, but it felt that way at the time.
There was a moment—short enough it almost doesn’t matter—where we were something real to each other. Not just two people who’d known each other. It had weight. The kind of weight that doesn’t actually leave, no matter how hard you try to let it go.
So: 21. That’s something. Happy birthday, Ines. Drink something terrible for me. I hope you’re still breaking things.
Dan Bejar’s 2011 pivot toward sleek synth-pop felt calculated until you realized it wasn’t—it was just him at a different angle, all the melodicism and anxiety he’d always had now wrapped in drum machines and those gorgeous plastic horns. The album moves like someone moving through a party where nothing’s quite connecting, smooth on the surface but you can feel the distance in every song. I keep coming back to it because there’s something about the way it’s distant and immediate at once, like watching something happen behind glass that somehow makes you feel the ache anyway. It’s not warm. It doesn’t want to be. And that’s exactly why it works.
Robyn finally corralled those three EPs she scattered out over the year into one album, “Body Talk,” and I’ve had it running on repeat. If Robyn’s never landed for you, this won’t change that, but if you already live there, it’s the kind of clean electro-pop that doesn’t need to announce itself.
Ellie Goulding dropped “Bright Lights” last year and I haven’t really gotten past it. The special edition with the live recordings still holds that same precision, that control. She’s 24 and somehow knows exactly what she’s doing.
I got tired of being nice and spun Ghostface Killah’s “Apollo Kids”—Wu-Tang territory, real hip-hop, the kind that sounds like it came from somewhere actual instead of someone’s idea of somewhere. The beats are thick, gray, exhausted. They don’t let up.
Regina Spektor did something to me once with “Samson” that I still haven’t recovered from. I was actually crying in bed, the kind of crying you don’t usually get anymore. “Live in London” hits the same spot—her voice, live, no overdubs, no crowd noise, this woman whose entire being is somehow bigger than it should be. Still devastates.
OFF! put out their first four EPs as one record and that’s exactly what punk should do. Fast and dumb and loud. The kind of thing you crank and let wash over you until your neighbors are genuinely angry.
Solar Bears’ “She Was Coloured In” was what I needed by the end of the week—electronic but not cold, atmospheric but not trying to prove anything. Something that lets you disappear into it. Beautiful in a quiet way.
Most people will tell you Ocarina of Time is the best Zelda. Or A Link to the Past. Maybe Link’s Awakening if they’re feeling different. Majora’s Mask is the one that actually got to me.
The setup is weird. The moon is falling on Clock Town, you’ve got three days to stop it, and when it hits, you go back to day one with the Ocarina of Time and do it again. Repeating the same three days over and over sounds like torture, not a game. But it works because of what happens in those days.
Every person in the city has a schedule. They wake up, they go about their lives, they do their thing, and then the world ends. You watch it happen. Then you reset and they’re doing the same routine again, unaware. There’s this detail that gets to me—some guy stuck in a toilet somewhere in Clock Town. I still think about him. Not like it’s funny. Just the fact of him being stuck in there when everything falls apart.
The atmosphere sits different than anything else in the series. Not scary, but heavier. There’s a quiet resignation to it. Everyone is living the same final three days over and over, and they don’t know it. You can do side quests and collect masks, but under all of it there’s a weight that doesn’t lift. It’s apocalypse without the drama.
I got attached to the NPCs in that game in a way I haven’t with any other. Not sentimentally. Just… I didn’t want to leave them. Knowing what was coming. Knowing I couldn’t help.
Majora’s Mask doesn’t rank where it should in the series because it’s weirder and darker than what people expect from Zelda. But that’s what makes it work. It goes somewhere the rest of the franchise doesn’t touch.
I don’t understand expensive designer clothes. Wrap shopping bags around your body, grow a hipster beard, throw on some chunky shoes, and boom—you’re setting trends. That’s the whole game right there.
There’s this woman with a helmet on. Full protective gear, hands up in front of her face like she’s bracing for impact. Terrified. But look at her and you don’t think about the fear. You just think she’s beautiful.
Snoop Dogg’s everywhere these days, teaching kids things in places they shouldn’t be learning them. Counting from one to ten like it’s the most natural lesson in the world.
Some people you see and they’ve just got it. A girl in her grandmother’s jacket—she stole the jewelry too—with a cigarette, that smile. You wouldn’t care what she was wearing. She’d make a garbage bag work.
Then there’s the kid with the Hello Kitty chain and the makeup and hair that makes no sense. But he’s got the abs, and he knows it. There’s something almost admirable about making exactly the wrong choice and owning it.
A shirt that just happens to be cool. Curves. No performance. Faces don’t really matter when you’ve got the rest going on.
And somewhere in these moments there’s always a dog. Red shirt, accidentally caught in someone else’s photo, looking like he knows he looks ridiculous. You wonder what he was thinking when the camera went off. “I look like an idiot.” Probably that.
Street style isn’t about the clothes at all. It’s about the people who aren’t thinking about being seen. They’re just alive. That’s the thing you notice.
I’ve never paid for sex. Either I always thought it was wrong, or I didn’t have the money—probably both. Sure, I’d scrape together cash for drinks and movies and whatever. But paying straight up, no cover story? It never happened. No pimps, no red-light windows, no hourly rooms. Not very rock star.
I’d pass Oranienburger Straße enough times that it stopped being shocking. What I couldn’t stop noticing was how pretty some of them were.
One night after pizza I was walking there with a friend and her eight-year-old sister. We passed these women in white boots—tired eyes watching us go by, women who probably took more in a single night than most people manage in a year. Short ones, tall ones, thin, thick, everything.
The sister’s name was Alina. She asked what the pretty girls in white boots were doing, and whether they weren’t cold. I tried to explain it to her simply. They were prostitutes, I said. And yeah, it gets cold out there.
“What’s a prostitute?” Her small voice was loud enough that some of them heard it. One of them smiled. One looked angry.
I said the first thing that came to mind: “They do it for money. They love men for money.”
That sentence won’t leave my head. It’s been there for days. They love men for money. How sad that is. For both of them. The women. The men. How does a girl end up in a situation like that? How broken down does a guy’s life have to be to spend his paycheck on it? Is everyone just resigned to this? Does anyone actually want it?
I don’t believe any of them dreamed about this as kids. I don’t believe they were in school thinking: yeah, that’s my future. Forty years old, dealing with divorced guys, whatever they’re carrying. Some girl’s only option. Some guy’s routine Tuesday.
The oldest profession. Supposed to have some kind of dignity, I guess. Something time-honored. But I don’t think there’s much dignity on either end. Just the places you end up when the other doors close.
You’re in traffic on a Monday morning, or sitting at a desk watching your coffee get cold, or standing on a platform waiting for a train that’s running late. That specific heaviness is all the moment has to offer. The weekend is completely gone now, already turning into fiction in your head, and there’s still the whole rest of the week ahead.
Music is supposed to help with this, but most of it makes it worse. Upbeat stuff is insulting. Sad stuff is just surrender. What you need is something that understands the texture of Monday morning without trying to fix it.
I put together a mixtape for that feeling. Nothing elaborate, just songs that know what they’re doing. Agnes Obel has this quality where her voice doesn’t demand anything—it just sits there, honest and quiet. Two Door Cinema Club understands the rhythm of moving through a day without pretending the day is going anywhere. Bat for Lashes. The whole thing’s called “Set Yourself on Colors,” which is a strange title for something mostly about grey and dread, but the songs prove it works.
Does having the right music on Monday change anything? The day’s still the same. The work’s still there, the fatigue’s real. But it changes how you feel while you’re standing in it. You’re not less tired, but you’re less angry about being tired. That’s something.
2010 was shit. Not in any way I need to explain, just the weight of a whole year where nothing felt right. Not enough of anything that matters: not enough sex, not enough magic moments you’d actually tell someone about, not enough evidence that any of this is worth the energy it takes. The job had been destroying me for so long I couldn’t remember what not being angry felt like. My relationship had either broken or I’d just stopped noticing. Every night was the same as every other night.
So January comes around and you’re supposed to want something different. You want to be the person who loses the weight, quits smoking, eats like he respects his own body. You want to leave. You want to travel. You want to be angry less often. You want the constant low-level misery to just shut up for once. You write it all down because writing it down is supposed to make it real, supposed to make you believe you could actually be someone else starting tomorrow.
But I’ve lived long enough to know how this works. Pick five things and you’ll stick with maybe two for a few weeks before life happens and you’re back to the cigarettes, the shitty food, the job, everything exactly the same. Except now you also get to feel like garbage for failing again. Too many intentions just spreads the failure thinner but doesn’t make it go away. The only thing that ever seems to stick is picking one. One thing that matters. One thing that if it moved, might make everything else feel less impossible to live with.
So that’s what I did. Looked at the list until something was obviously it. Taped it to the wall above my bed so I’d see it first thing every morning. Whether that changes anything or not, I guess I’ll find out.
I keep coming back to Skins even though I know what I’m walking into. The show doesn’t apologize — it’ll spend an entire episode on someone getting high, or failing at sex, or just falling apart, and that’s just what the episode is. No lesson, no arc. Most television won’t do that. Season 5 is a new cast, same chaos, and I’m curious enough to watch.
Looking back at a year of writing is always strange. You get worked up about something—a film, an idea, a moment you want to preserve—and it feels urgent at the time. Months later, you can’t quite remember why. But some pieces hold. Some still feel like I got close to something true, or honest enough that I don’t feel stupid rereading them. This is the work from 2010 I’d actually want to keep.
I made this mixtape at the end of 2010, called it “The End Of Everything Is Near” because I needed something playing while I worked and studied and sat in the dark thinking about what came next. Most of the songs came from friends scattered around Berlin, people who’d drifted out of the center looking for quieter blocks. It’s the kind of playlist that sits under your thoughts without demanding anything—just transition music, the sound of closing off on something you can’t quite name.
Steven Meisel photographed supermodels in the places fashion doesn’t show you — recovery clinics, psychiatric wards, the spaces where the industry’s casualties end up. He finds them stripped of mythology, the face that sold a million products now just a person in a hospital gown. His work doesn’t redeem them or make it a story of triumph. It just looks, without turning away. The clinical light, the vulnerability, the evidence of what these women survived to become beautiful. That’s what interested him — not the fantasy, but the cost.
There’s this particular Saturday morning feeling in their sound—the kind of restless optimism that comes from not knowing what you’re doing yet but being sure something’s about to happen. Weekend Forever captures that moment before the plan gets ruined or actually works out, before you figure out if this is growing up or just treading water. The production is clean enough that you can hear every decision, every moment where they decide to push or hold back. It’s a band that understood that indie rock doesn’t have to apologize for sounding like it matters.
Bag Raiders’ ’Sunlight’ is the kind of track that sounds like it’s been in your head longer than it’s actually been playing. There’s this warm inevitability to it, the synths moving with a lazy precision that feels deliberate and effortless at the same time. It sits somewhere between morning light and that moment right before everything gets complicated, a pocket of certainty that shouldn’t exist but does. The whole thing has this confidence—nothing wasted, nothing forced. Once it gets in your rotation it doesn’t really leave.
Even a hardened asshole like me gets sentimental around this time of year, thinking about how we all started with this internet thing. 2003 maybe, I don’t remember exactly. None of us knew each other. We just did our own shit with stolen code snippets and no real idea what we were doing or what you’d even call it.
We were a small diehard clique that bonded through link lists instead of status updates. A substitute family that got us through the usual disasters—bad breakups, failed exams, parents on our backs. We knew something connected us, even if it was just the weird combination of bits and bytes and the occasional semi-nude photo from one of the girls. The rest of the world didn’t want us anyway. Too ugly, too weird, too fat, too much. But I loved every single one of them because we rode through the same shit together on our self-built machines.
Then something shifted. Maybe gradually, maybe all at once. The internet became different. Worse.
When I go back through deleted posts from that time—when people still bought CDs, when the Dreamcast was current, when you could write openly about sex without shame—I realize how lucky I was to be there. Nobody cared if you spent ten paragraphs talking about your friend’s body in crude detail. You could put Nazis and Smurfs and terrible jokes in the same sentence without getting hate mail or discourse. You could insult your twelve daily visitors just because they made you miss The O.C., and the only consequence was some coked-up asshole knocking the antenna off your roof. There was something honest about how little we cared who was listening.
Most of them left. Got real jobs as construction workers or accountants or just quit the internet entirely. The rest got absorbed into whatever social media became, and now they’re stuck counting followers and arguing with idiots in the replies. I don’t blame them for leaving.
A few of us are still around. Ines lives in Berlin, writes sometimes in English. She made a life that isn’t terrible. Marcel became some kind of internet god, gathering more zealots as he goes. I don’t know how to feel about that anymore. Sara left—abandoned all of it, the crude talk, the jokes, the Australian guys—and went traveling instead. She’s the only one I’m genuinely jealous of because she was the one who made this whole internet thing actually cool, and now she’s somewhere warm doing something that matters.
I copy my favorite old posts into a blank document, close the browser, and think about where I’d be without those weird people. No idea. The world just keeps changing and if you can’t keep up you’ve got real problems. So I tell myself that even back then it wasn’t as perfect as I pretend it was, that I’m romanticizing it all, and I’m back here. Present. Still online. Still thinking about it.
I unbutton her pants after enough red wine and the kind of late-night talk that goes nowhere good — her brother, her roommate’s lasagna — and my hand slides between her legs into this thick mass of pubic hair. Curled, stubborn, unshaved for years. I like it.
Hair used to matter because of lice. Now it’s just beauty standards dressed as necessity. Girls are supposed to be smooth like children. Men too. The ideal is hairless and shaved everywhere — makes the dick look bigger, nothing in the way of a blow job. You’re supposed to want that. It’s what men want.
I picture Theresa hairless and it doesn’t work. That bundle of hair between her legs is hers, makes her a real woman, not a child’s body. I haven’t felt like a creep in a while, not the way I do sometimes with people who’ve been razed completely clean.
Twelve-year-old girls having panic attacks over the hair they’re growing. Men going around saying they only fuck smooth pussies. It’s bleak.
Morning comes. She gets up, gets dressed. I mention the pubic hair. “Your ass isn’t even shaved,” she says, quick and flat, before the shower. Fair point. I nod. Taking her to the U-Bahn, I still taste some of her dark hairs between my teeth. She drops into the station with that look and I’m thinking what a woman.
Jamie Woon makes music that sits in the space between presence and dissolving—that 3 a.m. feeling where the world gets quiet enough that you can hear yourself think. Night Air is exactly that texture: minimal, nocturnal, built from restraint. The production has this almost forensic quality to it, every element placed with care, nothing wasted. It’s the kind of work that rewards headphones and insomnia.
There’s something about his approach that feels intentional in a way a lot of electronic music doesn’t bother to be. He’s not chasing drama or trying to make you dance—he’s after something closer to mood, atmosphere, the feeling of being awake when everything else has stopped. It’s beautiful in an understated way, which means most people will miss it entirely, and that’s probably fine. Not everything needs to be for everyone.
I don’t mark my life in years or school classes. I mark it in girls — the ones I chased, the ones who took something from me, the ones who ripped me open. Female creatures, each one a season, months or years of overlap and then the exit. Sacred or sloppy, doesn’t matter. They all proved the same thing: I need someone nearby who inspires me or calls me on my bullshit, regardless of whether we’re together.
I feel like a busted Care Bear sometimes — this thing supposed to radiate infinite goodwill, except the rays have to go somewhere. They land on whoever’s in range. Love thy neighbor. The moment I meet a woman whose taste or energy I can absorb, I’m in. I suck it dry. What’s she listening to? What shoes? What shows? If she says something good, I’m already thinking about how it becomes part of me.
The problem is I can’t separate anymore. Most of my bands, most of my clothes, most of my jokes aren’t mine. Ana gave me Muse. Chrissy wore Adidas Superstars so now I do. Jenny’s way of insulting cashiers — that’s mine now, or was hers, or came from me through her. It’s all tangled, red threads through the years, and I don’t know where any of it started.
Somewhere between the borrowing and the paranoia, I think I’m just rationalizing. Everyone starts as an original and dies as a copy of a thousand influences. So maybe it’s better to steal from beautiful women who actually have something going on than to let yourself be shaped by algorithms, false friends, and people who don’t care. Maybe being a parasite is just how people actually work.
I’m waiting for the next one. Whoever she is, whatever she brings. I know I’ll end up wearing her life for a while.
Beatsteaks have been making the kind of rock that doesn’t apologize for itself since the ’90s. They’re from Berlin, they’re competent in a way that feels earned rather than studied, and they’ve never been interested in trends or drama. Milk & Honey is just them doing what they do—straightforward songs built to last, the kind of album that doesn’t demand anything from you but rewards paying attention anyway.
The morning they announced the new Skins generation, I felt like someone had kicked over a shelf. Four seasons of building characters, watching them break and rebuild, and now E4 had eight new faces ready to pretend none of it mattered. That’s the format—two generations per cast, then hand it over and start again. I knew it was coming. That didn’t make it suck less.
Frankie’s introduction did the work though. She set fire to the headmaster. Not deliberately—she had a lighter in her pocket and flicked it when she got nervous, and he reached for her hand just as a spark caught the straw poking out from under his Scarecrow costume during a school assembly. He ran through the hall screaming “terrorist” at her while three hundred kids threw Coke bottles at him. Sugar makes fire worse. That was the statement: we don’t do order anymore.
Alo seemed to exist in a completely different register. He could identify the nationality of any pornographic film without sound—a skill that was somehow both stupid and revealing of something true. English girls have bad teeth. Americans follow instructions. Germans like anal. But then he’d talk about Victorian photographs and his voice would change entirely: people so sexually repressed they’d sneak through Jack the Ripper-era London just to get photographed naked by someone brave enough to do it. That’s desire, he was saying. That matters.
Rich hated Linkin Park and MCR with what felt like real conviction rather than affectation. He lived by a quote from some comedian—”life is like a porn film, it’s not made for everyone”—which meant he had permission to just dislike things without explaining. Metal. Ugly, angry music. Always right even when he was wrong. Nick was his opposite: no complexity, just momentum. Captain of the rugby team, drinking every day, treating his girlfriend right, getting along with anyone. Balls deep in life, that was the whole thing.
Mini had engineered herself into perfection. M&M because she was the super sweetest girlie you’ll ever meet—designer shoes, careful weight, shopping before sex, never leaving the house without armor. She knew exactly what she was doing. It was armor and it was working.
Liv didn’t want to talk about herself. She’d just give you a guide to dancing: find your people, find a place with loud music, feel it in your kidneys not your ears, do your duty to your booty. Grace kept saying “okay-dokie” and seemed either brilliant or completely constructed. Jane Austen, theater, lucid dreams. Matty showed up in someone else’s socks quoting Nietzsche and Josef Fritzl in the same breath, talking about how reading his words right now was creating a moment that started when he clicked save.
Could they touch what the first two generations had built? That was the question everyone wanted answered, and it felt like the wrong question to ask. The show was good enough that it probably didn’t matter. You’d either connect with these eight people or you wouldn’t. The shelf that got kicked over would settle into place or it wouldn’t.
The internet eats its own. Delicious just proved it again. Yahoo’s bookmark service—which somehow became important to people—is getting shut down. Cue the panic. Suddenly everyone’s running scripts to export their links, hunting for alternatives, signing petitions like a petition is going to matter. It won’t. But I get it. You build something on someone else’s server for years and then one day they decide it’s not worth it anymore.
I’ve watched this happen enough times that it barely registers. AOL. Lycos. MySpace. Google Reader. Flickr started dying the moment Yahoo bought it. YouTube probably won’t exist forever, though it feels too big to kill. But nothing’s too big. Nothing’s permanent. That’s just how it is.
What gets me is how surprised people act, like Delicious was some public utility, like Yahoo gave a shit about their bookmarks. Yahoo’s hemorrhaging money. Google owns search. Of course they cut loose whatever isn’t generating revenue. Of course services disappear. This isn’t tragedy. It’s just the machine.
I’m not innocent about it. I’ve uploaded photos to Flickr thinking they’d be there forever. Stored links, bookmarked articles, built on services that turned out temporary. You do it anyway because the alternative is keeping everything on your own machine, and nobody does that. We need the cloud, or think we do, because it’s free and convenient and asking almost nothing of us except maybe once, when they flip the switch.
Around year ten of watching this, you stop panicking and start accepting. Delicious is gone. Thousands of other things will disappear too. The smart move is never getting attached, never letting your life sit on someone else’s server. The practical move is accepting it happens anyway. I’ll export my bookmarks if I remember to care, and I probably won’t look at them again.
There’s this moment early on where you step into the blue and everything is geometry and light—neon cutting through black, surfaces catching reflection. It feels deliberate. Someone spent real time making sure this digital world looks a certain way.
Sam’s tracking down his father Kevin Flynn, who disappeared into the Grid and never got out. Now it’s run by someone called Clu, and survival is simple: you compete or you die. There are light cycle races where the vehicles burn trails of light and try to force each other off the arena. Watching them, you stop thinking about the plot. They’re hypnotic.
The whole thing is rendered that way. Immaculate geometry. Neon suits glowing. Arenas that are basically sculpture. The original Tron had this sense of discovery—you’re walking into something strange and wondering what happens next. This one feels like a museum exhibit. Beautiful, sealed, untouchable.
The actors don’t help. Jeff Bridges, Olivia Wilde, Garrett Hedlund—they’re all fine in other things, but here they seem to be somewhere else. Their dialogue is flat. They move like they’re uncomfortable in the space. The whole time I was watching, I felt this rift between how much the filmmakers care about the world and how little the cast seems to. It drains something.
The Daft Punk soundtrack is the thing that actually reaches. It’s orchestral and electronic at once, dense and immersive, and it’s the only element that matches what the visuals are trying to do. I bought the album. It’s better than the film by itself—when you’re not distracted by the images, you hear what they were actually building.
Tron Legacy is perfect and completely hollow. You’re paying to sit in that blue world for two hours with people who don’t seem to want to be there. If you go in knowing that, knowing you’re really there for the design and the sound, it’s fine. Let those two things carry you and don’t expect anything else.
The freckles are the first thing. Red hair helps, but it’s the freckles that make you keep looking. She’s known this since school when people gave her shit about them, and she knows it now that they’re the first thing you notice in her photographs. More advantage than disadvantage, she told me. The diplomatic answer, which really means: yes, I know exactly what I have.
She came to modeling by accident. Wanted to do it as a kid, picked sports instead. Later she worked at a photography studio and a photographer asked her to model. By then she already had strong opinions about what she would do and what she wouldn’t, which is rare at any age and especially at twenty-four. She’s done fashion work, implied nudity, full nude shoots. She’s pulling back from the nude stuff now because there’s only so much of it before it gets stale. She wants editorial work, designer collaborations, magazine covers — the kind of shooting where what matters is composition and movement and the shape of her in a frame.
The men who see her pictures get excited about it. She gets emails. She finds it funny mostly. I asked if it bothered her, and she said something I keep thinking about: really anything stimulates men, they’re men, she could wear a sweater and smoke a cigarette and get the same response. Nudity isn’t even the main event. Everyone has their particular thing and most of it has nothing to do with being naked.
She has nine tattoos, none of them especially meaningful. First one on her stomach: “Go big or go home.” So perfectly Texas that it circles back to something true. She wants both arms done eventually, a vulture on her thigh.
Her music taste — Tom Waits, Cat Power, Band of Horses, Bon Iver, Beirut, Air — is the taste of someone who knows what she likes and doesn’t need to perform it. She hasn’t watched many movies lately. Cashback and Me Without You stuck with her. She’d rather be home on her computer with video games than at most parties, though she goes out anyway to dance with actual friends. That introvert thing — you’d rather be alone but you do it anyway because your people matter.
She’s traveled the States coast to coast, just got to London. Nothing too wild happened. A fight with some guy in Seattle once. She could see herself in Europe eventually, maybe London, but she hasn’t been there long enough to know. What she loves about America is the landscape constantly shifting and the weather.
Her fans matter to her — not as something to perform gratitude about, but as a straight fact. They’re why any of this works. The work itself is what she cares about. The perfect shoot would be minimal or totally strange and eerie, something where a beautiful girl is doing something unexpected. Ugly photographs of gorgeous people.
She doesn’t speechify about the industry or womanhood or anything like that. She knows her own boundaries and moves toward what interests her and away from what doesn’t. That’s the whole thing with her.
The Dø are one of those bands that sound deceptively simple until you’re a few listens deep and suddenly everything clicks into place. Krystal and Jotta build these tight electronic and acoustic arrangements that sit somewhere between pop and experimental without quite committing to either. There’s something disarming about how unadorned it all is—a voice, a drum machine, maybe a synth—and yet it sounds more considered than most pop music out there. I fell into their music the way you fall into a good habit, not thinking about it until you realize you’ve been listening to the same album on repeat for two weeks.
I found this old satire recently—a fake dating profile someone made of Julian Assange, back when he was still something people could joke about. A German design blog used to run this column called “Hardcore Contact Ads” where they’d write famous people’s personal ads in their own voice, barely touched. The satire was just in the presentation.
The Assange profile is devastating because it doesn’t have to try. “I seek spirited, erotic, non-conformist women from countries with political turmoil. Western culture produces women that are valueless and inane.” He’s directing a dangerous human rights project—male dominated, of course. He protects women and children, he says, while an ex-girlfriend is accusing him of rape in Sweden. “A gentleman never tells,” he writes, which lands different with that context.
What makes it work is the straightness. No jokes injected by the writer. No editorial snark. Just his own words from interviews arranged so the contradiction becomes visible. By the time you hit “I am the danger,” the satire has gone invisible. It’s not funny anymore. It’s just honest.
I don’t know what happened to that blog. The piece is probably long deleted. But it caught something real—the sound of a guy with a mythology about himself that his actual life keeps contradicting. All it took was holding up a mirror and letting him speak.
There’s something about Scissor Sisters that feels like permission. Not permission in the sense of being allowed — more like watching someone live so completely in their own excess that you stop wondering if you’re supposed to. The theatricality, the sex, the refusal to make it palatable. Jake Shears doesn’t care if you think it’s too much. That energy carries through everything they touch.
I came to them late, which is typical of me. By the time I paid attention they’d already done their best work, already shifted and regrouped and become something different. But that’s how it works — you find what moves you when you find it, not when it’s new. What matters is that the songs are still there, still infectious in that way that dance music at its best is infectious. Not infectious like a cold. Infectious like standing in a room full of people and feeling less alone because the music won’t let you be.
Invisible Light carries that same uncompromising energy. There’s no apology in it. Just the sound of people who know exactly what they want to say and say it anyway, knowing most people won’t get it and not particularly concerned. That’s the kind of art I’ve always gravitated toward — the stuff that doesn’t have time to convince you.
Goku’s just a kid with a monkey tail, flying around on a cloud with a staff while an old pervert in a turtle shell teaches him magic. That’s Dragon Ball. First season. Someone had a world in their head and wanted to show it to you without trying to convince you it mattered. The dialogue is sharp. The characters are genuinely strange and appealing—Bulma doesn’t think twice about grabbing Goku’s crotch. The mysteries feel real. You could believe something was going to happen.
Then they made Dragon Ball Z. Then Dragon Ball GT. And it all becomes aliens trying to destroy the planet every other episode, Goku getting stronger in ways that stopped making sense, fights that stretch across three weeks of yelling. Once the show figured out people would watch the same battle repeat forever with slightly higher numbers, that’s all it became. A formula. Something made to be consumed, not experienced. Something for people who wanted the same emotional beat played over and over until it doesn’t register anymore.
It’s one of those things where you can point to the exact moment the story died and the machine took over. The early stuff had a rhythm to it, a sense of discovery. By Z it was just escalation—bigger numbers, more enemies, longer fights. The formula won. It always does.
What stays with me is early Goku. The horny monkey kid flying through the sky. Not whatever they made him into when they realized they could just repeat the same thing forever and people would buy it. The early stuff was a story being told. Everything after was a business model being executed.
Seacoal on a beach is leftover from somewhere else — dark fragments in the sand, chunks tumbling down from cliffs, things that don’t belong and got carried there anyway. I think about moths the same way. Creatures that look like the night has grown wings. Drawn to the light that kills them. Both dark, both remnants, both pulled toward something they shouldn’t want.
Weekends are when your body remembers it’s not just a delivery system. Friday hits and the pattern breaks, and you’ve got two days to either fill them with something real or spend the whole time scrolling and feeling hollow about it. That’s the binary—act or rot.
Kiss someone. Not the safe version. The kind that tastes like want and feels like you’re alive.
The rest is smaller things. Go somewhere you don’t normally go. Talk to a stranger. Spend money on something ridiculous. Listen to music loud. Call someone you’ve been dodging and say what you mean. Do something that scares you a little. Move your body around. Sleep at weird hours. The whole thing is permission to be an animal instead of a worker.
It sounds like nothing, but it’s everything. The week tries to convince you that you’re made of punctuality and email and small talk. The weekend is two days to prove it’s lying.
The Killers have always understood that gap between fantasy and what’s actually solid. Boots aren’t the shiny gift, just something real you can walk in. Brandon Flowers makes songs that sound like opening credits to something huge, but they’re really about small true moments. A pair of boots is more honest than most Christmas presents. That’s exactly their territory—the space between what you want to feel and what actually sustains you.
I can still feel it sometimes, that pull. Walking past the game store in December, seeing the Cataclysm box with its red fire and broken world. A notification in an email about the expansion release. Nothing desperate, nothing urgent—just a low frequency hum that’s never quite gone away, even after all these years.
When I first played World of Warcraft I was a kid, alone most evenings, and the game felt like a door into a world that wanted me there. My blue-haired night elf and I spent entire weekends vanishing into it—I’d start on Friday and look up to find Sunday ending, my back aching, my eyes burning, no food eaten, nothing in my head but quests and bosses and the promise of one more level before bed. It got dark fast. Not gradually, but in a way that made sense at the time, where spending every hour that wasn’t school or sleep in Azeroth seemed completely rational.
Then one day I just stopped. Quit the subscription, deleted the files, shut the door. That day felt like air—like I’d been holding my breath underwater. Real things started happening: I got out, made actual friends, had actual sex, did things that mattered to people sitting in the same room. It was cleaner, harder, better. I didn’t miss it, or I told myself I didn’t. Most of the time that was true.
But Blizzard is smart. They know exactly when to come back around. It’s December, and the world is cold and gray, and everyone’s retreating indoors where the only friction is the weather, and they drop Cataclysm—a whole world remade, the boring places torn down and rebuilt, new reasons to sink back in. They’re not stupid about timing. They know a man’s defenses are lowest when he’s isolated and the days are twelve hours long.
The thing about addiction is it doesn’t really leave you. It just goes quiet. And then something brings it back—not the game itself, but the memory of how good it felt to disappear, how simple it was, how the world shrank down to something manageable. Even now, even knowing better, I can feel that temptation wearing at me like water on stone. The question isn’t whether it’s a good idea. It’s whether I’m stronger now than I was then, and I honestly don’t know.
I keep coming back to The Streets because they made numbness feel like something real, like it deserved to be documented in the same way you’d document joy or heartbreak. All those songs about nothing in particular — waiting for a mate, riding the night bus, being too tired to care — they worked because Mike Skinner never pretended these moments meant more than they did. He just watched them. And now when I listen, I get why that mattered.
Swedish girl with red hair standing in front of an aggressively colored wall, purple from Gina Tricot and a few other places. She’d already figured out how the hair and the purple and the wall would all work against each other. The colors didn’t fight.
Guy in a Forever 21 sweater, could be any age. Pretty sure he’s gay. That’s usually the moment someone’s actually paid attention to what they’re wearing, is all I’m saying.
Polish woman who described her style as “Katy B feat. Ms. Dynamite” and I immediately got what she meant. That jacket she had on was the punctuation mark on the whole thing.
Japanese girl in something expensive from ANAP, dressed like she operates on completely different fashion rules than the rest of us. Or maybe she just does anyway.
Some kid studying design at Saint Martins, eating a banana while we talked. Your brain goes somewhere immediately. Can’t help it.
Kadeem up in the Bronx wearing Cheap Monday and Uniqlo like it was the most important thing anyone could possibly do. He wasn’t thinking about it at all. That’s when it actually works.
Alexander Alekseenko shoots analog in a world that moved on. Film is slow, expensive, unforgiving—you think before the shutter clicks and trust what you actually made. There’s nothing revolutionary about that choice anymore, but there’s something necessary about it. His photographs don’t announce themselves as vintage or cool. They’re just images made with actual intention, which apparently is rare enough to feel like rebellion.
The blogsphere is in panic mode. Next year the new youth protection treaty kicks in, and it’s clear that the government has written some truly spectacular rules for something it fundamentally doesn’t understand. The regulations are vague as hell—basically cost-traps disguised as policy, written by people who have no idea how the internet actually works. The whole thing seems designed to kill cultural diversity online.
Everyone’s scrambling to figure out what to do. For me, the math is simple and completely impossible at the same time. I could classify my entire site as 18+. Sure, most of my readers are adults anyway. But that’s suicide. A gate page kills traffic, kills impressions, kills every metric that actually matters to an advertiser. No one buys ads on a site that looks like it’s hiding something.
The insane part is that Spiegel Online and Bild get exempted because they’re considered “general interest”—whatever that actually means. They can publish whatever they want. I have to audit every article, every image, every comment against regulations that don’t make sense. It’s economically impossible. It’s legally uncertain. There’s no way to actually comply.
The government has proven something with this treaty: they don’t understand what they’re regulating. They’re writing rules about a system they don’t use, don’t participate in, and clearly don’t comprehend. And if it wasn’t so sad, the whole thing would be funny—the biggest intervention in digital culture in German history, written by people who have never really used the internet.
But it’s not funny. I’m sitting here trying to figure out if I should shut down, comply anyway and hope I don’t get destroyed, or somehow pay fines that are impossibly large. Maybe emigrate. Maybe close it all down. Maybe just keep going and see what happens. The road will be rocky. I might not be around to see the other side of it.
I have a real gift for picking the wrong person. The ones already in relationships, already leaving, already broken in ways that should be obvious red flags. But there’s something seductive about that kind of damage - it reads as depth, as something you might actually reach if you try hard enough. So I pour myself in. The meals at strange hours, the discretion, not making scenes, pretending I don’t see what everyone else sees immediately. Then it ends. Tears. Another sheet set destroyed. The same cycle again.
I know exactly what I actually want, though, and it’s straightforward. A real relationship with actual affection, real pleasure, good sex. Someone I’m not ashamed to be with. Someone with taste in books and music, someone who can spell. Because spelling errors bother me in a way that signals something deeper about how a person moves through the world.
Gender doesn’t matter to me. What matters is someone who faces life directly, who actually wants to build something, who understands this is about moving through the nights together - the streets, the clubs, the bed - without apology.
I deserve better than this. Not because I’m special. Because I show up.
You spend months building someone up before you get them naked. Fantasy is a specific thing — you imagine them in detail, construct the perfect version based on what you’ve seen clothed and what they’ve told you and how they move through space. Then the day comes when you actually get to look and it’s almost never what you were expecting. There’s always something. A cock too small or too crooked. Breasts that hang different than you thought. A pussy that’s too loose or too tight or smells too strong. Small aesthetic disasters that weren’t in the version you’d been carrying around.
That’s what nobody talks about — how much sex lives in your head. You can like someone’s personality, their mind, their taste, everything about them as a person. You can love them. But your body has preferences that don’t care about any of that. Your cock gets hard for something specific. Your pussy gets wet for something specific. And sometimes that something is not the person you actually like as a human being.
So you’re lying there naked, trying to figure out how to feel about the reality in front of you. The specific smell, the specific shape, the way it actually feels inside rather than how you imagined. And they’re doing the same math with your body. Wondering if they can get past whatever disappointment they’re calculating right now.
We rationalize it away. Tell ourselves size doesn’t matter, it’s about technique. Tell ourselves that love transcends these small physical incompatibilities. Maybe sometimes that’s true. Maybe you do make peace with the gap — learn the angles that work, get used to the quirks, find the rhythm that makes it tolerable. Or maybe you just get really good at pretending. Maybe you learn to dissociate. Maybe you become one of those people scrolling their phone afterward because you’ve already checked out of your own body.
The real thing is whether you stay. Whether your brain can override what your body is telling you. Most people figure it out somehow. They compromise. They rationalize. They tell themselves it’s good enough and actually start believing it. Or they don’t, and that’s a different story.
At AnimagiC in ’99—Germany’s first real anime convention—someone handed me a ticket. “Mononoke-hime,” they said. Original with German subtitles. I had no idea what I was walking into, just knew the crowd around me felt like the first place I’d ever belonged.
Two hours in and I understood why people got religious about film. The cursed warrior running toward the wolf princess, and the film just held it all—the mythology, the score, the way things moved—at an epic scale anime seemed too cheap to reach. The violence mattered. When it ended I sat through the credits staring at nothing, trying to process whatever had happened to me.
I’ve seen other Ghibli films since. “Spirited Away” is technically brilliant, “Ponyo” has passages that stick. But “Mononoke” landed differently. The stakes are real and nobody wins. The wolf princess leaves, the warrior stays cursed, the world is saved but it doesn’t feel like salvation. It’s a film about what you lose when you stop the thing destroying you. Most movies can’t hold that weight. Most movies try to give you something to carry away. This one just leaves you.
Disney spent years trying to suffocate it—cutting it down, repackaging it, keeping it out of American circulation like a dangerous book. It survived. Quality doesn’t negotiate.
Snow outside. The weekend’s here and I have no fucking idea what to do with it. I could ski, could sled, could do normal things. Instead I think about all the stupid shit I’ve been putting off—the half-serious missions that would actually feel like something if I committed hard enough.
Create an island in some online game and watch it destroy me completely. Download every version of “Last Christmas” and burn them in a forest because that feels like something. Weep like an idiot when I remember iTunes exists. Measure myself to see if anything’s changed. Sign up for Diaspora in some moment of internet idealism, spend an hour there, then crawl straight back to Facebook because Mark Zuckerberg knows me better than I know myself. Visit a grave. Someone I care about. Someone I haven’t thought about in months. Do it because I should, because guilt is the only engine that still works on me.
Save a horse. Play that ridiculous unicorn song as loud as my neighbors will tolerate and jump around the apartment like I’ve lost my mind completely. Call the ex and sleep with them because bad sex is infinitely better than no sex, and shame doesn’t pay the bills anyway. Jerk off to magazines from twenty years ago like I’m tethered to something, quit after fifteen minutes because it doesn’t work, do something worse instead. Wish my parents a surprise sibling at Christmas as a joke, give my dad a high-five when he finally gets it.
That’s what weekends are for. Not rest. Not becoming a better person. Just the systematic pursuit of every stupid impulse you’ve been holding, assembled into a list that almost looks intentional, almost feels like something worth doing. Almost.
The European Union decided that the best way to protect children is to criminalize eroticism itself. Not just real child abuse material—that’s reasonable. But drawings of people who look young. Photographs of adults who happen to have boyish faces. Simulated sex acts. All of it banned now, and if you make it or look at it, you’re a criminal.
On its face it’s stupid. A child who’s being exploited isn’t helped by whether I can legally own a drawing of a fictional adult with youthful features. But the logic here isn’t really about children—it’s about control. The state gets to decide what sexuality is permissible by setting impossible standards for what counts as “too young-looking,” then let enforcement wiggle according to whoever’s judging on any given day.
Who decides whether someone looks like a minor? A 30-year-old with a round face and no body hair can pass for younger. A 17-year-old can look 25. There’s no threshold. You’re handing judges and prosecutors a tool to criminalize whatever erotic material offends them, then dressing it up as child protection.
It’s worse in practice. Law enforcement gets buried in cases that don’t matter—prosecuting drawings, photographs of consenting adults—while actual child exploitation gets de-prioritized because the infrastructure is clogged. Abusers win. Everyone else loses.
It’s the move every generation of moral panic makes. Pretend you’re protecting the vulnerable. Use that as cover to narrow what adults are allowed to think about and desire and create. The arbitrary lines harden. Nothing actually changes for the people you claimed to protect.
If Germany and the rest of Europe go through with it, eroticism becomes a dark market again. Educational material gets buried. People get prosecuted for wanting and creating normal adult sexuality. And the actual harm—the children in real danger—stays untouched because the system’s too busy chasing drawings.
Wir sind Helden played some small venue in Würzburg that December—the Landgasthof Zum Alten Gut, eighty people if that. The kind of show that only exists for the people in the room. I don’t know if the intimacy made them better or worse; it didn’t matter. Four guys from Berlin, clever lyrics, a band that didn’t need anything except to actually play for an audience. These shows disappear. You hear about them years later and wish you’d been paying attention.
Mike Skinner made documentation look effortless. Just observations, small London details, the specific things nobody thinks are worth rapping about, over production that knew when to stay quiet. There’s a lesson in that for anything you’re making — stop reaching, just describe clearly, and people will see what you see. The Streets never felt like they were trying, and that’s what made them work.
Winter does something to how you dress. You can’t hide anything—everything either keeps you warm or it doesn’t, and you look equally stupid in both situations. Watching people in cold cities, from Vancouver to Moscow, they all figure this out the same way. Once they’ve got a coat that works, boots that work, something on their head that works, they stop thinking about clothes for the next six months. Everything else falls away. You see people from totally different places looking basically the same because the cold has erased all the choices that seemed to matter in the summer.
I watched my friend dissolve on her best friend’s couch three hours after getting dumped. The snot and the gasping and the fragments—bigger boobs, never loved her, just used her. One of those breakups that hollows you out for a while. The thing that struck me was how completely she treated it like the end of the world, like something fundamental had failed, when really she was just watching a thing that had its time finish having its time.
We do this with everything else. Accept that jobs end. Accept that friendships drift. Accept that every place we live is temporary, every phase of our life is temporary, everything is temporary except we lose our minds about relationships. We act like you’re supposed to lock someone into forever and if they leave or you leave, someone failed at life. The math doesn’t work. People change. Life changes. Nothing stays the same.
I think we inherited a bad idea. Real love means permanent. Anything less is a waste, a mistake you should regret. But that’s backwards. A relationship can be completely real and still have a natural ending. You can be utterly present with someone, utterly absorbed, and still know that eventually the thing runs its course and you both move on. That’s not failure. That’s just life being the way it is.
The thing is, nothing lasts forever anyway. We have to be flexible and adaptable. We follow what pulls at us. So why do we make relationships the exception? Why do we try to force something that’s inherently temporary into forever? We’d be happier if we stopped. If we could be honest about the time we have with someone and just live it completely instead of one eye always on the finish line, wondering if this is the one, if this is it, if you’re doing forever right.
Imagine a world where people actually wanted to be in their relationships instead of feeling trapped by them. Where breakups weren’t apocalypses but just chapters ending cleanly. Where you could love someone with everything you had for a season and then part ways without guilt or recrimination or feeling like you wasted years. That would be a better world.
My friend needs time and probably another tissue. But eventually she’ll realize that Mike leaving her wasn’t a tragedy. It was just the end of something that had a shape and a purpose and now it’s done. And she gets to find the next thing.
The nuts are gathered. The cave is prepared. By November you’re out of summer’s pretense and completely into winter mode—thinking less about the world and more about what you actually want around you for the next few months.
What lands: Bill Murray in anything. That’s non-negotiable. People you’ve known long enough you don’t need to explain yourself to. Grapefruit if you want it. Curry in the morning. A washing machine that doesn’t betray you at the worst moment. Someone answering the phone. Pictures that look like something, not just documentation. Food that tastes right. Donkey Kong. Sex with people who’ve lived more, who don’t treat you like you’re making discoveries. Bad jokes. Dumbbells by your bed because you know yourself by November. Reading things backwards. Writing the year review before the year’s done because impatience feels like urgency. Berlin Fashion Week because clothes done right is interesting. Things that work without asking you to appreciate them.
What’s exhausted: almost everything else. The internet eating itself. Twitter as metrics. Every city ranked until nothing’s special. Christmas markets in September now. Memes as decoration. Scratches on expensive laptops. Sleep as a virtue. The collective existential dread everyone’s contracted and repackaged as personality. Exes. Neighbors on a different timeline. Dishes stacking up as autobiography. Apartments like a dentist’s office. The constant performance of progressing toward something.
November’s simple: keep what works. Lose the weight.
I came to Misfits skeptical because everyone was comparing it to Skins, and I was tired of British teen dramas that promised darkness and delivered mostly just pretty kids being pretty and sad. Skepticism plus some drinking means eventually you watch the first season anyway, waiting to be vindicated or surprised.
The setup is deliberately stupid: a group of teenagers doing community service in a London community center get struck by lightning and develop random supernatural abilities. Curtis can jump forward and backward in time, Simon becomes invisible, and Alisha—when you touch her, you immediately want to have sex with her, right then, no negotiation. In the first episode they accidentally kill a street worker, and his girlfriend shows up as an amateur detective seeking revenge. It’s crude and absurd, and somehow that works.
The show lives in that E4 space where everything is damp and fluorescent and every kid is broken in some specific way. You stay curious about what they’ll do next, even when the characters are hard to like and the story keeps spiraling into weirder territory—sex with grandmothers, time-travel loops, existential crises in the same beige room. There’s an energy to it, even when the execution is off.
But most of the cast are genuinely unsympathetic in ways that aren’t interesting. And because 98% of the show happens in that one community center, it starts to feel claustrophobic in the wrong way—not intense, just repetitive. The supernatural powers are excuses more than plot. When it works, it works because of spite and strangeness. When it doesn’t, it’s just people being difficult in a boring location.
I don’t regret watching it. The first season has something, some scrappy willingness to be crude and weird. It’s not good television and it’s not quite bad enough to stop watching. It’s the kind of show that works if you like this particular E4 flavor and you’re patient enough to tolerate characters you don’t care about in a room you’re tired of looking at. Which I apparently was, for a while.
Watched Married to the Mob during the holidays. Michelle Pfeiffer trying to escape a mob family, and something about that desperation hits different when you’re stuck with your own. The film treats it all as light comedy—chaos, nobody listening, everybody scheming—but underneath there’s this panic about being trapped in a situation you can’t control. Basically what the holidays feel like.
Friday. Everyone’s got their list of what makes a weekend matter — the whole stupid machinery of lifestyle advice and optimization and ways to turn your two days off into something other than a waiting period. Sleep until your brain stops working. Do something you’ll regret Monday. Wake up not remembering why you’re grinning.
But the actual weekend is just smaller things. Water a plant. Put curry sauce on everything. Sleep with someone inappropriate. Buy shoes you probably don’t need. Watch kids’ TV and feel relieved you’re not one anymore. Get a receipt from your dealer. Disguise yourself as lost luggage at the airport and see what happens. Eat nothing but vegetables for a week, then undo it all with alcohol. Marry a Barbie doll because at least she keeps quiet.
It’s all absurd and it’s all you actually do. The weekend doesn’t need optimizing — it’s just two days where you stop pretending and become whatever you are when nobody’s looking. Sometimes that’s someone buying Chucks. Sometimes it’s someone in a luggage costume. Most of the time it’s just someone counting the hours until Monday makes sense again.
The pitch is stupid. Shy guy with a bad hair cut and clearly untouched genitals gets assigned to run a boarding house and immediately finds himself surrounded by girls. It’s the setup for every bad anime that ever existed, the kind of thing you know is leading somewhere predictable before you hit play.
But then Love Hina just works. Somehow it transcends the premise entirely. Maybe thirty minutes in, you stop expecting it to be a transparent vehicle for fanservice and realize it actually cares about its characters. There’s genuine warmth here. Real comedy. Keitaro’s a disaster—pimply, accident-prone, constantly getting destroyed by Naru for infractions he barely understands—but he’s trying. He’s trying to hold this place together, trying to chase his impossible dream, trying to figure out what the hell he’s doing, and he keeps getting knocked back down. It’s pathetic and funny and oddly endearing.
The girls aren’t interchangeable, which is the thing that kills most shows like this. Naru has her own ambitions and her own doubts. Motoko’s got an edge, something dangerous underneath. Mitsune’s funny in a deadpan way that actually makes sense. Kaolla’s just pure anarchic energy. They have texture. They feel like real people fumbling through their lives, not just bodies to ogle. Yeah, there’s fanservice. It’s an early-2000s romantic comedy with a male protagonist, so obviously there is. Bathing scenes, compromising positions, the constant low-level eroticism of everyone living on top of each other. But it doesn’t feel cynical about it. The fanservice and the actual character work coexist instead of fighting each other.
It’s strange how completely this disappeared outside Japan. In Germany it barely registered. I found it almost by accident and it felt like stumbling onto something forbidden, something everyone else somehow missed. There’s something satisfying about that—being one of the few people who actually sat with this thing and let it work on you. The show doesn’t demand anything. It doesn’t try to be important or relevant or edgy. It’s just a house full of mildly broken people figuring things out, with the occasional absurd robot or the constant low hum of sexual tension that comes from living in impossible proximity.
That domesticity is what gets you. Not the premise—anyone can pitch you a premise. Not even the fanservice, though it’s obviously doing work. It’s the weird mundane reality of the thing. The comedy that comes from actual character friction instead of setup-payoff mechanics. The way Keitaro is simultaneously the worst possible person to run this place and somehow also exactly the right person to run it. You watch an episode and think yeah, I see it with her, and then the next one Naru does something unexpectedly kind and it shifts. Everyone’s growing on you at slightly different speeds, and the show’s patient enough to let that happen naturally.
ASOS finally opened in Germany and something just snapped. Fashion blogs exploded. People were buying constantly. The postmen were drowning in packages. Within weeks it felt like it had always been there, like some essential piece of the world had just been plugged in.
I wasn’t tracking fashion closely at that moment, but you could see what was happening. Before ASOS, if you wanted something specific — a brand, a cut, a particular thing — you either lived in a city with good shops or you did without. German retail was fine if you wanted German things, but it was also narrow in its own way.
Then suddenly eight hundred brands, anything, delivered. That’s not retail. That’s removing a wall. You could browse endlessly and want everything without justifying it to anyone. You’re not in a store where decisions feel weighted; you’re in folders, in images. You can fill a cart with things that would be hideous together because you never see them all at once. Want becomes clean. Contradiction disappears.
Fashion bloggers had somehow become the people who decided what was acceptable to wear. ASOS made them irrelevant overnight. You didn’t need their taste. You didn’t need to be in Berlin or Munich. You didn’t need to trust anyone. You looked and bought. Their gatekeeping just evaporated.
The funny part is nothing actually changed about the wanting and buying and then not wearing most of it. ASOS just removed the friction. Made the cycle instant. The postmen broke under the volume, and by the next season people had forgotten half of what they’d ordered. The magic was already dead, replaced by the next catalog, the next possibility, just more and more.
Maybe that’s what ASOS did to Germany. Not brought fashion closer, but made it infinite and disposable at once.
There’s a moment near the end where you get maybe thirty seconds of clarity. Some guys pull out and don’t think about it. Some have it planned. Some just push toward the face and let gravity and instinct do the work, loud about it, and then comes that particular quiet - not awkwardness, just the silence after something physical actually happened.
Cumshots are the default ending now. Porn wrote the grammar for basically anyone under forty. The money shot. The proof. Why that specifically - the face, the visibility, the inability to look away? The dominance angle plays out fine in theory. The mess, the chaos, the whole thing turning into something animal and undeniable. But I think it’s just that men like making sex chaotic, and most women don’t seem to mind.
I knew a couple who’d been together about three years. One night, too much wine and a film and the river, they came back to hers. The sex was the way it gets when you’re comfortable - not trying to prove anything, still interested. Then he pulled her close and came on her face without ceremony, like they’d already decided this was the shape of things. He collapsed beside her. That silence.
There were lemon-scented wipes next to her bed, which meant she’d thought about this. They were planning an anniversary dinner. I remember being struck by that detail - not that she was fine with it, but that they were both fine with it, casual about it, like it was just a thing that happened between people who’d known each other long enough to make a mess without it meaning anything except that they wanted to.
Maybe it is dominance. Maybe it’s routine and boredom that keeps men inventing new angles. Maybe men are just drawn to turning intimate things into chaos. But maybe it’s also just about being with someone long enough that you can be crude and physical and move on, unburdened by interpretation.
Ran across her work somewhere and kept thinking about it after. Anastasia Kochetkova’s digital illustrations have this quality where they don’t demand anything from you, but if you look they give something back. Not flashy—there’s no real effort spent on flash. Just clarity and care in how she builds an image. The character work especially feels like it comes from someone who understands something specific about how people actually sit or stand or feel, and translates it into the work.
She’s been doing this for a while, quietly. Building things that don’t fade the moment you scroll past them. That kind of work matters.
Someone asked if I was doing “A Heart For Blogs” again and I had to figure out why I wasn’t into it anymore. The original concept was fine—everyone nominate the blogs you actually read. No algorithm in between. A genuine recommendation network. That idea appealed to me when it first started.
But somewhere it stopped working. Every post about the campaign funnels traffic back to whoever’s running it. They’re in the middle of every recommendation. The organizer benefits most and everyone else kind of doesn’t. I don’t think it was started with bad intentions. But the structure is what it is.
What really gets me is that you don’t actually need any of this. You don’t need a designated day or a red heart logo or anyone’s permission to link to something you like. You can do that whenever. I do. The whole campaign only exists because people like being part of something collective, something with a shape. Which is fine. I just don’t want to be part of that particular thing.
I’d rather keep my recommendations untethered. Just whenever I find something worth talking about, I talk about it. That’s the whole thing—no campaign, no middleman, no permission.
November in Germany is relentless. Cold, wet, the sky the color of old dishwater—the kind of weather that makes you understand why people used to just go dormant for months and wait for spring like bears in a cave. The darkness starts eating at you around day three. By day seven you’re calculating the survival probability of jumping from a low enough height that you’d just walk away with regrets and mobility issues.
What saves me is stupidity. Intentional absurdity. When I feel the seasonal depression starting to wrap around my throat, I make a list—not the productive kind, not a self-help thing. The deliberately pointless kind. Weekend ideas that are too ridiculous to actually do but just coherent enough to distract my brain from the real darkness. It’s not healthy, but it works better than whatever healthy actually means.
Barricade yourself in bed with someone who looks good and stay there until March. Hot water bottle, chocolate cake, just ride it out. You can double whatever you feel like—extra blankets, extra coffee, extra hours pretending the outside world isn’t happening. That one’s almost practical, buried under the stupid.
There’s something cleaner about the ones with no actual endpoint. Put on Lady Gaga and cover one of her songs so badly that the entire internet collectively decides you’re unhinged. It’s weirdly freeing, the idea of being that comprehensively, publicly bad at something that you loop around past embarrassment into absurdist celebrity. Listen to Regina Spektor until you can’t tell anymore whether you’re laughing or crying, until her voice has dissolved into some third emotion that doesn’t have a name. Sleep with someone with a good mustache just because you decided this week is the week for it—no external justification required, just a thing you thought of and decided to do.
Some are quieter. Hug a tree. They’re struggling right now, dealing with their own seasonal darkness, and they probably appreciate it. The ones that are pure nonsense—invent the internet’s successor, buy out Google and whatever embarrassing websites you can think of for spare change—those are fine too. They’re not supposed to work. They’re supposed to occupy just enough of your consciousness that when you’re lying awake at three in the morning, your brain is running through logistics instead of spiraling.
November’s still out there. The weather won’t change. But having a list of impossible, ridiculous things to think about instead of the real weight of it—that gets you through the weekend. That gets you to December. That gets you to spring eventually, when everything will probably still be complicated but at least the sun will be out while you’re dealing with it.
There’s something about Florrie’s synth-pop that catches you off guard—it’s pretty and electronic, but there’s something almost desperate underneath it, like she’s reaching for something just out of frame. “Give Me Your Love” is clean and bright, the kind of track that plays while you’re driving somewhere at night, and you’re thinking about someone you shouldn’t be thinking about. She has that gift for making vulnerability sound effortless, which is the hardest thing to do.
I didn’t expect my role model to be a four-year-old cartoon character. Especially not one who was basically a walking advertisement for being inappropriate.
But Shin-chan showed up and ruined that particular lie. He had no manners, no impulse control, no embarrassment reflex. He’d dance around with his butt out, he’d make his teachers regret their life choices, he’d say whatever perverted thought crossed his mind that second. And somehow that was the point. The show was just this relentless refusal to be civilized, and every episode—every single one—had you laughing at something stupid you weren’t supposed to find funny.
His creator Yoshito Usui died in 2009. Hiking accident, mountains, just like that. I remember feeling it more than I expected. Not because I knew him, but because you realize how much of a person’s voice gets into their work, how much of Usui was in every dumb thing Shin-chan did.
The thing that stuck with me though is that it didn’t matter. Shin-chan was already out there, already living separate from his creator. He just kept being himself—crude, fearless, completely unbothered by what anyone was supposed to think. And I think that’s what I actually took from him. Not a role model in any conventional sense. Just permission to find humor in the wrong places and not apologize for it.
There’s a particular suffocation that happens when your personal project scales into something professional. The magazine I was building with people became real—multiple writers, real readers, actual clients—and I’m genuinely proud of it. But the cost is that you start filtering your own thinking before you write. You wonder what’s on-brand. You consider the advertisers. You can’t just post something crude and specific and half-formed because it might not fit the image.
So I set up a small space that’s entirely mine. No editorial concerns, no sense that anyone’s actually reading. Just permission to write about whatever lands in my head—a conversation that won’t stop repeating, something that made me want to fuck, a stupidly good cheese cake, Japanese pop music, the specific way you fail at being better than yourself. The stuff that’s too raw or mundane or personal to belong anywhere else, but that I need somewhere to think out loud about.
I don’t have a grand vision for it. Might stay quiet and weird. Might become something else. The point is having one corner where I’m not considering whether this is publishable, where the thinking comes first and the filter is optional. Like those conversations late at night where the performance finally stops and you’re talking about actual things—what makes you feel alive, what you’re willing to sacrifice, how much of this is maintenance and how much is real.
Someone ran over a hedgehog. Posted about it on Twitter. Cried about it there. Asked their followers what to do next—should they still go to their friend’s birthday party? What should they get at Starbucks to feel okay? And everyone weighed in. Hot chocolate or coffee with milk?
Twitter gets used in as many ways as there are people using it. Some people work those 140 characters like they’re trying to carve something real out of the constraints. Others just push news and information. And some people just narrate whatever happens between the train station and the swimming pool—lost water wings, found condoms, doesn’t matter, someone will read it.
I tweet for this blog. Or I did, anyway. Used to dump everything that crossed my mind. Now it gets harder. Because I stopped seeing it as my own space and started seeing it as the voice of something with actual readers. Readers who don’t care about my pizza preferences or who I’m dating. Nobody wants to watch me ramble with friends about their bodies.
So the question is: is there even a right way to use this thing? How personal should it be? Just links and articles, or does the person behind it matter? Does the answer change depending on whether it’s you, or a company, or a magazine trying to have a voice?
The worst instinct is treating every new platform like it needs some professional playbook. Like there’s a way you’re supposed to behave that’s fundamentally different from being human. But maybe that’s the trap. Maybe nothing terrible happens if you share about pizza sometimes, if what you’re sharing is actually interesting. If it’s something worth reading.
I don’t know the answer. Maybe you just pick which version of yourself you’re going to be and commit to it. All-in personal or carefully filtered. Raw or performed. As long as you’re interesting about it. As long as there’s actually something there worth the read.
Cold, gray, wet. That’s the whole fucking weekend. The metro’s packed with sick people breathing on each other, the flu’s making the rounds, there’s nothing to do but stare at the ceiling or go out and do something stupid. I made a list to get through Saturday and Sunday. Ten ways. Some of it’s a joke. Some of it’s just dark. All of it beats lying around.
Get yourself in a tabloid. Doesn’t matter how, as long as no one actually gets hurt and you don’t sleep with a celebrity. Just be famous for being stupid. While you’re at it, open a gym, call it something ridiculous, claim the victory. These small things keep me moving.
Unroll your crumpled cash and count it. You’ll probably find money you forgot about. It’s boring but it works. On your next flight, full costume disguise. Change completely in the airplane bathroom, come back to your seat like you’re someone else entirely. The absurdity is the entire point.
Go to a brothel with friends and burn half your monthly paycheck. Live it. Find a song that hits you right in the chest—something that makes you feel like you’re dying in the most beautiful way. Patrick Wolf knew this about “Time Of My Life.” Don’t actually do anything permanent, but let yourself feel the darkness completely. That’s what the weekend’s for.
Quit smoking. You know it won’t fix anything, but you do it anyway. Let yourself want something obvious and stupid—money, height, the kind of looks that actually matter in the world. Waste three months teaching yourself something completely pointless just to pull off one ridiculous prank on your family. The time investment for a five-second laugh. That’s the math we’re all doing anyway.
Watch something real and let it inspire you to actually do something instead of lying in bed complaining about the weather. That’s the weekend. Pick a few of these. That’s enough to survive it.
Meisel’s fashion photographs are arrangements first, moments never. You can feel the studio around every frame—the precision, the careful spacing, the models positioned like they’re part of an installation rather than people. It’s not cold exactly, but it’s controlled in a way that feels almost architectural. He’s been shooting for Italian Vogue forever, building this language of composition and staging that everyone else seems to be copying. The geometry of it appeals to me, honestly—that sense that if you get everything perfectly placed, perfectly lit, perfectly proportioned, something true might emerge from all that artifice.
I grew up in the country down south, hours from anything. I mean actual hours—walking across fields and through forests just to reach some party in a rusted trailer where we drank homemade schnapps and had no real idea what to do with ourselves. Farm life. Calves in the stable. Sunflower fields that went on forever. I watched animals get slaughtered and it stuck with me. Everyone knew everyone in that small universe. Either you were related or you had what we called a deep friendship—the kind where there’s nowhere to hide because you’re too tangled up in each other.
I got out as soon as I could. The sameness was suffocating. One real road. People who’d known you your whole life but never actually saw you. So I left for Berlin and just disappeared into the crowd. In a city of millions, nobody gives a shit who you are. I thought that was the whole point.
But something gets burned in a city. Friendships don’t deepen—they vanish. There’s always something better somewhere else, someone more interesting, somewhere else to be. You’re drowning in options and end up completely isolated anyway. It’s different from the country, where you’re alone together, where the closeness is just built into everything. Here, choice means nothing goes deep.
I still can’t figure out which is worse. The suffocation of roots or the emptiness of freedom. Sometimes I get this stupid image stuck in my head: walking a cow down the middle of Alexanderplatz, petting its head the whole way. Just putting the two things into collision—the countryside and the city—and watching what happens. It won’t fix anything. But that’s kind of where I’m at. Caught between two things that both know how to hurt you.
There’s something wild about hearing Slash’s guitar alongside Fergie’s vocals—two people from completely different decades and genres forced into the same room. He’s the riff master from the Guns N’ Roses era, all swagger and technical precision. She came up through the electronic pop machine of the Black Eyed Peas. On paper it shouldn’t work, but there’s something defiant about that mismatch that feels right. Like watching someone from the old guard acknowledge that the new world isn’t a threat, it’s just different. The song lives in that tension—his sound never quite domesticated, her voice never quite tamed by the production. It’s not a perfect fit. But it doesn’t need to be.
The thing about always having someone around is that you never actually have to make a choice. There’s just… someone. And then someone else. And you start to wonder if you’re the problem or if you’re just looking for something that doesn’t actually exist. I’m tired of wondering. I want to know what it feels like to stay, even if it doesn’t last forever.
Here’s what won’t work: someone obsessed with his own image, endlessly considering which coffee shop has the right aesthetic, unable to commit to anything concrete. No more guys who agonize over their vintage collection like it’s a life decision. I need someone who knows what she wants, full stop. No hedging, no “let me think about it.” Just know something and own it.
The small stuff gets me. If I give you something—I actually thought about it, picked it out because I thought of you—and you don’t wear it, I get this quiet, cold anger that sticks around. Same with the little betrayals: the mess you leave, the way you ignore me on the phone, the chronic flakiness. I don’t fight about it. I just leave.
I’m not romantic. Flowers die. Candles are a fire hazard. What I actually want is someone who remembers the specific things I like and shows up when she says she will. No apologies, no managing my feelings, just directness.
I’m contradictory, which is probably why nothing sticks. I care about style and how things look and feel, but I’m not pretentious about it. I can get genuinely invested in old football matches, then spend money on things that have nothing to do with being practical or having taste. I don’t need you to understand it.
The thing I’m after is someone real. Not trying to be someone. Not still figuring themselves out. Someone who wants to be here because they actually want to be, not because they’re bored or between things. I’m not naive. I know I’m fickle—I’ve never really been alone, so maybe that’s just what I am. But maybe I’ve been fickle because I haven’t met someone worth not being fickle for. So right now, I want that. Not forever. Just now.
There’s a film floating around called Detroit Lives where Johnny Knoxville walks through the city documenting what’s actually happening there—the artists, the builders, the people who never left. It’s a Palladium Boots production, probably still online somewhere, though these things have a way of disappearing.
Knoxville’s right for it. He’s always been comfortable with things that don’t fit the story people want to hear, that aren’t glamorous. So him moving through Detroit—which everyone’s either written off or approached with a kind of mournful reverence—just works. He shows up and lets the place speak for itself.
Detroit doesn’t need another documentary about its collapse. That one’s been told. What’s interesting is what happened underneath it all, what kept building when nobody was watching. That’s the film.
Robyn’s voice comes out of nowhere and it’s already the best thing happening. That particular kind of clarity and precision she has, the way she shapes a syllable like it’s the only syllable worth hearing—you can’t unhear it once you’ve heard it. Even on the most radio-friendly hooks, there’s something that feels uncomfortably sharp about her, like she’s at risk of cutting through the whole production and directly into whatever room you’re sitting in.
She’s been doing this for twenty years and keeps getting weirder rather than safer, which seems almost defiant at this point. The early stuff was pop but never felt calculated—just a woman with an incredible voice and very precise ideas about what she wanted to hear. Then she went through her more experimental phase and stayed there, actually stayed there, when she could have easily cashed back in on the bangers. Instead she made something that felt closer to what was actually happening in her head.
What gets to me is the range between total coldness and complete vulnerability, sometimes in the same song. She doesn’t use that gap to perform anything. It just seems like how she actually hears music, how her instincts actually work. The desperation when it comes through doesn’t feel like an effect—it feels like she’s letting you see something she didn’t plan on showing.
She’s one of those artists who made me realize that “staying power” doesn’t mean staying the same. It means not compromising your instincts even when nobody’s paying attention, and then somehow arriving back at relevance on your own terms.
October hits and you realize the year’s almost gone. You haven’t done anything real, just lived the default existence. Halloween comes around and people want to talk costumes, but what you’re feeling is that itch—the need to do something that doesn’t fit, that the normal version of you would never touch.
So I make a list of things to actually do.
Roll a fat joint and share it. Generosity disarms people faster than anything else, especially when it’s good weed. Dress up as Kanye West’s dick for Halloween because the absurdity is the point. Binge the original four seasons of Skins instead of wasting time on that gutted American version. Look through my phone and think about which friendships have the depth to become something else. Eat better. Seriously, do it, because my body’s been keeping score whether I’m paying attention or not.
Find out my girlfriend is actually Osama bin Laden and feel this weird misplaced pride about it. Sit outside an Apple Store with the saddest eyes, hold a Nokia 3210 in someone’s face, beg them to buy me an iPhone so I can finally fit in. Go to a protest against Nazis because honestly, nuclear power stations can survive without my afternoon. Spend real money on complete garbage—diamond-encrusted toilet seats, saffron-scented, whatever—just for the feeling. Find a pen pal somewhere in Cambodia and spend months discussing the mating habits of very overweight penguins.
Half of it’s serious and half is a joke that stops being funny somewhere in the middle. You won’t know which until you’re actually doing it.
Somewhere in the late 2000s, German rock broke through. Bands like Juli filled festivals, wrote good songs, and drew real crowds. They didn’t need English radio to matter. When Telekom Street Gigs put them in Erfurt in 2009, it felt like confirmation of something already shifting: German bands weren’t underdogs anymore.
I never caught them live, but the shift was noticeable if you paid attention. For years, everything that mattered seemed to happen in English. Then bands like Juli just existed, did their thing, and people showed up. It wasn’t sudden or revolutionary. It was just a moment when things changed.
The ocean’s huge. Every episode reminds you of that—the sky, the water, the horizon. And there’s this crew sailing around on what amounts to a joke of a boat, and you want to be on it. Not like a wish, more like an actual pull. Just leave everything and go become a pirate and get into weird fights and find weird islands.
One Piece doesn’t let up. Something’s always happening. An island shows up and there’s treasure, or a tyrant running things, or someone with a tragic backstory that explains why they’re such an asshole now. Nami steals from you—beautiful, sharp, clearly knows exactly what she’s doing. Zoro genuinely cannot navigate. Sanji cooks while being absolutely insufferable about Nami. Luffy says something stupid and you laugh, then does something selfless and suddenly you’re invested in whether this guy makes it. The swing between comedy and genuine emotion is brutal. You’re fine one second and genuinely sad the next because someone explained why they had to do a bad thing.
It works because you get attached to the people. Not because they’re complicated—they’re not, most of them are pretty straightforward. But they’re specific. They want specific things and they won’t quit. That matters more than complexity. You start treating the story like it’s real, like these people are actually out there on the ocean doing this, and you want them to win.
The whole thing is selling you a fantasy that’s not actually that complicated: good people, clear purpose, nobody gets left behind. A reason to keep going. The show knows it’s selling that, and it commits to it hard enough that it works.
I’d take it if I could. Not going to happen. But yeah, I’d sail.
There’s this moment on ’Gunfire’ where everything gets loose and urgent at once, and you feel her just saying fuck it to the precision of her earlier albums. That’s the whole thing with Get Some — she was tired of being pretty and controlled. The songs still have that ache in them, that Lykke Li DNA of wanting something you can’t have, but now she’s loose with it. Letting it get messy.
I keep coming back to this record when I’m feeling restless. It’s got enough pop shine to feel good on lazy mornings, but there’s real wanting underneath all of it. Not the kind of record that changes your life, but the kind you put on when you want to sit with something that understands what dissatisfaction feels like. She sounds like she’s figured out how to be both vulnerable and a little reckless at the same time, which is harder than it sounds.
I’ll say it plainly: I don’t understand fashion. Ask me about a collection, a cut, a color trend, and I’m useless. Genuinely embarrassed. I know enough to move through those spaces without looking like a complete outsider, but the moment it turns technical, I’m out.
Which doesn’t stop me from being at every fashion event worth attending. Somehow we’ve built enough of a reputation that the invitations keep coming—agencies, designers, labels calling regularly. Shows, parties, backstage meetings. I love it. The energy. The beautiful people. The visual spectacle. But I’m operating on instinct and observation, not actual knowledge of what’s happening.
There’s something honest about not pretending otherwise. I’m useful for other things—noticing the weird dynamics in a room, how power moves at parties, the small moments that reveal how the industry actually works versus how it presents itself. I can watch and write about the system, the energy, the people. Just not the clothes themselves.
I’ve made peace with being an outsider in rooms I get to be inside. Maybe that’s the best position anyway. You see things that people too close to the machinery miss. You don’t have a stake in defending the system. You’re just watching, writing, and trying to describe what’s really going on beneath the surface.
I know someone like this. She’s 21, studies law and math (don’t ask how, I didn’t even know those went together), and she can’t sit still. Eight months a year she’s somewhere else. The other four she splits between two towns. She has three dogs, two cats, a chinchilla, a snake, a spider, and a hamster. One of her cats is named Henry Kissinger.
She’ll tell you she’s stubborn and thinks she’s always right. Here’s the thing: she actually is. She’ll talk your ear off. She’s loud, fast, and she has no patience for stupid people. She eats constantly—pizza lately. She gets excited about ladybugs and lying in fields counting stars, knowing she’ll never finish, not caring.
The animals aren’t an affectation. They’re her life. If you don’t like them, don’t bother. She’s made of the same stuff. She shoots, dances, does yoga, sings badly and loudly. Food takes up about twelve hours of her day, which honestly seems like good time management.
What gets me is that she knows exactly what she is and she’s stated it without apology. The bluntness is the whole point. She’s not trying to sell herself as your dream girl. She’s more like: come have dinner with me, and if it doesn’t work out, I’ll teach you how to meet someone else. We’ll at least have had a good meal. That’s not romantic. It’s honest in a way that feels rarer than romance.
She’s the kind of person you meet and think, “I don’t know what I’m getting into here,” and then you’re spending eight months chasing her to wherever she is next. The stubbornness, the travel, the constant eating, the animals—it’s all one package. All or nothing. That’s exactly how she wants it.
I gave up on the MTV Skins after a few episodes. Not because it was bad, exactly, but because it was neutered in every way that mattered. The British show had this raw, ugly honesty—the sex and self-destruction felt like genuine despair. The American version looked identical but felt like someone kept their hand on the off switch the whole time. Everything dangerous got smoothed down, every real moment got a lesson attached to it. You could feel the network’s fear. In the end you’re just staring at the skeleton of something that was alive.
I’d come home from school and the Sailor Scouts would be there waiting. That’s what it felt like, anyway—like they were just sitting around in some other dimension, ready to transform the moment I hit play.
Sailor Moon was ridiculous in every way. Talking cats. A villain with the kind of tragic backstory that made you almost root for her. The transformation sequences that went on long enough that you could really sit with what was happening—the costumes, the jewelry, the hair. And those eyes. Anime eyes, sure, but something about them made the whole show feel possible.
I didn’t care that the plots were thin or that it recycled the same setups. I was thirteen or fourteen, coming home to this world of girls in sailor suits fighting impossible things. There was something hypnotic about it. The episodes blended together. I just kept watching.
Inevitably, you start ranking them. Which one. Everyone does. Chibiusa was insufferable—bratty, childish, the kind of character you’d want to punch. But the ones who actually fought, the ones in the real suits doing real damage: there was something there. I won’t pretend it wasn’t about the costumes, the curves, the way the animation handled certain angles. That was part of it. You’re fourteen. Of course that’s part of it.
But it was something else too. They showed up. They were scared and they showed up. They’d rather be anywhere else and they showed up. The show knew that the girls wanted other things—boys, normal lives, not this—and it let you feel that tension. That made them real in a way most cartoons didn’t bother with.
I don’t know how many afternoons I spent like that. Long enough that I stopped feeling like I was watching a show and started feeling like I was just… there. In that world. Waiting for the next transformation, the next impossible thing.
Three albums came through this week. Mark Ronson’s got a new one out. Deine Jugend, a German club-pop band, dropped their debut. And Die Antwoord did Die Antwoord things again.
Ronson’s Record Collection is fine. Clean production, smart samples, people who know what they’re doing. But fine is all it is. “Bang Bang Bang” and “Lose It” had me excited for what was coming, but this album learned how to be competent and forgot how to surprise anyone. “The Bike Song” and “Hey Boy” are the ones worth hearing again, which is to say they’re good pop songs that don’t make you feel anything.
Deine Jugend actually works. Three kids from Mannheim who got club-pop right. Laura’s voice is why—sharp and live-sounding even on record, sitting perfectly over these melodies that feel like they belong in a packed room. “Deine Maske” and “Mama Geht Jetzt Steil” are the songs that got me. No trying to be clever or cool, just building something that moves. I’d see them play.
Die Antwoord’s new record is a different animal. Critics hated it, but that’s because they’re judging it as music instead of what it actually is—a visual and performance thing that happens to have a soundtrack. Listen to it straight and you get thin, shock-value songs. Watch them and you get everything. Yo-Landi’s presence, Ninja’s weirdness, all the spectacle. They clearly don’t care if it works as pure audio. That’s the point, actually. “Evil Boy” and “In Your Face” come closest to being actual songs, but mostly this is art that’s refusing to play it straight. At least somebody’s not pretending.
We stopped talking somewhere between winter and spring. I can’t pin down when—there’s no moment you can point to. It was gradual, the way things rot. We used to be the kind of people who’d stay up all night doing nothing in particular, your head against my shoulder, cheap wine going warm in our glasses. We had this thing where the world made sense because we had each other, or at least that’s how it felt. Everything outside the two of us seemed small.
But something shifts. You notice it first as a silence that isn’t comfortable anymore. Then you realize you’re not looking at each other the same way. The jokes land different. You catch yourself thinking about what to say before you say it, which means you’ve stopped talking without thinking. The distance isn’t something that happens at the end—it’s what the end looks like when you finally look at it.
I don’t believe in the idea that people drift apart because nobody’s paying attention or because life gets in the way. That’s what we tell ourselves. The truth is meaner: you can watch it happen and not do anything about it. You can see the person you loved turning into someone you don’t quite know, and you just let it happen. Because fighting it would mean admitting it’s real.
By the time we actually said anything, there was nothing left to say. We split up things that belonged to both of us. I took the photos and some other stuff I probably shouldn’t have. You took the rest. I remember thinking I should feel worse than I did. Like there should be some proportional sadness to match what we’d had. But mostly I just felt tired.
The weird thing is I don’t regret it. The time we had was real—I can still remember how that felt, how you felt. I can look back and know that part was true. It’s just not anymore. And yeah, that sucks. But it sucks cleanly, if that makes sense. Not the way it sucks when you’re pretending something’s still there and it isn’t.
I think about you sometimes and it doesn’t hurt the way it used to. It’s more like remembering a song you used to love but haven’t heard in years. You’d recognize it if it came on, but you’re not looking for it. We might run into each other someday. We might be different enough that we can be okay in the same room. Or we might not. Either way, what we had is finished.
Wenke was the kind of person who’d tell you exactly what she thought, which is rarer than you’d expect. Red wine helped, and she could talk for hours without needing much back—just someone willing to sit there while she figured things out. She couldn’t sit still in one direction, though. Social to her core, needed people, needed company, needed noise, but then suddenly had to disappear into complete silence like her life depended on it. The contradiction never bothered her because she was too busy living to worry about making sense of herself.
What made her stand out was the refusal to play by any script. Most girls her age were performing something—a version they thought guys wanted, or their friends expected. Wenke just didn’t. She could beat most of the dudes at Pro Evolution Soccer, owned a console and a massive TV without irony, had terrible opinions about punctuality and organization, and gave exactly zero fucks about any of it. She wanted people who were genuinely funny, not trying to be, because humor was how you got past her walls. Charisma was everything. She had no type—looks were relative, she said—but she could tell in a second if someone was real or performing.
Her problem, and she knew it was a problem, was the fear. Not of much, but of that one thing. Love scared her more than anything. She had freedom in her blood and she knew commitment would kill it. So people fell for her and she didn’t fall back, and she felt bad about it sometimes, but not bad enough to change. She was waiting for someone who wouldn’t need her to change, which meant she was probably waiting for no one. It was the kind of contradiction that sounds profound until you realize it’s just how a lot of people feel when they’re young and afraid.
These profiles were everywhere for a while—a certain kind of honesty that only existed in that moment, half advertisement, half confession. People in their early twenties throwing themselves out there with this weird mix of bravado and vulnerability. Wenke’s stuck though, maybe because she wasn’t trying as hard as the others. She just described what she needed, what she feared, what made her laugh, and then she stopped. No performance. No trying to seem cooler or more damaged than she was.
I don’t know what happened to her. The profile’s still in the archive somewhere, frozen in whatever year this was. She wanted endless experience, wanted intensity, wanted to be understood. She also wanted her freedom so badly she was willing to be alone for it. Maybe she got one of those things. Maybe she’s still ordering red wine and talking too much and refusing to show up on time. Maybe she finally met someone who made the two sides of her fit together instead of fighting. Or maybe she just learned to be okay with the contradiction, which would be its own kind of growth, the kind that doesn’t feel like much until much later.
Game One was just these guys playing games and talking shit for hours. Nils, Eddy, Etienne, Budi, Simon. Nobody performing, nobody trying to be anything they weren’t. They’d mess up, laugh at the right moments, mock each other relentlessly. That was the whole show.
For years before that I’d watched GIGA. You’d disappear into an afternoon, park yourself, and just sit. Grown men destroying controllers and keyboards, and then you’d spend the next day in forums arguing whether Lara Croft was anything beyond a pair of tits or if Goombas had some secret soul. It was a specific kind of loneliness—thousands of people thinking the exact same thing at the exact same time, which somehow meant you weren’t entirely alone.
When GIGA disappeared it felt pointless. Where were you supposed to find it? What was the point of caring about games when there was nowhere to voice that? You only understand how much you need that once it’s gone.
Game One brought back the exact same feeling. Same hosts, same energy, same guys who didn’t give a shit about impressing anyone. They wanted to play and talk and mock each other. If you were watching, you were part of it. You got to sit with your best friends.
That’s something worth being grateful for. Not just for the nostalgia or the entertainment, though both are there. But for the permission to care about this stuff without apology. For knowing that somewhere people took it seriously enough to build a show around it. That you weren’t alone in it.
Katie and Jules were in Berlin for a Tommy Hilfiger campaign thing, playing E-Werk. I met them at Soho House a few days before the show, and Jules immediately started talking about sunglasses—not as a metaphor, just the actual collection she’d been building. She bought cheap ones because the expensive ones disappeared, got stolen at restaurants, broke randomly. Someone had once given her a box of broken sunglasses while she was standing alone behind a factory in winter, which is the kind of detail that tells you what following The Ting Tings meant to some people.
Katie and Jules had been in a punk band called TKO when they were teenagers. No record, no real success. By the time their debut came out in 2008, something had taken off. They were moving fast enough that they’d wake up unsure which city they were in. Jules had been warned that Jakarta was dangerous—the hotel inspecting their room constantly—but once she actually talked to people, the city felt fine. Katie remembered a man selling baby rabbits there, holding one up to her face, and she’d fallen in love with it immediately, which broke her heart that she couldn’t take it with her. Istanbul was just constantly full of people partying. Berlin had been home for nearly a year.
Katie told me about a fan who rushed the stage with his arms wide open and she thought for a second something terrible was about to happen. Security tackled him just in time. Jules had a worse story. A girl, maybe fifteen, had followed them from gig to gig, standing alone in the cold under bridges or behind factories. When Jules told her it was dangerous to be out like that, the girl handed her a box full of sunglasses—all of them broken—and just ran off. “That was pretty creepy,” Jules said, and she wasn’t exaggerating.
Fashion-wise, Jules kept it simple. Corduroys, regular T-shirts, whatever cheap sunglasses she’d picked up. Katie was into Creepers (Susie from Style Bubble had recommended them), and she’d started a little fashion blog called “Stop That Car!” Neither of them made a big deal out of it.
The name “Ting Tings” had come from a girl Katie used to work with in a clothes shop. In Chinese, the girl had told her, it meant something like “old park bandstand” and also “listen, listen.” They’d also found out it sounded like “sweet penis” in Japanese, which made them laugh. As for how they broke through: they played a demo tape to a DJ at a party, and a few days later they’re in their kitchen drying dishes and their own song comes on the radio, and they just started jumping around the flat. Katie said Pet Shop Boys. Jules said something in German. The mix probably made sense.
By the end of the conversation I was pretty sure they weren’t the type to sit around counting money and wanting to be left alone. Shows meant everything to them. There was something straightforward about how they talked about their lives—no performing, no mythology. Just the actual shape of what it felt like to be them.
Jonathan Safran Foer wrote a book about why we eat animals, and I read it while eating a tortellini with ham and cream sauce. That should tell you something about how these things go.
The book starts with his grandmother and her chicken soup, which is smart because you can’t quite hate industrial farming when you’re thinking about someone’s hands in a kitchen. Foer breaks into turkey factories, talks to farmers who name their cows, writes about mutated chickens drowning in their own waste and pigs beaten with metal rods before the grinder. The moral case is there. The data is there. The evidence that eating meat is choosing to participate in large-scale cruelty is undeniable.
And it’s undeniable that none of this stopped anyone from eating meat. It didn’t stop me. I read through the argument—all of it, the whole coherent moral case—and then went to dinner and ordered chicken. Not out of defiance or carefully considered philosophy. Just indifference. The same indifference I feel toward most things that don’t directly affect me day to day. The book couldn’t overcome the simple fact that I wanted to eat meat more than I wanted to feel good about not eating it.
But something stuck anyway. Not a conversion—I’m not vegetarian and I won’t be. But a small awareness that there’s a difference between doing things mindlessly and doing them despite knowing better. I eat less meat now, or I think about it more, which probably means something. It’s not much. But it’s something, and “Eating Animals” gets credit for that small persistent nag that maybe I don’t have to be completely thoughtless about it.
The book’s real strength isn’t the argument, which anyone paying attention already knows. It’s the detail and specificity, the refusal to let you abstract cruelty into statistics. You can ignore numbers. You can’t quite ignore the grandmother, the specific image, what it actually costs. Whether you do anything about that is another question, and Foer’s smart enough not to pretend he has the answer.
Best Coast’s ’Boyfriend’ doesn’t try. It’s just Bethany Cosentino wanting someone, her voice floating over guitars that know they don’t need to prove anything. The whole song moves like an afternoon where nothing happens and you’re fine with it. When you play it, something settles into you—not because it’s profound but because it’s specific, the exact feeling of wanting someone who maybe isn’t thinking about you. Which, fine. We’ve all been there.
There’s a flu hitting and the plan is to let it take you down, then drag everyone you know down with you. Be methodical about it. Throw a proper sick party—everyone in bed, everyone miserable, the apartment smelling like medicine and sweat. It’s honest work.
Dig 200 meters straight into the earth. No reason, no explanation needed. Set up camp down there. Wait. CNN will show up eventually looking for a story. They always do.
Get a permanent marker and draw a mustache across your face. Wear it the whole day. When people react—and they will—look them in the eye and make them explain why they think it’s funny. Force them to think about their own judgment.
Move your ass.
Start a video game company. Tomorrow. Not “thinking about starting it,” actually start it. Make something that humiliates Nintendo. Leave them no choice but to fold.
Go find a street and cry on it. Real crying, not performing it. That feeling after—the relief and the shame mixed together—that’s what you want.
Wear only black for a week straight. It’s winter. Nothing else makes any sense.
Sleep with Avril Lavigne. I know you want to. I know it’s impossible. But you do want to, right? Just feel that wanting for a minute.
At the next house party, piss on someone’s dog and chase it through the apartment. The smell will haunt the place. The story will haunt you.
Turn on the new Crystal Fighters song and don’t turn it off for a full day. At some point, maybe around hour six or seven, you’ll suddenly realize how good it feels to swallow. That’s the whole thing. That’s the moment everything clicks.
I was an only child, which basically meant I was a spoiled brat. No one to share anything with — the cookies, the Nintendo, my own room, all of it was mine. My friends were always complaining about their siblings, about not having space to themselves. But even as kids you could tell there was something underneath the complaints. A connection. Someone who understood you just because they’d lived in the same house, dealt with the same parents, got the inside jokes without needing explanation.
I wonder sometimes what that would’ve felt like. A brother or sister. Someone to stay up with at night, to fight with, to have on your side just because of shared DNA. Not parents — they’re obligated to care. Someone closer than that.
There’s something absurd about the trade-off: I got everything a kid could want in terms of freedom and space, but I was always alone in it. I ate all the snacks. I didn’t have to negotiate with anyone. And it felt hollow sometimes, honestly.
But here’s the thing: I have no idea if siblings are actually good or if that’s just something people tell themselves. Maybe my friends were right and it’s mostly annoying and claustrophobic. Maybe the bond is real and I’m missing something essential. Maybe I’m lonelier than I needed to be, or maybe I just ended up differently because I had to be alone.
I’ll never know what it would’ve been like to have someone forced to stick around, someone to share the weight of growing up with. Some days that feels like a loss. Other days I’m grateful I didn’t have to compete for anything. But you can’t know what you never had, so the question just sits there.
You finally find someone who gets under your skin, who makes you feel alive and horny and like maybe something’s actually happening. And then they live hundreds of kilometers away. Long-distance is a special kind of hell—all compromise and denial and the constant ache of missing someone. There’s no falling into each other at the end of the day. No sex on your friend’s kitchen floor or tangled up on a couch. Just the rare video call, their face pixelated, their voice cutting out. No smell. No touch. Just screens.
Skype and Messenger and phone calls become the stand-in for everything you’d be doing if you weren’t on opposite ends of the map. What are you doing right now? Where are you? Is the connection working? God, I want you. That’s all you have—words and the thought of them, which is its own kind of torture.
Your life becomes one long holding pattern. Saving money for plane tickets you’re never quite sure are worth it. Waiting for a weekend when you’re both free at the same time, when work and family and obligation aren’t eating every hour. Waiting for the moment it all gets solved, waiting for one of you to finally move or break it off. But you know how it ends. It ends in grief. It ends in anger. It ends in regret.
And the thing is, it requires everything. Trust, reliability, the ability to keep the good memories alive between visits. But it breaks anyway. Because someone at work smiles at you the right way, or you meet someone new, and suddenly the person who’s far away doesn’t feel as real. The temptation next to you wins over the person miles away. It always does.
So I’m left with the question that always comes back: does any of it matter? All the sacrifice, the absence, the waiting—is there actually a point if it’s going to fall apart the moment someone else is close enough to touch?
Beck’s ran a label design competition and picked three winners: Marie Schacht from Dresden, Thomas Gnahm from Weimar, and Franz Stämmele from Stuttgart. Francesca Gavin from Dazed & Confused and Simon Beckerman from PIG helped judge. They got money and the thing that actually matters—their designs on real bottles.
I like that there’s a lineage to this. Phoenix and Ladyhawk both did label designs before, and now these three are next. It’s the kind of work that sounds straightforward until you’re actually trying to make something that reads at night in dim light, doesn’t get lost next to a hundred other bottles, and somehow still feels fresh. The constraints are brutal.
There’s a party in Berlin November 6 where Ting Tings and Phoenix are playing. That’s that moment in Berlin—brands funding cultural moments, or maybe the culture was already happening and the brands just showed up with money. Either way, it works. Designers get paid to do real work instead of spec jobs. Music, design, beer, all mixed together.
I’ve always appreciated when competitions actually result in something real. You’re not just designing for a portfolio or to enter a contest. Someone actually uses your work. It gets printed. People see it. The cycle completes instead of just floating in some brand vault somewhere.
Hurts make sadness feel beautiful. Theo Hutchcraft’s voice and all those synths create this space where heartbreak doesn’t feel degrading—it feels like the only honest thing. Stay is exactly that: accepting that sometimes you don’t leave, you just sit in the darkness together and let the machines turn it into something worth hearing.
Konttinen’s photographs let people just exist. There’s a patience to them, a kind of invisibility, that makes the camera feel like an afterthought rather than an intrusion. She documented working-class British communities for years, especially around Byker in Newcastle, and the work never announces itself or demands anything from you. The light is just there, catching moments that feel completely ordinary and somehow whole. What matters is the quietness of it, the way drawing with light becomes something different when you’re not trying to convince anyone of anything — just attention, and the trust that that’s enough.
Alice Glass’s voice—crystalline, almost innocent—pushed through walls of distorted synths that sounded like machinery breaking in a cathedral. You’d hear a track and it felt like watching something fragile get destroyed in real time, which was the whole point. There’s something specific about electronic music that commits to harshness instead of hiding behind production, and they never apologized for it. Not many bands made discomfort feel this necessary.
When “Je t’aime… moi non plus” showed up on the radio, it sounded like someone had actually figured out how to make pop music that was entirely at ease with being ridiculous. Yelle’s whole thing was that electroclash sound from the early 2000s—songs built on synths and loops and samples with a deadpan delivery that made the camp feel intentional. There’s a design sense in how they put things together, a confidence about embracing the kitsch, that meant you didn’t have to choose between enjoying it and taking it seriously.
California hits different when you’re not from there. The light is relentless, the food tastes like someone actually cared, and the bad ideas are prettier than anywhere else. You see why people chase it. You see why they stay.
The evil-boy thing is just Die Antwoord being Die Antwoord—making something ugly and strange and compelling. It’s hard to take seriously because they’re clearly not serious, but there’s something underneath the shock that actually matters. Or maybe that’s just what they want you to think.
A sixteen-year-old girl dies in a motorcycle accident and wakes up in some kind of void where a cosmic being tells her the planet is dying and she’s the only one who can save it. That’s Earth Maiden Arjuna in a nutshell, and it’s exactly as bleak as it sounds. The forests are gone, the oceans are poison, every system we’ve built is complicit in the destruction. By the time the opening credits end you understand this isn’t a magical-girl fantasy about hope and triumph. It’s a show about inheriting a dead world at seventeen and being told you can still fix it.
What got me was how seriously the anime commits to this. There’s no winking, no anime-cute softening of the message. The animation is gorgeous and deliberate, the music builds with real weight, and the show just keeps the pressure on. Governments are corrupt, corporations don’t give a shit, and the whole system is built on complicity. Arjuna walks through these systems and realizes none of them will save us. The institutions are the disease.
I wasn’t expecting this when I started. I thought I’d get something lighter, maybe some traditional magical-girl transformation nonsense. Instead I got thirteen episodes of slow escalating rage. By the midpoint I was angry in a way that feels embarrassing to admit—I wanted to throw things. The show has this way of making you feel Arjuna’s helplessness from the inside, the futility of one person trying to fix something broken at every level, the knowledge that even if she succeeds it won’t matter because the problem is us.
Here’s what kills me: the show never resolves anything cleanly. There’s no manifesto, no three-step plan to save the world. It just asks if you’re willing to listen, to actually look at what’s happening, and then it cuts to black. The ending is almost aggressive in its refusal to comfort you.
I finished it weeks ago and I still think about it. Not in a way that makes me feel like I’m saving anything. More like an awareness I can’t unknow, this low discomfort when I make certain choices. The show forced you to see something, and you can’t unsee it.
What makes a place yours has nothing to do with paperwork or keys. It’s something smaller and slower—the way your body remembers a room, how a street you hated at first becomes something you can’t imagine leaving. Sophie Van der Perre makes work about that kind of belonging, that slow accumulation of habit that turns a space into something that holds you. I think about it too much, honestly.
You break up with someone and the first thing you want to do—even before the crying, the drunk texting, the replaying of conversations—is erase them from every corner of the internet. Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, email, Discord, that app you both had for finding restaurants. Delete the friendship, block them, unfollow, mute, block again on a different platform you forgot you both used. The impulse is pure and immediate: if I can’t have you, you don’t get to see me.
My parents broke up. They never saw each other again. They might’ve passed on the street somewhere and not known it. Breakups used to have a clean ending because geography was doing the work for you. Now we’ve voluntarily stitched ourselves into each other’s digital lives—connected on everything, tagged in photos, appearing in each other’s feeds whether we like it or not. So when it ends, you don’t just break up. You have to go through and systematically delete them, click by click, notification by notification, account by account. It should feel like reclaiming your life. Instead it feels like a breakup that never ends.
And here’s the thing: you’re doing it partly out of self-protection, sure. But also—let’s be honest—you’re doing it because you want them to notice. You want them to see the absence and feel it the way you feel it. You want them to care that you’re gone. You watch their profile for three days hoping they’ll try to add you back, and when they don’t, that’s somehow worse than if they’d fought you on it. It’s theater. You’re both performing for an audience of one, and you’re both pretending not to notice the other person’s performance.
I’ve done this. I’ve blocked people on things I didn’t even know we were connected on. I’ve created fake accounts to check if they checked me. I’ve done the worst version of this: spent three months pretending I was over it while checking their Instagram weekly and trying to convince myself I was being realistic about whether they were dating that person I saw in their stories. The person who looks pathetic isn’t the one moving on. It’s me, still verifying that they’re actually gone.
Then there’s the thing people always say: “We can stay friends.” Nobody means it, but everybody says it. You’re both already dead to each other. The idea that you’re going to have a mature friendship is a lie you tell because the alternative—actually finishing something and letting it go completely—is somehow harder. So you stay in this gray zone. Unfollowed but not blocked, where you can accidentally see their life without them seeing yours. And you never, ever actually stay friends.
The smart move, supposedly, is to just block them and be done with it. Make it final. But then you feel cruel, like you’re the one who couldn’t handle a civilized ending. So you unblock them. And then three weeks later you’re back to hating their new relationship, so you block them again. Now you’re just some unhinged person toggling them on and off like they’re a light switch, which probably is worse than any of the other options.
I don’t know what the answer is anymore. Block them and look unhinged. Stay connected and torture yourself. Keep them around and watch them get on with their life while pretending you’re both adults about it. None of it feels right. Maybe that’s the thing now—breakups don’t end. They just shift into a different format. You’re both still checking, still caring, still tied to each other’s digital ghosts. And the only difference between now and when we had to run into exes at the grocery store is that now we can haunt each other endlessly without ever having to look away.
Uffie was the bratty electro voice of the mid-2000s—childish vocals and deliberate provocation, the kind of artist who made you uncomfortable in the best way. She worked with Justice, showed up on tracks that felt dangerous and exhilarating and slightly stupid all at once. Then she basically vanished, which somehow felt right. The difficulty wasn’t her music or her image; it was the refusal to explain herself or soften for anyone.
Last week I covered Stuttgart 21—the police action at the station, the protests, the kids getting hurt. The backlash came fast. Readers wanted the old version of this place back, the one about photography and music and the sex stuff. One person told me to stick to writing about tits and Lindsay Lohan’s rehab. The message was clear: stay in your lane.
But I couldn’t unknow what happened. A city was fracturing in real time. And at that point, staying quiet wasn’t neutrality anymore—it was a choice, and not a choice I wanted to make.
I get the impulse to keep things separate, to have one zone for serious stuff and another for the frivolous. It’s comfortable that way. But that’s not how it works when something actually matters. The people who didn’t want me covering Stuttgart 21 were the people who could afford to pretend it wasn’t relevant to them. I wasn’t one of them.
So I kept writing about it. Not to perform having principles or prove something to the critics. Just because certain things won’t let you look away, and if they won’t let you look away, then writing about them becomes essential in a different way. But it’s still writing. Still me. Still this place.
There were always two kinds of people. The ones happy with VIVA pumping them full of Blümchen and Tokio Hotel and whatever was popular in Cologne that week. And then the rest of us—the ones for whom MTV and a bottle of Jack at three in the morning meant something. The ones who at least pretended to have standards. Guitar noise versus manufactured sugar. The whole dumb war between what felt real and what was obviously built in a boardroom.
MTV was where you went when you needed proof that something on television actually mattered. Late night, bad buzz, half-asleep, but suddenly there’s Metallica or Nirvana or Weezer and the volume’s up and you’re sitting in the dark with it because nothing else touches you the way that does. It was the last place that seemed genuinely indifferent to being respectable or likeable. That’s what I’m nostalgic for, not the channel itself—the attitude. The refusal.
Of course MTV had already killed that part of itself years earlier. The moment they realized dating shows and reality TV made more money than actually playing music, they were done. They’d become everything they claimed not to be. Marketing garbage. Safe bets. By the time the paywall announcement came, MTV was already broadcasting from the grave.
VIVA stays free and becomes the dumping ground. David Guetta. Sarah Connor. Content for people who never needed MTV because they never wanted anything from television except company and no surprises. That’s the world now.
But I remember the specific feeling. Three in the morning, a room that smells like bad decisions, the grain of an old TV screen, that particular loneliness that comes from knowing somewhere else someone like you is watching the exact same song. MTV mattered because of that—we weren’t just the wrong kind of listener, we were the wrong kind of listener together. Now we’re all scattered on YouTube, watching alone.
Janine Henkes works in this space where vulnerability stops being a performance and becomes architectural. Her practice—drawing, sculpture, installation, the usual polymathy—keeps coming back to exposure, to the body and its refusal to be anything other than itself. There’s no coyness in it. No rhetorical nakedness. Just the thing as it is, stripped of whatever narrative you wanted to hang on it. It’s the kind of work that makes you aware of how much you’re used to art keeping its clothes on, how much distance we’ve trained ourselves to expect. She doesn’t give you that distance.
There’s something locked-in about Chrono Trigger that most games from that era have lost. The plot about time travel is fine, but it’s not what you remember. It’s the design—the way every system respects your time. Battles don’t drag. Characters matter without endless justification. Moving through the world feels right. As someone who spends time thinking about design, I’m acutely aware of how rare that is, how easy it becomes to add systems that sound good on paper but break the pacing, demand grinding, waste attention on bullshit. Chrono Trigger doesn’t do that. It just knows what it’s doing. I replay it every few years to remember what that felt like—not nostalgia, but the specific pleasure of a game that trusts you and doesn’t waste a second.
Collected a bunch of photos over the past few months—theme park trips, pranks on unsuspecting tourists, some nudity. Nothing precious about it, just whatever seemed worth keeping at the time. I’m throwing them here if you’re bored enough to look through someone else’s dumb memories. There’s a Wizard of Oz poster hidden in there somewhere. Find it and you win something. I haven’t decided what yet.
Jules and Katie, the two constant members of The Ting Tings, went to Berlin and locked themselves in a room. No outside producers, no label oversight, no one else in the room. Just the work. That’s how they made Kraft.
I don’t know how deliberate this was — whether they’d planned to reset after being everywhere at once, or if it just happened that way. But there’s something good about going quiet like that. Two people who’d been in the world, in the machinery, in the noise, and then stepping out to make something alone. An album made in private.
Kraft is a German word. It means strength, but also the raw force of a thing — the power in it, the substance. As a title, it points to something about what they were doing. Not a statement, not a response, not a calculation. Just the weight of the work.
They came back to Berlin to play it, which made sense. The city was part of it now. There was also this fragrance collaboration with Tommy Hilfiger, a song they wrote for it called “Loud.” The kind of thing that normally feels like a detour. But The Ting Tings have never been bothered by that — pop music that doesn’t perform seriousness, that doesn’t hide from commerce, that just keeps moving. They wrote the song, did the promo, and the album stayed the important thing.
I’ve always liked that about them. No bullshit about what’s “real” work versus the rest. Just make the thing, put it out, move on.
I watched one of the “It Gets Better” videos not long after it started, after a kid in New Jersey jumped off a bridge. The story was everywhere—he’d been outed online, humiliated, and he saw no way through it. So other gay people, older ones, started filming themselves. Just sitting there saying: I made it out. This part is survivable. It gets better.
The videos became a thing fast. Athletes, celebrities, regular adults—all of them offering the same basic fact: we lived through this, and now we’re here. Not happy all the time, not magically fixed, just alive and on the other side of that particular hell.
What hits when you watch them is how unsentimental they are. No inspirational music, no carefully shot moments. Just someone in front of a phone camera saying: you think this is forever, but it’s not. You think you can’t survive this, but you can. I did.
I think people need to hear that more than we admit. There’s a moment in your life—maybe longer than a moment, maybe years—where you feel completely certain that things will never change, that this trapped feeling is permanent. That you don’t have a future. When you’re in it, you can’t believe other people made it out. But they did. And they’re willing to say so, on camera, to kids they don’t know.
The project was specifically about gay teens, and it was a direct response to a specific crisis. But the thing that made it work—that any of it works—is simpler than that. Other people have survived the thing you think will kill you. Not just survived: lived past it, built actual lives, became people you’d want to be. That evidence matters.
The videos are still there, accumulating. I imagine someone new every day is watching one, thinking okay, maybe this really does get better.
I woke up to an email from Facebook saying they’d deleted my account. Just like that. No warning, no explanation, no appeal. Terms of service violation, they said, like that was all I needed to know.
Of course I hadn’t done anything serious. It was probably some photo where my chest showed, or maybe just the algorithm deciding it needed to flex. Facebook doesn’t explain these things — they just execute them. One day you’re there, the next you’re gone.
I’d spent years on that site doing exactly what everyone else was doing. Scrolling through the void. Stalking my exes and their new boyfriends with a kind of casual cruelty that felt necessary at the time. Posting terrible photos of my lunch, my drunk nights, whatever. Pretending it mattered. Farmville was there too, the obvious marker of how much time I was wasting.
And then it was over. No warning, no appeal, no explanation. Just deletion.
The weird part is the supposed relief of it. I’m untethered now. No more reflexive checking. No more of that particular time-suck. Which sounds good until you realize it also means no more… anything. Just the absence of a habit you didn’t know was sustaining you.
I could find another platform. There’s always another one waiting to siphon your time in exactly the same way. But I’m done with all that now. Maybe I’ll just go punch a nerd. Seems fair. Fuck Facebook.
I show up to parties wanting one good night—real conversation, some drinks. Anyone can manage that. But it gets late and all the couples are fused together in the corners and I’m forced to celebrate for them when I’m actually furious about it. So I grab my friend and we spend the ride home picking apart what I did wrong, which guy I should have actually talked to.
When I meet someone, I lose it completely. We haven’t even left the bar and I’ve bonded with all their friends, rearranged their apartment, decided we’re building a whole life together. But we’re never actually together, never official, so it evaporates before it really begins.
I need noise. Silence terrifies me—I’d rather talk absolute bullshit than be quiet long enough for someone to figure out I’m boring. I’m good at sounding like I know things I don’t. Politics, economics, whatever—I can fill an hour talking about it while understanding almost nothing.
I check myself in every mirror. Forget names the moment I hear them. My ex said I was scattered, perpetually late, chaotic. She was right.
I like women who actually think, who know things without having to announce it. That intelligence without the performance. It’s the only thing that matters.
What I want is the four-year-old version: see someone, yell “that’s mine,” end of story. Can’t skip to that part though.
Sunday at Schlossgarten started ordinary. Students with signs about Stuttgart 21, the massive railway project that had bled money and still somehow solved nothing. Families came to object, some just trying to keep the old trees from getting bulldozed. The kind of thing you see in any city—people using public space to speak, the expected friction between those and authority.
The police decided friction wasn’t happening. Water cannons. Tear gas. Riot gear against people sitting in a park. The message was unmistakable: this space isn’t yours anymore, and if you stay, you stop breathing safely. That’s what state violence really is—not a response to an actual threat, but a reorganization of who belongs where.
BILD didn’t even cover it at first. By the time coverage appeared, the moment had already moved into news-past-tense, forgotten before anyone had to take a real stance on it. The machinery of media indifference works faster than water cannons. You can disperse a crowd physically, but dispersing the attention that follows is more elegant—clean, deniable, efficient.
I can’t say whether S21 should’ve happened. These things are always complicated. But I know what I saw—a city deciding it didn’t need to listen, and then making sure nobody could speak. That mechanism is harder to unhear than any argument about trains.
There’s something about the way Dan Smith’s voice sits on that sparse guitar in Yulia—the way it just hangs there, almost fragile, like he’s asking a question nobody’s going to answer. Wolf Parade could’ve made it bigger, busier, but instead they let it breathe, let it be this small quiet thing. I keep coming back to it when I need to remember that a song doesn’t have to do much to do everything.
Nintendo was done making excuses about what it made. No more of the “we only do cute games with red mushrooms” line. They showed up and announced a 3DS — basically a Game Boy designed for another dimension. Three-dimensional gaming, portable, no glasses. They showed Street Fighter IV running on it, Zelda Ocarina of Time, Mario Kart. Anyone who held one had the same reaction: the thing actually worked.
It looked like someone took a DS and corrupted it slightly, adding color aberrations and actual depth. Early 2011 release, around 250 euros. The 3D effect wasn’t perfect — you had to sit in exactly the right spot or the image would separate and blur into ghosting. But when you found that sweet spot, when you held still, the screen had real depth. You could see into it. It was strange and disorienting and genuinely magical.
What got me was how confident the gamble was. Nintendo didn’t make a faster handheld or a sharper screen. They built something that only worked at specific angles, that gave you headaches if you stared too long, that required you to basically not move. And they launched it with those flagship franchises as proof it was worth the risk. They knew exactly what they were doing. Kids didn’t care if it was a gimmick — they cared that it was different.
The person who wrote that original post in broken English was responding to something genuine. The 3D wasn’t a reason to change how you played. It was a reason to feel different holding the device. The novelty was the point. You could ignore the effect and play Zelda like you always had, or you could lean into it and let the screen trick you. Either way, Nintendo had something no one else did.
The 3D turned out to be half-gimmick, mostly impractical. But that’s not why the 3DS mattered. It mattered because Nintendo kept finding reasons to care about what fit in your pocket. It became the thing you played alone, when you needed to disappear for a moment, when everything else was too much effort. That’s what stuck with me — not the technology, but the fact that someone kept insisting the handheld was worth your attention.
I used to read street style blogs like they were reportage from the real world. People in Prague with Fixies, people in New York with vintage Nirvana shirts, everyone in their city trying to look right with whatever they had—thrift finds, new brands, expensive basics. It felt like documentation before fashion became content, before every outfit needed to be a statement.
The funny part was how specific it all had to be. A bow tie meant something. Mixing thrift with expensive meant something. You could look at an outfit and know if someone understood the game. There wasn’t yet a system for it, just people getting dressed and someone with a camera being there.
I don’t remember the faces. I remember the moment—the Fixies, when vintage became about taste instead of necessity, before fashion turned into a brand story.
Ten years ago I’d record Neon Genesis Evangelion every Tuesday night straight from television because I had to be up early for school. I was taking some language class at the time, so the routine became: get home, hit record on the VCR, sit completely still for twenty minutes. The opening credits hit the same way every single episode and I never got tired of them.
The show itself is giant robots that teenagers have to pilot. An underground organization fighting alien creatures called Angels in a ruined Tokyo. Shinji’s this timid kid who doesn’t even want to do it, forced into the cockpit because nobody else will. Asuka, German redhead, sharp and vicious and dragging around trauma like a loaded weapon. Rei, constantly being cloned, inscrutable. Misato, their commanding officer, drinking beer and screaming orders and completely broken beneath it all. And somehow there’s a penguin living in their apartment, which tells you everything about the tone of this thing.
The premise sounds generic but nothing about it is. It escalates and gets progressively darker and more fucked up. Cities exploding. The director showing you the machinery of civilization and sanity coming apart. By the final episodes it stops being a show and becomes the director having what looks like a genuine psychological breakdown on your screen. Disturbing imagery, dialogue about parents and children and love and whether any of it means a goddamn thing. The fans destroyed themselves over it. The director apparently hated the audience so much he made a follow-up film where he kills the entire cast just to end it.
Nothing has ever gotten under my skin the way Evangelion has. The story that somehow holds together even as it’s falling apart. The characters you actually give a shit about. These huge absurd robots that shouldn’t be this compelling but completely are. And Asuka. I won’t be coy about it—I was completely gone for her. Still am, years later. If I could pull one fictional character into actual reality and drag her to Las Vegas, it would be her, no hesitation. At some point you just have to accept that you’re fucked in the head about something and keep living, and for me that something is a 1990s anime girl.
Ben Sherman and i-ref threw a party they called the Brick House at the tail end of that week. The appeal was transparent: free beer, free vodka, free shirts. The kind of math that gets Berlin’s chronically underemployed creative class in the door — evening, unlimited booze, something new to wear on the way out. I wasn’t above it.
The venue was the kind of anonymous Berlin space that could’ve been anything. Blank walls, industrial lighting, the sort of room that feels simultaneously sprawling and suffocating. But the crowd had that loose anticipatory energy you only get when alcohol is free and attention is thin. People I’d seen around a hundred times showed up, all of us for the same reason, all pretending the reason didn’t matter.
The night unfolded the way those nights do. You arrive, you drink, you talk to people you recognize but don’t know, the music does its work, the hours blur into each other. At some point you stop tracking time and you’re just someone moving through space. At some point you’re somebody else’s responsibility.
I woke up in Wenke’s bed with that specific dread of not remembering how I got there. For a while I was certain I’d been drunk enough to throw up on her pillow, which would’ve been a debt I’d never have paid off. She was completely unruffled about it, which meant either she has an uncommon amount of grace or she’d already mentally discarded that bed. Probably both.
The shirts were nice. That’s the strange thing about promotional parties — the actual merchandise ends up being the only tangible proof anything happened. Someone designed them, had them manufactured, shipped them to Berlin in boxes, handed them to people like me who barely noticed. The logistics of brand presence dissolving into drunk chaos is a funny thing to think about when you’re sober.
Wenke didn’t make much of a fuss about having a blackout drunk guy using her bed as a cot, which is what real kindness looks like. The kind you don’t know how to balance the scale on.
In 1991 I was the proud owner of an Amiga 500+ with a Philips color monitor and an external drive. I had plenty of games. Maybe ten of them were legitimate copies. The rest—and there were hundreds—came from friends, from the schoolyard, from the mail. That’s how it worked. You didn’t buy games; you swapped and copied.
One day I loaded a cracked disk and was flying through the intro when I noticed a phone number with an area code I recognized—some town nearby. “Contact us for the latest stuff,” it said. I picked up the phone. A kid answered, maybe eighteen years old, and within a few minutes I had an invitation to a copy party happening the next day.
I showed up with a stack of blank disks. It was a small setup—maybe fifty people, some of them with their own computers on camping tables, the rest of us just watching and waiting. One guy was Frank. He was in the middle of cracking Monkey Island 2, which hadn’t even been released yet. Not for another two weeks. I stood behind him and watched him work, dropping comments about memory protection and copy schemes, words I half-understood but which made me feel like I was part of something technical and forbidden.
“You can lay out eleven disks,” he said after a while. “I’m almost done.”
Monkey Island 2. Two weeks before the stores.
The actual copying was tedious—load, wait, eject, repeat—but I didn’t mind. By the time I left that afternoon, I had all eleven disks.
I went straight home and basically disappeared into my room for two days. I only came out for the kitchen and the bathroom. I played through Guybrush’s second adventure—the insult sword fighting, the voodoo dolls—and I laughed. Really laughed, in a way that surprised me. And underneath the laughter was something else: the feeling of getting away with something. Playing a game that technically didn’t exist yet, that was supposed to be protected, that I had no right to have. I was a tiny, pointless thorn in the eye of the entire industry, and for two days that felt like the best thing in the world.
The planes of her face were severe, mathematically precise — architecture that the camera understood immediately. She moved through early-2000s fashion with this quality of perfect indifference, eyes always looking past you or through you, never at you. Most models had learned the choreography of seduction, how to give the lens something to work with. She gave it nothing, which is why it worked. That distance, that refusal to meet the camera halfway — it made you do all the heavy lifting, made every campaign feel like an image you had to earn your way into.
El Guincho has this way of making pop songs that feel like they’re happening inside your head while you’re staring out a window. Bombay is that — bright and winding, the production so clean it almost disappears, and then a moment hits where you realize how carefully constructed the whole thing is. The kind of record that makes you want to move without demanding it, that catches you off guard with a synth line or a vocal turn you didn’t see coming. It’s the sound of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, which is somehow rarer than it should be.
I met up with Sarah for coffee. She wanted to talk about women—what they actually are under the surface, about sex and desire and all the lies we tell. Blond, pretty in an unremarkable way, student, blue eyes. She smoked between sips of her cold coffee and chewed her fingernails. If you passed her on the street you wouldn’t think twice.
Maybe an hour in, after talking about her pants and egg salad and nothing, she just said it. “Women are dirty sluts. We’re pigs, actually.” She was looking right at me. “We want hard sex. We want threesomes. We want filthy things whispered in our ears while someone fucks us. I love hard sex.” She held the eye contact long enough that I had to look away. I started grinning like an asshole.
My brain went nuts. What had this girl actually done? What had she let happen, or made happen? The waitress passed by with more coffee. Sarah kept going. “Every sweet little polite girl you see? Inside she’s a filthy bitch. She’s basically just a man without a cock, which somehow makes her less predictable, more dangerous.” She was enjoying watching me squirm.
“You’re actually serious?” came out hoarse. She smiled. “Last weekend I slept with seven people in 48 hours. Two of them were my best friends. We do it all the time. Threesome with Mexican exchange students. Once in an elevator in Marzahn with my brother’s best friend. Mostly bathrooms. Our apartment. Wherever.” I had to leave. Staying there another minute and I’d do something stupid.
I paid for both of us while not thinking about pushing her against the table and fucking her right there. She kissed my cheek, said she’d text me, and pedaled away on her bike. I watched her for a few minutes. Just pictures in my head. That kind of girl—there wasn’t anything else I wanted.
She sent the photo that night. No message, no warning. A small black heart tattooed next to her mons pubis, on the right side. I liked it. I took a long bath to let the afternoon settle, dried off and sent the photo to her boyfriend. Smiled like a devil. Cracked a beer. Dirty bitch.
Dominique Young Unique makes music that doesn’t apologize for what it wants. There’s a directness to it, a refusal to soften the edges or perform humility—just pure ambition stated plainly. That kind of confidence is rare, especially in a landscape that keeps trying to sand down the rough parts of hip-hop into something safer. It’s refreshing to encounter an artist who understands that the swagger isn’t a mask; it’s the whole point.
She had a way of actually listening when you talked to her. Most people are half-asleep, but she was there, paying attention. That was the thing about her — she paid attention to people, to the city itself, to what was actually happening instead of what you were supposed to say about it.
She’s leaving Berlin now. Not someday, actually leaving. She saved for it, planned it seriously, gave up everything easy. At 22, she just decided she needed to travel the world and committed to it the way most people don’t commit to anything. I watched her do that and I remember being struck by how real it was. No hesitation, no performance. Just a decision and the work to make it happen.
I didn’t see her as much as I should have in the last while. There’s plenty of time and then one day there isn’t, and you realize you let people slip by. Berlin’s big enough that you can do that without noticing. I kept thinking I’d meet up, catch her before she left, and then she was leaving and I hadn’t quite made it happen.
The city feels different without her in it now. Not because she was important or famous — just because she was actually awake in it, paying attention to what was real. That’s rarer than it should be. Most people move through places half-conscious. She was one of the few people who actually saw it.
Go on your trip, Sara. You’re actually going to do it. And I’m sorry I didn’t make more time for you while you were here.
September felt mixed that year. Skype had stopped being about calling people and had turned into something else. Sauerkraut. Nachos with actual cheese and ground beef, not the half-measures. Someone was watching the new season of Two and a Half Men—it meant something then. Shin Chan in the morning was the right way to start a day. Trampolines. Animals that happened to look like Hitler. Pixel art. Leather jackets. That stretch where you actually finished projects instead of abandoning them halfway. Ayumi Hamasaki. Trees to plant. The crude jokes and constant sexual reference—that was just how we talked. More breasts seemed necessary. Virtual Console. Dreams of becoming your grandfather. The whole mess of it.
But the same month had its poisons. Dog trainers as a concept. The weight of autumn wearing on you. Trolls. Apple fanatics. Plants dying slowly while you forgot about them. RTL television’s relentless cruelty. Good friends suddenly seeming off, becoming people you didn’t recognize. The tinnitus left behind by concerts. Nuclear power. That creeping knowledge that everything ends—not wisdom, just weariness. Showers instead of baths. That thing with your ex nobody wanted to face. The compromises that felt necessary and turned out to be damage.
September didn’t ask for understanding. It just asked if you could tell what was keeping you alive from what was slowly poisoning you.
Charlie Le Mindu sent his models down a London runway completely naked. The girls looked like they wanted to evaporate. The crowd was entertained. He looked pleased with himself. Can’t really fault the logic — he’s a 24-year-old French hairdresser who decided to be a fashion designer, which means he makes wigs and hats and hair pieces, not clothes. So sending women out there with nothing but his hair work kind of makes sense.
He’s already in the system. Lady Gaga wore his pieces. He tours with Peaches. He makes hats obsessively. The kind of person who doesn’t operate by normal rules. So when fashion week came around, why pretend he makes clothes? He doesn’t. The show was his wigs, his hats, his obsession with hair, just on naked bodies.
I could have become a fashion designer, spent decades designing things that show off the female body, sent them down runways, sold the whole image. Instead I’m here. But Le Mindu just went for it. No apologies, no artist statement about reclaiming the body or challenging beauty standards. Just “I make hair things, here are naked models wearing hair things.”
The feminists can say what they want. The models are probably fine — anyone working that level of fashion has seen worse, done worse, been through worse. The whole industry runs on drugs and backstage sex anyway. Walking around naked is not the shocking part of their day.
But he committed to the idea completely, and I respect that. Most designers would soften it, find a way to make it palatable. He just did it. Sent them out naked. That’s the show. More of this wouldn’t hurt anyone.
I spent hours scrolling through blogs in the early 2000s. There were these women - photographers, models, fashion writers - and I’d move from page to page the way you do when you have nothing better to do and some quiet pull keeps you looking.
Lea Rieck from Munich had this whole philosophy about pale being a color. She ran a fashion blog about it, wrote about fashion like it mattered. Teresa Bücker, red hair, writing essays about living in Berlin. Jessie-Lynne from Chicago just posted nude photos for money, which was at least honest about the transaction.
Everyone performed - the filtered photos, the careful captions, the selection of what to show. We all knew the other side was watching. That was just how it worked.
I don’t think about those blogs anymore, but I remember the particular texture of looking - scrolling through pages, reading captions, seeing someone’s carefully composed photographs, with the knowledge that we were all performing for each other and nobody ever said it directly. Everyone watching, everyone watched.
Owen Pallett makes music that feels like it’s trying to escape the page — all those violins spiraling over electronic glitches, like chamber pop colliding with the future. There’s something both meticulous and reckless about his work, the way he’ll spend months on an arrangement only to mess it up on purpose. He cares about beauty but refuses to be precious about it, which is probably why his stuff lands the way it does — no apology in it, just the work itself, visible and strange.
There’s something about early Doolittle—that moment when British pop radio had space for actual personality, not just manufactured cool. Rollerblades is exactly the kind of hook-driven, conversational pop song that lived in your head for weeks once it got in there. She had this way of making the everyday sound like it mattered, which is harder than it sounds. Most artists try to convince you their life is interesting. She just talked about hers like you were already listening anyway.
The magic system in Secret of Mana was permission to break the rules. You’d find these floating orbs scattered through forests and caves—Salamander, Undine, Sylphs—and suddenly you could summon a thing the game hadn’t explicitly told you was possible. Fire, water, wind. The first time you cast one, the screen fills with this overwhelming amount of geometry and color, the Mode 7 effects warping the world, and everything on screen stops mattering. It’s just you and the spell.
I spent more time with this game trying to understand how to make it pretty than how to win. The formula is simple enough—walk around, hit things, level up—but the visual design, those rippling water effects and the way light moves through forests, felt like someone showing you their thinking process in real time. That’s the thing about games from when the hardware was just barely fast enough: every visual flourish meant something, took up space that could have been a menu system or a load screen. The designers chose the beautiful thing.
Most games that rely on that kind of aesthetic appeal get worse when you come back to them, but Mana holds. Maybe that’s nostalgia. Probably it is. But there’s something about the tone of it that doesn’t feel dated—the color palette, the decision to make the world look washed out and dreamlike rather than photorealistic, the way the music just sits there being gentle. You could play it right now and it wouldn’t feel like a museum piece. It would just feel like something someone made with care.
The paranoia lands different in 2026 than it did in 2012. Back then MK Ultra was speculative fiction—a song about government surveillance as conceptual threat. Now it sounds like documentation. The processed vocals, the static, the way the synth buries everything—it’s anxiety made physical, and it turns out they were just describing what was already here.
There’s this survey showing what you already knew: the poorer you are, the more you believe in God. Bangladesh, Niger, Yemen—places that are completely fucked—people there pray like their lives depend on it, because they do. Meanwhile in Sweden and Japan, God is what you mention at dinner parties if you want to sound thoughtful, something you do on Sundays when you’re bored enough.
I get it. When everything is burning, you get on your knees. When the diagnosis comes back wrong, when the rent is due and there’s no money, when your kid is sick and you can’t afford the hospital, you pray. Not because you suddenly believe in some old guy with a beard, but because you’ve run out of other options. Prayer is what happens when you have nothing left to control, so you try controlling the universe instead.
The cruel part is that belief gets stronger the more you need it to work. A rich person can afford doubt. A poor person can’t. They need to believe that someone is paying attention, that suffering means something, that this isn’t just how it ends. It’s the same reason desperate people gamble—the fantasy is too necessary to question.
I don’t know if I believe in any of it. But I understand why people who have nothing left believe in everything.
You get stuck in someone’s archive and three hours disappear. Reading posts from years back, you realize how different the internet felt when people wrote like they were thinking out loud for themselves, not performing for algorithms. One post leads to another, and it’s not a feed designed to keep you scrolling—it’s just the shape of genuine curiosity. By the time you surface, the afternoon’s gone, but something’s stuck with you.
What grabbed me was the pretzel thing. Lari dunks them in soft drinks until they’re completely soggy, then eats them. Not a joke, just a fact about how she actually is—the kind of specific, stupid detail that tells you more than any confession.
Twenty, from Münster, textile management student, Capricorn. Her friends call her a tape-recorder girl, chaos person, mystery. Reading further, that tracks. She goes months without weighing herself, steps on the scale, cries, panic-joins a gym, eats salad for two weeks, then never goes back. She makes weird sounds when she sees cute dogs. Chews in this ridiculous way that lights up her face like a carnival. Laughs loudest at her own jokes. No performance, no curated version.
What matters to her is compact and clear: humor, taste, someone who actually reads. No pseudointellectuals, no small talk, no bad spelling. Loves dogs, hates pigeons, stays realistic in love. Won’t take phone calls from strangers.
The original post ends with a call for readers to submit their own profiles, which is just format noise. But the core—Lari’s actual profile—works because she understood something: the real stuff isn’t the stats or the headline, it’s the pretzels and the carnival face and the laughing alone. That’s more revealing than any polished self-description.
Shakespeare’s sonnets sit in that weird space where they’re famous enough to be invisible. You know they’re about love and time and loss, but you don’t actually think about them until you read one and get hit by how immediate it is—how the specific exhaustion of wanting someone or watching something fade just lives there in the language without any distance at all.
They don’t age because the problems don’t. Desire, betrayal, time ending, the thing you can’t hold onto—these aren’t historical. A sonnet about any of that works now exactly as well as it ever did, probably always will.
What gets me is the form. Fourteen lines to contain something true that can’t be said completely. You compress the whole thing in there and somehow it comes out sounding like the most natural thing in the world. That’s where the fire is.
The Ting Tings were everywhere around 2008, that bratty electronic duo with “That’s Not My Name” on constant rotation. “Hands” came a couple years later, and it had that same propulsive synth-pop energy, all brightness and attitude. It was the kind of song that sounded perfect in a car with the windows down, made you want to drive somewhere pointless just to hear it again. They didn’t last long in the public eye — the novelty-hit machine always moves on — but for a moment they felt like what pop music could be if it let itself be a little bit weird and didn’t care if you thought it was cool.
Found a Game Boy at a flea market in Munich—gray, beat to hell, Pokémon Blue still in the cartridge. I paid almost nothing for it. Carried it around for three weeks before the drive back to Berlin, just holding it, remembering. Somewhere around Saxony it clicked back into my hands the way it used to, and I was ten years old again. Not nostalgia, just the game.
I picked Charmander immediately. Gary got Squirtle, which meant I got to watch him lose on the first real battle, and there’s something genuinely satisfying about humiliating someone—even a NPC—early and often. Professor Oak threw me out of the lab and into the grass, and I felt invincible.
I ground out Pidgey and Rattata until they were worth something, smashing everything in sight before Brock. The first gym barely registered. I was running six Pokémon of nothing in particular, just whatever had leveled up enough to matter, and Rocko went down like he wasn’t even there. By Viridian Forest I’d figured it out. Every trainer that wandered into my path got dismantled.
Azuria City’s where it fell apart. Misty has this Staryu, and she uses it like she understands the game, and I walked in with a disaster team of six underleveled Pokémon I’d been too stubborn to actually build. I lost seventeen times before I stopped counting. Each loss felt stupider than the last. I went back and ground out another ten levels, came back, lost again. My Charmeleon is carrying the team. Everything else is deadweight.
I’m stuck. Current team: Pidgey (L13), Geodude (L14), Clefable (L10), Charmeleon (L28), Paras (L8), Zubat (L10). Two and a half hours in, one badge, ten Pokédex entries. Misty’s still laughing at me.
I’ll go back and beat her eventually. I always do. But right now I’m frustrated enough to put it down for a bit, and frustrated enough that I know I’ll pick it back up.
Summer doesn’t care what you want from it. I could beg it to stay through the end of Grey’s Anatomy — did beg, actually, kind of stupidly — and it would still just vanish without a goodbye one morning. By October you’re already resigned to the dark, shopping for sweaters. But there’s this moment right before the full collapse where people show up in their best clothes like they might argue the season into staying, like looking good is a kind of negotiation. I’ve been noticing them.
Juliett’s from Poland, twenty-two, and there’s no surrender in the way she’s put herself together for autumn. No getting a head start on winter with earth tones and resignation. She knows the cold is coming and she’s dressing like she won’t apologize for it first.
Romina’s fifteen, from Germany, doing the opposite — fighting the whole grey mood of the season with color. Heart-shaped glasses, neon stockings from We Love Colors, refusing to grey herself out in advance. Less black, somehow more good mood, and the weird thing is it works. When someone refuses to disappear into autumn first, something shifts in the people around them too.
Bobby’s from Brooklyn, in H&M, and I can’t write about him without sounding like an idiot. He’s got one of those bodies — tattoos, shoulders, the whole thing — that stops your thinking. He knows it. I know it. Everyone does. The outfit is fine but basically beside the point.
Mindy’s near San Diego, all black everything. Chucks, jeans, hoodie. She understands something about commitment — not just that original Chuck Taylors are still the best shoes ever made, but that a single unbroken line reads as more style than any mixing could. There’s something stubborn about it. Belligerent.
Coury’s twenty-nine, in Los Angeles, vintage clothes, standing in what’s left of the sun. She has this face like she’s negotiating with it. Stay. Just stay a little longer. Stay, you bastard. And she’s right. What else are you going to do, give up early?
Most German bands don’t hold my interest for long. Madsen’s different — they’ve been at it since 2004 and never got worse. From this nothing town called Clenze, they just keep playing festival after festival, and somehow they still sound like they’re thinking about their songs instead of just filling time. Smart writing, decent melodies. There’s something about watching a band stay solid like that.
The bodies in Ren Hang’s photographs don’t perform. They exist in a kind of vulnerable refusal, stripped down and exposed in landscapes that offered no shelter for that vulnerability. There’s a defiance in the work—not the performative kind, but the kind that comes from looking straight at what everyone else looks away from. His photographs were erotic without trying to seduce you, intimate without trying to comfort you. They were a refusal to hide, in a place where hiding was the safest option.
Around 2005, fashion blogs became a thing, and if you were online enough to notice, you’d start seeing the same handful of girls everywhere. Not celebrities yet—the machine hadn’t kicked in yet. You just found them through links, sometimes by accident, and suddenly you’re looking at someone’s life in a way that feels almost intimate.
Ivy Behrens posting from Hamburg at 21, documenting the clothes she wore and the music videos that mattered—just living, letting the camera see it, and somehow that documentation made you want to understand how she moved through the world. Filippa Smeds from Sweden had that quality where you’d check back regularly. Jasmin Arensmeier was tall and blonde in a way that suggested she’d figured something out early. Rachel Lynch from Chicago was posting self-portraits, sometimes in lingerie, and yeah, there was something sexual about it, but it didn’t feel like a performance. Jessica Weiß was building something real with Les Mads, an actual fashion platform that was becoming something in the culture.
What made it all work was desire, pure and simple. Not just looking but wanting to understand how they lived, wanting to get close to them somehow, the physical attraction bleeding into something messier. The blogs themselves were crude sometimes, objectifying, but underneath that crudeness was something genuine: fascination with how people present themselves, how taste actually works, how you can show the world who you are without anyone giving you permission.
It’s strange to think about now, how small that internet was. You could find someone by following a thread, get genuinely invested in their life, feel a real connection across a screen. No algorithm deciding what you see, no engagement metrics, no business model. Just a girl with a camera and something to say, and people like me paying attention, trying to figure out how to live.
The girls are still out there probably, but the moment that made it all work is gone. Fashion blogging became an industry, and the internet stopped being a place you stumbled into and started being a place you were marketed to. What I miss isn’t the girls themselves—I don’t actually know them—but that feeling of discovery, of finding something real and genuine because you were curious enough to follow a link.
I keep noticing work that cares about details. Not in a precious way, just… you can tell when someone spent time thinking about how something should feel when you touch it, when you open it, when you wear it.
Circus Bookazine came across my radar recently — this 350-page book about fashion by Rebecca Sandbichler and Inga Schörmann. It’s bilingual, which is fine, but the real thing is that it’s actually carefully made. The interviews are with people who know the subject (Agyness Deyn, Horst Meier, Anne Feldkamp), and they’re talking about the actual substance of fashion — sourcing, globalization, materials — not just the surface. It’s the kind of publication you’d want to sit with for a while.
Then there’s T-Post from Sweden, this project that prints magazine designs on t-shirts every month. Limited edition, one concept per shirt. The idea is almost obvious once you see it — why does a magazine have to stay on paper? — but they’ve executed it cleanly. You’re wearing someone’s actual design choice, someone’s actual work, not just decoration.
These are the kinds of things that stick with me. Not because they’re perfect or famous, but because they suggest people who understand that the physical object, the thing in your hands, the thing you wear — that matters.
I’ve never cared about cars. Don’t have a license, probably never will get one. If I did somehow find myself driving, I’d be a menace—throwing shells at other drivers, dropping banana peels, shooting balloons off kids’ hands. Basically I’d be playing Super Mario Kart on actual highways, which I think explains something fundamental about me.
The only thing I got to play on my brother’s SNES was Mario Kart. Zelda? Watching only. Super Mario? I could beat it once and then I was done—Bowser’s castle, the whole star road, and the magic vanished. Mario Kart was the one that lasted. Eight tracks you could run forever, chasing your ghost around Rainbow Road trying to shave off a tenth of a second, knowing you’d never actually improve but playing anyway.
The real game happened when my siblings were there. All three of us on the couch, screaming, throwing controllers, rage-quitting and coming back. It didn’t stay civil. We’d end up wrestling, actually furious, the game bleeding into physical chaos on the living room floor. My mother stopped trying to separate us. She probably hoped the SNES would just fail one day, spontaneously die. It didn’t.
We bought another SNES years later and started over. Same tracks, same wars. Same endless loop of quitting and immediately pressing start again. I have every corner memorized now—the drifts, the shortcuts, the curve of each track. I can run it blind. But only the flat, bright 2D version on the SNES. The 3D ones on N64, GameCube, Wii never worked for me. Too much visual noise, geometry that doesn’t sit right. I’m only fluent in that one version.
The game that stayed fun. The one that never asked you to finish.
Summer ends fast. You’re still wearing the same clothes, the sun’s still up late, and then one morning the light hits the kitchen at a different angle and you realize you’ve already lost it. The long days don’t fade gradually — they just stop. By October you’re leaving work in the dark, and the whole rhythm of the day has compressed into a smaller window. It’s not sad exactly. It’s just the weight of it, how quickly the year turns cold and the hours go thin.
Your head fills up. Thoughts circling, problems turning in your mind, big ideas that won’t die, small anxieties that jolt you awake at 3 in the morning. The kind of mental static that makes straight thinking impossible.
The quick fixes work sometimes. Cold water. Moving. Sex. Buying something stupid. Jerking off. For a few hours the noise backs off and you feel lighter.
When it gets worse, you’re down to fight or flight. Actually facing the pile of shit, or running from it. Most people don’t have the strength to pick either one at first, so they sit with it instead, for days or weeks.
I’ve left town a few times because my brain wouldn’t stop spinning. Getting away from your apartment, your neighborhood, your routine - there’s something about distance that quiets the spinning. Or maybe it’s just distraction. I’ve heard people talk about moving away permanently to escape their own head, and I get it.
Everyone has their thing. Some people run, some drink, some use, some sleep with a stranger. I’ve tried most of them. None of it’s actually a fix, but it all beats sitting alone with it.
What I notice is that nothing works the same way twice. Whatever cleared your head last time won’t clear it the same way when you need it again. So you keep cycling through different things, hoping something lands.
I think real clearing doesn’t happen when you’re trying. It happens when you’re distracted enough by something else that the noise becomes background. Work. A project. Someone. The overwhelm doesn’t go anywhere; you just learn to carry it.
Been living with three albums lately. Robyn’s Body Talk Pt. 2 first—bright electropop that actually sounds like she’s having fun with it. I know the three-part release was supposed to be cynical, and maybe it was, but the songs don’t feel that way. “Hang With Me” and “In My Eyes” are the ones that stick, the rest holds up.
Matthew Dear’s Black City is a different thing entirely. Every song is dark without trying to make darkness feel noble or beautiful or any of the ways music usually lies about sadness. “Soil To Seed” and “Gem” are the worst, the truest ones, and listening to them just makes you heavier, not lighter. There’s something almost cruel about the melodies.
Sufjan Stevens’ All Delighted People drops between albums, quiet and thoughtful. “From The Mouth Of Gabriel” and “Enchanting Ghost” have weight. He sounds like he’s putting something down before moving on, getting his house in order before the next thing.
All three cycling and by the time you get back to Robyn you feel like you’ve been somewhere. That’s all that really matters.
A girl in a bikini wraps an octopus around herself and laughs. Space pirates do a television bit. A pop star does choreography in jello. Somewhere a network executive signed off on all of this the same week, probably without a second thought.
For years I got it in stolen pieces—YouTube compilations, screen recordings, clips with no context. The absurdity came through but fragmented, like hearing about someone else’s fever dream. You’d watch five minutes and have no sense of what you’d just seen or why it existed.
What strikes me is that none of it is *trying* to shock you. No artist statement, no irony, no deliberate provocation. It’s just the baseline. A game show where the prizes are arbitrary. A talk show that stops talking so someone can do something incomprehensible. The assumption seems to be that television is a place where things happen, and you either watch it or you don’t.
Everywhere else is optimized to hell now. Metrics. Algorithm. Brand guidelines. Every second calculated for engagement, every frame measured for retention. Japanese TV didn’t get the memo. It’s just doing whatever felt right when someone pitched it. No apologies. No explanation.
I go back to it because it’s stupid in a way that clears your head. Not experimental or smart, just television that doesn’t need permission to exist exactly as it is. That’s clarifying. To see a medium run this long without checking itself, without needing to be good or important or optimized. That sticks.
You watch people get strategic about the cold. Summer’s backing away and half of everyone’s buying blacks and grays for November. The other half isn’t convinced yet—still reaching for what worked in July.
Frida Johnson is seventeen and Swedish, which explains why she’s in a MySpringFling shirt covered in flowers like she’s betting the season will reverse if she just doesn’t blink. There’s something to that stubbornness.
Annika’s twenty-six, also from the north, but she’s found a different move. She’s not denying winter—she’s flirting with it. Johanna Vikman shirt, Cheap Monday jeans cut short, knee-high stockings that catch light, H&M beanie. The negotiation’s visible.
Marcus Mason works in fashion in New York now, and it shows. Gray James Perse shirt, H&M jeans he bleached himself, Armani Exchange bracelets, Burberry necklace. He looks like someone who’s decided fall is fine. The pieces talk to each other.
Tiffany from LA is just saying no to the whole idea of what you’re supposed to wear. Peace signs, colored tape across her face, Playboy navel ring, wool earmuffs. Adolescent rebellion, which it is, but there’s something clarifying about someone who wears contradiction without apology.
Paula’s just wearing a white t-shirt. No emblem, no statement, no reach. Just cotton and the fact of herself. That’s its own bold thing.
October or November and everyone’s sorting out their relationship to the cold. Some diving in, some delaying, some fighting it with peace signs. The ones I keep thinking about are the ones who seem to know what they actually want to wear, not what they should. That clarity reads, even in stillframes of people you don’t know.
The schoolyard was a war zone. You had to be hard, had to seem cool, had to know all the filthy words—tits, fuck, blowjob—or you’d spend the next ten years with a target on your back. We were small and vicious. At home we were soft enough: Power Rangers bedding, Saturday night baths, that pure hit of dopamine when you caught a new Pokémon. But outside, in the real world, we were tiny killing machines with oversized dicks in our heads.
Once puberty hit, the question wasn’t if. It was how often, how many ways, with who. Thomas supposedly fucked blonde Jessica with the bat ears on the playground. Konstanze had Fabian’s balls in her mouth. Daniel and I had worked through half the class by fifth grade, or so the story went. Anything to make the noise stop for a while.
We had fake fuck lists, memorized terminology, encyclopedic knowledge of anatomy—or what we thought was anatomy. We were loaded for battle. The problem was we’d only ever seen naked women in those crumpled, sun-bleached magazines from the alley, and even thinking about it sent us scrambling up to our rooms to dry-hump a Turtles pillow. By twelve we’d all supposedly slept with everything, and nothing short of a court order would’ve gotten the truth out of us.
The thing is, I didn’t actually lose my virginity until two days after my nineteenth birthday. Maria was too tense. Before anything could happen with Karina, my aunt burst into the room. Helena felt wrong somehow. The village girl finally got it done. Nothing special about it. I caught up fast enough after that.
What kept me up at night sounds laughable now. Thomas never touched Jessica. She smacked him when he grabbed her ass on the monkey bars. Konstanze figured out she was into women when she was seven and never had a guy’s balls anywhere near her mouth except breakfast. Daniel, me, half the class—nothing happened. Nothing until senior prom, and barely then.
Why do we lie like that about sex? What makes it so important to have done it, to have numbers, to reset the score? It’s always about power anyway, about winning, about staying afloat. I remember sitting in the cafeteria watching Thomas brag about Jessica, and his face had this desperate quality—like if he stopped talking he’d vanish. I knew that look. Knew it from the mirror.
I was reading through old internet stuff and found this feature from a German blog in the early 2000s—just a list of women who had audiences on the internet back then. Shelley, Luise, Alex, Luca, Laura. The piece itself is crude, all focus on appearance, but underneath that is something more interesting: a snapshot of what the web was like when I was actively blogging. You had an audience because you had something to say, not because the algorithm decided you did.
What strikes me is how earnest it all was. These women posted photos and wrote updates and people showed up. No brand strategy, no carefully constructed persona. Just someone with a blog and followers who cared enough to come back. The crude tone of the original piece gets in the way, but you can see through it—they were actually building audiences from nothing. You went to their actual website and scrolled through their posts and decided if you wanted to come back tomorrow.
The internet was smaller then but also weirder. There was no feed, no recommendations engine pushing related content at you. You just followed links and visited blogs you liked. If a blog stopped being interesting, you’d notice because you had to actually remember to go back there. It’s a strange thing to remember now when everything’s about making the algorithm happy.
The thing that gets me is knowing none of it lasted. The internet destroyed and rebuilt itself constantly back then. A year or two later, some of these women probably hadn’t updated their blogs in months, and the followers had moved on to the next thing. You mattered for a little while and then you didn’t. That was how it worked.
I don’t know where any of them ended up. Still making music, probably? Still gaming? Definitely not thinking about their 2000s blogs anymore. There’s something both beautiful and kind of depressing about that—you could build something real and have it matter and then just… not. The internet kept moving and you either moved with it or you faded.
Marina and the Diamonds came on midway through something else and I remembered why she mattered so much during the Electra Heart era. There’s a specificity to how she writes pop hooks — the chords land where you don’t quite expect them, and her voice has this built-in irony that makes even the sweetest melodies feel slightly off. She was never trying to be accessible in the way most pop singers chase it. Just made what interested her and trusted that some people would get it. The production is where she lives, all these small details stacked together until it becomes this complete world. Shampain has that quality — casual on the surface, but constructed so carefully you could trace every decision if you listened close enough. That’s the thing about her work that still holds: it doesn’t ask for permission to be strange.
I got hooked on video games at six and have been watching them evolve since then. Used to try to imagine what they’d look like in the future and always landed on the same thing: perfect cartoons, slicker, more intricate, basically animation you could control.
Super Mario Bros. 3 was the pinnacle for me as a kid. Those bright colors and the goofy little enemies just worked. At twelve, going through a rough time, my mom painted my room the same blue as Mario 64’s sky. That’s the kind of thing you remember forever. After that I got into Mario Kart because it didn’t demand your whole evening and it actually worked with other people around. Nintendo games stayed at the top for me because they just looked and felt right. They still do.
Red Dead Redemption is my favorite game right now. It came out this year and it’s set in 1911 in the American West just as the frontier mythology is falling apart. Rockstar’s been circling around similar themes for a while now but Red Dead finally nails it. The story moves at a good pace. The characters feel like real people—the writing and acting are better than anything I’ve seen in a game—and everyone matters to the story, not just the leads. Nico Belic was a great character but in GTA IV he was surrounded by people you wanted to skip entirely. Here it’s different.
What makes it work is that everything fits together. The game’s about good and evil, freedom, redemption—all the big philosophical stuff—but you don’t sit around thinking about it while you’re playing. You’re riding across these plains on horseback and it just feels like somewhere real. Not like “wow look at the graphics” but more like “this is something, I’m in this.” You hunt, you find treasure, you help people. Some people play online. I just want to keep riding.
Found an old Game Boy with Pokémon Blue at a flea market. The plastic was gray and weathered, buttons worn smooth, but the cartridge fired right up. I chose Charmander and fell back into that world immediately—catching things in tall grass, talking to NPCs, the whole ritual coming back without effort. For a couple hours I was completely absorbed. Then I hit the wall of playing entirely alone.
The whole game is designed around two people. You’re supposed to trade to fill your Pokédex, battle someone to prove your team is stronger, compare what you caught. None of that works if you’re by yourself. You just cycle through the same gyms and fight NPCs that have the same dialogue every time.
What gets me is the design underneath it. They tell you to be a master, to catch them all, to be the best—but all of that means nothing if you’re doing it by yourself. The entire promise of the game collapses without someone there to prove it to.
I keep the Game Boy on my shelf anyway. Not sure why anymore. Maybe I’m still imagining I’d find someone else who actually wanted to do this—someone with an old console and the patience to battle. Probably nothing will come of it. But there it sits, powered off, just in case.
Röyksopp makes music that works like a drug in the best way—you listen once and know you’ll need to hear it again soon. Their production is meticulous without being fussy, electronic without sounding cold. Melody A.M. and The Understanding are the kind of albums that reward headphones and an empty afternoon. I’ve spent more time with them than I should probably admit, not because they’re complicated, but because something in the way they’re made just stays with you. The synths, the space between things, the refusal to rush. You keep coming back.
It’s Friday and my brain stops working in the normal way. There’s a specific logic to Friday nights, though it’s not logic that survives until Saturday morning—it’s the logic of escalation, where each stupid idea leads to the next one and somehow it all makes sense.
I’m thinking about Kaya Scodelario for reasons that don’t need explaining. I’m going through the Katy Perry nip slip situation in my head, honestly unimpressed—hers was underwhelming, something that should have landed harder. Rick Astley’s got a new song and I can’t stop turning it over, the way there’s something almost elegant about getting rickrolled again, like the trolls finally got bored and were offering you a mercy callback.
There’s MySpace sitting in the back of my head like some archaeological site I could visit. Going back would feel like grave-robbing or fucking a corpse—poking around in the bones of what I used to spend hours on. That one I’ll probably skip.
But the other things? A New York cheesecake from Starbucks, lit on fire, left on the neighbor’s porch. A Pikachu on a leash in the nicest club in the city. These are the moves that either become legendary or get you thrown out—and either way, you’ve got something by midnight.
I know I should read something. Murakami works, any Murakami. It’ll be worth it on a level I don’t understand until I’m halfway through. Or I could actually watch that documentary about anal sex, learn something real instead of just assuming I know how technique works. Friday’s not the time for assumptions.
The specific things don’t matter. What matters is that on Friday, all the stupid ones line up and feel connected, like there’s an actual curriculum. You know better by Monday. Right now, at the start of Friday night, it’s the only logic that works.
Mark Ronson has never needed to overthink it. The Bike Song is him doing what he does best — getting a room full of people together and letting them play. Nothing forced, just some groove that feels like it rolled out of an afternoon where everyone showed up knowing what they were doing. That’s all it is, and all it needs to be.
Hannah and I grabbed a couple others and headed south, no plan except to disappear for a bit. Just driving, sitting in the heat, long afternoons where you forget what day it is. When you travel with people you actually like, the destination barely matters. Could’ve been anywhere warm and distant enough to make ordinary life feel like fiction.
Steve Jobs announced Ping at the 2010 iTunes keynote like it was the second coming of Christ — a new social network built into iTunes where you could follow friends, see what they were buying, and feel like you were part of something exclusive. Except there was no community. There was just iTunes finding another way to make shopping feel like belonging.
The setup was perfect. Every song you added to your profile became a public record of what you’d paid for, which created this bizarre gamification where having taste was the same as having money. But the real kicker was that most people’s libraries were full of pirated tracks. Using Ping honestly meant broadcasting your copyright violations. Apple built a panopticon and dressed it up in minimalist design and called it community.
Jobs understood something that most people don’t want to admit: people don’t actually want products. They want to feel like they’re on the inside of something, like buying your stuff makes them special or different or part of an elite. Ping was that instinct dressed up in social-network language. Follow your friends. Share your taste. Buy more music. Do it all while feeling like you’re participating in culture instead of just consuming it.
Ping died pretty quickly, which was fine by me. Apple never needed it to actually work. They just needed it to exist long enough to sell the feeling that you were part of something exclusive, that your taste meant something, that connecting with people through iTunes was real connection instead of just shopping. And it worked. They’re better at that than anyone else, and they know it. Apple will never stop finding new ways to package and sell that exact feeling.
Willabelle’s sixteen from Australia with this effortless thing going — blue blazer over a floral dress, silver chain. You see a lot of teenagers trying to construct a look, performing fashion, and then you see someone like her and it’s just there. No labor in it.
Tony’s another thing — twenty-six, living in Paris with an artsy girlfriend and a kid, and his whole feed is this enviable life. He photographs well, dresses well. Blue shirt, tattoo, beard. The kind of guy who makes you want to be better looking just by existing.
Fabienne’s got a Mogry tattoo, that little Final Fantasy creature inked right there on her skin. Topless, patterned dress. I was sold immediately. Something about someone caring that much about something so specific and nerdy. I’d marry her, get the whole thing started. That detail short-circuits something.
Agnija’s fifteen from Latvia and already dresses better than most adults — red jacket, light top, white shoes. Same effortless thing as Willabelle. You see enough people who look like they’re performing fashion and then you see someone like this and remember that some people just have it.
Then there’s Justin. Colored beads, painted nails, fake horns, facial piercings everywhere, some boring tattoo. Fashion sense that would make Ozzy Osbourne’s corpse roll around in the grave. Sometimes you look at someone and just understand they’re lost. Not in a poetic way. Just lost.
Wavves understood something about imperfection that a lot of people miss. Lo-fi production, vocals dissolving into distortion, songs barely holding together — it wasn’t a choice, it was the point. There’s more honesty in that mess than in a hundred pristine takes.
The mid-2000s internet had this incredible ecosystem of people just putting their lives and work into these little web spaces. Not for metrics, not for some algorithm that didn’t exist yet—just because they had something to say. I spent a lot of time hunting through blogs back then, following links, finding people whose aesthetic or thinking actually mattered to me.
There was Janina in Darmstadt, posting these careful photographs. Fashion imagery, bodies covered in tattoos, Angelina Jolie with tape over her breasts—the mix of found material and personal documentation. What got me was the precision of it, how deliberately each image sat next to the others. You could feel her looking, her considering what went where. That’s what separated it from just posting pretty pictures.
Mercedes was writing from Munich, arguing strenuously that life existed outside Berlin’s gravitational pull. This was when Berlin was swallowing all the cultural oxygen for German internet. She was documenting the alternative scene in Munich—bands, exhibitions, parties—with this particular pride. Here’s what’s happening here. We’re not invisible just because we’re not in the capital. That perspective stayed with me.
Cory Kennedy was already a ghost by the time I really noticed her. The prototypical internet celebrity—photographed at parties, dissected constantly, the embodiment of a particular moment in American nightlife. International currency by age twenty. And then she just vanished. Not in any dramatic way, just stopped appearing. The internet moved on. Every few years someone would ask what happened to her and nobody quite knew. That absence became its own kind of legend.
Sara was operating in a completely different register. Explicit, aggressive, not interested in being palatable. Writing about sex and class and the particular hell of being young with no safety net. And actually doing the things, not just writing about them afterward. Taking off on these travels, reporting back. There was something genuinely fearless about the work.
Mia Bühler seemed to be everywhere at once—writing for three different blogs simultaneously, posting about music and design and her own life across different platforms, maintaining this almost inhuman level of output. How did she have the time? But there she was, pushing everything forward, touching everything with the same visual intelligence.
What I remember most is that none of it felt like content. It felt like actual people with actual taste making actual work in a space where they had complete control. No monetization, no real audience metrics, no algorithm deciding what you’d see. That constraint was the freedom. You made the thing because the thing was worth making, and maybe three hundred people would find it. That was enough.
Yoshi’s Story got written off when it came out — too cute, too simple, made for kids. But all the care went into the visuals. Those painted backgrounds, the color handling, the restraint in every frame. As a designer, that’s what brings me back. It’s the kind of game that doesn’t feel like much until you understand what it took to make it look and feel exactly like this. Then you realize you’re playing something genuinely smart, and you understand that was always the whole point.
Took a trip to Munich with Ines and somehow acquired Mr. Neumeister—still not sure what that was about. We ate a lot of veggie burgers, pranked some half-frozen kids outside a school, which probably makes us terrible people but was funny. The whole weekend felt like the kind of thing that shouldn’t add up to much but did anyway.
I keep coming back to the photographs because they catch something true — not posed, not prettified, just real texture and real moments. Kate Moss in those early pictures was just a kid, not yet a brand. There’s something ruthless about the refusal to soften anything, and it makes everything else look like it’s lying.
Summer in Munich, thirty degrees, and I’m watching people move through the streets looking like they woke up knowing exactly what works. Five of them stuck with me—the way style, when it’s real, doesn’t announce itself.
Karin’s twenty-four from Stockholm. Everything she touches looks right. Gina Tricot, borrowed shorts, Vagabond shoes. There’s a type of girl where you can’t imagine her making a bad choice. Not because she’s trying, just because it wouldn’t occur to her.
Sarah’s sixteen, Hamburg, musician. White shirt, jeans, leather bracelets. The kind of confidence at that age that comes from not knowing anyone’s watching. By twenty-five you’re aware of it. At sixteen you just move.
Antoine’s a photographer and that’s what matters. The style is there—leather jacket, whatever—but it’s just what he wears while he’s doing something real. He shoots geometry and girls in water, broken cities. That kind of work makes clothes irrelevant.
Bianca’s eighteen from Toronto, and there’s something in the way she carries herself that would make anything look right. Zara, mall boots, runs a label with her sister. When you’re building something you don’t have time to doubt whether the pieces work.
Elle’s sixteen, Australia, and she’s got this thing—black bra visible under whatever she’s wearing—that on most people would look like a mistake. On her it’s just there. Like she decided this was how it went and nobody needed to agree.
What gets me about all of them is that they’re not thinking about how they look. They know how they look and that’s where it ends. The clothes are just the vehicle. Everything else—the knowing, the not caring, the way they move—that’s the actual style.
I open it for five minutes and it’s three hours later. The feed never stops—every tweet links to three more, and I’m deep in debates about movies I haven’t seen or music I don’t like. It’s built to keep me there and it works perfectly. By the time I look up, the whole evening is gone.
I’m in a café at Odeon Platz in Munich and something’s happened that I didn’t want to happen. The guilt came first, then the happiness. I fell for this city. The light, the old weight of it, streets that don’t demand anything from you. The whole thing. And I knew the whole time I drove down here exactly why I was coming.
Berlin got into me. Three years and I became someone who needed the chaos, the constant remake, the sense that something real was still happening in a major city. The poor-sexy story, the hipsters, the idea that collapse and rebirth were around any corner. It changed me. But somewhere it stopped being alive and started being a job. The rebellion’s just a bit now. The hipsters have settled, grown apartments and day jobs. Everyone’s still performing but they’re waiting for the audience to leave so they can rest.
Munich doesn’t perform. It doesn’t try. The old buildings just sit there being what they are. The traditions exist and nobody’s thanking anyone for them. There’s no politics to it, no desperate need to prove something. Maybe I’m tired of politics. Maybe I’m just tired, and sitting in the sun changes how you think about things.
All the reasons to stay in Berlin are good ones. My people are there. My work is there. Everything I’ve built is rooted there. Leaving would mean tearing all that out, and I’m not sure I have it in me. But I know Berlin was something I needed to move through, not something I need to stay in forever. I’ve already decided that much. I just haven’t said it to anyone, and I don’t know when I will.
There’s something about how Arctic Monkeys moved from Sheffield scrappiness to Los Angeles slickness that feels like watching a friend get famous and realizing you don’t quite know them anymore. But AM is the album where that distance stopped bothering me — where the sleekness became the point. That synth-heavy, R&B-influenced production shouldn’t have worked for a band built on guitar distortion, but Alex Turner found something in it: a new way to write about want and emptiness. The songs don’t sound like anyone else trying to be cool; they sound like someone who already is, not bothering to prove it. I come back to it when I’m working late, something about that hazy nocturnal energy matching the feeling of a design problem that won’t solve itself.
Late August is when the light changes and you start noticing what’s actually clicking and what’s dead weight. Summer’s still officially here but everyone’s mentally already packing.
Some things suddenly made sense that month: sangria, curry ketchup, wading through old magazines like they were newly released. Weezer. Taking a bike ride instead of sitting in a room thinking about it. Making a mixtape even though nobody makes mixtapes anymore. Fishing. Your best friend—the one who’ll look at whatever weird thing you’re obsessed with and just get it. Leaving a party to walk around outside. The strange loyalty of phone sex. Japanese snacks. Rocko’s Modern Life reruns.
And there was the sex stuff. The internet had changed everything. You’d end up next to some girl from online and you’d both be awake at 3 AM with nothing to say. Or next to someone beautiful and all you wanted was to talk. Friends would get strange. Accidents happened that weren’t supposed to. Someone would put stickers on their breasts and ask you to photograph it and somehow that felt like the truest thing that happened all week.
The stuff that was dying: Justin Bieber (though people wouldn’t let him go), money worries (the kind that never actually leave), just being tired in your head. Ambient sexism. The vegan friend who claims principles but wants roast pork with dumplings. Nuclear power. Slayer sounding worse than before. Fall coming. Your own cynicism. Being actually sick after faking it.
By the end of August you knew which things would stick around and which were about to disappear. Summer doesn’t announce itself leaving. It just gradually gets colder.
Adam Green created something that didn’t need to be reinvented every few years or chased for relevance. Buddy Bradley just existed in his comics—awkward, horny, broke, trying to figure out what living was supposed to feel like. The strips didn’t lecture or perform. Green drew the same mundane crisis over and over, and each time it hit different because the feeling was true. That’s the kind of work that actually survives, that gets passed around, that people come back to decades later. Not because it was flashy or important, but because it caught something real about being stuck and messy and human.
Lost in Translation still feels like the best film ever made, though I’ve stopped trying to defend the claim. The film makes the argument for itself—quietly, without insistence, which is kind of the whole point.
Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson in Tokyo. He’s an aging actor doing a whiskey commercial, exhausted and distant from his own life. She’s just arrived with her new husband, unmoored in a country where nothing translates. Sofia Coppola watches them find each other in the spaces between noise and silence, and she refuses to turn any of it into drama. There’s no climax, no resolution, no moment where someone realizes something important and everything shifts. They exist in the same city for a while, they matter to each other, and then that ends. That’s the entire story.
What gets me is how much the film trusts you to sit with that. No swelling score, no big emotional breakdown, no explanation of what actually passes between them. Just two people in a hotel, a karaoke bar, a garden, a pachinko parlor. The dialogue is sparse and often awkward, which is exactly right. They’re trying to communicate across everything—age, language, circumstance, their own emotional damage—and sometimes they succeed and sometimes they don’t.
Coppola shot Tokyo at night like it’s a character in its own right. All those neon signs and empty streets and crowded bars where you can feel completely alone. The city doesn’t care about these two people, and that indifference becomes almost beautiful. You’re watching intimacy happen in one of the loneliest places on earth.
I saw it again recently and what struck me was how little it’s aged. Not because it’s timeless in some annoying way, but because it’s about feelings that don’t really change—the specific loneliness of travel, the sudden intensity of connecting with a stranger, the knowledge that it’s temporary before you even begin. Most films about connection feel overwrought now. This one just feels true.
The ending arrives like a whisper. No big farewell, no promises kept or broken. Just Charlotte crying in that cab, and Bob saying something to her that we can’t hear, and then they’re gone from each other. The film knows that this is what matters—that moment of departure, not the moment of meeting. That’s where the real feeling lives.
These were weekly challenges on some blog I followed. Ten ridiculous things to do by Sunday, half of them actual recommendations and half complete fever dreams. Buy a grey Game Boy with Pokémon Blue at the flea market and pick Charmander - that one could work. But also: dive your head into liquid cheese at Pizza Hut and die a beautiful death, get forced into marriage with your first girlfriend, yell “First!” while jamming sushi rolls into your best friend’s mouth, don’t congratulate the redhead unless she actually deserves it.
The crude energy ran through the whole thing. Comments about foot fetishists, observations about redhead ex-girlfriends and their bodies, a joke that girls with internet fame were better than disco sluts to kiss - supposedly better with tongue. That vulgarity wasn’t trying to be clever or ironic, just saying it straight. The objectification, the directness about desire - it felt honest at the time, even though it was absolutely obnoxious.
There was something about having real advice mixed in with the absurdity. That flea market recommendation stood out because it actually made sense. Pick Charmander, that’s good. Everything else was broken logic - marry your first girlfriend for no reason, surprise your best friend with aggressive sushi, ignore your ex. All of it stupid and horny and completely unafraid to say so.
That kind of casual vulgarity couldn’t really exist now. Not because the internet’s gotten prudish - there’s crude content everywhere - but because that specific tone, that objectification without the protective layer of irony or knowing commentary, that just sits there and exists. That feels like a completely different era online.
Got called out for sexism the other day. Sneaker Girls said the site was using women’s bodies to seem provocative while basically just demeaning them. First I didn’t care—that’s what happens when you make provocative stuff. Then I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
They’re not wrong about what we do. The whole aesthetic is built on being crude, sexual, and irreverent. We use a lot of women in a lot of ways, deliberately. I don’t pretend it’s thoughtful or careful. It’s horny, it’s irreverent, that’s the point.
Is that sexist? I keep circling back to the same answer: no, because the people working here are smart and thoughtful. Hannah, Asumi, Ines—they’re not trying to demean anyone. We put too much work into this to do it just to hurt people. But the more I sit with that defense, the thinner it feels. Good intentions aren’t actually an argument. You can be a good person and still make something that hurts people.
I still think what we’re doing is worth doing. But I’m less sure that you get to just shrug off the criticism. Maybe the real answer is simpler: we make sexual, provocative content that uses women’s bodies. Some people rightfully call that out. Whether that’s sexism or style—I genuinely don’t know the answer.
Walking those dark streets with her at night, I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Wasn’t trying to fix myself or understand my life better. It just made everything better. That’s all. When she was around I felt the kind of happiness I’d only known from cheap sex or good wine—one or the other, doesn’t really matter. Something about the way she moved through the world, the bite in her voice, made me feel things I thought I’d stopped being capable of feeling. I started wanting things again. Started liking myself. That scared me more than I wanted to admit.
Opening up to someone means they can hurt you. That’s the price.
Without her I was useless—stuck thinking about her, the memory of her wrapping around me like something physical. I couldn’t get enough of how she felt, how she smelled, the simple fact of her existing near me. Real connection is rarer than anyone wants to say. We were racing against time the whole thing, both knowing it would end, pressing into each other anyway like maybe if we held tight enough it wouldn’t have to. Stupid, but we did it.
Kissing with that awareness underneath it—the knowledge that this was temporary, that the world was going to pull us apart soon. Every moment felt more real than anything else in my life, which sounds like melodrama but it’s just true. She wasn’t like the others, the hollow ones I’d gone through like they were nothing, discarded with this practiced ease. She mattered in a way that opened something up inside me. A clarity I didn’t know was possible.
I’m in a different life now, one I told myself I wanted, and she’s become this bittersweet phantom who walks past all the tired compromises I’d made peace with, proving briefly that something else could exist. You can’t stay there. You swallow it, spit it out, fuck it away—whatever you need to do to keep yourself intact as everything wears away. That’s just how it goes.
My future’s this gray thing stretching ahead of me and I’m walking toward it anyway. But I’m grateful you held my hand that tight before I turned away, grateful for the reminder that the things that actually matter don’t look anything like love, that there’s no philosophy better than pizza and Weezer and zombie movies, that the right person in the right city can undo your whole understanding of yourself. Even if it’s only for a little while. Especially then.
I loved The Ting Tings from the start, which I probably shouldn’t admit. Katie and Jules made “We Started Nothing” and I was instantly hooked—”Be The One,” “Shut Up And Let Me Go,” “We Walk.” I played those songs relentlessly, even as critics were tearing the album to pieces. Most people wouldn’t fight for it, but I never needed anyone else to get it.
Then there was this long silence. Bands disappear like that sometimes and you assume that’s the end of it. But they’re back now with new material recorded in Berlin, and the lead single is called “Hands.” It’s got that same synth-pop thing that worked before, this strange glossy-and-earnest combination that shouldn’t hold up but does.
I’ve been listening to it on repeat and I haven’t even seen a video yet—the song itself is enough. It feels like they just picked up where they left off, like the gap between albums doesn’t matter. And I’m already thinking about catching them live when they tour, just to be in a room with whatever handful of people understood the first album the way I did.
There’s something satisfying about that—finding something early, holding onto it through the quiet years, and having it come back sounding exactly like itself. No apology, no reinvention. Just “here’s what we do” and it still works.
My childhood bedroom was packed—every inch of it—with stuff that mattered more than family or money. Cassettes, game cartridges, action figures, Lego bricks that you’d step on barefoot at 3 AM. If the house caught fire, I couldn’t decide what to grab first. That kind of paralysis could actually kill you.
Then digital solved it. Everything fits in your laptop now. Music, movies, games, photos, documents, work, porn—all the stuff you actually care about, compressed into bits on a drive that weighs nothing. You can carry your whole life in a backpack.
Some people in the US took this to a logical conclusion. They looked at their apartments, their furniture, their physical address, and asked what any of it was for. If everything they needed was already digital, why keep a place at all? Kelly Sutton, a 22-year-old software developer, figured his generation would see this as obvious: replace physical stuff with digital and your actual needs just disappear. Chris Yurista in DC went all the way—he terminated his lease and moved. The internet, he said, had already replaced his need for an address.
It’s clean in theory. Your laptop becomes your home. But people started pushing further. Some started talking about uploading their consciousness entirely—abandoning the body altogether, merging your mind with a network. Anders Sandberg at Oxford calls it “Mind Upload.” At that point it’s not minimalism anymore. It’s a kind of digital transcendence fantasy, the idea that your whole existence is something you could copy into a computer and run forever.
I get the appeal. Physical life is heavy, data is weightless. You can carry everything you actually care about. But something about abandoning the body entirely doesn’t sit right with me. Or maybe I’m just not far enough into my digital life to see past the romance of it. The idea’s seductive, but I’m not sure I actually believe it yet.
The relief of quiet after all that maximalist noise. M.I.A.’s tracks are usually crowded with production and samples and energy layered densely, but “XXXO” strips back to almost nothing—just her voice and a minimal beat and something skeletal that could vanish at any moment. There’s real confidence in that restraint. As someone who makes things, that kind of control, that willingness to leave space instead of filling every inch—that matters. It’s the kind of choice that reveals what a producer actually values.
The song doesn’t demand anything from you. You can let it pass by without really noticing. But when you do listen to it properly, there’s something about that simplicity that lands harder than any of the louder moments. Maybe it’s just the relief, or maybe it’s that you can actually hear her voice without everything else obscuring it.
Beck’s ran a design competition where you could submit a beer label and win money, a trip to Berlin, concert tickets. The appeal is obvious — your design on actual bottles in stores, maybe in someone’s hand. That’s different from portfolio work.
The corporation gets free creative labor from designers excited about the possibility. Everyone involved knows what’s happening. It’s not romantic, but it’s honest.
I was the first one on the street that morning, trying to say goodbye to a city that had taken hold of me for three years. My skin was torn open by it, my soul was loved there, my grief was cared for. I kept coming back to that moment three years ago when everything shifted, and where we’ve ended up now. I’m passionate about the past, greedy for the future, and I barely visit the present at all.
Walking along Kastanienallee with the gray air filling my chest, I see the faces again. The red-haired girl with the overweight cats. The curly-haired one with so much joy and so much tragedy packed into her chest. The one who could twist feelings into anything. I wanted all of them. I had them. Then I lost them when the time came.
The night is our witness. She was struggling with herself the whole time, always pulling back, and she was promised to someone else. No kisses, she kept saying, no kisses—you could see it written all over her face. I pushed anyway. Bit her neck, pressed her into the corner. That night stays with me. I fled from the sadness but I stayed because I had to, following some pull I couldn’t refuse. That’s how I move through the world—like a ghost crossing through other people’s walls, even the walls of the dead.
Would I ever see you again? Sometimes I want to scream at you. How could you let yourself die before me? The thought gives me a headache. I’ve screamed. I’ve cried. I’ve accepted it. I’ve thrown up. I’ve been through everything and this emptiness you left won’t fill back in. But I know you’re my guardian angel now, wherever you are. That gives me hope again and makes me smile. You stupid cow, why did you have to die?
The morning sun shines through the treetops and hits my face. We used to love each other in mornings like that. It’s the loneliest moment of the day. The wet in my eyes becomes something like happiness and warmth spreads through me.
Berlin is my home. But I know this isn’t where I stop. I’ll move through more people, learn them, love them, and then we’ll all scatter. Because we’re all just restless wanderers looking for happiness or truth or understanding, losing ourselves somewhere between loving something and the ability to breathe.
I put on “Let Go” sometimes and it still lands. Not because it’s perfect — the production feels thin in places, some lyrics are obvious — but there was something genuine underneath, this energy that felt like the opposite of everything pop was supposed to be. She looked like she didn’t care what anyone thought, and in your teenage bedroom that was everything. She didn’t become a parody of herself. That’s enough.
I wanted people to see these videos. Lykke Li, Robyn, Bat for Lashes—the usual stuff I was into. And it felt dumb to keep them locked on my site. Some reader pointed out that people should be able to embed them, share them wherever. He was right. There was no reason not to.
You discover music through other people. You see a video someone embedded on their blog, or they send you a link, or it shows up on some corner of the internet you weren’t looking for. That’s how it works. Keeping the videos just on my site meant I was cutting off those accidental discoveries, those moments where something lands in the right person at the right time.
Setting it up cost time and server resources and a lot of Club Mate, and I had no idea if the infrastructure would actually hold under real traffic. But that wasn’t the point. The point was: if I actually cared about these artists and these videos, why would I be the gatekeeper?
So I made them embeddable. People could drop them on their blogs, build them into their own corners of the internet. It wasn’t a big move, but it felt right—the idea that beautiful things don’t need to live in just one place.
School of Seven Bells fills the air with pressure and space. Windstorm doesn’t announce itself — it builds from almost nothing, these thin layers of sound that somehow register like weather moving in. Most ambient music just fades into the background. This is different. There’s all this room between the notes, stretches that carry more weight than the moments something actually happens. I come back to it when I need to think, and that’s probably the whole design.
Who turned the clock? It’s the weekend again—another step toward the end we all know is coming. The car, the cancer, the slow burn or the quick one, doesn’t matter. You know what’s waiting. Nobody sleeps easy anymore when you know that. So you fill the days with anything but the thought, and here are ten things I could do instead. Some borrowed, some insane, all of them better than sitting with it.
Travel somewhere and make a playlist for the drive. Take a month offline and see if anything changes. Run for president of Haiti. Break a flowerpot and call it a story. Draw a 5 on your palm and high-five everyone you meet this weekend—watch them flinch.
Clean your apartment. Find the Swedish family that disappeared in there months ago. Buy Coca-Cola in those massive family jugs that enrage both environmentalists and nutritionists at the same time. Call a pizza place and explain with complete sincerity that you’re allergic to bees and they need to verify everything—really commit to it, don’t let it go. Do your own prostate exam with a DIY kit and some lube, pocket the doctor’s fee. And at some point, sleep with Ines before one of the others does.
Her records have this quality where they feel like you’re eavesdropping on something private. The production is sparse enough that her voice becomes the centerpiece, and there’s a fragility to it that could feel manipulative in someone else’s hands but doesn’t with her. She’s not performing vulnerability; it’s just there, like she forgot to turn off the tape. That’s why I keep listening—because it’s impossible to look away once you’re in.
Björk’s been making work for thirty years that sounds like nobody else, and she’s never cared if people understood it. There’s something honest about that—refusing to simplify yourself, refusing to be digestible.
The title feels true to how she approaches everything, this sense that complexity and difficulty and strangeness are part of what makes things beautiful. I’m not always sure I get what she’s doing, but I trust her enough to keep listening.
There’s something about how they’ve threaded Katy B’s voice through the production on this—straight through walls of bass and synth that should bury everything else. It sits precise and clean on top, mechanical almost, which makes the whole thing feel colder, more direct. The songs don’t ask for anything from you. The vocals are just there, delivered like she’s stating something and doesn’t care much whether you’re listening or not.
I spend these days listening to music, which is pretty much all I do around here. My neighbor next door—Stockmeier, wooden leg, hammers the wall during Sturm der Liebe because she’s convinced each episode might be her last—she got talking about television one day. The kind that used to exist. Just music videos, all the time. None of the cheap dating shows, none of the ringtone garbage, just videos.
We stood there thinking about it, then rolled her back to her place, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why not build something like that. A place where all the music videos I post could actually live instead of drowning in the constant feed. Somewhere they stay, somewhere they get found.
I was too incompetent to actually build a real TV station, so I built this instead. A wall. Throw up the videos and they stay there. Updated whenever something new goes up. It’s pathetically revolutionary.
I keep scrolling through, clicking on Robyn and Katy and Kele, still thinking about what a real time slot would feel like. Probably won’t happen. But this is here. The videos stay, at least.
Jónsi’s voice does something that shouldn’t work. That sustained falsetto, the phrasing that ignores every rule for how a song is supposed to unfold—it just bypasses language and hits somewhere else entirely. Whether it’s Sigur Rós or his solo work, there’s always this quality of reaching for something that words can’t grab. The arithmetic underneath it all is strange, both cold and completely alive, like he found the grammar that sits below speech.
The thing about watching someone’s heart break online is that you can’t look away. It’s Paris, of all places, and Olivier Zahm is posting about Natacha Ramsay again—confessions, videos of sad songs, the occasional nude of her mixed in. He’s not protecting himself. He’s completely open about it.
Olivier runs Purple Magazine. He’s a photographer with real taste and vision. The kind of person whose eye actually matters. And now he’s been left by someone and can’t stop writing about it on his blog. There’s a specific humiliation in asking someone to come back twice and being told no both times. The number becomes permanent.
I know those nights without sleep. The appetite that vanishes. The moment you understand that one person’s decision has unmade your entire world. You keep waiting for some solution, some way to fix it. There isn’t one.
Then she comes back. Just to hold him. Just to be there for an afternoon. And then she leaves again, back to whoever she chose instead. That’s the cruelty—not the leaving itself, but coming back just long enough to make him remember why it hurts.
He writes that having her there for that one day saved his life. He means it completely. He’s not performing this for anyone. He’s just too full of it to keep it inside.
I don’t know what happens to him next. Maybe she comes back for real. Maybe he just keeps working, keeps photographing beautiful things, keeps letting the sadness feed into it. What I know is that watching someone with real vision get reduced to just trying to survive the day—it stops being a story about other people and becomes something you can’t look away from. We’re all Olivier eventually.
I found myself noticing style that week in the way you notice things when you’re thinking about design. Not fashion-magazine style, but actual people in actual clothes, and what made it work.
Kali had this red American Apparel dress on, a striped top from Target underneath, the kind of basic that only functions if you have the bones for it. There’s always a geometry to that kind of simplicity. When it works, it’s because the person has enough presence that the clothes organize around them instead of the other way around.
Doll was there too—twenty-four, art student from Porto, dark everything, black hair. He wouldn’t tell me where his clothes came from, which I took as a very good sign. When someone’s actually living their aesthetic instead of performing it, they don’t make you verify the sources.
Véronika was fifteen with Jim Morrison on her shirt, hipster glasses, gray cardigan. Could have been pathetic. Wasn’t. She had the kind of unselfconscious ease about her own existence that most people spend their whole lives working toward and never find.
John and Kuku I never quite figured out. They might have dressed as a pair or just happened to think the same way. Either way, they were two people who clearly don’t track what fashion is supposed to be, just existing in whatever they’d thrown on. There’s something honest about that.
Karin had Levi’s shorts, a Moschino belt, a flea market blouse, and this very present energy—the kind where you’re just looking at someone living, not performing. The photo had bikes in the background I kept counting because I’m weird like that.
What actually interests me about style is when you can tell someone isn’t thinking about it in the way they’re supposed to. They’ve figured out their own thing and it works because it’s theirs, not because they borrowed it from somewhere else.
I overslept. Completely passed out, woke up confused about what was real and what I’d dreamed in the game. Bought this specifically to drag my brain somewhere new—away from Pokémon, away from anime, all that basement stuff. Now I need to warn you before I become completely useless: don’t buy this. It will destroy you.
StarCraft 2 is Blizzard’s perfect addiction engine. It didn’t just make me a strategy person overnight—it’s in my head now, even when I’m not playing. You’re building armies, defending bases, upgrading your war machines. Click here, click there, and everything is on fire. There’s a story wrapped around it, the usual space opera stuff: rebellion, some empire to topple, hot alien women and complicated men. Michael made something insidious. Something genuinely great.
The cruel part is how simple it stays. You’re raiding planets, fighting enemies, unlocking campaigns where you play as these disgusting swarm creatures and somehow you stop caring they’re hideous. Dark caves. Infected things. Hot alien creatures that want to destroy you and you want something from them. And you keep going because the game understands exactly what to show you next.
I know who this is made for. You, if the world has ground you down and the women you’re drawn to only exist as polygons, if your life includes your mom bringing snacks at four. This game was built specifically for that loneliness. It’s the nerd fantasy distilled: you save the world. Hot alien creatures take notice. In reality, nothing changes. But in here, you matter. The game ensures it.
I haven’t slept properly in a week. My eyes feel wrong. And I’m booting it back up right now.
Time moves fast when you’re surrounded by people making things. There’s this moment where the little network stops being yours alone and suddenly there are new projects spinning off, new people joining in, and you realize something’s actually happening.
One of them is basically a digital garbage dump, and I mean that as a compliment. Pictures get thrown up, videos get tossed in, someone writes a sentence. It’s fashion and random provocation and whatever catches someone’s eye at three in the morning. The aesthetic is pure chaos—modish girls, weird juxtapositions, Avril Lavigne’s nipples existing on the same page as something genuinely unsettling. There’s no curating, no overthinking it. Someone took one of our stickers and put it to use in a way that made us immediately know these people got what we were doing.
The other project is the opposite: completely focused, a shrine really. Filippa Smeds, this Swedish model who’s twenty-one and beautiful in a way that photographs actually capture. There’s something about supporting someone like that in real time—watching the development, the shots, the slow accumulation of presence. It feels like we’re documenting something while it’s happening, giving it a place to live that’s entirely her own.
Both things appeal to me in different ways. The first one because it’s pure appetite without apology. The second because it’s single-minded admiration, the kind where you can track a person’s rise without irony. They exist on opposite ends of the same spectrum—one says yes to everything, the other says yes to one thing completely. Neither one is trying to be anything but what it is.
Highfield had one of those lineups that year. Placebo, Billy Talent, NOFX, Blink-182 mixed with German bands like Fettes Brot, Unheilig, and Wir sind Helden. It was the kind of festival bill that came out every summer — significant enough to pay attention to if you followed the scene, but not so massive that it demanded the kind of pilgrimage a major festival would.
That was when festival season still felt distinct. Each announcement mattered because there weren’t five hundred alternatives competing for attention. Highfield, Hurricane, Rock am Ring. If you cared about live music, you knew these names. You watched the lineups, maybe went to one or two, at least thought about them.
I don’t remember if I actually went, and I don’t think I did. But it doesn’t matter. The festival happened, those bands played at Störmthaler See that August, and that’s what the music scene looked like when compressed into a single weekend. Some moments you’re there for, some moments you just witness from a distance. Either way, they’re part of the snapshot.
Friday night and you realize you have zero obligations for forty-eight hours, and then you inevitably waste them all. I got tired of that, so I actually thought about what it would take to feel alive over a weekend.
Sleep with someone hot. Vicky, for example. Get outside because spending it all indoors before nuclear apocalypse traps us is a shame. If someone wants you to hit them, sure. Go find a crowd and take your shirt off. Do something you’re not supposed to. Drugs are fine if you don’t overdo it. Fly to America and eat fifty things that’ll wreck your organs. If you survive, I’ll buy your Coke.
Listen to that Sky Ferreira song—the one with Logistics. It’s perfect. Teach your kids what actually matters before they’re old enough to forget it. Buy a girl a drink, leave your number, then disappear before either of you says something you’ll regret. Then buy yourself a lollipop.
We were supposed to publish something about fashion this week, but the actual fashion police showed up at the office. I’m not exaggerating—they came through, made it clear we don’t know what we’re talking about, and that was that. So here we are running this a day late.
The thing I notice, watching how people dress, is that the ones worth looking at aren’t thinking about the rules. Kasia from Poland just wears things—gray shorts, black stockings, a bike-messenger ease that reads as her life rather than a costume. Dorian’s hairy-legged at twenty and doesn’t pretend otherwise, just wears his skin like a fact. Isa the same way. There’s a freedom to it, maybe, or just clarity. The point seems to be enjoying it, not solving an equation.
Joely’s solving an equation. She’s studied the Taylor Momsen template—the clothes, the shoe polish, the dark aesthetic—and she’s committed to it. Which is fine, that’s eighteen. Everyone dresses like someone else until they get tired of it. Usually takes a couple years to figure out what you actually want to wear.
I care more about a really good pizza than fashion, if I’m honest. Olive, salami, double cheese, the crust crispy and dark. That feels more real to me than any outfit, any studied look. Fashion is something you do because your body needs coverage and you might as well make it interesting. Food is different. Food matters.
I’ve always found it interesting when musicians take control of the frame around their own work. Tegan and Sara directing their own videos makes perfect sense — they’ve spent twenty years refining a visual identity that’s unmistakable, and handing that off to someone else would be like asking a stranger to finish your sentences. The thing about them as directors is that there’s no distance between the aesthetic and the song. It’s not decoration layered over the music; it’s the same thought expressed two ways at once. The imagery is stark and direct, sometimes deliberately awkward, rarely trying to be beautiful in the traditional sense. That matters, especially for queer artists who’ve built their whole career on refusing to soften themselves for anyone. Their videos aren’t afraid to sit in discomfort, to let the frame hold too long on a feeling that makes you slightly nervous. It’s the same thing they do in a song.
Ines Kuchlerin appeared on Twitter saying the things everyone thinks but nobody says. Crude about sex and desire, unflinching about wanting, already at twenty knowing how to speak without waiting for permission.
Mischa-Sarim Vérollet does something different. He publishes books about the actual texture of living — how things hurt, how they connect, what feeling something real does to you.
Two different energies. The sharp edge and the depth, pushing against each other. That’s where something real happens.
Luc Braquet gets at something real with that title — the futility of tenderness toward what’s finished, the way we pour care into nothing because we can’t help ourselves. There’s a cruelty in the instruction, or maybe a mercy. Either way, it sits with you wrong, which is probably exactly where Braquet wants it. I’ve always been drawn to work that refuses to be comfortable, that makes you feel slightly foolish for your instincts.
I got into Bloc Party around 2005, which means I spent the next few years with Silent Alarm on constant rotation. Kele’s voice had this quality that made you feel like you were hearing something he wasn’t supposed to let you hear—all that trembling intensity, the way anxiety could sound like melody. It confirmed what you already knew about yourself: that you were thinking too much, that other people were drowning in the same unnamed dread.
The band moved on to other things, as bands do. Most artists nail one perfect thing and that becomes the thing they can’t escape. For me it’s that combination of melody and tremor, the sound of a specific kind of thinking I don’t quite have access to anymore.
Hugo was a phone—a Sony Ericsson, black, the kind that looked sleek around 2005. He showed up needing a home, and we did what made sense at the time: invented a backstory where he came by with brandy and did a striptease to pay rent. This was 2010. This was how you made a giveaway post something someone might actually care about.
You didn’t just post specs. You created a character. You made up a reason for him to exist beyond being free merchandise. You let yourself sound ridiculous in print, committed to the bit, and trusted that someone reading it would get it.
I have no idea if anyone actually won Hugo or what happened to him after. Phones are like that—you carry them for a year or two, they become muscle memory, and then they’re gone. Hugo probably ended up as landfill. But for one afternoon he had a narrative. He was a joke we all got to be in on together. That seems worth something.
There’s something about portrait work that demands patience—the kind where you’re stuck in a room with one person and a camera, waiting for the distance between observer and observed to dissolve into something honest. Lele Saveri’s practice has always moved in that direction, stripping away the noise to find what’s left when you stop performing. A portrait called “Alone With Marta” suggests exactly that: two people, minimal setup, time doing its slow work. It’s the kind of film that probably feels longer than it is, but in the way that matters—where duration becomes part of the meaning.
There’s nothing flashy about ’Hang With Me.’ Robyn just showed up with a pop song that didn’t need to prove anything—bright enough to stick with you, patient enough that you don’t feel rushed. Four minutes that could have been forgettable but aren’t, with no tricks or desperation underneath, just an offer. That kind of thing is rarer than it should be.
Dustin was seventeen when a girl died next to him at the Loveparade in Duisburg. He told the press: “Next to me a girl died,” and I can’t stop thinking about that sentence. The festival was supposed to be about music and joy and moving together. Nineteen people died in a tunnel. Over a hundred were crushed badly enough to need hospitals.
The thing that gets me is how preventable it was. The tunnel was obviously too narrow for that many people. Someone knew that. Someone made the choice anyway. When you’re organizing an event where thousands of people are moving through space together, you have an obligation to think about the geometry, to count, to know what happens when bodies get that dense.
A woman who escaped described what she saw: “Everywhere there were people with blue faces. My friend dragged me over the bodies or we would have died too. I can’t forget those faces. The faces of dead people.” That’s what she carries now. Not the music or the lights. The blue faces and the moment she realized it could have been her.
The gap between what someone should have known and what actually happened—that’s where those nineteen people died. In the gap of refusal. Someone routed the crowds through that tunnel anyway. The music played. The bodies compressed. And a boy named Dustin will never forget the moment the girl next to him stopped moving.
I was trying to get high on cocoa, and when that didn’t work, I figured I’d assault my brain another way. Pulled up Mind Game around midnight.
The film doesn’t ease you in. Some petty criminal falls for a girl with massive breasts, gets shot in the ass during a robbery, then a god appears—physically unstable, operating through screens and mirrors—offering a second chance. He takes it, runs off with a failed swimmer and her butchy sister, dodging gangsters and cartoon violence and ugly Frenchmen. Meanwhile the film keeps cutting to a space crew stranded on an alien ship, eating the creature’s waste to survive, their only exit a Japanese woman’s vagina. Everything bottoms out in a whale’s belly, an old man, a meaning nobody asked for.
Masaaki Yuasa directed this, and Studio 4°C (the ones behind Batman Gotham Knight and the Animatrix sequences) throws everything at you at once. Scene cuts refuse warning. Three animation styles colliding every few minutes. Colors that shouldn’t coexist somehow work. It’s designed to scramble your brain, and I let it. Ended up on the floor in something between fetal position and genuine awe, finally understanding what I’d been chasing that whole night.
The sensible take is that this isn’t for everyone—definitely not sober—but there’s a real difference between trying to look weird and being genuinely unhinged. Once you’ve burned through your Alices and Rocky Horrors and everything else performing strangeness without committing to it, you run into something like this: visually relentless, refusing to apologize, refusing to explain itself. Nishi never gets what he wants. The god never makes sense. You spend two hours watching the world collapse into itself, and somehow that’s the best thing that’s happened to you in weeks.
Saturday and nobody’s coming over, you’re somewhere you didn’t want to be, stuck with thoughts that don’t lead anywhere. So you make a list. Not the kind that’s supposed to change your life—just dumb weekend shit, ten things that don’t matter but at least they’re something to do.
Go to hell. No really, pick somewhere and just drive there. Hide stupid stickers around the city and see if anyone gives a shit. Drink enough melon soda to wish you’d never been born. Seduce your janitor or your landlord or whoever—candlelight, wine, play it like you mean it. He’ll remember you forever. Kiss someone unexpected on the street and then eat ice cream with them like that’s what normal people do.
Sell your computer to someone who thinks they need it and try living poor for a month. Drive to Uganda or somewhere equally stupid and just stay there for a while. Listen to some band nobody’s heard of loud while eating a blood orange, just to feel like you’re in a movie. Write an angry letter to a magazine and tell them they used to be better, that they’ve lost it. Call your health insurance and ask them stupid shit—where do babies come from, when’s my sister old enough to clean the bathroom, whatever.
Steal your sister’s nasal spray, use it the wrong way, put it back, and don’t tell her anything. Just wait for her to figure out something’s wrong. Watch the confusion spread across her face.
That was the whole thing. None of it meant anything, obviously. But for two days it felt like you were the one making the rules. Like you weren’t trapped—you were choosing.
Lara Stone’s face does something I can’t fully name. That gap in her teeth, the shape of her mouth, the way her eyes sit—it all just works. I know I’m not alone in this. Playboy made sure of that. But looking at her still feels private somehow, which is the real trick with beauty like that. It manages to feel personal even though it’s everywhere. I’ve definitely spent more hours with her photographs than I probably should.
Most people dress like default settings—the same safe combinations from the same stores. But every once in a while someone walks by in something that actually means something. A choice that makes sense only to them. Doc Martens mixed with something unexpected. A gray sweater with a wolf on it. The expression of someone who picked what they wore and meant it.
That’s what real fashion looks like. Not runways or designers, but people who give a shit about their clothes and stopped caring what anyone thinks about it. The contradiction is the whole move. The second you’re dressing to impress someone else, you’ve lost it.
You ever notice how Zuckerberg moves like he’s surprised his own body exists? Like his consciousness lives somewhere else entirely and his body is just… there. That’s every tech billionaire. Guys who learned to build things before they learned how to actually be around people. Mark, Bill, Steve—same type. Spent their formative years alone, became obsessed with solving problems through code, and then one day woke up running systems that billions of people depend on.
The brutal part is that they never had to learn better. You build something useful enough and suddenly you don’t have to deal with the consequences of not understanding humans. You can just keep optimizing the system like you’re alone in a room with a computer, except now the room is global and everyone’s inside it.
You can see it in every decision they make. Privacy? They don’t get why anyone cares. Rights? Looks like inefficiency to them. The fact that their platforms are addictive and destroy people’s ability to think clearly? They’d probably call it engagement. Because they still think like engineers solving technical problems, not humans wielding power over billions of other humans.
It’s not even malice, which is somehow worse. Zuckerberg probably isn’t trying to ruin anything. He’s just never learned to care about anything beyond the optimization of his own systems. He’s the smartest person in every room and the most emotionally illiterate. Brilliant at building things. Completely catastrophic at understanding what power actually means.
The nerds won. They got the control and the money and the ability to reshape the world according to their logic. And it turns out what they wanted wasn’t actually good for anyone, including themselves. They just thought it would be.
There’s something elegant about a sticker campaign. You’re not spray-painting or claiming walls—just small, intentional marks accumulating on poles and signage. One sticker is a note. A dozen is a pattern. By the time there are fifty, you’ve quietly shifted how the street looks.
I understand why designers do this. Your work lives in portfolios and galleries, confined to screens and print. Then you get to take your visual language out into the world in this lightweight, reversible way. It’s not graffiti’s aggression or declaration of ownership. It’s ambient introduction. Distributed. Patient.
The stickers don’t demand attention. People ignore them or notice them or take them as evidence you were here and cared about something. They just keep accumulating, slowly changing the visual grammar of a neighborhood. That’s the actual magic—not the singular big statement, but the quiet, repeated presence that eventually becomes expected.
Lara Stone has a gap between her front teeth. So do a bunch of other famous women — Ashley Smith, Jessica Hart, others you see in magazines. For a long time, gaps were the opposite of fashionable. They were orthodontic problems, things you paid money to fix. The dream was perfect alignment, smooth and featureless. But somewhere in the 2010s that flipped. The gap became interesting instead of broken.
I don’t quite remember when it happened. Gradually, the way these things do. Maybe it was just saturation — everyone had the same perfect teeth, so imperfection started looking better. Or maybe it was something deeper, a small rebellion against the idea that you should optimize yourself into smoothness. Whatever it was, girls started keeping their gaps. Some had them created. Someone decided their tooth gap wasn’t a flaw to fix but a feature to keep.
There’s something I respect about that decision. Not the gap itself — that’s just a detail. But what it means. Most of us learn early to see ourselves as problems: too fat, too crooked, too wrong in some way. You catalog your flaws and pay money and try to erase them. A gap refuses that. It says: I’m keeping this. This is mine. This is interesting because it’s not what you’d design if you were optimizing for perfection.
That’s a different way of living in your own face. Maybe it doesn’t matter that much. But there’s something genuinely subversive in it, even if it’s just fashion, even if it’s temporary. Even if in five years everyone’s back to wanting straight teeth and the gap is just a forgotten moment when things were different.
My whole life I’ve basically mapped out the exits: out of Bavaria first, then Berlin, and eventually Tokyo for real. I know that sounds like something you plan when you’re twelve and haven’t learned better yet, but the chaos between those checkpoints—the unreliable loves, the half-finished projects, the not knowing what comes next—that’s actually the only part that keeps me functional. A life without friction, without risk, without the possibility of fucking it up completely, would kill me. I’d rather take a few hits for chasing something stupid than live a decade in perfect, bloodless comfort.
Berlin did what it needed to do. It was far enough from my origins, gave me work and people and enough distance to figure out who I was without my parents watching. But the map says England comes next. This autumn I’m moving to the south coast—Bournemouth, maybe London too—for six months on an EU study program. Language courses, design work, the usual excuse to relocate and pretend it’s educational. A few friends are coming, so it’ll probably be chaos again, but at least it’ll be the right kind.
We’re preparing by watching Skins and rewatching Harry Potter, which isn’t preparation for anything real but it feels good. There’s something about that specific British mood—the claustrophobia, the romance, the way kids just barely hold it together—that I want in my head before I arrive. Or maybe we’re just procrastinating properly and pretending it’s intentional.
The real thing is that England isn’t the finish. It’s a waypoint, a test run before the actual commitment. Six months and then I’m doing it: Tokyo, the part of the plan that’s been sitting there since I was a kid, the one that actually scares me. England is just to prove I can actually move when I say I’m going to.
I’ll miss Berlin. The specific quality of its nothing-ness, the Saturday afternoons, the people I know well enough now that I’d have to actually say goodbye instead of just leaving. But I’m also ready to go. There’s something important about outgrowing a place, about knowing it’s time. And the knowledge that you can come back somehow makes the leaving easier.
There’s something about Klaxons that feels frozen in a specific moment—not in a bad way, but like they caught something electric in early 2006 and got stuck there, deliberately. The neon synths, the breathless vocals, that collision between new-rave keyboard lines and whatever was happening in UK garage rock. You put on a track like ’Golden Skans’ and it’s all scrambled, hyperactive, almost giddy—like they couldn’t believe how loud the synthesizers could get.
I found myself returning to them recently because of that very frozen quality. Most bands age poorly because they’re dated; Klaxons sound dated because they wanted to sound that exact way. There’s no apology in it. The production is deliberately cheap and busy, the hooks are sharp but never polished smooth. It’s the sound of people who knew exactly what decade they lived in and decided to make it scream a little louder.
Their songs sit in your head like a ringing in your ears—not annoying, just persistent. You remember them sideways, through the blur of whatever else was happening when you first heard them. For me it’s always a parking garage or a basement or some room with bad fluorescent lighting. Klaxons are that kind of band. They don’t soundtrack your life; they interrupt it.
The thing about losing someone from a project you care about is that it forces you to ask the question you’ve been avoiding—does this actually matter to me? Caro’s departure wasn’t surprising, but it made everything else—the late-night conversations, the half-formed ideas, the constant uncertainty—suddenly unavoidable.
Hannah was in Berlin for Fashion Week that spring, and we sat up one night just talking. Not planning, not strategizing. Talking. About what we were doing, why we were doing it, whether it was worth the effort. There was a rawness I hadn’t expected, the kind of honesty that happens when you’re tired and stop performing.
Then there were these scattered conversations after that. Drinks with Paulchen. Time with Katja. Random meetings with whoever was around and thinking about the same things. Nothing formal, just people thinking out loud about what this could actually be. And somewhere in there, something shifted. Not a business plan or a set of goals. Just a quiet realization that we believed in it. That we wanted to keep going.
So we made plans. More work, new people, different approaches. Different thinking, different writing, different everything. But that part was almost secondary. The real thing was looking at each other and realizing we actually cared.
I don’t know how everyone else experienced that moment. But that summer felt different. We kept working because we wanted to, not because we had to. And I think that’s the only thing that ever mattered anyway.
Everyone worth knowing is at the festival right now. The rest of us are stuck here, wandering around the city like I own the place, looking for something that justifies the time. I’ve been thinking about what would actually make a weekend feel different.
Stand on a busy street with a cardboard sign and write something stupid on it. See who honks. There’s something pure about forcing strangers to engage with your dumbness. Spend the whole weekend dressed like a 1970s rock star, moving and talking completely wrong, not giving a shit. Watch how differently people treat you when you’ve stopped caring what you look like.
Fill a bathtub with iced tea just because you can. It’s cold and pointless and smells weird—and that’s the entire appeal. Sleep with someone random, someone with nothing to do with your real life. Your body needs to remember it’s alive. It’s not profound, it’s just biology and boredom intersecting.
Read a big stupid fantasy novel about werewolves and gods, the kind that doesn’t apologize for itself. Kiss someone you weren’t planning on. Buy a stranger money or a drink for nothing. Call your ex and tell them something completely insane, then hang up and never call them again.
The point is that doing something intentionally pointless is better than sitting around doing nothing pointfully. That’s the whole weekend right there.
There was a time when a personal blog was actually personal. Some obscure URL that only the people you told could find. A place where you could write whatever was in your head—breakups, rage, shame, desire—because the audience was small and self-selected. The internet felt like a big empty room where you and maybe ten other people were just talking to yourselves. No algorithm. No data broker. No boss checking your search history.
I started writing online because I had things I needed to get out. Stuff I couldn’t say at home or at work. Nothing shocking, just the ordinary stuff—how I felt about people, what I wanted, what embarrassed me. The beauty of it was that it lived somewhere apart from real life, in this separate space where you could be unguarded. You could be stupid or sad or crude without professional consequences. Nobody important was watching. Maybe nobody was watching at all.
That’s mostly gone now. The internet got too big and too watched. Every platform wants your full name and your email and your location. Every post gets indexed, archived, shared. You write something in anger at twenty-five and it’s still there at forty, findable by employers or partners or anyone who wants to use it against you. The paranoia is partly justified. Companies profit from what you write. Governments can see it. People you don’t know are building profiles based on your confessions.
So people stopped confessing. Blogs that used to overflow with messy personal writing started getting locked down or deleted. People switched to private stories and closed Discord servers. The ones who kept writing learned to write for an audience—careful, curated, never too raw. You can see it everywhere, this performative restraint. Everyone has a brand now. Nobody’s just thinking out loud anymore.
I get it. The risk calculation changed. But something’s lost in that calculation. There was something real about writing for an invisible audience, writing to yourself essentially, writing because you needed to think through something. Now writing online mostly means performing, which is a different thing entirely. Even my own writing feels more cautious than it used to be, even knowing that caution is something I resent in other people.
I don’t know if I want to go back to the early days—that option’s gone and the internet isn’t ever going to be small and anonymous again. But I think about it sometimes, about how nice it was to have a place where you could just say the thing that was stuck in your throat. No algorithm to game. No profile to protect. Just a locked door and a key that only your friends had.
Flowers doing the synth-rock thing with so much confidence that you forget he’s singing about relationships or whatever, just locked into that groove. It’s the kind of song that works best blasting in a car at night, when you’re alone and the road’s empty and nothing else matters. There’s something about the production—all those bright, crystalline synths cutting through the mix—that makes it feel both present and like it’s from some imagined 80s you never actually lived through. I remember hearing it years later and being struck by how much of his solo work was about finding permission to just sound like this, without the weight of a band behind him. Not as studied as The Killers, not as ambitious. Just happy to be big and dumb and pretty.
Fashion Week in Berlin just wrapped. Feed’s suddenly full of teenagers in whatever caught their eye on some Swedish style blog months ago. Most of it’s garbage. But there are always a few worth looking at.
Olivia: Seventeen from California. She’s got it. Vintage pieces that actually work—Electronic Love Letter bag, Gas D necklace, Spanish Moss Vintage dress. Not aesthetic chaos, just pieces that go together and the confidence to stop. That’s all style is.
Eszter: Vienna, very pregnant, and making that the centerpiece. Topshop earrings, Zara vest, oversized dress. What gets me is the complete lack of apology—not hiding it, not minimizing it, just laying it out. There’s something sexy about that kind of confidence.
Alternative-Justin: Real Justin Bieber is something I don’t think about. This version from Fatale Femmes is at least tolerable. Good vest. That’s the whole thing.
Camille: Twenty-two from London. Topshop, Asos necklace, American Apparel. There’s nothing complicated here. Just proportions and confidence and the right shoes, and somehow that makes you notice. That’s the trick with style.
Olof: Sixteen from Sweden. Comes across as deliberately weird at first—the pose, the performance. But the actual clothes are good. MTWTFSS Weekday, Beyond Retro, Chanel bag. Kid’s got better taste than most adults. When they drop the act, it’ll all click.
M.I.A.’s ///Y/ is a specific kind of failure. After Arular and Kala, the anticipation was almost unbearable—this was supposed to be the record where she turned experimental sounds into something inevitable, like she’d been heading there all along. Instead she disappears into her own production. The sounds are intricate and strange but untethered, like watching someone get lost in synths and forget they’re supposed to be making songs that land. “Born Free” still works, and “XXXO” has something, but the album overall feels like she’s obsessed with texture at the expense of impact. I keep giving it another listen, waiting for it to click, and it doesn’t.
Bombay Bicycle Club’s Flaws sounds like someone else dictated the emotional palette. Where’s the snap from I Had The Blues But I Shook Them Loose? This is relentlessly pretty and relentlessly sad, the kind of sadness that feels performed rather than felt. It drains without giving anything back. Each track blurs into the next. “Ivy & Gold” is the only moment that lands, which says everything.
Wolf Parade’s Expo 86 is the record that actually arrives this week. Third album, and they’ve figured out how to balance ambition with craft in a way the others are still chasing. The keyboards don’t hide under the guitars or dominate them—they sit as equals. “Ghost Pressure” and “Little Golden Age” are the tracks that show what they’re capable of. It feels earned, like they believe what they’re saying instead of trying ideas on. That’s rarer than it should be.
The heat makes thinking harder. These past weeks have been thick and heavy, the kind that presses down until caring about feelings seems pointless. So I don’t. I look for people to share the weight with—nothing meant to last, just presence, someone else sweating through the same unbearable stretch.
For years, my relationships always start in autumn. Not because I want casual summer and serious winter—it’s simpler than that. By September I’ve usually found my way back to myself, after months of being lost in wanting. Summer breaks me down. Autumn builds me back up.
And when the leaves start turning and the air gets sharp, there’s always someone there. We walk through cooler nights and talk the way people do when the season finally allows it. I fall into it completely, knowing how it ends. Winter comes, spring follows, we separate. She goes back to her life.
I’ve stopped resisting the pattern. Summer is what it is—hot and temporary and empty of anything real. Some people can love when the days are long. I can’t. I need the cold to feel any kind of connection. So I take the summer as it comes: distraction, bodies, nights without promises. A smile, a kiss, sleep. That’s the entire bargain when you’re underwater like this.
What’s left when it’s over is strange. Memories, sure, but also this unshakeable certainty that it had to end when it did. There’s sadness in that, but relief too. I’ll spend the spring alone, shedding whatever summer made of me, waiting for the heat to break and the wanting to quiet. Then autumn comes, and I do it all again.
Evan Baden takes self-portraits in his child’s room—not vanity, something else entirely. He’s not looking at the camera, just at something off-frame in ordinary light, and the act becomes about presence, evidence that he was there, visible in a space not quite his own.
Die Fantastischen Vier at a broadcast center’s parking lot is exactly the kind of place they could get away with by 2009. Not because it was anything special as a venue—the whole thing was basically corporate sponsorship dressed up as a street festival. But they’d spent twenty years being smart and funny and stubbornly popular, the kind of band that made people who normally ignored hip-hop start paying attention. They’d won every argument about what German hip-hop could be.
I never made it to one of those Telekom shows, but the whole setup was funny if you thought about it too hard. Corporate money calling itself street culture, the contradiction built right into the name. But Die Fantastischen Vier had been above all that for years. They didn’t care about authenticity or street cred. They just made good music and let everyone else figure out what it meant.
By 2009 they were untouchable. That’s where you get to when you’re good enough that you stop apologizing for being popular.
The weekend had arrived and I was already done with the heat, done with whatever the week had thrown around, so I made a list of stupid missions — the kind that require zero ambition and zero shame.
Watch that GIF. Play the Mark Ronson & The Business Intl song while you do it. You’ll understand why. Download every Japanese fashion magazine you can find and count how many times the Olsen twins appear. Completely pointless, but that’s the whole appeal. Throw together an app if the money’s still decent. Try to find Kristen Stewart and get her to make a different face. Sleep with her, don’t sleep with her, the point is the attempt. Spend an entire day speaking in some elaborate made-up language and don’t break character no matter how annoyed people get.
Be weirdly excited about new Beavis and Butt-Head episodes. Tweet something actually kind at Lindsay Lohan — she needed that. Dance around your apartment to the Double Rainbow song. And then the real thing: listen to “Bang Bang Bang” until it’s all you can hear. That song is just too good. Everything else was just filler, ways to pass the time until you could get back to that.
I posted a Cee-Lo music video a couple weeks after it came out, and people wrote to tell me I was late. Not just late—behind. Like I’d failed at some implicit speed requirement. The video was beautiful. That was the only reason I posted it. But apparently beauty wasn’t enough if it came with a timestamp that didn’t align with the moment it dropped.
There’s this thing that happens when you’re online constantly. Everything feels urgent. You build this muscle memory where falling behind on the current moment feels like a personal failure. Trends move fast, algorithms punish you for being slow, and there’s always something newer coming. So you keep reaching for what just happened, what’s happening now, what’s about to happen. The newest shit.
But that’s exhausting, and it kills something. Not everyone’s sitting around mainlining content all day. Some people have lives, work, distractions. They stumble onto something beautiful on Tuesday that dropped on Monday, and it still moves them. When did we decide that mattered less than being first?
I’m not interested in chasing what’s hot. I’m interested in what’s actually worth my time. Sometimes the newest thing qualifies. Most of the time it doesn’t. I’d rather post something genuinely great a week late than something mediocre because it’s today. That’s not some high-minded principle—it’s just what interests me.
The people who complain about timing are usually the ones who’ve already moved on to the next thing anyway. They’re not sitting with the Cee-Lo video; they’re already three novelties ahead. They just want to know why I’m not in lockstep with them.
Gold reserves on your head—that’s what Teresa Buecker called it when she was writing about redheads as a trend at Fashion Week. Or rather, she was writing about what happens when people constantly reduce you to one physical feature, keep noticing it, keep making it the first thing they see about you. Eventually the feature stops being incidental and becomes your whole identity, your obsession. You resist it for a while but it doesn’t stick. Somewhere along the way you’ve made it yours. “This feature, which I am constantly reduced to, has become my personal obsession,” she said. That’s what stuck with me—not the trend itself but what the trend does to you once you’re in it.
That season’s collections had a similar quality, maybe just coincidence. Silk and chiffon, sepia-toned evening wear, pastels and bare skin. Nothing looked polished or final; everything felt like it was still becoming, like people were figuring it out as they went. Which is maybe all a trend is anyway—someone notices something about a person or a detail, and then everyone starts looking for it, and then the people with that thing can’t see themselves without it.
Cee-Lo released “Fuck You” as this gleeful breakup anthem, and when it got big, he went ahead and recorded “No One’s Gonna Love You” as the unfiltered version. The video was Cee-Lo at his most unhinged — beautiful and petty simultaneously, draped in gold while being completely shameless about a girl who didn’t want him. There’s something kind of perfect about that kind of rage, the kind that doesn’t need your approval. Just pure spite and aesthetics.
One moment you’re alive—dancing hard, throwing yourself into the lake, making love in places that were never made for it. The next day it’s just gone. Forever. The glow, the push-back, the rush. Death moves quietly these days—sometimes fast as a reckless moment, sometimes slow as the weight you felt coming. Nobody thinks about it enough, how much time anyone actually gets.
Roberto Müller killed himself. His goodbye letter read like he’d made peace with it, like he understood something we’re all still looking for. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after that. About being alive right now. About who we even are when we’re just a profile, a few photos, some words we thought sounded profound at three in the morning. About the actual moment of dying—what that feels like. I talked through it with someone one night. What he did. The way he chose to do it. What waits after, if anything. Whether I could understand it if someone I loved decided to do the same thing. We didn’t land on any answers.
Everyone dies. That’s not news. But it doesn’t make death feel any less strange. It’s still terrifying. Still inexplicable. Still completely unknowable.
I don’t know what happens in that last breath. If it’s quiet or painful or nothing. I don’t know if there’s always another way when you’re cornered, or if sometimes the only exit is the one you choose. I can’t tell you if Roberto was right. If there’s one thing in this life I truly respect, it’s that last walk that comes for all of us.
Berlin Fashion Week throws up these moments where you see someone and you get it immediately—there’s something there that photographs, that reads, that matters in the moment. This particular time I found myself tracking five people, all of them doing it differently.
Ester’s sixteen, Swedish, photographed barefoot in the sea at midnight holding her Chucks like a souvenir. Her smile is genuine and unguarded, and she’s—let’s say it plainly—arrestingly good-looking in that way teenagers are before anyone teaches them better. There’s no depth to read into it, just the fact of how she photographs.
Kadeem’s twenty from New York, freelance and studying, spends his time shooting his neighborhood like he’s trying to decode it. White shirt from Levi’s, shows up on Twitter if that matters. The thing about him is that he doesn’t seem to want anything from you, which makes you want to give it anyway. That’s the only photography move that actually works.
Lauren wears a terrible cap and doesn’t help it with terrible glasses and usually there’s a lollipop, and somehow it all comes together in the photo. Something magnetic—the pool or the turtle or whatever’s in the background, those small fabric bands on her arm that you end up staring at. She’s American, which explains the questionable taste, but not the pull. That part’s just her.
Eddy moved to Berlin and immediately stopped being new. That lean attractive thing where intention and accident are the same. Checkered shirts in colors that theoretically shouldn’t work together, a drink in his hand like he earned it, that not-quite-shaven space around his mouth. He looks like he’d be worth actually knowing, which is maybe the whole point—not the styling, but the fact that you’d want these people around.
Cristina at twenty-two decided she gets to look however she wants—pink tights, leopard fur, knee pads, the whole situation on the internet without apology. It reads as confidence in a way fashion moves usually don’t. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re young enough to not wait for permission.
She was the glitter girl who didn’t pretend to be anything else, which made her briefly significant in pop music. The songs were forgettable, but the complete lack of apology was not. You either got why that mattered or you didn’t, and if you didn’t you weren’t the audience anyway.
The opening show made it clear right away this would be a fever dream of a season. Everything was chaos — pink clashing with orange, skin tones mixed in, no sense of harmony or line, just colors and shapes that felt intentional somehow even though they had no business being together. It looked like someone had decided we weren’t doing restraint this year.
But nobody was actually watching. Germany was playing Spain in the World Cup semifinal that night, and Berlin had its mind elsewhere. The designers knew it. The models knew it. Everyone who’d shown up for the clothes knew it. So the organizers did what made sense — Calvin Klein set up a screen for the fans, Bread & Butter turned itself into something like a stadium, and the smaller labels just stuck TVs on the street. Fashion could wait. The city belonged to football.
When you could catch an actual look, there were moments. Lena Hoschek had these hot pieces that actually landed. Barbara Meier wore this alien-looking pink cap that made no sense, and the whispering around it told you something about the power of just committing to a bad idea. Models don’t always get to choose what they wear anyway — they just put it on and hope it doesn’t define them.
The whole thing had this split energy that nobody planned for. Fashion usually exists at the center of its own universe. That night it was background noise, bold colors and weird shapes happening while the real spectacle was somewhere else on a screen. By tomorrow it would be all hemlines and fabrics again, but for one night fashion week learned that even it has to share the room.
Every half hour I swapped families. Joey’s apartment, Bel-Air, the OC—I didn’t watch these shows so much as inhabit them, rotating through lives like a visitor in a series of rooms that opened exactly when the cable box said they would. By my teens I knew the Tanners better than my own relatives, had learned more about the world from laugh tracks and commercial breaks than from anything an actual adult had tried to teach me. The television raised me. It gave me values, a vocabulary, a sense of what love and friendship looked like when they actually worked.
Before you could just download a season and disappear into your bedroom with it, you had to know when the show aired. You had to plan around it, arrange yourself in front of the screen at the right moment. My whole family would gather—not out of special intention but out of simple logistics. If Friends was on ProSieben at seven, then at seven we were all in the living room. We didn’t have to negotiate about it. The television decided, and we showed up. There was something I miss about that, not because TV was better, but because the ritual made the watching matter more. You couldn’t skip, couldn’t rewind, couldn’t speed through the boring parts. You sat with it. You sat with each other.
The shows were what they were: Friends, Scrubs, Full House, The Fresh Prince, The OC, Family Matters, Married with Children. Solid, competent television. Nothing that needed to justify itself with prestige or ambition. They were just there, available at their appointed hours, teaching lessons that stuck in a way that’s hard to explain now. Don’t judge people by their circumstances. Love usually wins. Real friends are everything. These weren’t profound ideas, but hearing them told and retold across a hundred episodes, embedded in stories with characters you genuinely liked, in a house where they played out the same dilemmas your own family was probably working through—that made them real in a way theory never would.
Now you can watch anything. The sheer volume should mean something better, but instead we’ve created a kind of abundance paralysis where every hour is the wrong choice because there’s always something else. We’ve traded the ceremony for convenience, and what we get is isolation. Instead of gathering at a fixed time, we download a season and consume it alone at night, moving through it as quickly as we can before the next batch arrives. Hollywood’s solution to every moment of free time is another show, another series, another reason to stay in. Gossip Girl, How I Met Your Mother, The Big Bang Theory—they blur together now, indistinguishable, designed not to linger but to keep you moving.
The weird thing is I don’t actually want it to go back. I don’t want scheduled television again, don’t want to sit through commercials or miss something because I wasn’t home. But I recognize what we lost in the bargain, which is that shared moment, that appointment that made the experience feel like something more than consumption. The shows that actually stuck with me—and I mean really stuck, the ones I still think about—are the ones that had time to build something. Where you knew the characters well enough that what happened to them mattered. You can’t speed that up. You can’t franchise it or quantify it into a binge. It either builds or it doesn’t.
I miss which shows taught me. Not which ones I watched, but which ones I became briefly inside of, in that half hour when the world narrowed down to what was on the screen and nothing else was allowed to interrupt. That’s what I miss more than any specific character or storyline. The permission to be completely elsewhere, completely focused, completely present. The television gave me that. It was exactly what I needed, whether I knew it or not.
I remember Lourdes Leon starting a fashion blog and getting hundreds of comments because her mother was Madonna. Megan Fox married Brian Austin Green in Hawaii. Katy Perry was doing those magazine shoots with less clothing each time. Emma Watson appeared in a music video and people were still bringing up Harry Potter. That was celebrity blogging then.
Every couple of years Berlin’s fashion week rolls back into town and the whole city gets that specific energy—the bars fill with a different crowd, the sidewalks suddenly matter in a different way, people are thinking about how they look.
This year Calvin Klein, Michael Michalsky, and Marcel Ostertag were the big names, though honestly the draw wasn’t really about who was showing—it was about the machinery itself, the way fashion week temporarily restructures a city’s attention. The international press and big designers get the official venues. Everyone else gets the spillover: cheap or free shows in galleries, warehouse spaces, random corners. Berlin’s generous that way. You can’t get into the Calvin Klein thing, but you can walk into some designer’s basement showcase and watch the same essential performance of hope and ambition.
Milla Jovovich was the official face, which I appreciated in a perverse way—making a zombie killer the ambassador of fashion seems very Berlin. The local celebrities promoting things didn’t matter to me. The real thing was the models, the clothes, the specific way a designer had chosen to arrange fabric and color and silhouette. Whether it landed or felt like nothing.
Fashion week in Berlin has this strange duality. It’s deadly serious—people’s livelihoods depend on the shows going well, the press taking note—but it’s also carnival. Everyone’s trying to look interesting, the city feels electric, you bump into people you haven’t seen in months. The social component is real, separate from what any designer actually showed.
I wasn’t sure if I’d actually go to anything. Those weeks could feel either alive or hollow depending on my mood and the weather. But there was something appealing about the possibility of slipping into it for an afternoon, watching the machinery work, seeing what about it felt genuine and what felt pure theater. Maybe that’s the only reason to go: to figure out where the line is.
There was this basement, or maybe someone’s bedroom, I can’t remember. Someone had thrown on Wavves — “King of the Beach,” their third album, the one that sounds like it was recorded through a wall at a party and came out sounding right. You know that feeling when a song doesn’t announce itself, just exists in the room like it was always there? That was this. “Post Acid” too. Just there, casual, not trying.
Amy Millan from Stars has a voice that does something when you’re not expecting it. The Five Ghosts is their fifth album, not as sprawling as “In Our Bedroom after the War” — most things aren’t — but “Wasted Daylight” hits different. “I Died So I Could Hunt You” is darkness done right, the kind of heartbreak that feels earned rather than performed. You listen and you understand something about how people break.
We Are Scientists made Barbara, which is just solid rock. “Nice Guys,” “Rules Don’t Stop.” The songs do what they’re supposed to do. They don’t pretend to be anything bigger than what they are, and there’s something right about that. Loud enough to feel real, catchy enough to stick with you. For that basement, at that time, it was enough.
Sky Ferreira’s music has always had this quality where she’s not asking anything from you—no reaching, no softening, no performance. She places herself in a track with a kind of deadpan clarity, fully in control of what the thing is, and whatever happens next is just what happens. I like that. There’s no compromise, no begging for approval. Just an artist who knows exactly what she wants and gets it done.
The better a blog does, the more its audience expects from it. Not explicitly—it’s never that crude. But you feel it in the comments, the links people share, which posts get traction. Over the years, you build an image. You become known for something. Music blogs get known for music, design blogs for design, weird blogs for weirdness. People come back because they know what they’re getting.
On this blog, people expect a certain sensibility. Pop culture, design, things that crash into each other in interesting ways. That image was built on actual work—real posts, real thinking. But somewhere along the way, the image starts to carry you. Your audience isn’t coming for you anymore; they’re coming for the thing you’ve become. And that thing lives now in their heads more than it lives in yours.
I think about what I’d write if I just wanted to write about something totally different. How many people would click away. How the comment section would ask where the style went, what happened to the voice they signed up for. There’s a point where your blog becomes less like a place you work and more like a job you can never quit. An identity you can’t shed without feeling like you’re letting people down.
Some creators see it coming and hand things off. They pass the blog to someone younger who actually cares about that niche, who fits the image better. Who isn’t going to wake up one morning tired of it. That’s not weakness—that’s maybe the most honest thing you can do. Admit that the thing you built has its own momentum now, and it works better without you.
The alternative is dragging your blog forward while you’re changing into something else. Writing about Pokémon when you don’t care anymore, making design posts when you’re thinking about something else entirely. Your audience stays loyal because of the brand, but you feel it less and less. The work becomes a performance. And the audience can tell, even if they don’t say it.
Twenty years into this, I don’t know what the answer is. Some of my best work came from being locked into a sensibility, forced to think deeply within constraints. Some of my worst came from feeling like I had to deliver a type of post instead of writing what I actually cared about. Maybe it’s not about choosing between staying or leaving. Maybe it’s about admitting when the fit breaks, and being honest about what you actually want to say instead of what people came here to read.
The blog will outlast me or it won’t. But at least it should be something I meant.
Walking into the Axel Springer building, I expected something worse. We’d complained about this place online for years, built it up as some kind of evil empire, but it was just an office—fluorescent lights, people at desks, normal. Caro, Hannah, and I went with Claudio and Suz from iHeartBerlin, Sandra, Rose, Dani. We were there to make something called Welt Kompakt, a Scroll Edition created entirely by bloggers, by people who lived online. A test. An experiment. Something new.
Making a newspaper with a dozen people who all see the world differently is harder than it sounds. We worked through the day, watched the Federal President election play out live, ate schnitzel and muffins and fruit, chased it with Club-Mate. iPads flying around. Brains on. And I kept noticing how much everyone disagreed about what mattered, what was worth saying, what was obvious versus pointless. The only thing we all agreed on: we all had Macs. Hannah didn’t, which became its own little status symbol somehow.
After work we hit a bar by the Spree and half-remembered what we’d said to all those journalists with cameras. Hannah got loose on wine and chicken. I was stuck on this weird feeling about making print—something physical and committed and final when we lived most of our lives online throwing things into the void. The edition came out eventually. It mattered for a moment, this one specific beautiful thing we’d actually made together.
Most of it’s gone now. But I still don’t know who Carolin Schmitz is, the name that kept floating around that day like some kind of inside joke. Nobody ever explained it.
Taylin from Montreal wore an “I Love New York” shirt at eighteen. Those shirts died decades ago. But showing up in something that dead for that long and wearing it straight, no irony, just a person in a dead shirt - that takes either confidence or zero self-consciousness. Maybe they’re the same thing.
Sebastien’s a designer from Paris. Red Vans, black jeans tight enough to plan for, a Zara jacket - correct choices that somehow add up to nothing. The Elvis shirt saves it. There’s something about pulling on something specific like that and just moving through the world in it like it’s normal that separates people who actually dress from people following a formula.
In New York people just dress different. More skin, more movement, more willingness to fill space in clothes that shouldn’t work but do, because they move like they own the place. It’s not elegant but confidence makes it work.
Romina’s fifteen from Düsseldorf, ponytail and Chucks - the standard teenage street style look. Nothing original, nothing surprising. She looks at the camera like she actually believes something good is coming, and maybe that’s what counts.
Clark and Jennifer are in neon Pikachu everything and they’re completely wrecked. Not fun-wrecked - the actual kind, where you can see it catching up with them, wearing them down. Cartoon characters on your body while you barely stand isn’t cute, it’s just sad.
There’s something weirdly unsettling about The Simpsons when you think about it too hard—a show so domesticated and yellow and safe that people forget it started in the dark corners of The Tracey Ullman Show. Lisa’s vegetarianism became this weird marker of sophistication in a family that lives on donuts and Duff beer, something almost defiant in how specific it was. The show’s been on so long that the horror angle isn’t in some jump-scare adaptation but in watching it calcify, episode after episode, the Simpsons refusing to age or change in any way that matters. The comics that lean into the creepy stuff—the Treehouse of Horror episodes, the fan art that imagines them as grotesque and wrong—maybe they’re just making visible what’s always been true about American entertainment: that anything left running long enough starts to look like a haunting.
One person doing all the parts of the Pokémon theme. You know how the original goes—that theme song that somehow survives thirty years in your head even when everything else about Pokémon has faded. Hearing it layered out from one voice is ridiculous in the most honest way. No winking at the camera, no elaborate concept. Just someone who sat down with a mic and decided to do the whole thing himself.
Mark Ronson’s thing has always been about catching lightning in a bottle—finding the exact moment when a beat clicks into place, when production becomes invisible because it’s so right. Bang Bang Bang had that snap to it, that three-word simplicity that sticks to your ribs. The Business INTL thing was him chasing that same restless energy, moving through sounds without apologizing for the shift. You listen to something like that and you understand why he keeps reaching for collaborators instead of settling into a sound. There’s no museum in it. It’s all forward motion.
Marina and The Diamonds makes pop music that sounds like someone’s been awake too long, thinking about the wrong things at 3 AM. There’s no guile in it—just theatrical arrangements wrapped around observations that land harder than they probably should. The songs don’t announce themselves; they arrive quietly at something raw, and by the time you’ve noticed it’s happened, you’re already there with her, looking at whatever it was from the same angle. That directness is rare in pop.
If you’re broke and looking for a job, American Apparel seemed doable. The pay was probably okay, the staff discount on basics was a perk, and they were hiring. But Dov Charney had very specific requirements for what his employees needed to look like.
The list of prohibited things read like a joke. No visible tattoos, no piercings, no silver jewelry, no full beards, no goatees, no sideburns. No hats, no colored contacts, no dyed hair, no makeup, no false nails, no lip gloss. No Chucks, Vans, flip-flops, boots, or sneakers—basically no real shoes. No earplugs, no earrings over a certain size, no bracelets, necklaces, cuffs, or bands. If you actually tried to find a human being who met every single requirement, you’d be describing something that doesn’t exist.
The irony was sharp. American Apparel’s entire brand was about youth, sex, individualism, and self-expression. But the people selling the clothes had to be blank slates. Neutral. Generic enough that they didn’t distract from the product. It was like they wanted employees who were less like people and more like hangers.
If you weren’t sure whether you qualified, you could send in a photo. They’d judge it. Tell you yes or no. And if you were on the fence—not conventionally attractive enough, or too tattooed, or too anything—you already knew the answer. There was something cruel about building that gatekeeping into the hiring process. Making people submit their faces for approval.
Natasha Khan’s voice on Let’s Get Lost sounds like it’s coming from underwater — intimate and muffled, like you’re hearing it through heavy glass. She did this with Beck for the Twilight: Eclipse soundtrack, which shouldn’t work, which sounds ridiculous until you actually listen.
The Twilight movies are indefensible. Everyone knows this. But whoever programmed the soundtrack understood something: hire actually talented people and you can at least save that part. Lykke Li did a song, Muse did one, Khan and Beck made this one. The film is garbage. The soundtrack exists in a different world.
I’ve never understood why artists agree to this kind of work. The money, presumably. Or maybe the constraint is oddly pure — you have no prestige to lean on, no project credibility to coast on. You have to be good. You have to actually care about the work itself. The song is good because of that clarity. Twilight didn’t earn it, but it doesn’t matter.
I’m buying a skateboard. Quarter-life crisis, midlife crisis, whatever taxonomy you want to use for sitting around feeling purposeless. But I don’t think of it that way. It’s just: there’s a thing I thought about doing as a kid, couldn’t pull off, forgot about it for decades, and now I’m back at it. No deeper meaning. Just impulse.
I had two skateboards as a kid, both cheap and broken almost immediately. Low-quality wheels. Bad bearings, though I didn’t even know bearings were something you could think about. I rode them badly in driveways, fell off, and gave up. But skateboarding stayed in my head as one of those movements that just works—like surfing, like snowboarding, like anything where you’re just moving through space without an engine or effort. Beautiful. Pointless. Always appealing.
Now I’m staring at skateboard websites and I understand nothing. Decks, longboards, cruisers. Kingpins and shockpads. There’s terminology for every component like this is aerospace. How much griptape does anyone actually need? What’s the actual difference between wheels? Axes matter, apparently. I can’t figure out if I buy a complete setup or customize one or whether that distinction even matters. Modern versus vintage—is that looks or performance? I’m not really trying to find out.
The honest thing is: I don’t actually care about skateboarding. What I care about is doing something I’m obviously bad at. Falling. Trying again. Scaring old ladies if I’m lucky. There’s something about approaching something you have zero skill in at this point in your life that feels like telling the truth. No YouTube tutorials are going to make this graceful. No amount of research changes the fact that I’m going to look ridiculous.
And then there’s the Avril Lavigne thing. “Sk8er Boi” was a joke about the intersection of social class and music taste, but mostly it’s just stuck in my head for thirty years. If I actually pulled this off—if I actually learned to skateboard as an adult—it would be the slowest, most indirect callback to that song that could exist. A middle-aged guy buying a skateboard because a pop-punk band made fun of skaters in the ’90s. That’s either the worst reason to do something or the only honest one.
I used to care what M.I.A. thought. Her music had this edge to it, this sense that she was actually aware of things. Then somewhere she started sounding like every other celebrity with a half-formed opinion about what’s wrong with kids today.
Her thing now is that video games are making children violent. She’s got this quote where she’s talking about American kids watching violence on screens and then getting deployed to Afghanistan, and because they’ve only experienced it through pixels they don’t understand what real violence feels like, which makes it easier for them to inflict it. There’s a kernel of truth in there—desensitization is real—but she uses it to blame the games, as if the problem would go away if we just deleted them all.
But the Middle East is lousy with violent young men who’ve never played a video game in their lives. Never owned a console. Never saw any of it. Their violence didn’t come from a screen. It came from actual conditions, actual desperation. So how does that fit her theory?
What bothers me is that this is just the same argument recycled for the millionth time. Psychologists with zero evidence. Politicians desperate for something to blame. Now celebrities piling in because it’s safe and easy. Just point at the screens, nod seriously, and act like you’ve discovered something. Don’t look too hard at the real causes. Don’t think about anything difficult.
She delivers it like she’s had a genuine insight. But she’s not paying attention. She’s just speaking.
Berlin’s flea markets are where you go to shed what you don’t need anymore. Sunday mornings, someone’s rack of vintage clothes next to someone else’s old CDs, everyone broke or downsizing or just done with their closets. There’s something honest about the setup—you can’t pretend your clothes are special when they’re hanging next to a hundred other people’s mistakes.
It’s a strange democracy, the flea market. That shirt you thought was cool sits next to polyester from the nineties and people browse them with the same mild indifference. Sometimes something finds the right person and it matters to them differently than it mattered to you, which either feels nice or proves that nothing is as singular as you thought. Either way, two euros goes in your pocket and you move on.
I’ve done this enough times to understand the distance between what I actually care about and what I just lived with. The flea market doesn’t lie about it—it tells you exactly what your old life is worth, and you either accept that or you take it home.
Welt Kompakt asked us to help edit their first July issue. Hannah and Caro got flown to Berlin, we got paid, and access to a newsroom that actually mattered - people like Robert Basic and Julia Stelzner who’d built real careers in this space. The kind of thing you don’t think about twice.
The German blogging world went into automatic rejection. Axel Springer is evil, print media is the enemy, taking money from a newspaper means you’ve sold out. It wasn’t unexpected. There’s always someone ready to be principled about everything, and a newspaper invitation is an easy target. It costs nothing to be against it.
What struck me was the effort people put into opposing it. Pages of arguments about compromise and ethics and community standards. Meanwhile the actual thing - being in a real newsroom, learning how newspapers worked, talking to people who actually ran operations - felt like maybe the smartest week I’d had in months.
I understand the reflex. Online, everything becomes a choice between being against the system and complicit in it. There’s no room for just being interested, for taking a weird opportunity and seeing where it goes. The moment you’re willing to learn from people inside, you’ve already picked a side in their eyes.
Berlin happened. The debate continued. Both groups were certain they were right, and neither was going to convince the other. I came home with some stories. The internet stayed angry. Separate worlds.
Soko is an Argentine magazine that started about a year ago because two people—Adrián Carlos Grygierzcyk and Pampa García Peña—wanted their own space to make things without anyone else’s permission. They called it an experiment: just photographs and text and drawings and whatever else caught their eye. No business model, no theoretical framework, just the simple decision to make something.
The anniversary issue has work from Jenny Mortsell, Pablo Franco, Jonathan Zawada, Belinda Chen—people who clearly understand what the magazine is doing and want to be in it. There’s a lot of color, a lot of sex, a lot of visible craft. The kind of magazine that exists because the editors made it happen, not because there was some market opportunity.
Independent magazines usually don’t make it to year two. The economics don’t work, or the founder gets tired, or the vision never had any teeth to begin with. But Soko’s still here. Which suggests they started right—made it for themselves first, and the rest of us get to look in.
New York at night through a taxi window is a specific kind of view - not the postcard version, just the city and the people waiting at corners, the side of things only someone driving those streets gets to see. That’s the lens for The Roots’ “Dear God 2.0” video. Everything shot from the backseat, watching the city pass. It’s intimate and unsettling at once, the distance and closeness together.
I’ve never been the kind of person who gets swept up in American hip-hop the way other people do, but The Roots have always felt outside that. There’s something about what they make - the musicianship, the way they build these layered tracks - that doesn’t land the same as the usual stuff. This video has the same quality. Not flashy, just close attention to a city and the people in it, the small moments and contradictions.
Their album “How I Got Over” has Joanna Newsom and Dice Raw on it. They’re the kind of band that can stay ambitious without making it obvious they’re trying. That’s rare.
Lena Meyer-Landrut won Eurovision in 2010 with a song that didn’t try to be anything other than itself. Stefan Raab, her mentor on the competition show, had put her in position to win. When the votes came in, she’d done it—become something bigger than before. The ballad was straightforward, she sang it like she meant it, and that simplicity worked against all the usual Eurovision machinery.
Nettie Harris gave an interview defending Terry Richardson after all the assault allegations came out. She’d modeled for him and said her experience was nothing like what people accused him of. He was careful about boundaries, asked permission before each move, and when she felt uncomfortable with something, he backed off. No pressure. She actually respected him for it.
It’s strange reading because the Richardson story is so dark everywhere else. But her account is specific and grounded—she’s not defending him in the abstract, she’s describing what happened in that room between them. That’s real whether or not it changes anything about the broader accusations.
I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with a contradiction like that. One model felt safe, others felt exploited. Both versions exist somewhere. The neat story everyone wanted—he’s a predator, case closed—doesn’t hold up against actual human complexity. Neither does the defense story, which is probably her point. She’s not saying he didn’t do those things to other women. She’s saying it didn’t happen to her.
Diddy’s blogging now. I have no idea when this happened or why it mattered, but there it is — a blog where he posts about Muhammad Ali and surfing kids and whatever catches his attention. The design is rough. It looks like he put it together in an afternoon and moved on. Which I kind of respect.
It’s the move that makes sense once you’ve watched Kanye do it. Once one of them tries something, the rest feel like they have to as well. A billionaire hip-hop mogul with his own platform, posting whatever he’s thinking about. The beauty of it is how little he cares about the execution. He didn’t overthink it. He just did it.
Will anything come of it? Probably not. These things rarely last long. But it exists right now. You can subscribe. And there’s something oddly genuine about a guy rich enough to do absolutely anything deciding that blogging was worth trying. Even if it goes nowhere.
Adam Green’s always been the kind of guy who doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks. His blog, The Lake Room, is full of blurry photographs of drunk friends, stoned relatives, weird museum moments where he’s gotten hard — the stuff you’d never actually post but somehow think about. So when he started uploading explicit photographs of himself, just casual shots of his dick, it felt less like a shock and more like the inevitable next step.
There’s something kind of honest about it, I guess. Not performative, not trying to be edgy or prove anything. Just a musician saying, “Here’s my body, here’s what I’ve got, deal with it.” He’s not contextualizing it or asking permission. He’s not doing it for shock value. He’s just putting it out there the way he’d put out anything else — photographs, songs, whatever. The fact that it’s his genitals doesn’t seem to register as different in his mind.
It made me think about what actual self-expression looks like versus what we’re all trained to perform as self-expression. Most people are terrified of their own bodies online, or they curate them into something presentable. Adam’s not playing that game. His music doesn’t apologize. His photographs don’t apologize. Neither does this.
I don’t know if it’s going to catch on. Probably not. Most people aren’t built for that kind of indifference to judgment. But there’s something almost radical about someone deciding his body is just another thing he might document, the same as a drunk night or a weird museum moment or a song.
Uffie’s Sex Dreams and Denim Jeans doesn’t pretend to be anything but noise and beats engineered to work on your body. No subtlety, no point, just sound. There’s something honest about giving up on meaning entirely and going for the dance floor.
Kele left Bloc Party to make The Boxer, and you immediately feel what’s missing. The album’s solid—hooks that stick, lyrics that try to matter, production that’s thoughtful. But Bloc Party was a four-person thing, and Kele solo is just one guy trying to carry what took four people to hold up. Not bad. Just smaller.
Sia’s We Are Born is Sia doing what Sia does, which happens to be better than almost anyone else at catchy ballads and strange electronic pop. She figured out her thing years ago and has no interest in changing. That kind of certainty is rare. That kind of stagnation is rarer still.
I put all three on back to back on an afternoon and felt nothing like excitement or discovery, just the sense of three competent people making records because they could, not because they had to. Pop music feels stalled right now. These three didn’t cause it, and they’re not going to fix it. They’re just standing in it.
Iceland was broke and Wikileaks had a solution. Become a digital haven — pass laws protecting publishers and whistleblowers, make it impossible to sue people for what they published, promise absolute anonymity — and watch the servers and companies migrate there like it was salvation. Money problem solved. A small country full of musicians and geothermal energy gets to be the internet’s sanctuary.
The Icelandic Modern Media Initiative was the actual law they made from this pitch. Whistleblower protections. Anonymity shields. Copyright law rewritten so the publisher was shielded instead of sued into oblivion. In theory, Iceland became a nation that deliberately built a digital free zone, which sounds insane until you realize how much the rest of the world needed exactly that.
What came with it was horny speculation. Could you finally post anything, show anything, host anything without the lawyers or the government or whatever morality cop had jurisdiction where you actually lived? No more consequence. No more exposure. Upload whatever you wanted, stay anonymous forever, and no one could touch you. That fantasy appealed to a certain kind of person. It appealed to me.
The reality was quieter. Companies didn’t move there en masse. Laws don’t protect you if your server is in California anyway. But IMMI actually passed, other countries borrowed from it, and for a while Iceland was the only place where the internet’s idealists actually got something written into law instead of just fighting about it endlessly online. That’s more valuable than the fantasy ever was.
Comedy Central bought the rights from Fox and is airing new episodes. This is the kind of news that shouldn’t matter but kind of does.
Fox cancelled it after four years. It had the wrong time slot or the wrong audience or just wasn’t a priority. It went into syndication, cycling through repeats. It was sadder that way than if it had simply vanished.
The show was smarter than people gave it credit for. It didn’t need you to care about everything. You could tune in for a stupid joke and leave with something that actually mattered, and the show didn’t announce the shift or apologize for it. That’s harder to do than it sounds.
The show was always about people refusing to move on. Someone frozen in the past trying to build a life in a future that wasn’t built for him. It understood longing in a way most comedies don’t even attempt. Bringing it back feels inevitable — the show doing the thing the show is about.
I’m going to watch it. I don’t have high expectations, but I’m curious what happens when you resurrect something that was already kind of dead. It might be great. It might be terrible. Either way it’s something to think about, which is more than most TV offers.
Heard about Suck Shaft through Atlantis, this Stockholm club where all the interesting musicians seem to rotate through. They’ve got “There Are Children Here”—electronic, weirdly catchy, confusing in a way that works. It’s the kind of track that ambushes you in a club even when you’re deliberately not paying attention. I don’t know if this means I’m actually into the electro-hype thing or just another person who hears something made with taste and goes along with it. Probably doesn’t matter which.
Tom Nicon died in Milan and now he’s part of the list. Daul Kim, Isabella Blow, Alexander McQueen — the fashion world goes through people like that. You see the name in the news, you think about how young he was, you move on. The industry understands what it does to people and does it anyway.
I found a model talking about it, trying to put the pressure into words. “People think we’re young and beautiful and rich and happy. But we’re not. You show up to castings and get looked at once and you’re dismissed. You spend your whole life asking yourself what’s wrong with you. Why didn’t I get that job? You’re fighting your friends the entire time, you’re nowhere near home. The pressure is enormous. It’s not what people think it is.”
That’s the honest version. Not hidden, not coded. The fashion world knows exactly what it demands and knows exactly who it destroys in the process. That knowledge doesn’t change anything. The competition, the isolation, the constant judgment — that’s not a side effect, that’s the job.
I don’t know if Tom jumped or fell. I know the circumstances that made both possible. Being beautiful in that world means spending every day being told you’re not beautiful enough. Being young means decades of that ahead of you. Being far from home means you’re alone with it.
The industry tells itself it’s creating glamour. What it’s actually creating is a machine that breaks people. Tom Nicon is just the latest one to stop working.
Richard Kern doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. For 30 years he’s been photographing naked women and he’s never once explained or justified it. The girls barely old enough to legally do it. He just points the camera and shoots. That directness is rare.
He showed up in Berlin last year to do some work for VBS.TV. The Berlin girls cooperated without fanfare. Come in, say hello to the crew, remove your clothes, collect your check. I want to see the faces of the Vice interns witnessing this in an apartment somewhere. Twenty-two years old, first real job, completely certain they understand how the world works.
The video he made is good. The apartments are real. The light works. Berlin looks like itself, not some digitized mood board. Kern shoots the way he approaches everything: straightforward, without the art-world handwringing that makes photography feel like it’s trying to justify itself.
He’ll probably be doing this at 70. Some people find what makes sense to them and just live it. That’s Kern.
The smell hits you first—currywurst and dog shit, warm and sharp. Berlin doesn’t bother covering its own tracks. That’s the whole point.
I went there because someone was leaving. Sarah had this project going, documenting the city before she vanished on a world tour—just impressions, fragments, tips for the newly arrived and the chronically lost. Finding Berlin. I helped with it, and somewhere in the process I stopped seeing it as her project and started seeing it as a place I actually wanted to understand.
Most great cities are performing all the time. They’re showing you a carefully arranged version of themselves. Berlin gave up on that. It’s too broke to afford the performance, too tired, too committed to staying exactly as messy and unfinished as it actually is. Money exists there, but quietly—nobody’s got anything to prove. You can kiss someone in a park in the middle of the day and nobody cares, or MTV shows up and films the whole thing. Both are equally unremarkable.
What works about it is that the refusal is genuine. It’s not an aesthetic. The people I knew there—Mustafa, Arék, whoever was at the bus stop that day—they weren’t being raw or authentic for anyone’s benefit. That’s just how they were. The city lets you be that way too, which is rare. Most cities demand you show up already formed, already with a story. Berlin just lets you exist.
I don’t know if I loved it exactly. But I understood why someone would leave everything to chase the world when they came from a place like that. Once you’ve lived somewhere that doesn’t need you to be anything, anywhere else feels like a costume party.
The video for Add SUV is nothing special—Uffie and Pharrell cruising the city at night, cops at the end. Standard stuff. But what stuck with me is this: Uffie can’t sing. She never could. And I’ve never cared.
I don’t mean it cruelly. She obviously knows. But she’s built this entire presence on being impossible to look away from despite having almost no credentials to back it up. She models, she makes music, and neither of those things are her strength, but the strength doesn’t matter because she moves through the world with this effortless unbothered cool that you either have or you don’t.
Pharrell’s in the video doing what he does, which is fine, but he’s not the one you’re watching. Uffie cruises through the night like she owns it—completely herself, asking nothing from anyone. It’s the opposite of trying.
I’ve always liked her because she doesn’t perform ambition or talent, doesn’t apologize for not being a “real” singer or model. She’s just Uffie. And that confidence—that refusal to justify her own existence—is cooler than any actual skill. Most people spend their whole lives chasing that kind of ease and never get it.
So you’re in the middle of something stupid—buying a textbook on eBay, messaging your cousin in Italy, running a raid in World of Warcraft—and somewhere in a government building, someone decides it’s time. The button gets pressed. The whole internet just stops. Everything goes dark.
This was actually being discussed as policy. A kill switch. The US government wanted explicit authority to shut down the entire network in case of some vague emergency. The logic makes a certain kind of sense in a conference room full of serious people talking about national security, except those meetings happen constantly and sometimes the things they approve actually become law.
The paranoid part isn’t even the hypothetical shutdown—it’s that you’d genuinely have to prepare for it. Keep photos in physical albums. Learn phone numbers by heart. Figure out what you’d actually do without electricity or connection. Get comfortable losing the parts of the internet you’ve built your whole life around, the sites you check daily, the weird communities that matter for reasons you can’t explain to anyone else.
It’s a specific kind of helplessness. The mechanism exists now. One day, probably not tomorrow but maybe someday, someone decides it’s necessary and uses it. Not because of an actual attack or verified threat, but because the theoretical risk was deemed unacceptable by people who don’t have to live with the aftermath. You just wake up and your entire digital existence is gone.
Yana Kedrina showed up online at some point — this Moscow girl with the kind of chaos that makes sense once you understand the place. She hunts dicks on Chatroulette, dances her ass to Cyndi Lauper, draws these deeply unsettling pieces where Jewish people become crab creatures. Completely unhinged and weirdly good-looking.
Her photos and videos catch something honest about how young Russians move — cheeky, funny, and completely unashamed. The sexuality in them is refreshing because it’s unperformed, just direct and there. No Cold War weight, just raw existing.
Found this website that just displays photos. Massive, full-screen, no navigation or categories, no way to control what comes next. No one knows where the images actually come from—there’s mystery around it, which is part of the appeal.
What you see is everything. Cute animals. Girls making out. Someone sleeping. A field of flowers. Colorful socks. A plate of lunch. A broken shower fixture. Someone’s dick. A dead moth on a wall. No meaning, no curation, just whatever’s next. It’s like staring at the internet’s hard drive with no filter between you and it.
What actually works about this is how honest it feels. Everything lands with the same weight. A moment that could break your heart sits next to a dead insect sits next to someone’s body sits next to a meal. You can’t decide what matters because nothing’s marked as mattering. Random is closer to how the world feels when you’re not editing it.
It’s like Chatroulette but for just looking, except everything here is real and nothing is trying to sell you. No ads, no algorithm trying to keep you there. Just images and whatever they make you think.
Phoenix in 2009—”1901,” “Lisztomania,” everywhere at once, and you could feel why immediately. A French band that sounded like they’d spent serious time in a studio getting every sound exactly right, but without sacrificing the fun. The funk was genuine, the hooks hit, and you could listen alone or at a party and it worked either way.
There was something genuinely refreshing about music that didn’t feel obligated to apologize for being polished. All that indie-rock talk about authenticity and rawness and broken things—Phoenix just ignored it completely. They made an album that was beautiful, composed, unmistakably well-made, and let that be enough. The production wasn’t a compromise; it was the whole statement.
A parking deck in Cologne, summer 2010. That’s where this giveaway was headed—some temporary venue that European cities somehow turned glamorous, industrial space made concert-hall. Phoenix would have sounded like their record: tight, pristine, bigger than the space could actually hold.
They were sure of themselves in a way most bands never are. There’s a quiet confidence in that—knowing what you are, doing it completely, not needing permission. You hear it in the music, years later.
That photo of Maradona losing it at a vuvuzela in the stands is one of the perfect things from 2010. Not because it’s deep, just because it’s a man completely done with a plastic horn. You can see the exact moment he realizes what’s happening and that he can’t do anything about it.
The vuvuzelas were genuinely awful. Everyone agrees now. Broadcasters hated them, players hated them, fans hated them. But there’s something specific about Maradona, of all people, just trying to watch the World Cup and getting relentlessly attacked by toy noise. He’s already been through everything. Still dealing with everything. And now this.
What works about the photo is how small the frustration is. Not epic or tragic, just a man angry at a sound. The vuvuzela doesn’t stop. Maradona’s face shows the exact moment he realizes it won’t, and there’s nothing he can do about it. That’s the whole thing. That’s why it sticks.
Steve Jobs killed the SuicideGirls app because the breasts bothered him. Missy announced they’d just build an iPhone-optimized website instead—same naked bodies, no app store, no way to stop them. His authority evaporated.
I got a genuine laugh out of reading about this. Not like it was a joke, just that recognition of how flimsy control actually is. You can ban an app. You cannot actually prevent people from using a browser.
Jobs had engineered this scenario where he could decide what was acceptable for “his” device. The app store made it feel real, like he actually had power over what people could see. It was a nice illusion. Then someone just went around it. Didn’t even make it dramatic. Just took the path he’d accidentally left open.
The perfect part was Missy announcing this publicly. Casual, straightforward. Made it clear that the ban was empty. The site got more attention for being blocked than it would have got from an app. Streisand effect as marketing.
I’m not sitting around thinking about naked girls on websites. But there’s something satisfying about a moment when you see that someone’s authority is actually nothing—just a system they convinced themselves was airtight, and it falls apart instantly when someone needs it to.
The app stayed banned. The website worked fine. Everything that mattered continued exactly as before.
There’s this photo from Calgary Zoo—a kid making the face you make when a dinosaur with a ridiculous stitched beard gets inches from your nose. She’s squinting, totally committed to whatever she’s experiencing. I can’t stop looking at it.
It’s promotional, Jurassic Park dinosaurs in Canada. T-Rex, Triceratops, Eoraptor—the ones I cared about as a kid. They’re walking around, alive-ish, which doesn’t make sense but that’s the appeal. You know it’s costumes. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway.
What gets me is her face. She hasn’t learned yet that dinosaurs are supposed to be outgrown. She just sees something that doesn’t compute and reacts honestly. No irony. Pure confusion.
I keep coming back to it. The costume, the stitched beard, the fact that she doesn’t look away.
Around 2009 I became obsessed with fashion blogs, which sounds shallow until you realize this was when the form actually mattered—when interesting people could make something online without needing permission or a record deal. And I kept running into redheads. Not because the internet had developed some shared fantasy, but because they were everywhere in that specific moment, and they weren’t trying to be what the industry wanted.
Rockie Nolan was shooting photographs at nineteen that most professionals couldn’t touch. Filippa Smeds was doing Vogue work but wouldn’t stop writing about Nintendo because she actually liked it. Katrin Isabel was designing something unclassifiable and didn’t care what you thought about it. Yeah, I wanted to sleep with all of them—they had the kind of confidence that makes people attractive—but that wasn’t the point. The point was that they were making something.
I followed them because I wanted to see what they’d create next. Traci Lynn shooting whatever interested her. Eva Schulz writing honestly about being scared. Alexandra Sim-Wise refusing to separate her serious self from her fun self, writing about Mario and horror games like they mattered. The taste wasn’t about looking good. It was about seeing clearly.
What I remember years later is how rare that feels now. The internet got optimized. Everyone’s doing the same highly-produced thing, chasing the same metrics. The blogosphere of 2009—that chaotic, generative thing where interesting people could just exist and share what they made—that’s gone. These women probably moved on, got real lives, stopped posting. The form died.
But sometimes I’ll see an old photo and remember how it felt to find someone interesting by accident, to follow them because they were actually doing something. The redheads didn’t have anything in common except that they were talented and didn’t care about approval. That’s rarer than it should be.
Takao Nakano made a film called ’The Big Tits Zombie 3D’—strippers read a cursed book, summon a zombie apocalypse, and one becomes the undead queen who saves the world. It actually exists.
I found the trailer and I can’t stop thinking about it. Not because it looks good, obviously—it’s cheap and stupid and completely at ease with both. Someone made this film exactly as ridiculous as the title demands. Sora Aoi’s in it, and the whole thing plays like a fever dream that somehow got a budget and a crew.
The 3D angle is probably marketing, or post-conversion if we’re being optimistic. Doesn’t really matter. The whole idea is absurd from the first word, and that’s exactly why I’m waiting for August like the DVD release is the most important thing in the world.
She was the thing that happened when being famous for being famous actually meant something. Peaches Geldof, born into it, lived in it, got consumed by it the way those machines do. The nude photos, the scandals, the tabloid churn — it was all just the apparatus grinding on, and she was caught in the gears like everything else.
Found this video of a mom teaching her kids to dance, or at least moving through a routine while they watched and imitated. Classical music in the background. No instruction really, just movement.
What struck me was how attentively they watched her. Kids that age usually don’t care about form or technique—they’re interested in whether something’s fun and whether the person doing it is someone they trust. Here both things were true, and so they tracked every gesture, trying to match it.
There’s a real skill embedded in what she was doing, not in the dancing exactly but in knowing how to be watched that way. How to move with enough clarity that a five-year-old can follow the shape of it. Most things in life you can’t teach directly—you just do them and hope the people watching you absorb something useful without realizing it.
Small moment. But those are often the ones worth paying attention to.
We were a study group loose in Paris for a week — sympathetic nerds, daredevils, a couple of redheads who probably shouldn’t have been trusted with a train ticket. The gay quarter smelled like life fermenting in summer heat, the Jewish district like old money and older stories, the intellectual neighborhoods like someone’s cluttered apartment where you weren’t sure if you were welcome but you went in anyway.
There were bookshops that seemed to have been sealed since 1950, shelves sagging under the weight of themselves. I bought a Japanese edition of Richard Kern’s “XxModels”, a signed copy of “A Million Little Pieces”, something in French that was too small to read. Each purchase felt like grave-robbing, like I’d found something that had been hidden and wasn’t asking to be found.
But the actual thing I remember, the thing that sticks with me — what I think about when I think about Paris — is a hamburger. Hacksteak with fries and mayo. Just meat and fried potatoes and mayonnaise, nothing secret, nothing you’d photograph or write about in a travel guide. I ate it against a wall, watching the street, tasting something that was so specifically itself that it felt obscene.
Bloody, greasy, salty in a way that made you want to cry. I was convinced that week that nothing would ever taste as good again, and turns out I was right. Everything since is just fuel. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about it, which is either pathetic or the most honest thing I’ve ever experienced, probably both.
“Let’s Make Love And Listen To Death From Above” is a song title that knows exactly what it’s doing - promising everything and delivering something completely sideways. This is CSS, Cansei de Ser Sexy, a Brazilian synth-pop band from 2006 that didn’t sound like anything else. Lovefoxxx had this voice that never committed to anything, hovering between playful and mean, between joke and confession.
What stuck with me was how genuinely happy they seemed. Not in the performed way you see in interviews, but in the actual sound - the feeling that these people wanted to be in the room together. It’s not a common thing.
The second album “Donkey” felt more deliberate, more conscious of itself. People thought they’d peaked with the debut, and maybe they did in some ways, but I still think both records are good. The hunger just moved somewhere else. Less “look what we discovered” and more “look what we can do now.”
VBS.TV made a documentary about them with Intel for The Creators Project, and it’s worth finding if you’re into how the internet fundamentally changed what a small band could do in the mid-2000s. Mostly it’s a time capsule. It marks that moment when pop could still be joyful and weird at the same time, before everything got so careful. CSS was doing that as well as anyone.
Norman and Isabelle launched a publication called I-Ref. The pitch is to write about the people doing the writing - treat the voices themselves as interesting. They pulled together twenty-eight contributors, some already established, some from the half-visible edges of Berlin’s culture and design scenes. I know a few of them - Deniz and Dori from lil.bit, Clemens from iGNANT, Luise. People I’ve crossed paths with enough times to care what they’re working on.
The original German framing gets pretty baroque - “fired synapses,” “walking societies,” all that language that hovers between profound and ridiculous depending on the angle you hit it from. But underneath it, the idea is simple: get people with real taste, give them room, assume it matters. No manifesto, no grand defense of digital publishing. Just here’s what we’re doing.
I don’t know if I-Ref becomes something that lasts. Could be a season of good work that fades when everyone moves on. Could be something that actually builds. But I like that they didn’t sit around waiting for conditions to be right. Just started it with people they believed in.
I wouldn’t be who I am if I’d been born somewhere else, at some other moment. All these people—I’d have missed them entirely, and that would have meant missing out on the mess of actually knowing human beings. Some of them opened up to me, some fucked me over, all of them left marks. That’s what I’m thinking about now: how many different characters move through your life, burning bright and then disappearing into memory forever.
Here’s what I know about them. Martin’s actually hung up on Nicole. Sarah was thirteen when she lost her virginity. Maike’s boyfriend is a dick. Manuel is short. Helena wore green socks. Klaus is better at Warcraft III than Manuel, which Manuel will never get over. Some of these people have had anal sex on New Year’s Eve, some have had abortions, some have been raped, some have cheated on their partners so many times they’ve lost count. I know about the people who are dead now, the ones who’ve left, the ones who’ve completely changed. I know about the guy who almost lost a testicle, the girl who took four guys at the same time, the girl who was deflowered on a playground, the one who sent nudes to a stranger and regretted it.
I know who’s slept with who, whose body looks like what—the small breasts, the soft ass, the burn scars, the arrow-shaped shave between the legs. I know about the blow jobs and the orgies and the girl who bit her ex-boyfriend’s dick. I know about the sexual preferences nobody admits to. I know the emo they kissed, the lesbian they’ve become, the guy who stripped in front of a stripper. I know about the people who are rich and the people who are fucked and the people who are just trying to survive. I know about the bullying and the betrayals and the desperate things people do when they’re lonely.
And here’s what I know about myself: I’ve cheated on every girlfriend I’ve ever had. That’s the secret that anchors all of this—that I’m no better than any of them. I’m the one doing the hurting.
But this is what friendship actually is. It’s knowing all of this. It’s being woven into people’s lives so completely that you learn the things they’d rather keep private. It’s the ugly, beautiful weight of carrying someone else’s secrets, of knowing people not as they want to be seen but as they actually are. That’s the real intimacy—not love in the greeting-card sense, but the knowledge that comes from being there, from paying attention, from refusing to look away.
I came across Michael J. DeMeo’s photography recently and got why he refuses to leave film. Everything about his work feels intentional—not in that performative Instagram way, but in the sense that shooting film requires actual knowledge. You burn through a roll fast enough that each frame matters. You can’t fake it.
He photographs people, usually tattooed, usually real. Sometimes naked. The kind of people and moments that don’t photograph well when you’re trying to be polite about it. And the images have this quality where you can’t doubt that what you’re looking at actually happened. There’s no filter, no algorithm, no second guessing.
The title about being in love with a dead squirrel makes sense when you’re committed to capturing what’s true rather than what’s pretty. A dead squirrel is less beautiful than a live one, but it’s more real to what actually exists. That matters if you’re serious about the work.
Portland-based, committed to a medium most people consider obsolete. That level of conviction is less common than it should be, but when you see it—when you see work that refuses to compromise—it lands different.
The whole country stops working when the World Cup arrives. Neighbors hang flags, drunk uncles howl patriotic nonsense into the street, and even people like me—who don’t actually care that much about soccer—suddenly have opinions about penalties and shirt swaps. When it’s South Africa, when it’s summer, when the whole thing is happening on this distant continent, the fever just takes over.
I’m not a huge soccer fan. But something happens during those weeks that’s hard to resist. A country of millions just… agrees on something. Cares about the same thing. Erupts together when a ball goes in the net. It’s ridiculous and deeply human and you can’t help getting caught up in it, even when you know better.
Those summers happen once every four years and they’re strange and brief. By August it’s back to normal—the cynicism, the fragmentation, everyone disagreeing about everything again. But for a moment, a whole nation of strangers is holding its breath at the same time. It’s not nothing.
Found an old post from 2004 or so, just a list of absurd weekend missions. Pure shock-humor - every line trying to offend, nothing clever about it, just loud. Reading it now it’s completely dated.
But that era was real. Early internet, before everyone’s parents got online, before you had to worry about monetizing things or explaining what you meant. You could post stupid nonsense and nobody expected you to defend it or make it mean something. The jokes are garbage, sure, but there was honesty in how pointless it all was.
You can’t do that anymore. Everything’s designed to be shareable, safe enough for sponsors, strategically offensive. Real shock depended on not explaining yourself - just posting and moving on. That’s gone.
I was seconds away from going to meet Nora Tschirner. There was this whole event in Berlin with her and Christian Ulmen, and for a moment it seemed possible. Then work and logistics got in the way, and I didn’t go. You meet certain people only through their work, which is usually how it goes. No tragedy in it. Just one more thing that almost happened and didn’t.
I’m tired. No, that’s not even the word for it. Exhaustion doesn’t cover it. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing—walking the streets, dancing at some party, having sex—I could collapse asleep right now without warning. Just go under. And what drives me insane is watching my actual life happen while I’m not there. It’s passing by and I’m missing it.
I went to the doctor. He said I’m fine. So I bought vitamins, energy drinks, everything that promises to keep you awake. Coffee strong enough to burn your mouth, cold water splashed on my face, beat off late at night like that would somehow shock me into consciousness. Nothing. It’s like throwing gravel at a wall—the gravel just falls.
There’s a limit to how many horror documentaries I can watch before bed just to scare myself awake. I can’t live like that. But yesterday I fell asleep while writing this, face-first into the keyboard. When I came to I was humming cartoon theme songs in my head, songs I haven’t thought about in years. That’s when it hit me: this is serious now. This is something.
What gets to me is how total it is. Not a rough week, not too much going on. Every single moment, every day, the same endless drag toward nothing. My life is passing and I’m asleep and I don’t know how to stop it. There’s got to be something wrong, something I can fix. Otherwise I’m just sliding.
Shelley was on a railing, 19, Swedish, in Lee and Converse. I took a second look at her legs, the kind that make you question what you’re seeing. Boys Noize shirt she’d made. She looked fragile enough that a breeze could finish it. Sad and perfect at once, and I couldn’t look away.
Alice rolled through from Tokyo in something dark and sculptural, 21, born in Italy. She’s past the stage of needing to look good—now she just looks like she’s in on something. Japanese cathedral clothes that work only because nothing else is the point.
Zara at 18 already understood: lock yourself alone with a mirror and a Fujifilm camera for an hour and you’ll come out with something more honest than anything you could plan. No theory, no thinking. Just what’s real.
Fiia from Helsinki, 18, has that Pippi Longstocking energy but corrupted somehow. Blue eyes, skateboard, Hitler piercing, hair that sounds like a Babyshambles lyric. She’s out living and makes it look like that’s the only option, the H&M shirt barely registering because the whole point is she doesn’t care what this looks like.
The thing they share: none of them trying. That stopped being normal and now it’s the only thing I see.
Most blogs are unreadable. Every random person thinks they have something urgent to say about nothing, and they publish it into the void hoping someone shows up to validate them. It’s all background noise.
But occasionally you find one where someone’s actually paying attention. I don’t care about most fashion blogs—they’re just selfies with commentary, outfit posts designed for engagement. But then you get someone like Jana, or the weird pixel kids, or Va$htie doing something genuinely strange, and suddenly you realize what the medium is actually for. Someone keeping a diary about the things they actually see, the things that actually matter to look at.
I’ve been reading blogs for a long time. Long enough to notice patterns. The good ones—the ones worth coming back to—have something in common. They’re not trying. No performance. Just someone with a camera or a sketchbook or a sense of how things should fit together, and the discipline to actually show you what that looks like. Barney being brave. Lou hating haircuts. Amélie in her dream world. They’re not influencers. They’re not building a personal brand. They’re just working.
Style matters, but not the way people think it matters. It’s not about having good taste or following rules. It’s about noticing, about caring enough to look twice at something ordinary and find what’s interesting about it. That’s what separates the blogs that last from the ones that don’t. It’s whether the person on the other side actually cares, or if they’re just performing caring for an audience.
Most of them will disappear. The domain expires, the platform dies, they move on to real life. That’s probably fine. But for a while they were there, being specific about something, and if you’re the kind of person who notices things too, you recognize it instantly. You keep coming back.
The light in Houston doesn’t forgive. Summer there is just absolute — flat, bleaching, relentless. Tamara Lichtenstein shoots through it anyway, analog film, because digital bores her. She’s 20 and already committed to the slower path.
I respect that choice. Analog forces you to think before you shoot. You can’t fix it later. The light either works or it doesn’t, the moment either happens or it’s gone. That’s a discipline most people avoid. She doesn’t, which tells me something about what she cares about.
Her work is dreamy, soft-edged, intimate — the opposite direction of Houston light. She loves the photographers who changed how I see things: McGinley, Richardson, Teller. The ones who understand that looking is a form of exposure. That DNA is all through her work. The people in her pictures aren’t performing. They’re caught while she watches, rendered through her eye, which makes them stranger and more honest than they’d appear to anyone else.
The strange thing about the work is how interior it feels given how external everything around her must be. All that heat and brightness pressing down, and she makes images that feel like they’re happening inside a dream. That might be where the work gets its power — that tension between what’s outside and what she’s creating. I don’t know. But there’s something real happening there.
There was a moment, probably mid-2000s, when American Apparel became the uniform of a certain kind of person. Not fashion people exactly, but people who’d decided plainness was its own statement. A good blank tee, a fitted cut, nothing else. That was enough. That meant something.
Dov Charney’s company started collapsing in 2010. First-quarter losses in the seventeen millions, stock down 41%, and they’d quietly fired thousands of workers who didn’t have papers. The whole thing was coming apart.
What was strange was how much the brand meant to people. Not because the clothes were special—they were just well-made basics. But somewhere along the way, wearing American Apparel had become a cultural signal, almost a test. If you understood the value of a plain, well-fitted tee with no branding, you were in on something. You got it. Most people didn’t.
I was never really part of that world, but I understood the appeal. There’s something genuinely hard about making something simple and letting it speak for itself. Most brands can’t resist adding narrative or ornament. American Apparel just made the clothes and got out of the way.
A post started circulating—half-joking, half-sincere—basically pleading with people to go buy tees and save the company. Save American Apparel or watch the hipsters spiral into despair and start wearing Ed Hardy. It was funny because it was sort of true and completely absurd. As if any generation’s aesthetic was fragile enough to collapse because one retailer failed.
But maybe it was. Maybe the whole consensus was that delicate—a cultural agreement that could vanish overnight if the infrastructure supporting it fell apart. Which it did, eventually. American Apparel went bankrupt. The hipsters bought their plain tees somewhere else. The world kept turning.
The notebook used to run lists like this—absurdist weekend missions, jokes with no point at all. Sleep with famous people you’ll never meet, swap your roommate’s salt, get free underwear from American Apparel and resell it, download obscure songs. The appeal was purely the pointlessness. You could post something with no purpose, no outcome, no meaning, and that was enough. That’s what blogging actually was for a moment. You can’t really do it anymore. It worked then.
Robyn’s got a new video for “Dancing On My Own,” and it’s the kind of thing you watch alone, maybe more than once. Dark visuals, that sharp beat that makes you want to move even though the song is about standing still and being invisible. “There’s a big black sky over my city. I’m standing in the corner watching you kiss her. I’m right over here - why can’t you see me?”
It’s about being present and unseen at the same time. About giving everything and still being the girl you don’t take home. The video makes it literal - she’s there, moving, alive, and somehow that makes the rejection sharper. The sadness is structural, built into every beat. It’s designed to make you feel small in a way that almost feels good.
The video is mostly just Robyn in darkness, the light sharp enough to cut her face into planes and shadows. She’s moving like she’s dancing for herself, not for the person who’s not watching. That distinction matters. A lot of sad songs ask for sympathy, but this one doesn’t ask for anything.
What’s always struck me about Robyn is how unflinching she is about this. No softening, no performance - just the fact of it, stated plainly. There’s something quietly masculine in the way she moves, a refusal to soften her edges. She’s not trying to be appealing in the way you’d expect someone singing about heartbreak to be.
She’s not coming back to Germany for a while, touring London, Oslo, Helsinki instead. But there’s a new album coming in June - “Body Talk Pt. 1” - and that’s enough to hold onto.
I’ve been looking at how people dress when they’re not trying. Not the obvious fashion people—just people moving through their lives with some taste and no self-consciousness about it.
Chelsea from Canada is nailing the casual mix. H&M basics paired with oversized shapes and random cat imagery worked in. Those leggings make no sense, but that’s almost the point—she didn’t think about them. She just got dressed and went.
Tony’s one of those guys everything looks right on. French, growing a beard, photographs his friends and his life like he’s just living it. Style isn’t a performance for him. It’s just how he exists.
Roxy gets it. Dresses without all the self-doubt that tangles up most people. Straightforward about skin, about proportion, about what works. No apologies.
Mailin and Su from New York are mixing sizes in interesting ways. Oversized with fitted, hair that feels like a refusal, silhouettes that break the mold. They’re not trying to look cool—they’re just refusing to fit.
Betsy in California had it right. Laid on grass in clothes expensive enough to ruin, got grass stains anyway. That’s when style actually matters: when you’re too comfortable to think about it.
Sasha Grey wrote a memoir called Neu Sex. If you don’t know her, she was the most recognizable pornographic actress of the 2000s—the kind of famous that bled into mainstream pop culture for a minute. The title doesn’t fuck around; it’s exactly what it says.
She made serious money performing on camera, became a brand, got rich, and moved on. Now she’s written about it—straight, no anonymity, no redemption narrative. Just her story under her real name.
I respect that kind of directness. A porn actress writing her own book in her own image is almost confrontational in how much it refuses to apologize or reframe. She’s just laying it out: this happened, it was me, and I’m not pretending it was something else.
I’m interested in what the actual life looks like underneath. Not the sex—that’s everywhere. But the money, the decisions, what it cost. That’s what interests me about a book like this.
I have this constant feed of scenarios and ideas and half-formed stories running through my head that would suffocate me if I didn’t push them out regularly—writing them, saying them, singing them, just getting them out somehow. The method changes, but the need doesn’t.
The thing is, I can’t do any of that if someone’s watching or if the place itself is dead. I need to feel alone and genuinely free—no surveillance, no mediocrity sucking the oxygen out of the room. I need to be working on something that actually pulls at me, something I care about, or everything I make comes out hollow.
That’s impossible in most normal work situations. Show up, execute a vision you didn’t create, hit metrics you didn’t set, for money that barely covers your time. Year after year of tasks with no point beyond surviving another month. And it wears you down in a way that’s hard to describe until you’re already there—one day you just don’t believe anymore that anything could change.
A creative life needs real conditions. Sunlight. Loud music. A table with actual food. Time with people who understand it. Space to fail. Room to breathe. You have to be adding something—making it richer or stranger or more beautiful—or the whole thing feels like a con.
My choices make no sense to anyone else. They look irrational, doomed, like I’m just setting myself up to fail. Maybe I am. But they follow a logic that’s only visible from inside my head, and that has to be enough. Because there’s so much more to being alive than always making the sensible choice, always looking right, always taking a path someone already carved.
The thing that actually terrifies me is waking up one day trapped in a life I can’t escape—all fear and emptiness and nothing moving—because I chose the safe thing too many times and let the part of me that pushed for more just die.
Derek E. Miller used to play guitar in a post-hardcore band called Poison the Well. Everything about that band was deliberately hostile—broken, aggressive, and loud. Then he decided to start a new project and needed a singer. He found Alexis Krauss, who’d been in some teenybopper pop band. On paper it makes no sense. In practice it makes perfect sense for what Sleigh Bells actually sounds like, which is supposed to be that wrong.
The collision is the point. Pop melodies caught under a wall of distorted synths and noise designed to damage you. Alexis’s voice trying to make you care about the hook while everything else is screaming at you to leave. Derek knows how to make noise feel structural instead of just loud—it’s pop music built inside a post-hardcore frame. The effect is ugly and it works.
Their first album is called “Treats.” The basic concept is interesting on its own: what happens when you take the melodic DNA of top-40 pop—engineered to get in your head and never leave—and wrap it in something actively hostile to your comfort? It shouldn’t work. It does.
Most pop tries to please you, to make itself indispensable. Sleigh Bells sounds like they’re trying to fuck with you while simultaneously proving you’ll care about the song anyway. The noise doesn’t diminish the melody. It makes it weirder, more urgent, more honest than clean pop can manage. There’s something good about a band that’s genuinely ugly and refuses to apologize.
Faye Reagan did hardcore porn when she was 21—titles like “Teenage Whores 4” and “Cock Pigs,” where she’d take it rough and make it look genuine. She was also the face of American Apparel for a minute. Later, Faye got photographed for Married To The Mob by Brooke Nipa, wearing clothes with slogans like “Sexy Bitch” and “Boys Ain’t Shit But Hoes & Tricks.”
What I like is that she didn’t pretend to be different in each space. The fashion had the same direct, unapologetic energy as the films. “Boys Ain’t Shit But Hoes & Tricks” is exactly the kind of thing she’d believe, the kind of observation she’d make while getting fucked on camera. There was no redemption arc, no reinvention, no clean split between the porn star and the model.
Just the same person doing both things without apology.
The weather’s going to be terrible and complaining about it is just small talk anyway, so better to have actual stupid things to do instead. Here’s the plan if you’re desperate for a weekend.
Get someone drunk on cheap liqueur and convince them to wear a wedding dress for photos because that joke never quite gets old. There’s usually a party happening somewhere with some theme everyone will forget by Monday anyway. Go to that. Download a shooter and spend the whole time blasting your own team. Waste an afternoon filling a bathtub with random shit and taking pictures of it. Drink water constantly like hydration is going to save you from something.
Watch whatever video everyone’s been sharing—something about hipsters or indie kids or whatever—and get the urge to make a reaction video where you burn your glasses on camera and publicly destroy your own credibility. Call your uncle Udo, the perverted one. Tell him something from the school bathroom. Steal something small from the supermarket and walk it back to the counter with an elaborate story about dead pets and severed limbs to see if anyone even notices the absurdity.
Or just pull out the Sailor Moon costume from when you were thirteen and wear it on the train. Let them stare. It’s not meaningful, it’s just what you do when a Saturday afternoon feels like it needs something to justify it.
The fashion world has a million rules about what you’re not supposed to wear, and I’ve never understood a single one. Pink leggings after you’ve had kids? Banned. Hawaiian shirts this summer? Apparently they died. Anything that looks like it came from a thrift store instead of a boutique? Burn it immediately and never speak of it again. But the people who actually look interesting are always the ones who just ignore the whole system.
Tiffany’s eighteen from Montevideo and she dresses in these rippled clothes that honestly look like they came straight from her grandmother’s closet. Pink leggings, yes. She doesn’t apologize for it, doesn’t seem to care what the rules say. Just gets dressed.
Lorena’s from Sweden, twenty-two, and she’s the type you want to stay up talking to until morning. Her room is bright, full of clean surfaces and good light. She wears jewelry from Cocoo, these small touches that catch your eye when she moves. The kind of person you’d think about for a while after.
Mavi I’ve only seen in pictures but she doesn’t bother with the designer brands everyone’s supposed to want. She understands that the person wearing the clothes matters infinitely more than the label. There’s a directness to her that reads as intelligence.
Aren’s from Detroit, twenty-five, and he looks like he lives in the woods and only shows up in the city by accident. Tattoos, muscles, hair covering his face. He wears Levi’s and work boots in that casual uniform way that means you’ve stopped thinking about clothes at all. It’s its own kind of confidence.
Liisa’s from Tallinn, fourteen, and she already figured out what takes most people years—that geography doesn’t matter when you’ve got the internet. She knows what’s current, she likes music, she takes pictures. That combination of bored-at-school plus curious-everywhere-else usually means something interesting is developing.
They’re all just wearing what works for them without waiting for permission. Somehow that’s become rare enough to notice.
The Cleveland Show wasn’t supposed to work. Spinning off Cleveland Brown—the straightest guy in Family Guy, basically just the setup to other people’s jokes—to a new city with a wife and stepkids felt engineered to fail. And the original show was already coasting by that point anyway.
But the spinoff was actually better. Sharper. It committed to the crude bits instead of just pointing at them—old women shitting themselves, dead-eyed sex dolls, cats that beat the hell out of people—and followed each premise through to some weird logical endpoint. Family Guy had stopped doing that. American Dad certainly never tried. There’s something honest about a show that knows exactly what it is and doesn’t apologize for it.
I watched a lot of it back then, and kept finding myself genuinely laughing. Not at the show being bad, just at stupid humor that actually worked. There’s a particular kind of fatigue with comedy where nothing lands anymore, where every format feels recycled, and something that commits to its premise counts for something.
Critics demolished it. They weren’t entirely wrong—a Cleveland Brown spinoff is a hard sell. But they were watching something with more internal coherence than Family Guy was making anymore, which isn’t a high bar but it mattered then. I don’t know if it holds up now. Shows like that fade. But for a stretch it was the better version of the same formula, which feels almost perversely good when the alternative was where Family Guy had landed.
Winter’s back, which means chocolate Santas and everyone singing Jingle Bells like we didn’t just hear it a million times already. But I’ve got this feeling I should do something with the weekend. Make it count. Here’s what’s been bouncing around my head.
Buy Lena Meyer-Landrut’s first album finally—”My Cassette Player.” Everyone knows it, I don’t, which is embarrassing. Then take one of those aggressive sunbaths where you’re out long enough to develop actual frostbite that needs surgery. The contradiction appeals to me.
Throw a completely unhinged party. Elephants, magic dust, torn wallpaper everywhere. The kind of night you tell stories about for decades, or maybe you never speak of it again. Maybe just shut up instead. Don’t say a word all weekend. See what that’s like.
Run off to Vegas and marry some model—Filippa Smednes, why not—with an Indian Elvis impersonator doing the ceremony. Pure impulse, zero justification.
Saturday morning: raid every free comic book giveaway I can find. Load up. Then buy the good chocolate cereal with real chunks instead of the Aldi paste. Small things.
Sing a duet with Hannah. Just show up and ask her.
Only friend redheads on Facebook from now on. No other criteria. Just hair color. Makes no sense, which is the point.
Climb a tree in a full monkey suit and throw wooden barrels—genuinely heavy ones—at whatever plumber happens to walk by.
Some of this is real. Most of it is just what my brain generates when I’m home on a Friday looking at the weekend ahead and feeling like I should be doing something.
April 2011, the single “17,” Sky Ferreira at seventeen years old with a chaotic half-spoken-half-sung thing that sounded like someone refusing to perform. Not in the conscious-experimental way, just in the I’m-not-trying way. American, wired, and immediately interesting because she didn’t sound like anything else coming out of the machine that year.
There was this aesthetic to her—visual, sonic, all of it—that seemed resistant to the usual templates. The vocals were rough, deliberately unpolished. Not lo-fi for aesthetic credibility, just unpolished because that’s how she sounded and she wasn’t fixing it. You could feel the work underneath, the actual thinking, without all the professional smoothing.
What got me was that she still seemed like a person at that moment. Following her on Twitter wasn’t a marketing exercise—she was just there, thinking out loud, being strange and specific. There’s always this window with young artists where they haven’t been fully processed yet, where you catch them still figuring out who they actually are.
I don’t know what happened to that version of Sky Ferreira. Maybe she became something bigger, maybe the industry sanded down the weird edges, maybe she went somewhere else entirely. But that moment—raw, unpolished, still capable of surprise—that’s the version that stuck.
Olivia from LA, seventeen, wearing Pixie Market like dressing well was the last thing on her mind. She’d pull off anything — that’s the unfair part — and knowing it seems to have freed her from thinking about clothes at all. A Cadillac in the photo doesn’t hurt.
Pink is treacherous on guys. Rembrandt tried at eighteen, paired it with solid pieces from Oak and Marc Jacobs, and almost made it work. But there’s something tense in the shot — he looks like he’s explaining something rather than just being it. That’s what pink does.
Emily wore an expensive Adidas jacket like it was her entire outfit, which it kind of was. During tight times you see the shift — people stop buying okay things and save for one really good piece. The thinking becomes visible.
Ebba’s fourteen and from Sweden, which apparently means you’re just allowed to be well-dressed. Slim, cool, the clothes fitting like someone understood that restraint is the only real luxury. Nothing to say about it. It’s been too obviously true for too long.
Pascal’s a photographer from Switzerland. Moscot, Whyred, H&M, Topman — assembled with the kind of care that reads as deliberate. You see it in the photo. A little self-aware, a little strained. But the taste is there, so it holds.
The pattern across these five: there’s no pattern. No rule that works twice. Maybe that’s the only real rule — the second you decide how to dress, you’ve started dressing wrong.
Got a letter from the German youth protection authority. Guy named Wahl, very polite, explaining that the explicit content on this website—the erect penises, the wide-open everything, the various sex acts people had posted—that was illegal, or close enough. He made it sound almost sympathetic while explaining how he’d have to shut the whole thing down if I didn’t clean it up.
The strange thing was realizing I hadn’t actually thought about what was on here. You post crude images and sexual content because it’s funny or shocking, and after a while you stop seeing it. You’re just hunting for the next image, the next joke, the next thing that makes you laugh in that crude, unreflective way. Nothing feels transgressive when it’s all yours.
Wahl had a point though. Kids could stumble across this stuff. Not that I’d been thinking about kids much, if I’m being honest. But the threat was real. Either censor it or lose the site entirely. Most people don’t want their entire website collapsing because of some bureaucratic letter.
So I started blurring. Pink clovers over genitals. Pixelation over sex acts. Hours of tedious work covering up images I’d posted without hesitation just months before. The joke was obvious and not very funny. I was now the censor, protecting children from what I’d thought was perfectly worth sharing. Not because I’d changed my mind. Just because some authority figure drew a line.
Everything for the children. That’s what it came down to. Everything for the children—as if blurring an image changes what’s underneath it, as if I suddenly believed in protecting childhood innocence instead of just protecting my own site from disappearing. But that’s how it works, I guess. You start with conviction and you end with a pink clover.
I keep coming across new photos of her and there’s this moment every time where I have to mentally adjust. The image I’m carrying—the one that stuck from twenty years ago—doesn’t match the actual body in the frame. Gravity’s been working. Time’s been working. She’s aged in the way everything does.
The weird part is how much of my attraction was always just image. Not her as a person, but the specific fantasy of her—young, tight, perfect. That version’s still everywhere on the internet, untouched, digitally preserved. Meanwhile the actual human keeps getting older, which is normal and doesn’t mean anything except that I was never attracted to a person, I was attracted to a lie.
I think that’s what bothers me about the new photos. Not that she looks older—everyone looks older, I’ll look older—but that I can see so clearly now that the whole thing was manufactured. The image was the product, not the person. And watching that product degrade is just watching technology fail to do the one thing it was supposed to do: make things stay the same forever.
It’s hard to feel good about any of that once you see it plainly.
I still go back to the corner kiosk every month even though I know it’s kind of pointless. This time Front Mag was doing the Glee thing—those two actors in school uniforms, which is exactly what a magazine like that goes for. Some interviews with Lostprophets, gaming coverage, British festivals.
NEON actually has something to say. Food writing, a piece about how pointless it is to plan your whole life out right now, digital feminism stuff. Vice is being Vice—crude and deliberately offensive, writing about British hooligans and Chinese pop bands like that’s where culture happens. Maybe it is.
After you’ve worked through all that there’s not much left for the rest of them. Ilovefakemagazine pulled Grunge back up. i-D with their home-is-where-the-heart message. Wendy had cute horses and photo frames.
The thing about magazines is they still feel necessary even though everything in them is online already. There’s something about the choices someone made to put these specific things together in this order, on these pages. It makes you look at things differently than when some algorithm is deciding what comes next. Maybe that’s reason enough to keep buying them.
There’s a specific dead zone of Sunday afternoon—too late to matter, too early to start dinner prep, no energy left for anything real. That’s when you’d come across those lists, the kind where someone’s compiled ten stupid things you could do instead of whatever you’re actually supposed to be doing. The first one’s usually manageable—trim your toenails, call someone you’ve been meaning to call. By the tenth you’re supposed to be committing actual crimes, and the whole thing’s obviously a joke, but there’s something appealing about the permission structure anyway.
These lists circulated constantly back in the early 2010s, when ranking things and daring each other was still treated like infinite entertainment. The joke was always escalation. You’d watch it tip from mildly ridiculous to obviously, cartoonishly illegal or cruel, and the humor was in how far they’d go before it became impossible to laugh along. It worked because nobody actually expected you to do any of it. The whole thing was collaborative absurdism. You read it knowing it was a joke, and you understood that the person who wrote it knew you knew it was a joke, and that layer of agreed-upon unreality was the actual appeal.
The honest part was hidden in there somewhere. You’re not actually looking for permission to hurt someone or commit fraud. You just want permission to not be yourself for an afternoon. You want to live in a different story where the rules are absurd and stakes don’t matter because the whole thing’s obviously impossible. The specific content of the list almost doesn’t matter—it’s the frame. It’s the collective agreement that yeah, okay, let’s imagine being someone else. Let’s imagine the weekend being something other than what it is.
I haven’t seen lists like that in a while. Internet humor got meaner or it got worse—more branded, more earnest, more exhausted. Those lists disappeared into the same exhaustion that kills everything online eventually. But I remember what they were doing. It was the smallest rebellion, the most consequence-free way to imagine yourself as different. Stupid and pointless, sure. But the appeal was real.
I spent the entire first season of Glee last night instead of studying. The show is exactly what you’d imagine: a high school glee club of misfits—stuttering kid, wheelchair-bound nerd, cheerleader queen—singing their feelings through an absurd world of rapping Spanish teachers, inexplicable phobias, and soft drinks that appear for no reason. It’s ridiculous. It shouldn’t work.
I thought we’d moved past High School Musical. Apparently not.
But here’s the thing: it works. Not because the plot makes sense, because it doesn’t. The writing isn’t smart. It’s trashy Fox melodrama in the purest sense—hot romance, decent humor, characters with real chemistry. It’s the kind of show where a gym teacher cries on the football field while someone sings Avril Lavigne, and instead of laughing at it, you feel it.
The story is tissue-thin. Thinner than Skins. But that’s the whole point—it’s not trying to be important. It’s just kids finding something that lets them be weird and broken and themselves for three minutes. There’s something generous about that.
I’ll keep watching. Probably claim it’s for my little sister.
Jule had 173 freckles on her face. I counted them one morning—actually stood there tracing my fingertips across her cheeks, her forehead, unable to stop touching them. She didn’t pull away, just let me study them like I was reading something. ’You’ve got stars on your face,’ I said, which is exactly as corny as it sounds, and she was fine with that. She smiled and kissed my hand before pushing it aside gently, then padded into the kitchen wearing nothing but a hair clip to make toast with jam. I remember thinking I was happy.
There’s something about freckles that all the conventional beauty in the world misses. The tall blondes, the brunettes calculated to be perfect, all those women who’ve been engineered toward some idea of what you’re supposed to want. Freckles don’t fit that. They feel accidental. Lived-in. Like someone spent actual time somewhere and this is what they earned.
They do something to me. Make me feel young in a way I don’t have to think about. No performance. No cool. Just seeing them and knowing that’s it, that’s the thing that matters. The thing I can’t stop looking at.
What gets to me is how many people are taught to hate them. To see them as a flaw. A pigment disorder. Something to be fixed and removed. Some women get them lasered off completely, erasing this small evidence that they’ve lived somewhere, been in weather, had an actual life that left marks. It’s brutal.
Jule wasn’t like that. Never apologized for a single one. Wore them everywhere, proudly even, including the one on her left ass cheek that only a few people ever saw. And she didn’t treat that like a secret or a shame. Just another freckle. Just part of the map.
Chew Lips makes me want to move around my room in a way I haven’t in a while. Three people from London—Tigs singing, Will Sanderson and James Watkins on everything else—and you can hear where they’re coming from immediately. Prince, LCD Soundsystem, the electropop that kept flowing out of Britain in the 2000s. It all landed in Unicorn, their January album, and it works.
There’s a moment around now where electronic music sounds both inevitable and like it’s running out of things to say. Everyone’s pulling from the same sources. Most of it is fine, competent, perfectly fitted to its moment. Chew Lips sounds like they’re not really thinking about any of that. Tigs sings like she means it, the whole thing just moves. It’s the quality of people making exactly the music they want to make.
I haven’t seen them live, and they’re not touring much beyond London and France as far as I can tell, which is fine. This will probably sound very 2008 in a few years—all period production and dated choices. Right now it just lands right.
Eleni Mettyear’s summer photographs have the quality of not having been thought about. She’s 18, English, and she documents summer in the city the way memory does—grass, water, the faces of friends, a particular light that exists for a few months and then vanishes. No self-consciousness in the composition, just the thing itself.
What strikes me is how immediate it all feels. Her friends are topless and unselfconscious. There’s a collaboration with the singer Florrie that reads like actual friendship rather than a professional shoot. The Polaroids fade and deteriorate and that’s entirely correct. You can taste the heat in these images.
There’s a specific narrowness to the window when you’re young enough that you haven’t started thinking about productivity or whether your work needs to say something. Just August, sweat, friends, the light good enough to take a photograph. It doesn’t last.
What I like is that she doesn’t try to make capital-T Time or capital-F Freedom out of any of it. The photographs don’t have a thesis. They’re not trying to preserve something fleeting or explain the inexplicable romance of youth. They just sit there, untouched—which is the point. Summer. Young. Hot. Grass. That’s enough.
Most fashion blogs feel like someone explaining a math problem. Here’s the jacket, here are the proportions, here’s why this works. Useless. All I ever want to know is whether someone looks like they know what they’re doing, and most people don’t.
Denni is a stylist in Paris, 21, and everything she owns is Topshop. The way she moves through the city in those pieces—skinny legs, shirts that actually sit right, nothing fussy—there’s an ease to it that makes you want to abandon your own taste completely and just follow her around. The kind of person who makes you feel stupid for overthinking a linen shirt. I’d probably embarrass myself trying to talk to her.
Then there’s Nixon from Manila, 22, a designer who wears his own femininity the way other men wear armor. Topshop shirt, Zara pants, a good haircut, and the confidence of someone who’s already decided none of it matters. The Star Trek glasses are weird and probably intentional. He doesn’t need you to understand what he’s doing.
Lila wore bright pink like it was armor too—not pretending, not asking permission. Just that color, just standing there. That kind of boldness registers differently when you see someone actually commit to it.
Lina is Swedish, which apparently means access to some genetic or cultural deposit of taste the rest of us don’t have. Levi’s, Acne, polka dot stockings, sunglasses—nothing shocking, everything right. She wears clothes like picking them was obvious, which is probably the highest compliment you can give someone.
Tab owns a shop called Spank and dresses like she’s personally challenging every color theory. Bright, clashing, weird—but wearing her own designs like they’re not a statement, just what she’s wearing today. There’s something punk about that, treating your own work like real clothes instead of art objects.
I stopped keeping up with fashion blogs around the same time I realized the people worth watching aren’t the ones talking about style. They’re the ones too busy actually wearing something to explain it.
Jamie Cullum does covers and improvisation. Takes familiar songs and reworks them, finds what’s actually in them rather than just playing them straight. You can feel the thinking—not just reciting, but genuinely working through the material. That’s what matters.
Fresh orange juice was in. That was the kind of thing you had to know. Laura Jansen’s cover of “Use Somebody” was playing everywhere. The new iPhone if you could actually get one—the waiting was the real experience, not the having. Someone published a list, officially, of what was in and what was out. I read it. Everyone read it. You weren’t supposed to care but you did.
The details were very specific. Monster Hunter III if you gamed. Uffie. Cheap sangria in plastic bottles. Chicken feet at parties. Not knowing Julia Hafström was cool—not knowing random pretty women mattered. Not having seen Twilight. Monetizing every thought you had. Karaoke at Mauerpark. Wearing something dead on your head as a joke. Lying next to someone out of your league and calling it conversation. Saving photos of old friends in your wallet. Being broke but moving to Berlin anyway because something was happening there.
What was out cut deeper. Small talk, which you did constantly while hating yourself for it. Til Schweiger. Heidi Klum. Actually getting sick from partying, not just hungover. The outer boroughs, the suburbs. Avril Lavigne. Trolls. Your ex. Running out of weed and acting like it mattered. That earthquake year—Eyjafjallajökull—grounded the planes and that was unforgivably out. MGMT, because once they got big they became unwearable. Death, which was always out.
The moment closed. The list got replaced or disappeared. People moved or just got older. You can’t sustain that kind of cultural vigilance—maybe you don’t want to. What sticks is not the opinions but the texture. The taste of cheap sangria. The weight of having cared very much about what was cool. The stupidity and rightness of it all at once. The way scenes happen and then they’re just memory.
I heard “Foundations” again the other day, and it stopped me cold. Kate Nash’s voice cutting through that synth-pop production, all brittleness and want. That song did something to me when it came out, and it still does—the way she could make being desperate for someone sound like an observation about weather.
For a while she was everywhere, then she wasn’t. “Nicest Thing” was perfect too, but sometimes artists burn out or you stop listening or the algorithm moves on. Either way, you get to a point where you don’t think about them anymore.
She’s back now with a new record, “My Best Friend Is You,” and I put it on expecting… I’m not sure what. The old brittleness, maybe. The same sharp-eyed girl watching London go by. But she sounds different. Older, obviously, but also lighter somehow. Like she stopped trying to impress anyone and just started writing songs for herself. There’s warmth in there now, alongside the smartness. Not softness exactly—still sharp, still observant—but the desperate edge is gone.
The album sits somewhere between pop and something more understated. It’s the kind of record you can play on a good morning and it doesn’t feel out of place, but it also holds up when you’re paying close attention. Every song lands cleanly. Nothing feels like filler.
I don’t know if she was always capable of this and just needed time, or if coming back meant she had something to prove to herself, which made it all better. Either way, it’s good to hear from her. The world had space for more Kate Nash, and she knew it.
Went to re:publica in Berlin. Fourth time. Took Malte, Paulchen, Sara—three days of finally seeing faces attached to Twitter handles, mostly just trying not to think about how circular the whole thing was.
First day had the usual talks. Someone explaining how to monetize a blog audience. Panels about TV and internet culture. The kind of discussions where everyone in the room already knows the answer but keeps asking the question. We wandered around Friedrichstadtpalast, grabbed beers, made jokes about recruiting fashion bloggers. Normal opening day stuff.
Day two was a wash. Bad food choices left me feeling wrecked. Almost fell asleep during a WikiLeaks talk. The whole thing had this exhausting tone—endless conversation about monetization and impact and changing the world through social media. Some guy gave a talk about something actually important and showed one of my favorite videos, and that was the only real moment. Otherwise I just felt sick and crashed hard after.
Third day was cleaner. Schnitzel, beers, ending at Kalkscheune with everyone loose and dancing. Sara got drunk—walked her home, made spicy noodles at two in the morning, put on Friends until we passed out.
But yeah, the whole thing kept confirming what I already knew: we’re all obsessed with HOW. How to use these tools, how to monetize them, how to optimize. Nobody’s asking why or where we’re actually going. Just mechanism after mechanism, stacked on top of nothing.
I got properly obsessed with a girl on Abby Winters years back. You know—the Australian site. Looked her up, tried to track her down somehow, the whole amateur detective thing online. Came up with nothing. She had no idea I existed.
But here’s the weird part. Through all that searching, I somehow ended up in actual contact with the site’s owners. They could’ve ignored me. Instead they gave me permanent free access to the whole thing, like some kind of consolation prize for my hopelessness. And yeah, I used it. Still do, on occasion.
What made the site different from everywhere else was how straightforward it all was. No heavy makeup, no fake bodies, no professional studio production. Just Australian women who looked like actual human beings. Everything else online felt plastic next to that. Maybe that sounds like a small distinction, but it actually mattered.
The girl I was obsessed with doesn’t matter anymore—internet crushes burn out like they’re supposed to. But the access stuck around for years. It’s a weird thing to have in your life, all that free access out of a failed internet crush, but it happened. Sometimes showing up weird and desperate enough means people are actually kind to you.
Every Friday your brain panics about the sixty hours ahead—convinced you’ll waste them—so you write a list. Ten things. Some basic: new music, change your hair. Some obviously impossible: sleep with Lady Gaga, buy something random from the Asian supermarket’s freezer and give it to your grandmother for her birthday, answer every question with a Back to the Future reference. All of it specific. Half-serious. Half-joke. Written down like it’s actually going to structure your time.
You won’t do most of it. You know this going in. That’s not the point anyway. The point is looking at the list later and knowing you were thinking about the weekend consciously, not just floating through it. Even when you ignore the whole thing and the weekend passes exactly like every other weekend, the fact that you bothered to make it changes something. It makes you feel like the time is yours.
I still make these lists. I have no idea why anymore. There’s no external pressure, no teacher assigning weekend goals. But around Friday afternoon I start thinking about what I could do with three days and suddenly I’m writing down absurd, hyperspecific things like they’re real options. Gold hair. Mystery frozen product. Constant Back to the Future quotes. It’s not that I believe it’ll work. It’s more that not doing it—just letting the weekend happen without even the pretense of a plan—feels worse somehow.
So I write the list. I do maybe two things from it. The rest gets forgotten by Tuesday. But I spent those three days like I’d decided what they were supposed to be, and I guess that’s the whole thing.
The user-generated fashion magazine “I Like My Style Quarterly” exists now, which means someone at a printing press finally connected the obvious dots: fashion is in, users can make anything, print is fashionable again. The result is a 270-page book that costs twelve euros and somehow works.
It’s a chaotic mix of photographs and text, English and German, self-portraits and snapshots of strangers who all somehow belong together. You get sixteen-year-old schoolgirls, middle-aged men built like ZZ Top, intimate photographs, people who weren’t selected or filtered or made pretty by a team of professionals. They just showed up and got printed.
Looking through it, you immediately want to do something reckless with your own clothes. Cut up your school uniform. Burn something. The magazine has this effect because all these people being printed and bound together proves you don’t have to be beautiful or interesting to matter. You just have to show up.
The one thing that doesn’t work: the typography. Scattered uppercase and lowercase letters like someone’s thirteen-year-old cousin just discovered effects on their Beepworld page. It’s trying to feel youthful and subversive but mostly just reads as trying. Everything else in the magazine earns its chaos. This doesn’t.
But that’s minor. The real thing happening is simple: a bunch of strangers got printed, and that mattered enough to bind and sell. No invisible gatekeeper, no one deciding what’s interesting enough. Just paper and people who didn’t ask for permission.
When I was fifteen I wasn’t doing much except getting drunk in parks with whatever we could steal from the gas station, trying to get my hands down someone’s pants, throwing Dragon Ball moves around like we invented them. Nothing remotely purposeful. Just the usual waste of youth.
Zach Singh is doing something entirely different. He’s put whatever energy a kid his age has into photography—capturing what it’s like to be young right now, on film. Mostly what he shoots are girls. And bears.
Red-haired girls by rivers. Brunettes in white socks lying on their beds. Girls standing in fresh snow. He shoots them with this quality that’s hard to pin down—dreamy but direct, intimate without being creepy, familiar like something you already know but can’t quite place. It creates a world in your head that feels both strange and like home. And he’s doing this at fifteen, which is the part that matters, because at fifteen most people are still just getting drunk in parks.
There’s something about recognizing real focus and skill in someone young. It makes the waste look even worse by comparison.
Electronic Beats moved the festival from Berlin that year, took it to Cologne for May 20th at the E-Werk. Seemed odd at first—Berlin was where these things lived. But the lineup they sent was solid enough to justify the trip: Moderat, Major Lazer still in that phase where they felt new and a little dangerous, Kele separating himself from Bloc Party, Little Dragon doing their thing, Miike Snow.
2010 felt like a turning point for electronic music, though I couldn’t articulate it at the time. The sound wasn’t chasing the biggest drop or the most euphoric peak anymore. Artists were getting weirder with production, playing with rhythmic structures that didn’t resolve where you expected them to. Miike Snow embodied that perfectly—the hooks felt like they were landing slightly off-beat, the synths were strange and textural, something between a pop song and a production experiment.
Berlin still had the weight and the legacy, but by 2010 you could feel electronic music spreading out, becoming less monolithic. A festival in Cologne made sense in retrospect. Not every conversation about electronic music needed to happen in Berlin. Not every artist working in electronic music was trying to fit into what Berlin had already defined.
I probably didn’t go. May 2010 was maybe one of those phases where I wasn’t really getting out much. But that specific moment—that turn toward the weirder, the less obvious—that’s what stuck. Less about the festival itself and more about what those artists represented at that exact moment.
Who lives in Berlin doesn’t need a car. The cramped streets, packed transit, and impossible parking make sure of that. Some drives you could walk faster. But nearly three years in the city and there’s nothing like hitting the Autobahn with the music loud and the throttle all the way down. Mercedes invited me to Stuttgart to drive their new cars and see how they work. I wasn’t about to say no.
We showed up in Baden-Württemberg around the time the airport nearly exploded, grabbed some beers in the park, and headed for the Mercedes museum. They fed us well and walked us through automotive history with someone who lived it. I maybe caught feelings for an intern somewhere in the tour—history’s not my strong suit anyway.
The hotel bar that night was the kind of chaos that somehow made sense. We drank with designers and photographers, people who worked at the museum, random people I hadn’t expected to see. Pizza and beer at sunrise. By some miracle, we all managed to show up the next morning more or less standing upright.
Then it was into the design studio, the actual thinking behind the cars and what comes next. Real people who genuinely cared about building something good, not just hitting quarterly targets. You felt it the whole time. After that we got to drive them ourselves around Stuttgart, though I nearly caused a highway pileup because either the navigation system bullshitted me or I took the wrong exit—probably both.
I was genuinely surprised how much fun the trip was. Not in the cynical promotional-tour way. The whole thing had this vibe of people who actually wanted to make great cars. That alone was worth the drive.
Mario’s a short guy with a terrible job. His girlfriend keeps getting kidnapped by mohawked turtles, he self-medicates with magic mushrooms just to get through his day, and he crawls through filthy pipes scrounging for coins. What kind of existence is that? Sonic was supposed to be different—blue, fast, those red shoes that actually meant something. A hedgehog that didn’t need to apologize.
But Sega fell apart, and Sonic fans got stuck. Every game after that was worse than the one before. Sonic driving a car. Sonic in armor. Sonic as a puzzle game. It was the kind of disaster that should’ve had people marching on their headquarters, but I just kept showing up, kept hoping, kept getting disappointed. You learn to expect nothing after a while.
Then Sonic the Hedgehog 4 got announced. Back to the basics—colorful levels, real speed, barely any story. Better graphics, faster controls, everything polished. It seemed stupid to believe in it after so many false starts, but I wanted to. I still had my Sonic plushies somewhere. My Sonic blanket in the closet. I kept thinking maybe this time they’d actually pull it off.
Encountered this promotion for a debut single from a musician named Laura. She’s from Mannheim, twenty-three, caught in the standard underground positioning—edgy, provocative, direct electronic beats. The usual story you see in a hundred music scenes. What actually stood out to me was the collaboration: she brought in visual artist Katja Hentschel to work on the video, which suggests someone thinking about the complete image, not just slapping a pretty face on a song. Most of these moments vanish without a trace. But at least there’s intention there, and that’s worth acknowledging.
I love looking at photographs. All of them — professional work, terrible phone shots, fashion, explicit imagery, random beautiful accidents. There’s nothing words can do that an image can’t do better.
I’m terrible at making them though. Give me a camera and something goes wrong every time. Framing’s off, light’s wrong, composition falls apart. I understand what makes a good image work, but I can’t create it. I’m fluent in the language but I can’t speak it.
So I live in other people’s images instead. The more mixed the better. High fashion next to drunk selfies next to explicit material next to random architectural details. No filter between different kinds of imagery, just whoever found something worth looking at. That unfiltered pile of human visual judgment is what actually pulls me in.
Margaux Lonnberg appeared on everyone’s feeds in that particular moment when fashion discovers a new silhouette to obsess over. Bleached eyebrows, that blank stare, the kind of thinness that reads as commitment. Twenty-four, from Paris. What struck people wasn’t any single photo but the cumulative effect: here was someone who looked like she’d removed everything extraneous from her body. No excess. No softness. No apology.
That aesthetic is intoxicating in fashion. Thinness becomes a kind of moral achievement. It photographs as taste. As discipline. As someone who understood something the rest of us were too weak to accept. Topshop featured her. Fashion blogs analyzed her outfits the way people used to analyze Twiggy. She became the moment.
The problem isn’t that Margaux existed. It’s that the industry positions extreme thinness as excellence, then watches while kids decide they haven’t starved enough yet. Fashion didn’t invent eating disorders, but it absolutely knows how to market them. It says: this is what the goal looks like. This is the cost of being worth looking at. Then it’s shocked when people start paying that cost.
I don’t have much interest in hand-wringing about the fashion industry. Everyone knows it’s fucked. The actual horror is how seductive the image remains even when you understand the machinery. The cheekbones still read as power. The thinness still works. And there are always more people who think they can be the exception—thin enough to matter but somehow still fine, still human, still alive.
That’s what I’m interested in: not the individual model but the system that uses her image to train thousands of people toward self-destruction. Margaux was just the face. The real problem is the thousands of people who saw her and decided that’s what they needed to become.
We must have sung that Pokérap a thousand times, screamed it through the neighborhood like idiots. Link cable battles until someone threw the controller in anger. And yeah, the first time Misty appeared on screen, I felt something I wasn’t supposed to feel yet—not about a cartoon character, not in a kid’s game, but there it was.
Pokémon taught us things no parent wanted us to learn. That skipping school was fine if Nintendo released a new version that week. That you could trap any living thing in a plastic ball and make it obey you. That spending all your pocket money on cardboard and plastic was not just acceptable but necessary—this was how you showed you cared.
The structure is deceptively simple. You’re a kid your own mother threw out. A professor with questionable judgment dumps you in tall grass with a barely-alive creature and tells you to figure it out. So you walk. You swim. You fly to every edge of the map, forcing wild animals into your inventory because that’s the entire premise. You fight worthless computer opponents, then your actual friends, then yourself. The game dangles a promise: collect them all. All 151. But it’s rigged. There’s no way to do it cleanly. You need someone else’s game, or a link cable connection, or you need to threaten kids at school or pay classmates way too much for creatures they shouldn’t have. By the time they added more monsters, the number had swelled to the hundreds. That’s when I actually quit. It stopped being fun the moment I understood I’d never win.
Everyone who matters traces back to this. Every subculture, every nerd identity, every person who pretends now that they were too cool for it back then. Pikachu is the common ancestor. And god, I’d trade years to go back to when my only real worry was getting Mewtwo to level 100 overnight so I could have something to brag about. When fitting a creature inside a ball felt like actual power. When the main tragedy in your life was that you couldn’t catch them all, and that mattered more than anything else.
Insuh Yoon was 24, already shooting in New York, and had that thing young photographers dream about: a voice people recognized instantly. The light in his photographs is unmistakable. Pale and soft, almost luminous. He knew how to compose a frame.
He photographed young women, usually beautiful, often naked or close to it. That’s a well-worn path — Kern and Richardson before him, others after. But Yoon had the one thing that matters: real ability, and luck. The specific subject matter plus genuine skill equals accelerated recognition. It’s how it works.
When someone asked him about it, he gave a straight answer. “Being male means there’s admiration when you look at a woman’s body. I’ve always been drawn to that.” No hedging. No theory. Just the fact of it.
The photographs themselves are careful. There’s thought in the composition and the light. You can tell he’d studied photography seriously, that this wasn’t accidental. Whether that translates into him becoming one of the important photographers of his generation, I don’t know. At 24, with the momentum he had and that voice already this clear, the ceiling seemed somewhere far off.
I turned eighteen at Bar 25. The photographer and I were grinding against each other, both high, moving to the endless beat. When we opened our eyes he headed to the bathroom and two girls followed. My world was full of noise and colors and chaos, so I followed them. I pushed the door open and saw him there, his pants undone, his face twisted, the girls laughing and grabbing at him. When he came back to the dance floor I looked at him straight and said, “Can we go home? I’m tired.”
We got back to his place and I couldn’t stop crying. “Why do I do this?” I screamed at him and grabbed anything within reach, threw it. “I love you, you asshole, but you’re a coward. A freeloader. A hypocrite. You hate this world but you live off it. You hate these people but you fuck them. You hate drugs but you keep doing them.”
I threw something too hard. It hit the wall and white powder exploded everywhere. He sat on the bed and stared at me without saying anything. “Nothing means anything to you. Not me, not love, nothing. How am I supposed to open myself up to someone who feels nothing?” “I’m not answering that,” he said. The rage kept building in me.
I went to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife. Back in the bedroom I screamed and stabbed the pillows, the mattress, over and over. He stood against the wall smoking, watching, smiling a little. Feathers everywhere, white dust floating through the room and landing on me. “I have to leave,” I said, and let the knife drop. I threw some clothes in my backpack, looked at him one last time, and walked out.
I ran down the stairs screaming and crying. Out the door and toward the U-Bahn. From somewhere above, a voice called “Sina, where are you going?” I didn’t look back. Down in the tunnel the noise stopped and something in me went quiet. I could hear my own heartbeat.
When we fought he wanted to finish it in my body. I closed my eyes and saw chaos, colors spinning. The tears kept coming. How had I gotten here? Love and pain dressed themselves in velvet and buried my broken body in broken dreams. He’d come into my life with sweet words and a rebel’s strength and now he was destroying everything I’d ever believed in—out of spite, out of carelessness, out of fear.
Nothing hit me harder as a young person than the realization that I couldn’t fix his pain. Not with love, not with my body. Small grey fears ate at me from the inside. Even the happy moments felt lonely and thin. I spent my whole life telling myself I was special. That balance would find me. That the girl in the mirror with bright eyes had something beautiful waiting. My tears tasted bitter but I smiled anyway. And when I felt the wind of the train moving through the tunnel, I opened my eyes and let go.
Rock still wins. I keep coming back to this watching people in clubs nod their heads in unison to some minimal electronic track, everyone in black, everyone trying to look contemplative when they’re really just waiting for the drop. Guitar and drums and a voice hit different. They always have.
The Strathern brothers from Northern Ireland figured this out. Around 2007, when everyone was chasing electronic music, they brought in more members instead and started making actual rock. General Fiasco. Owen, Enda, Stephen. Just the names sound like a basement band, not a bedroom producer with a synth.
They released “Buildings” and it’s the kind of indie rock I keep forgetting I need. Not polished, not trying to be important — the version that soundtracks your actual life without you noticing. School trips. Parking in someone’s driveway with the engine running. First time driving alone on a highway at night with nowhere specific to go. The moments you don’t talk about but never shake.
There’s something about a riff that just works. It hits the same nerve every time, whether you heard it last week or ten years ago. Electronics can be clever. But they can’t quite do that. Or maybe they could and they’re just not interested.
You build a list of what matters — checkered shirts, Sonic, summer in Stockholm, cheap cola on a hot afternoon. You explain why Final Fantasy is essential and Gossip Girl is just pretty lighting over emptiness. You care about these distinctions like they prove something about you.
Half of it still feels true. Riding a bike in summer sun, melons, the kind of friends you don’t have to perform for — these things held. The need to be right about The XX or Gucci, the hope that taste was proof of something, that you were safe if you got it right. That part fell away.
What remains is smaller. A bike ride in the sun. Melons. Friends you don’t have to perform for.
I found Adeline Mai’s work on Black Orchid and spent way too long looking at it. She’s French, twenty-one, studying photography in Paris, and there’s something about the way she shoots that makes you want to keep looking.
Fashion photographs, snapshots of friends, nudes — all of it done with this effortless confidence. There’s no distance in her work, no irony, no art-school remove. She shoots women naked like it’s the most natural thing, the way you’d photograph anyone at a party. Gum in their mouths, beer in their hands, just existing. Because there’s no performance in it, because she’s not trying to say anything about desire or the body or whatever, it lands harder than something actually trying to be erotic ever could.
She photographs the moon at night, watches how the light changes color across hours. Cities. All of it documented with the same directness. She listens to Air and Soko and Beatles — you can tell that taste shapes how she sees.
The work feels effortless in a way that comes from knowing what you’re doing. No concept, no statement trying to justify itself. She’s just looking and recording because she has to. Most photographers her age are still figuring out what their work is supposed to mean. She’s past all that.
She’s in Paris now, but she won’t stay long. People who shoot like this keep moving, chasing different light, different cities. I’m curious where it goes next.
Anastasia flipped my entire world upside down. On hot summer nights with the windows open, we’d blast Muse and I’d want to somehow preserve the sweet smell of her breath in mason jars, save it for when things got bad. We’d talk breathlessly about our future as people who’d never become the dull citizens of some half-formed state. The promise of spiritual freedom, of starting fresh, of being reborn into something we thought the world had forgotten—it was all just one kiss away.
Around her I became a sponge. I wanted to absorb everything that had shaped her, every reason she’d become the person she was. Why did she suddenly eat only fruit? Why did she spend months wearing only black? When exactly did I stop being her best friend and become her biggest fan instead?
Ana was extreme in both her dreams and her actions. She had this fierce will to achieve anything she set her mind to, but underneath was a hurricane of self-destruction—restless, unconstrained, fearless. I couldn’t help but admire it. I wanted to own that way of seeing the world, even if I had no idea what it would cost.
It started small. Lake trips that meant nothing, casual hookups at parties, walks to the horizon with no direction. But it twisted into something toxic that poisoned my thoughts and swallowed my entire existence. I became a rabid thing, trapped in a cycle of deep regret and desperate love and endless unanswerable questions, slowly drowning.
The light got dimmer. I sacrificed myself but I wasn’t honest. I preached rebellion but collapsed in the wind. And I loved her soul while I wanted her body.
By the time it burned out, I’d already lost her to whatever came next. Her smell faded. The words died. That feeling of two souls fighting together against the end—it vanished into the dark with a hollow laugh.
What remained were the scars from another time, the weight of knowing it was all my fault. But somewhere in that loss, Anastasia became something bigger. She became the symbol of my will, my freedom, my courage. And somehow, that feels like redemption.
Ponyo is basically The Little Mermaid again. I knew it the moment the credits started rolling. Fish girl wants to be human, falls for a boy, her father loses his mind trying to drag her back. Same story we’ve been told a hundred times.
But Ponyo herself—she’s small and red-haired and full of fury. She doesn’t pine to be human, doesn’t sing about it. She just decides. Breaks free, finds Sosuke and his mother, settles into their house like she owns it. Her father tears the ocean apart trying to get her back. No melodrama, just stubbornness on both sides.
What Miyazaki does is build a world around this old shape. The animation feels like water and dream. Colors shift mid-frame. Details pile up until it all feels real in a way you don’t expect from something this fantastical. Sosuke’s mother is just kind. No plot reason, just genuine goodness.
I kept waiting for it to disappoint me the way remakes do. It didn’t.
Effy showed up and made the show feel dangerous again. That specific kind of beautiful where you know something’s going to break—gorgeous and brittle and completely sure of herself. Pandora caught in her gravity, Cook doing his thing, JJ, Naomi. They had the same raw energy as the first generation, that feeling of people already falling who’d just decided to stop fighting it.
Those seasons had teeth. Dark episodes that actually meant something. Comedy landing hard because it came from real dysfunction. Characters you watched spiral and kept watching anyway because something was at stake. The show seemed to understand what it was holding.
Then the finale happened and it all vanished.
Slow scenes that said nothing. Dialogue going nowhere. The writers had one clean shot at something real—ending it strange and earned, making Effy and Cook and everyone feel like people who mattered even if they were broken. They could’ve made it legendary. They didn’t. The ending came and went so fast it barely registered, and when it was over I just felt hollow.
Everyone online was furious. Fan sites full of ’is that all?’ and anger pointed straight at Jamie Brittain. You spend two seasons with these people and they become real to you, and then the show offers you nothing. It felt deliberate, almost—like they’d decided we weren’t worth the effort.
Brittain created something sharp and strange in those middle seasons. Then he just stopped caring. That’s the part that stings.
Street fashion photography was this weird democracy moment that happened around 2005 or so. Suddenly the people who mattered in fashion were the ones walking around ordinary cities in ordinary clothes, photographed by kids with cameras and blogs. No invitation required, no gallery representing you, just an eye for what people were actually wearing and the confidence to think that mattered more than a runway show. Yvan Rodic’s Facehunter was the clearest proof that the whole system had flipped.
When he came to Berlin for a book signing—his first book, about three hundred of his best photographs—I went with Sandra, who shot for the blog back then. I didn’t really know what to expect from him in person. The gap between the image and the person is usually depressing.
But he was just genuinely nice. Patient with the crowd’s questions, took a few photos if people asked, signed books. He asked about what we wrote on this blog. Not the performative curiosity of someone checking a box—he actually wanted to know. Most internet famous people either treat you like you’re lucky to breathe the same air or they make you feel like you’re bothering them. He was just interested.
What I remember most is how little he needed to prove anything. He didn’t perform being important or successful. He’d built something real and was still doing it because he cared, and that was obviously enough. The book was just a document of five or six years of looking. Some of it was trend-obsessed—the styling from 2006 is almost unrecognizable now—but it was all genuine. He had taste and he wasn’t self-conscious about finding it in ordinary places.
I wish more people building things online had that ease about it. Most of them seem either exhausted by the attention or addicted to it, trapped between states where nothing feels real. Yvan just seemed happy to be doing the work. That was probably the whole thing, now that I think about it.
You know from the first frame that something’s wrong inside Leonardo DiCaprio’s skull. Scorsese puts him on an island that doesn’t make sense, where nothing quite lines up, and the film becomes this sick spiral down into somebody’s psychological breakdown.
The mystery of Shutter Island isn’t really a mystery. It’s watching someone construct an elaborate lie and then slowly, horribly, realize the truth—or something close to it. The hospital staff might be gaslighting him, or he might be gaslighting himself. Scorsese won’t let you settle into either position. He pulls you along with Teddy as he races to solve this crime that may not exist, to find this woman who may not be real, while the island itself seems designed to unhinge him further.
What gets you is that the surface mystery almost doesn’t matter. The real subject is how completely a person can fracture when confronted with something they can’t survive knowing. Scorsese wraps it in noir mechanics and ornate visuals and swelling strings, all the machinery of a thriller, but underneath it’s just brutal. A man in the wreckage of himself, and the question of whether truth or delusion is the kinder option.
I don’t know if I like it exactly. But it stays with you.
Kathrine cycles through Copenhagen. Sophie befriends locals in Bangkok. Katja gets a new haircut in London. Eight women and a collaborative travel blog, documenting the life I’ve always fantasized about—the one where you pack a bag and leave, no second thoughts, no waiting for everything to be perfect.
The remarkable thing isn’t the destinations. It’s that they actually did it. That’s what sticks. Not the places themselves, not even the writing—just the simple fact of follow-through.
There’s something particular about watching people live exactly how you imagined. The envy is clean and honest. This is the freedom that lives in my head made actual. This is what it looks like when you don’t hesitate. And reading their updates, I’m caught between distance and recognition—this weird clarity that the gap between their life and mine is just one decision. That’s it. That’s all.
For a moment it sits in my chest, this reminder that leaving is actually possible. Then ordinary life returns and the fantasy goes half-asleep again, never quite letting go.
Three in the morning and I’m sitting alone feeling like a ghost, replaying every mistake I ever made. Leaving her. Not going to college. The resolutions that made it until lunch. Deep in some old photos of a life that doesn’t exist anymore, and it felt like the ending of everything.
What happens is you disappear into yourself. The outside world becomes a rumor. The only answer I could find was that one person. That specific person who’d make it matter, who’d pull me out. I didn’t think about it—it just happened. I gave them everything: loyalty, desire, this concentrated attention they never asked for. They had no idea how much of me they were carrying. Some of them figured it out. Most didn’t.
Then the small things start adding up. Slower texts. Someone else in a photo. They’re tired, or they’re living their own life, or they just don’t feel the same way. The whole structure collapses. The love turns to hate. The hope becomes this suffocating weight. They’ve broken a promise they never made.
You can’t build yourself on top of one person. It’s not that they don’t want to. It’s that they can’t hold that much of you. No one can. The moment they prove they can’t, you feel more abandoned than before.
What actually helped was having a few people who actually knew me. Not fantasies or ideals, but real people who’d shown up before and would show up again. The ones I could call at three in the morning. They wouldn’t fix anything, but they were there. That mattered more than I thought it would. I started believing them when they said it passes, even when I didn’t believe anything else.
But they couldn’t do the real work. At some point I was alone with myself and I had to decide not to drown. I had to stop waiting for someone to pull me out and grab my own hand. It’s not inspirational. It’s not even brave. It’s just what happens when you run out of options.
Condoms solve a problem that nobody’s ever accepted. Growing up you just use them as toys—balloons, stretched over whatever you can find, laughing at the absurdity. Then you hit the age where it matters and you’ve already been flooded with every possible nightmare. Chlamydia. Gonorrhea. Herpes. By the time you’re sliding one on for real, you’ve been scared half to death about what happens if you don’t. I remember being maybe nine, getting absolutely shit-scared by some health class warning, spending weeks convinced I’d caught something terminal just from existing near another person. That kind of fear doesn’t really leave.
The practical side is fine. Condoms work. They stop diseases, they stop accidents, the engineering is solid. But everything else is friction. You have to pause what you’re doing, fumble with a wrapper, kill the mood, and remember you’re protected while also remembering that protection costs money and requires a purchase that still feels weirdly shameful. Then you put it on and it’s not the same. It doesn’t feel like anything. You’re encased in latex and you know it and the other person knows it. Ultra-thin, ribbed, flavored—doesn’t matter, you’re still in a sheath.
The real issue is nobody wants to use them. Guys will say they feel worse, which is true, but that’s not the whole story. Using one reads as weakness somehow, like you’re scared or careful or boring, and so people skip them. They trade safety for the sensation of actual contact, especially in relationships where they should be most vigilant. Somewhere along the line protection became optional, real intimacy started requiring risk, and condoms became the symbol of people who aren’t confident enough or committed enough or cool enough.
I’ve never figured out how this happened. Condoms work—they prevent catastrophe—but everyone resents them. There’s this gap between what should happen and what actually does, and nobody’s closed it. The friction isn’t the rubber. It’s living with a solution that nobody’s accepted, something that feels necessary and miserable all at once. That’s the actual problem.
Black leggings, boots, colored hair, the casual fuck-you of someone who knows what they look like and doesn’t need validation. That’s what these Waffles Girls are actually about, if they’re about anything at all. Not a band. Not a company. Not a modeling agency, though some of them model. Just three women scattered across the map who’ve figured out how to exist with intention.
I talked to Bonez, Cassie, and Lovisa about what they do and who they are and whether any of it tracks. Bonez is metal down to the bone—Gojira, Dethklok, Metallica, the soundtrack to uncompromising. She’s got this matter-of-fact intensity that doesn’t require explanation. Cassie’s in Charlotte eating her way through life, watching foreign films, building an aesthetic around Beyoncé and Lil Wayne. Lovisa’s in Vancouver doing everything at once—dancing, eating, talking—because sitting still seems intolerable.
What you need to be a Waffles Girl is charisma, obviously. You have to be yourself. And you have to have what they called “eier”—balls, basically, though the word has more weight in German. The guts to be weird in public without flinching.
They’re obsessed with Sky Ferreira the way you get obsessed with someone who represents how you want to live. Bonez describes her voice with an honesty that’s almost uncomfortable: “the sound of a gospel-princess-angel-fuck.” Not trying to be clever. Just saying it. What they see in Sky is refusal—the willingness to push until people have to pay attention. That’s the template they’re working from.
The fashion interests track: tight black leggings, colored hair, androgyny that doesn’t perform innocence. Bonez admits to loving Miley’s Walmart line and immediately regrets being honest about it, but you can’t unhear something that true. They’re not chasing trends so much as thinking deliberately about what bodies signal.
Bonez wants to write about metal for Metal Hammer in London, or maybe be a pin-up model. Cassie jokes about marrying Lil Wayne and then divorcing him, winning the lottery if time allows—which is funny but tells you what she values. The riff, not the resolution. Lovisa said “sushi” when asked about the future, which might be the truest answer anyone gave.
Cassie ended with one line: “Waffles Girls Don’t Die.” Not a slogan. Just a fact. They’re not building anything meant to last. They’re just making marks while they feel like making them.
There’s something addictive about celebrity gossip, even when you know what you’re doing is crude and a little pathetic. You see a photo of a famous woman—doesn’t matter who—and you start thinking about it more than you should. There’s the obvious part: the attraction. But there’s also something about the critique, the dissection, the feeling that you’ve figured something out the world missed. You catch them mid-mess and you feel clever for noticing.
I turned that impulse into a blog for years. Years of running commentary on famous people, mostly women, mostly in that register where crude and honest become the same thing. I got good at it—good at looking, anyway. And someone eventually offered to make it my actual job. The offer didn’t shock me. It made perfect sense. I said yes.
I didn’t take it for the platform or the legitimacy. I took it because it meant permission to keep looking, and that was all that actually interested me.
Fashion’s one of those things you can’t explain. Where does it come from? Who decides what’s in? Why does it all shift the moment you look away, like it was never meant to stick around? You can think about it forever with people who sound smart, and you’re still nowhere.
Then a homeless guy in Ningbo went and blew up the entire industry.
Brother Sharp. He had this quality—casual, effortless, like he wasn’t trying—that made him look better than actual teen idols. Better than whoever the fashion industry was desperately pushing. The internet went insane. There was something about him that made everything else look fake and desperate, like everyone else was pretending and he just wasn’t. Which maybe they are, and maybe he just couldn’t afford to.
The darker part is that social workers warned people not to bother him because he might be mentally unstable. So the guy the entire fashion world is obsessing over probably doesn’t even know, or wouldn’t care if he did. There’s something almost perfect about that—disrupting an entire industry by accident, with zero interest in the attention.
What gets me is that he probably did more for fashion by having no choice than most designers do in their whole careers. Sometimes the people faking it the least are the ones everyone wants. Which says everything about what people actually want from fashion, and it probably isn’t what the industry thinks it’s selling.
Gray nothing overhead. Clouds moving in slow circles, letting light through just long enough to prove they can take it back. I hate the patience of it. Clouds are assholes.
Then Bethany Joy’s photographs stopped me. She was fifteen when she took them, and every frame was pure summer—girls dancing in warm rain, sprawled in wet grass, chasing horses through fields. The kind of life that exists somewhere beyond the noise, beyond work exhaustion, beyond the small ache of just existing in your own time.
I wanted to disappear into them completely. Find that place and stay there. I know better now—summer’s never infinite, photographs lie, and grass gets boring if you stand in it long enough. But looking at her work anyway, I felt it pulling at me hard. Heat and freedom and the idea that nothing outside that moment could touch you. Even knowing it’s a daydream, even knowing the photos are frozen and gone, something in them made me want to believe in it.
There’s this specific desperation you feel in the days before throwing a party you actually care about. The 23rd was locked—Simian Mobile Disco, Metronomy, Boy 8-Bit, Les Gillettes at Haus am Kollnischen Park in Berlin. Somewhere in that week I was probably begging people to vote for us in some competition, throwing around whatever language felt urgent enough to make it stick. That’s what you do. You’ll say anything to get bodies in the room when the night happens, to make people understand why this matters.
The truth is I genuinely believed in the lineup. That’s not hype—Simian Mobile Disco could make any room feel significant, Metronomy had that deadpan English cool that either completely works or dies, Boy 8-Bit and Les Gillettes understood what the night was supposed to feel like in their bones. When you get those pieces right, the desperation feels less pathetic and more just… honest. Necessary, even.
There’s an anxiety in that week where you’re completely exposed. You’ve staked something into this and now you’re waiting to find out if other people care even a fraction as much as you do. It’s vulnerable in a stupid way. But it’s also the moment right before something good happens—before the floor gets sticky, before the air fills with sweat and beer and that metallic electricity of a room full of people who stopped thinking and started feeling.
I don’t remember how many people voted or showed up. What stays with me is that week. The mix of conviction and desperation, both feeding each other. The belief that what we’d put together mattered, completely tangled up with the actual terror that maybe we were the only ones who thought so.
Elisabeth Rank’s debut showed up when I was exhausted by books that had nothing to say. It’s about two young women, Lene and Tonia, moving through Berlin - the usual early-adulthood momentum, parties, half-formed futures. The shape you’d expect.
Then their friend Tim dies in a car crash, and the shape collapses.
Rank writes through it in fragments - memories, moments, small details that don’t add up to meaning but carry the weight of something real. The grief isn’t performed. It’s the quiet kind that lets you keep eating, keep moving, keep figuring out what you want because what else are you going to do. Broken love. Silence. Someone just not there anymore.
What matters is that she doesn’t flinch from that. No redemption arc, no lesson, no transformation that makes the loss feel worthwhile. Just two young women carrying something specific through a specific city, and Rank trusting that the texture of it is enough. The silence is the point.
She’s part of the Berlin literary scene - one of those writers who doesn’t need to announce themselves. The kind of emerging talent you actually want to read more of, which is rare enough that I notice.
HTML5 was the future. Everyone said so—the blogs, the conferences, the whole mythology around what was coming next. Flash was dying. Standards were enlightened. If you weren’t moving toward it, you were falling behind, and falling behind was the same as becoming irrelevant. I believed it because the alternative was admitting I was anxious about disappearing.
So I rebuilt the website. Weeks of work pulling apart code and restructuring it against the new spec. Testing on half-baked browsers. Optimizing for a future that barely existed. The kind of work that feels urgent because you’re thinking about what’s coming, about being ready, about not being left behind by the next wave.
When it was done, nothing had changed. The site looked the same. Nobody could tell I’d done anything. But I knew. And somehow that knowing—understanding something before it became obvious—felt like a kind of power. Like I’d made a move in a game that most people didn’t even realize they were playing.
The stupid part is how satisfied I felt with that. Like understanding the mythology made me different. Like being technically correct about tomorrow somehow meant I owned tomorrow.
Of course, that’s exactly how the mythology works. We create this story together—that the future is a tangible thing, that being ahead of it matters, that adopting new standards early is wisdom instead of just pattern-matching against everyone else’s anxiety. And once enough of us believe it, it becomes true. Not because we were right about what’s coming, but because we shaped what we did next based on it.
Maybe that’s all the future is anyway. A collectively agreed-upon reason for the changes we were already determined to make. The specifics don’t matter—what matters is feeling like we’re moving toward something, like we understand it before it’s obvious, like we’re the kind of person who gets it.
I still can’t tell if I was ahead or if I was just good at convincing myself I was ahead. But the code works, so it doesn’t matter.
The Oscars happened last night. Stars in expensive clothes, handlers keeping them away from anything unscripted, a few comedians telling jokes that landed nowhere. Everyone clapped anyway. You show up at the Oscars knowing how it works—you applaud on cue, you wipe your eyes at the memorial, you pretend the statuette means something.
The awards went to whoever. Some film, some director, some actress. By the end I couldn’t tell you who won most of the categories. The whole thing has this numbing quality, like watching someone win a prize they’ve known about for weeks pretend to be surprised. Everyone in that room saw the same predictions in the trades before the show even started. The spectacle is just theater—the acting, the speeches about gratitude, the tears that you can tell were rehearsed.
The In Memoriam segment got rushed this year. Too many people died to fit them all into the montage. Just a quick scroll through faces, names disappearing before you could really see them. There’s something stark about it—work in this industry long enough to be famous, die, and maybe get five seconds in a montage at the Oscars. This year they didn’t even have time for that.
I know why I watch it anyway. The performance still gets to me somehow, even though I know exactly how empty it all is. The Oscars never surprise anyone. Nothing changes from year to year. But I’ll be back next year, probably feeling the same way, knowing it’s fake and falling for it anyway.
Holly Miranda had mafia show up at her door when she was sixteen, or so the story goes. Guys in suits, late at night, a contract they wanted her to sign. A lawyer talked her out of it, which is probably the only reason she’s still alive to make music instead of being another missing person case from the ’90s.
She was from Detroit, part of a band called Jealous Girlfriends that critics liked way more than the general public did. That gap—between people who know and people who don’t—is a specific kind of exhausting. When the band fell apart, she crossed paths with Dave Sitek from TV On The Radio, and he basically told her to stop waiting for the world to catch up and just make something for herself. So she did.
The Magicians Private Library is what came out. Quiet songs, no production flourishes, just her sitting alone somewhere working things out on a guitar. They’re small enough to fit in a room, intimate without needing to impress anyone. The kind of album that makes sense late in the day with a drink, when you’re not looking for distraction but for company that doesn’t demand anything from you.
I don’t know what became of her after that, but the songs stayed with me because they were so obviously made for nobody but herself, and that kind of honesty doesn’t pretend.
Husk Magazine showed up in the mail. In the thank-you note, they mentioned that every photograph of a naked or half-naked person in the entire issue is dedicated to this blog. I read that twice.
It’s a print magazine out of southern Germany—fashion, art, music, culture—the kind of thing that still believes magazines are worth making. Lucy Carr-Ellison shot it, Luke Byrne, Katjana Frisch from Munich. The writing is strong: Manuel Link, Katharina Schwaiger, Ulrich Schippke. Black and white pages moving through the fashion capitals, Darth Vader in there somewhere, cut-out faces, boys at pianos. Underneath it all is this simple thesis—fashion equals desire equals sexuality. Hard to disagree.
What matters about Husk is that it’s actually made. Not content, not scaled, not optimized. Just: here is something beautiful and they gave a shit making it. Photography that’s real, writing that’s real, paper you can hold. Getting a note saying they dedicated photographs to this blog felt ridiculous and flattering at the same time—the kind of gesture that lands because there’s genuine work underneath it. Some crew in southern Germany spent time thinking about this, and they thought of this notebook, and they wanted to do something kind. That’s why anyone still makes magazines.
The industry spent years convinced everything needed to be 3D, bigger, some kind of franchise with a story nobody asked for. Then Mario came back in 2D and suddenly everyone remembered what fun actually felt like. Sonic 4 got announced. And now Mega Man shows up, the little blue robot, back in 8-bit like he never left.
I didn’t grow up with Mega Man first-run—I was always late to that stuff—but the game had this presence in the culture, this ambient knowledge. The blue guy shooting robot masters and stealing their weapons. Simple and perfect. You go right, you get eight powers, you fight the final boss. Games that know what they are don’t need excuses.
Playing through it now, it’s exactly what you’d expect. Shoot left to right, collect weapons, dodge attacks. The music is the thing that gets you though—these melodies that sound simple at first, then you’ve been stuck on a stage for twenty minutes and heard the same eight bars a hundred times, and you realize they’re actually perfect. That kind of video game music that lives in your head forever.
There’s a Nintendo World Store event in New York with T-shirts and all that. I’m not going to make the trip, but I’ll download it anyway. The game doesn’t need the ceremony. It’s just good the way it is.
Sina and I stared at each other for what felt like forever, and my whole body went haywire. My head seemed to explode in colors, my breath caught somewhere behind my ribs. Adrenaline pumped through me like I was having a stroke—that was the only logical conclusion. Where had she come from? Why was she here? And why was she talking to me, after two years of silence, after she’d left me in a minefield of desperation and insomnia and thoughts I won’t name? “Hey,” I managed, my voice thick, and I cleared my throat and said it again like I was asking a question.
She smiled at me, unmoved and steady, took a sip of wine and tossed the glass over the railing with casual grace. “Long time,” she slurred. Sina was drunk. And clearly on something. I must have looked disappointed at the thought of a real conversation, because she swayed toward me, put her arms around me, and grinned at me through dilated pupils. “Are you okay?”
Her apartment wasn’t far from mine. High ceilings, big windows, beautiful old bones. Every room was thoughtful, modern. Pale pastels on the walls, furniture mixing new and old but cohesive. The whole place smelled like vanilla and mango, and the lamps and candles threw everything in a soft romantic light. Photos on the fridge showed her with new friends, new lovers. She was smiling in all of them. I felt sick. I remembered the other scenes—her crying, howling in pain, balanced at the edge. “Want some wine?” she called from another room, and I heard the most beautiful voice I knew. I nodded, rubbed my face, and said yes.
“Why did you just let me go like that?” We were lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, covered in spilled wine. I tried to answer properly, but the weed and alcohol had short-circuited my brain, and what came out was rambling—knights and flowers, dresses and bears, hookers and drama. She laughed loud and long at everything I said. Her hair smelled the way it always did, like ice cream and Red Bull and fast food and wildflowers all mixed together. Then she sat up, took my hands, and said: “That night, the one that tore us apart—I tried to kill myself.”
After that we saw each other again. Coffee, movies, parties. We put our lives back together piece by piece, like a puzzle. Some of it made me smile. Some of it made me wince because it cut through my head. She didn’t say another word about the attempt, but she talked endlessly about sex and love and the hard and soft ways we fell apart. When she asked how things had been for me in that department, I lied. I didn’t mention Paula.
But lies didn’t work between us. We both knew it. From that moment on the balcony, we could read each other like an open book again. Like no time had passed at all, like I hadn’t screamed her name down at her full of tears and spit as she walked away empty and done, disappearing into the U-Bahn. The nightmares, the vodka, the pills—all of it rotted down into the last fragment of the darkest time in my life. When she realized what I was feeling, she held me tighter than before, and tears ran down my neck. “It was horrible,” she could barely say. Then we slept together and for a while everything was fine.
Alexandros Mastroyiannis was nineteen and had been shooting for four years—started the day before he took a photography course that helped. Athens, then Swansea, then Exeter. That age where the hunger shows in everything you make.
He was jealous of Dana Lauren Goldstein. Not the petty kind—the kind that means you’re really paying attention. He’d bought her magazine “Don’t Cry Tonight” and couldn’t get over how much more interesting her life looked. That kind of jealousy is honest. It tells you what someone wants and how far away it still feels.
Analog only. Yashica T4, mostly. Digital felt false to him, too flat. His subjects were his friends—they were photogenic and liked what he made, which kept it going. He had other cameras scattered around, eBay finds mostly, but the Yashica was the one he used. The one he trusted.
He’d found an old 110 camera from his childhood with his brother, the kind that printed Ninja Turtles in the corner of every frame. He was waiting to finish the film. That patience, that trust in something small and mechanical, felt like the realest thing about him.
The jealousy was the most honest part. It showed you the gap between where he was and where he wanted to be. That gap is where the work happens.
The sun’s been showing up again, breaking through the endless gray of winter. Pollen season’s here, allergies kicking in, people stocking up on their chemical defenses. But spring has an appeal even when it’s a mess.
I put together a spring mixtape. Nothing elaborate, just what felt right for right now. Marina & The Diamonds is in there. Blood Red Shoes came back and belong on this. Asobi Seksu, naturally. Some newer stuff I’m still figuring out. And somewhere in the middle is this song that’s actively bad—stupid hook, dumb everything—except the thing won’t leave my head. One of those things that shouldn’t work.
Spring does that though. Half-baked, contradictory, beautiful anyway. Rain one day, heat the next, everything starting over. That’s what this is.
Finding new writers for this place turned into a weeks-long nightmare. Mountains of applications, most completely forgettable, mixed in with the ones where people decided we needed to know their bra size or dick length. Like that matters. Like anyone cares. But I kept going through the pile, and then suddenly there were two people worth paying attention to. Which created a different kind of problem.
Wenke is 23, from Berlin, and when I read her writing I couldn’t stop. She writes in this flood—everything spilling out at once, crude and provocative and completely unfiltered. She’d already torn through phone companies, regional politics, cultural commentary, and left everything raw behind her. There’s this reckless energy to the way she works that gets under your skin.
Max is the other one. 22, from Würzburg. He does the opposite—quiet, measured, philosophical. He writes about life and sex and wanting things with this calm that somehow makes it all feel more true. Where Wenke explodes across the page, Max lets it unfold in these careful sentences that have more weight than they should. They’re nothing alike.
I couldn’t pick between them, so instead I invited both to write here for a month. Readers vote on who stays. It’s stupid and it’s right—let the people reading this shape who gets to be part of it.
There’s something I like about not knowing what happens next. Wenke could burn the whole thing down or make it unbelievably better. Max could be the thing that was missing the whole time. Either way, there’s this strange excitement to it—this feeling of new voices coming in, and you don’t know where any of it lands.
I’ve got a thing for girls with nosebleeds. The way it happens—vulnerability made visible, something inner breaking through. Maybe that’s weird. But I got there from somewhere: photographers like Richard Kern, Lesley Arfin, people who understood that blood and beauty were the same thing. They shaped what I was looking at back in those early days, when all that aesthetic was still forming.
Christopher Little showed up in my feed somehow. He’s doing his art studies at Jefferson Community College, shooting things with this directness that makes you uncomfortable. The work has teeth. He started normal enough—forests, motorcycles, cats. Safe material. But you watch it shift over time. He’s moving toward skin. Toward moments that need actual nerve to photograph.
Photography’s not even his endgame though. He wants to make films. Real short films, his vision, no committee. I’m curious where he goes with that. I’m hoping he takes what he’s learned about how to frame something difficult and stretches it out into something that moves. The kind of thing that sits with you because it actually looked at what it was looking at.
I went to the Berlin premiere of Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland when it came out — back when 3D screenings still felt like cultural events, cinemas showing premiere broadcasts as if they mattered. I’d grown up with the Disney version from 1951, that cartoon with the Caterpillar and the Mad Hatter, and it had become one of those reference points you used without examining. Weird. Strange. A template.
Burton’s version doesn’t know restraint. Johnny Depp completely unhinged as the Hatter, Mia Wasikowska doing this deliberately awkward physicality, every frame so saturated with color and architectural detail you can barely breathe. The 3D is just a delivery system for maximum volume. The story is straightforward — girl comes of age, refuses to let others orchestrate her life, picks the strange path — nothing revolutionary. Burton isn’t interested in the psychological strangeness of Carroll; he builds an absurdly detailed world and watches someone move through it.
What sticks is the commitment. You can feel how much pleasure went into that excess. It’s not profound or subtle, but it’s completely itself. The story about writing your own life hits differently when you’re watching it actually happen — a girl following a white rabbit into something she can’t predict. Not because the message is complex, but because the image carries weight.
I love that people actually engage. Comments, weird emails with photos, real responses—that’s the whole point. Most of you get it. You read, you respond, maybe you disagree, and there’s an actual exchange there. That’s why I do this.
But then there’s the subset that doesn’t understand where the line is. The person messaging daily, sometimes multiple times. The one who found your exes on Facebook and added them trying to work their way closer. Skype requests at 3 AM like they’re checking if you’re online yet. The frequency that stops being flattering somewhere around message fifty and starts feeling like actual stalking. I’ve had enough of these people show up that I’m just going to say it: get a life. Seriously. Find something that matters to you that isn’t me.
I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just being honest. These people have built a relationship with a version of me that doesn’t exist. They read something real and somewhere decided that means they know me, that I owe them access because my voice felt intimate. But there’s a world of difference between being moved by what someone writes and thinking you own a piece of that person’s time. One is being a reader. The other is a problem.
So here’s how it works: engage, absolutely. Read and think and argue. But respect the fact that I’m a real person with a real life that exists separately from this. That boundary isn’t about being cold. It’s just the difference between connection and obsession. Most people see it clearly. Some don’t.
Fettes Brot have been playing in the background of my life since high school—drunk parties, road trips, the whole stupid constellation of being young. The Hamburg hip-hop trio, three guys from up north who somehow never stopped mattering. You know how some bands just fit, not because they’re the best or because you’ve made some conscious choice about it, but because they’re just always there. That’s them.
When they played Berlin, the venue was out in the middle of nowhere, some Funkhaus at the edge of the map. Small crowd—real fans and people who’d won tickets blind, people with no idea what they were getting into. Didn’t matter. Fettes Brot have this weird pull. They played the songs that hold up because they’re crude and clever in exactly the right way: “Bettina, zieh dir bitte etwas an,” “Schwule Mädchen,” “Nordisch by Nature.” The three of them came out like this was the whole reason, and the energy just ran through the room. Sweaty, unironic, generous. The kind of night where nothing else exists.
I’d been following these guys for almost twenty years at that point—not out of loyalty exactly, but because they were just always there when it mattered. They’re the sound that followed you from your twenties into whatever comes next, the band that played every important night. Not many manage that. Most things fade. These guys don’t.
Dazed & Confused landed with Karim Sadli’s photography — beautiful androgynous faces that don’t announce themselves. You just stop and look. It’s the kind of thing that makes you remember why you keep buying magazines instead of scrolling through filtered versions on a screen.
I get why people moved to the internet. Speed. Quantity. Constant refresh. But there’s something about a magazine that asks you to sit with what’s in front of you. You can’t swipe past a photo if it’s on the next page. You have to actually look.
So I keep checking what’s coming out. Milkshake is being philosophical about youth like it’s some lost empire. Front published Biffy Clyro and then put naked women on spreads — Melissa Clarke and three others in poses that don’t apologize. Get off the office chair and do something. I like that approach.
VICE loads up on provocation — Japanese erotica, sensual French film, Richard Kern photographs. I Love Fake is free, 244 pages of city photography, doesn’t really exist but looks like it should. NEON documents Palestinian smugglers in Gaza and German relationships. BLANK just put Wilson Gonzales Ochsenknecht on the cover. POP found Abbey Lee Kershaw for a fashion series and sent this model kid Tavi through Tokyo.
But Wendy is the one that actually gets me. Posters. New comics. Something ruthless about what it chooses to put on the cover. That’s a magazine that knows what it’s doing.
The internet isn’t going anywhere, but print still has teeth.
I’ve always been drawn to big historical figures—men who seized power through charisma and intellect, who surrounded themselves with followers and yes-men, and who ended up killing thousands. Hitler. An asshole, a tyrant, a mass murderer. A repellent man whose dark world I sometimes can’t stop thinking about, not because I understand it but because I can’t. The full weight of it never lands.
But my favorite dictator is someone else. Nicolae Ceaușescu from Romania. I was a kid, late one night, when I watched a documentary about him and his wife Elena on Arte. I sat paralyzed on the couch, watching the horror he created, and then watching his own people execute him for it. He stalked through decrepit, overcrowded orphanages—places filled with what the state called “the irretrievable,” disabled children and dying bodies. Women who had abortions in defiance of his ban were left to die, denied any help. He banned television to force up the birth rate. Just banned it outright. No negotiation, no discussion—the state could simply take it away. That part got to me more than anything else. The simplicity of it, the absolute power. That thought never left.
Then I saw him shot. Him and Elena both, pleading on camera, then dead the next second. I was eight. And suddenly I was wondering what goes through your head when you know you’re about to be executed. I shouldn’t have been thinking about that. But I was. Still am.
Goodbye, Mr. Ceaușescu. You changed my life in a repulsive, bizarre way.
A good black jersey top is almost invisible until you need it, then you wonder how you lived without it. Narciso Rodriguez built his name on pieces like this—nothing fancy, just proportion and restraint. The kind of thing that gets softer every time you wash it until it feels like a second skin. I’ve had enough mediocre basics to know the difference, and this is the kind of piece that earns the space in your closet just by existing quietly.
So these girls thought they were going to a lake house for a calendar shoot. They showed up, they posed, they figured it was going to be the usual deal—look hot, get photographed, move on. Then an axe murderer showed up and started killing everyone.
Except it was all filmed, and mostly planned, and it was actually a horror movie called “SuicideGirls Must Die.”
Sawada had been making SuicideGirls content forever. Beautiful alternative models in nice locations, getting interviewed afterward, sold on DVD to people with very specific interests. At some point he and Missy Suicide (who actually runs SuicideGirls) decided they wanted to make a real horror film instead. Not a comedy, not a parody—an actual horror film.
The idea they came up with was deliberately fucked up: don’t tell the girls. Tell them it’s a calendar shoot. Let them figure it out as it happens. If some of them catch on too early, they’re the next ones killed. If they stay cool or stay oblivious, they survive. There was technically a script, but nobody really followed it. The whole thing was basically structured around who panicked and who didn’t, who understood what was happening and who just kept playing along.
I can’t quite tell how much of this was real fear and how much was staged. Maybe that’s the whole point—you watch it and you’re suspended between genuine terror and performance, between real and fake, and you can’t quite land on which is which. The SuicideGirls thing has always been built on a kind of controlled transgression anyway. Tattoos, piercings, the “we’re doing this whether you’re comfortable with it” attitude. Horror and alt culture speak the same language.
It’s not getting a theatrical release in Germany. Might show up on DVD from the States eventually. I’m more curious what comes next from these people. A cooking show? A climate documentary? A Zelda walkthrough? They’ve earned the right to try anything at this point.
Imperfection is this crazy thing that everyone says they love but nobody actually wants. We talk about authentic, flawed, real—but given the choice, we’d take the clean version every time. Except every now and then someone actually commits to the broken option, and it becomes weirdly heroic. Like your girlfriend leaving you for the entire Swedish national beach volleyball team. Devastating, sure, but there’s something almost admirable about the commitment.
Jostein Wålengen is a photographer in Oslo who shoots expired film. Not accidentally, not out of nostalgia—deliberately. He buys stock that’s past its date, sometimes years past, because the chemistry has degraded in ways that matter. The colors shift. The contrast softens. A grain enters the image like time is visible in the emulsion itself. When you photograph with that stock, everything looks like it’s surfacing from a dream or an older version of the world. Old without trying. Modern and decayed at once.
He thinks about his work pretty deliberately. He creates things he finds personally beautiful, he said in an interview, and he loves when his photographs look like something he’s dreamed. His girlfriend Sunniva appears in most of the shots. She’s a stylist and fashion designer, ambitious about her own practice, and he shoots her constantly because she understands what he’s building. He also works with Maja, who he lives with and has known forever. Julie from his class shows up in some images. These aren’t random subjects pulled in front of the camera—they’re collaborators in whatever world that degraded film is constructing.
The obvious question is why expired film instead of new stock. His answer was simple: it’s cheaper. And that’s the real answer, actually. He couldn’t afford premium film, so he learned to see the decay as the point instead of the limitation. That’s how taste actually forms, not through money but through constraint, through having no choice but to look harder at what you have and find something in it that nobody else would see.
The thing about expired film is that the mistake is baked in. You can’t shoot without the degradation happening. You can’t correct for the shifted colors or the softness. You have to commit to the image anyway, knowing the chemistry is working against you, and that’s where something honest lives. Not in intention but in accident. Most photographers spend years trying to escape the conditions of their medium. He ran straight into them.
When I look at his work—Sunniva in some corner of Oslo, the light gone slightly wrong, the colors fading—I can’t tell where the camera ends and the film begins, and that’s the entire point. That’s where the freedom is. That’s what happens when you can’t afford perfect and stop trying to be.
I don’t like most bands. They’re everywhere — in clubs, on Spotify, in magazines — always seven people with bargain guitars and a singer who sounds like he’s still waiting for his voice to drop, convinced this is going to be the song that changes everything. Same setup, same songs about the same handful of subjects, year after year. Most of them should probably do something else. But every once in a while one actually gets to you. The melody lands. The words don’t sound like they came from a template. You stop reaching for your phone and actually listen.
Seabear’s one of those rare ones. They’re from Reykjavik, a seven-piece indie folk band that somehow made it onto the radar in a way that felt like an actual discovery instead of marketing. Their album is called “We Built A Fire,” and the music has this quality where you forget you’re waiting for something else to happen. There’s a video for one of the songs that’s just saturated color and movement — the kind that makes you want to see them play in person just to know it’s not a trick.
It’s stupid to get attached to a band, I know. You spend energy on it and half the time they break up or fade out or just never come to your city. But when something cuts through all the noise like this does, it’s worth paying attention. For a moment anyway.
I’ve been awake for a few nights now. Not insomnia—I’m awake on purpose, just choosing not to close my eyes and slip back into the regular world. There’s a zone you find yourself in when you do this, where time becomes this thick, patient thing. The dark stops being empty and starts being full. You find yourself in a place that wasn’t supposed to exist, a gap in the architecture of things, and you’re the only one who’s seen it. Like God looked away for a second and left the door open.
So I’m sitting here in this nowhere with my thoughts scattered all over the place. The ones that don’t come in dreams because I’m not dreaming—just the raw ones, the ones about dying and wanting things and what we’re even doing here. About girls and sex and the future, all mixed together into something that doesn’t quite resolve. About life as this weird amusement park where you try everything once because time’s bleeding away and then it stops. You know it won’t matter by Tuesday, but you go anyway.
The strange part is that I’m okay with being alone in this. Actually more than okay. There’s something clean about it, something honest. Everyone else is out there wrestling their problems, desperate to be noticed, and meanwhile I’m here in a place that probably doesn’t exist, waiting for someone to care that I’m standing here. No one’s coming. Not my friends. Not anyone worth mentioning. Certainly not God—he checked out a long time ago, if he was ever actually in the room.
I’ll sleep eventually. Or maybe I won’t, and this becomes the new normal. The further in you go, the less the daytime world makes sense anyway. It all starts to look like a movie someone else is watching, rules that apply to other people. And me, I’m in a parallel space that runs underneath everything, where nothing has to make sense and no one’s checking if you’re still breathing. It’s the best place I’ve been in a long time, which says something pretty dark about the state of things. Or maybe it just says something about me. Doesn’t matter much at this point.
I used to be into the obvious stuff. Pamela Anderson, Jenna Jameson, Carmen Electra—that trinity of blonde perfection everyone was supposed to want. Fake tits and empty heads, basically. The script I was handed before I knew I could write my own.
Then somewhere in the 2000s, my taste inverted. I started getting hard for girls with glasses. Girls who read comics, who played video games, who had opinions about shit that mattered. The nerdy girl from school, the one who sat in the library with a book instead of trying to be seen. It was a complete reversal from what I’d been trained to want.
Why the shift? Probably some combination of things. Part of it was disgust—I got sick of the same dumb-bombshell template getting shoved at me by mainstream media, especially German TV with its endless parade of empty-headed women. Maybe that made me reject it entirely. Part of it was growing up and realizing that if you’re going to be with someone for longer than a few hours, they should be interesting. Intelligent. Capable of thought. And yeah, part of it was just discovering that smart girls are genuinely sexy in a way those airbrushed fantasies never were.
But here’s the thing about fantasy—it doesn’t really care about consistency. You can have a tangled, wine-soaked night with some brilliant girl who reads manga and knows more about technology than you do, and then wake up and want to look at your old Playboys from ’98 when you were dumb and everything seemed simpler and the world was just about surfaces. You don’t grow out of the old desire so much as you add to it. The new one doesn’t cancel out the old one. It just sits next to it, and sometimes you wonder which one is actually you.
You accumulate things if you’re not careful. Guilt, numbness, small resentments that harden if you ignore them. The standard solutions are all garbage—religion, therapy, meditation retreats with overpriced juice. I made a mixtape instead. The Hundred in the Hands, Ellie Goulding, Sarah Jaffe. Artists who know how to move something through you that won’t budge on its own.
Put it on when you’re alone. Dance if you feel like it, or just sit with it. No one watching. The music creates a space where the weight can finally shift. That’s the whole idea.
There’s a particular type of beauty that comes out of Stockholm. Long legs, sharp cheekbones, the kind of symmetry that looks almost engineered. Hanna Håkansson, Lisa Olsson, Filippa Smed—you see their names in magazines and you think, right, of course she’s from Sweden. Julia Hafström fits the profile: discovered at fifteen with red hair and freckles, the kind of unusual detail that makes you marketable in an industry that usually wants you to look like everyone else.
She went fast. Prada, Valentino, Miu Miu, Tsumori Chisato. The magazines all picked her up—i-D, Saga, Teen Vogue. By seventeen or eighteen, she’d done more editorial work than most models do in a career. The industry started calling her the next Kate Moss, which sounds like a blessing until you think about what that actually means: the same pressures, the same speed, the same way the fashion world chews through young women.
That narrative—the “next [famous person]”—is a trap. It means you’re not being seen for who you are; you’re being seen as a vessel for comparison, a proof of concept, a repeat of a story everyone already knows. And you’re expected to survive it at an age when your brain is still developing, when you don’t have the tools to process being that visible, that valuable, that disposable.
I don’t know what happened to Julia after that. Whether she stayed in modeling, whether she got out, whether the industry wore her down like it does with most of them. You stop seeing the face and you assume something shifted, either by her choice or not. But there’s something about that arc—spotted on the street, suddenly surrounded by money and opinions, suddenly expected to carry the weight of everyone’s expectations—that sticks with me.
Frankie Nazardo, photographer out of London and Milan, spent a month in Kathmandu living with a street gang. Fifteen kids, all of them sniffing glue daily—enough that they’d stop recognizing each other, forgetting the names they’d been given. Kathmandu gets maybe eight hours of electricity a day before darkness takes over, and in that darkness is everything: the dealing, the sex work, the violence that doesn’t bother announcing itself.
The thing about witnessing desperation close-up is how different it looks from the outside. The violence was real but not the center. The scars, the missing fingers, the visible diseases—all true, all there, but peripheral. What lived in those kids was something else: fear that had become mundane, uncertainty worn so smooth they’d stopped noticing it, a self-hatred so casual no one remarked on it. These things weren’t the drama. They were just the texture.
Frankie realized something that probably should have been obvious: his camera could only capture the surface of people. The decoration. The visual. A shimmer of the true feeling, but not the thing itself. All his skill was built to miss what actually mattered.
When he came home after the month, he wrote it down. Not as a story with a moral but as a document—something that had to exist outside his head. Magazines ran it, newspapers picked it up. Then he went back to work: shooting bands, friends, women in better light. Processing it, not forgetting. Building from the distance where the camera might actually work.
You used to need an actual industry to get famous. A manager, probably sleazy. You’d make a demo tape, send it to casting directors, presumably sleep with someone you shouldn’t. The whole machine. Now you need a cheap computer, a webcam, and an internet connection. If you’re a teenage girl with the right face, you can build a following before you’re old enough to vote. There’s a waiting audience of people with deeply specific interests, and the internet finally gave them a way to find each other.
Rebecca Flint understood this. Born in England in 1995 with decent genes and the right chromosomes, she skipped the gatekeepers entirely. As Beckii Cruel on YouTube, she choreographed dance routines to Japanese pop music, wore colorful costumes, and recorded herself. The formula wasn’t original—Lonelygirl15 had already proven it worked. You find an underserved audience, you’re young and attractive, the internet takes it from there.
But Beckii actually got huge. Not just on YouTube. Actually famous in Japan. She released an album there. A DVD. Physical products don’t get manufactured unless there’s real demand. The kind of demand that means something about the videos—her dancing, her face, her presence—hit exactly right with a specific group of people with a lot of money and a lot of interest.
I don’t think it’s worth analyzing too closely. The internet surfaces all kinds of people the old system would have filtered out. Sometimes they’re talented. Sometimes they’re just willing to move in the right costume while the right people watch. Sometimes that’s enough.
Berlin’s nightlife had become a collection of failures. Massive clubs where the air felt dead. Student nights that couldn’t hold a beat for more than two songs. Bars in courtyards masquerading as scenes. You’d walk in somewhere that used to matter and realize it was just gone.
Someone decided to actually respond. Spring, the Haus am Kollnischen Park. A proper budget—one hundred fifty thousand euros. Simian Mobile Disco, Metronomy. Boy 8-Bit, Les Gillettes. Conny Opper, who built the real Berlin scene at Scala and Broken Hearts Club, running the second floor. Not a symbolic gesture. An actual attempt.
It was the kind of night that needed the city to vote yes. To choose it. Berlin’s best moments were never inevitable—they were always things you had to care enough to show up for, to will into existence. This was asking for that commitment.
I don’t know if it happened or what came of it. What stays with you is the moment itself. Someone looking at what the scene had become and thinking, we can do better than this. And then actually trying.
Donkeyboy is a five-piece Norwegian pop band, and I feel compelled to say that plainly, without apology. Pop gets treated like it’s somehow beneath discussion, like anyone with actual taste would be elsewhere — guitar bands, electronic things, whatever the sanctioned sound is supposed to be this year. It’s reflexive now. The moment something becomes melodic and popular and refuses to hide about it, the entire apparatus of music criticism shows up to explain why it doesn’t matter.
The mechanics of making pop are easier to describe than to dismiss. You take some competent beats, a melody that hooks, words that sound good sung loud, and you have a template. That’s how the industry manufactures its interchangeable stars, why every generation produces bodies built to be famous for six months and then forgotten. The form gets ruined by people who learned the technique without understanding what makes the technique worth preserving.
But there’s pop that survives that. Pop that doesn’t apologize, that understands melody and rhythm as things worth getting right. Alphabeat had it. Little Boots and La Roux had it. They knew the genre wasn’t a shortcut to success — it was harder than most people thought, because you can’t hide behind difficulty. Everything has to actually work. Donkeyboy showed up with that same confidence, the kind that usually gets mistaken for arrogance. Five guys making pop music that sounds inevitable, which means it probably cost them something to get there.
I think everything I genuinely like gets treated this way. Anything accessible, anything with a hook, anything that doesn’t perform being difficult automatically gets disqualified. It’s cowardice wearing a taste hat. You’re not allowed to just listen to something because it sounds good; you have to justify why you’re permitted to like it. Donkeyboy doesn’t care about that equation. They made pop music that works, plain enough that while you’re listening to it, you stop thinking about whether you’re allowed to like it.
You remember the exact phrasing when someone ends it. The way they stand or sit. The light in the room. Sometimes there’s a letter, sometimes it’s a phone call, sometimes they’re crying and sometimes they’re already moving on. This was early 2000s—you couldn’t just disappear, couldn’t ghost into silence. You had to actually tell someone it was over, which meant the words stuck with you for years.
I was maybe sixteen the first time, and I’ve got a whole collection of these final sentences from the girls I dated through my twenties. Jasmin in 2001 wanted her stuffed animal back. Susanne in 2002 blamed her friends. Sabrina called me from Lukas’s house—his mother could hear them. Regina had kicked off a whole new lifestyle and wasn’t coming back. Stefanie had joined what she swore wasn’t a cult.
Here’s what they actually said.
“Ich weiß wir haben es uns beide nicht gerade leicht gemacht, aber dass es so mit uns enden wurde hätte ich niemals gedacht. Hier bekommst du das Kondom wieder, das ich bei dir mitgehen lassen habe, du wirst es bestimmt noch fur deine Kathi brauchen. Wenn du mich nicht mehr haben willst, ist das einzige, was ich von meinen Sachen wieder haben will, mein kleiner Bär, den ich von meiner Mutter bekommen habe. Alles andere kannst du behalten, ich werde dich nie vergessen. Ach ja, ich kriege noch sieben Mark von dir.”
— Jasmin, 2001
“Hey jo, alles klar? Wie geht’s Marc und Sarah? Ich muss dir jetzt was sagen. Meine Freunde meinen du bist nicht gut fur mich, deshalb muss ich heute leider mit dir Schluss machen. Aber ich glaube sie haben wirklich Recht, schließlich kommen wir aus unterschiedlichen Welten und ich habe ja auch geheult, als wir zum ersten Mal miteinander geschlafen haben. Ich wunsche dir echt ein ganz tolles Leben und ich gehe jetzt erst einmal mit Magnus und Kevin ein paar Kaninchen im Wald opfern. Man sieht sich.”
— Susanne, 2002
“Marcel du kleiner Biber, ich wollte dir erzählen, dass ich es endlich geschafft habe mit Lukas zu schlafen. War schon geil, hätte ich aber nie gemacht, wenn ich nicht so besoffen gewesen wäre. Seine Mutter kam auch rein und fragte ob alles okay ist, weil sie bescheuerte Geräusche von oben gehort hat. Ich liebe dich und ich bin auch davon uberzeugt, dass du das Beste bist, was mir je passieren konnte, aber wahre Liebe trennt eben nicht einmal der Tod. Und zwei Kilometer schon gar nicht, mach’s gut.”
— Sabrina, 2002
“Mir ging’s echt nicht darum, dass Murat ein Auto hat und schon arbeitet, aber voll viele Sachen sind einfach so viel besser mit ihm als mit uns. Seine Freunde sind total cool und bauen voll viel Scheiße. Drogen und so. Mit ihm habe ich jetzt auch gekifft, das war total geil. Auch wenn mir sein Bruder dabei zwischen die Beine gelangt hat, aber Murat hat mir versprochen, wenn er sich erst einmal von seiner Frau und seinen zwei bloden Kindern getrennt hat, nimmt er mich mal mit nach London.”
— Regina, 2003
“So mein Freund, ich hab jetzt endgultig die Schnauze voll von dir. Ich hab dir tausend Mal gesagt, dass das keine Sekte ist, sondern unser Leiter und wir nur eine andere Einstellung zum Leben und dem was danach kommt haben. Und wenn du da ständig deine bloden Witze druber machen musst, bleibt mir nichts anderes ubrig als mit dir Schluss zu machen. Ohne Scheiß jetzt. Hier sind die zwei Oben-ohne-Fotos, die ich dir gestern versprochen habe, und wenn du dich noch mal bei mir meldest gibt’s Ärger.”
— Stefanie, 2004
What’s wild is that each one sticks with you differently. Some you can laugh about now—a girl breaking up with you while telling you she just slept with someone else, another one sacrificing rabbits in the woods with her new friends, another one convinced she loves you while already leaving. Some of it was cruel, some of it was honest, most of it was both at once. You’re too young to understand that ending something doesn’t make you a bad person. You just end it however you can.
We went to Social Media Week in Berlin in 2010 thinking we’d see something important happening. What we actually found was what happens when people who are excellent at talking online try to exist in the same physical space. Turns out they don’t really know what to do.
The parties were the most obvious proof of this. You’d think internet natives would throw decent parties, but there’s something about actual nerds—the ones who live on Twitter and blogs—that just breaks in physical reality. We fought through ice and slippery roads to get to parties that had no business existing, stood around trying to follow some Twitter war between people nobody knew, got beaten at foosball by someone with an interesting gender situation and serious style (no photos, no evidence), then fled to Belushi’s and ate an enormous amount of cheeseburgers. That felt more like celebrating.
During the day the talks were better. Alexander Ljung from SoundCloud spent time describing the internet like a huge box of Lego—everyone builds their own thing but it somehow all connects. I liked that. There were people from MTV talking about where music was going, and Stephan Bode from Giga arguing that indie games like “World of Goo” actually mattered, which was different from the usual startup hype because it came from actual taste.
But what stayed with me was this gap between some of the real ideas and how awkward most of the people were. I went in worried that everyone would be anxious and empty and scared of actual conversation. Mostly that was true. But underneath all the performance and the constant need to broadcast—there were some genuinely clever people just overflowing with ideas. The kind you want to catch and hold onto.
The whole thing felt contradictory though. You had people from Sweden, Egypt, Mongolia connecting online and making music together, which is genuinely powerful. But they couldn’t talk to someone standing a few feet away without filtering it through Twitter first. The internet gave them all these connections but somehow made them worse at connecting.
I left wondering whether anything would actually change. re:publica was coming up in a few months and I knew it would probably be the same—good ideas mixed with noise, smart people buried under everyone else’s need to perform. But I was already thinking about going anyway. You keep showing up even when you know better.
For twenty years I’ve been looking for someone who actually gets the chaos inside me, someone who can smoke through an entire plantation with me and then get wasted and stupid and reckless, someone who’ll make our first million with me and then just sit back multiplying the money, multiplying the DNA, multiplying the land. Found our own country. Evict Fox from his lake house. Watch the whole thing burn. That’s the fantasy anyway, and in theory it’s flawless, but in practice I haven’t found her yet, not unless you count that slightly off but still delicious cheeseburger, though every so often something happens that hits harder than any drug or chocolate bar could.
I’m betting you’ve felt it too. You’re walking down the street, at a party, standing in a museum, just moving through the world with your head empty, and then she passes. The sun is practically exploding with light. Birds are screaming at each other. The air smells like some illegal mixture of sunflower fields and spearmint, and her face, her hair, her entire being just barely grazes your life for one second. It doesn’t matter if you’re brave enough to follow her like an idiot or too chickenshit to move—she’s already gone, vanished back into nowhere, and you’re still here on your predetermined wrong dirty path when you should’ve been saved.
That’s what happened with Ella. I saw her on a modeling site, lost my mind completely in that instant, and I would’ve dragged her to an altar full of Klingons without knowing a single true thing about her. Her age? No clue. What she does? Haven’t got an idea. Where she’s from? Maybe New Zealand. But it doesn’t actually matter anymore. Because Ella is really just every girl who’s ever flickered through my field of vision, who never had any idea I was watching, and who left nothing behind except this small enormous feeling of freedom and immortality and some parallel universe where we’re already together.
Fifteen hundred pieces or so across this notebook over the years, and what once felt like an endless supply of territory has started to look conspicuously thin. You write long enough and the pattern underneath becomes visible. The scaffolding shows.
There’s only really a handful of things worth thinking about. Heartbreak. Friendship. Becoming an adult. Desire in all its stupid, repetitive forms. The gap between the person you want to be and the person you are. New music, girls who matter, artists worth paying attention to. Write about these long enough and they start to look identical—just different costumes draped over the same problem.
How many times can you turn over a heartbreak before you’re just repeating the same observation in new words? How many pieces about the weight of aging or the specific frustration of being in love before you realize you’re working in a circle? The idea was always that each new subject would have its own texture. That falling in love at thirty would be different from twenty-five. But it’s not. The mechanism is identical. The damage is the same. The stupid hope is always there.
After enough time you start to suspect this is just what it looks like to write about yourself. You think you’re exploring new ground and then you notice you’ve been walking the same circle the whole time. The human material doesn’t actually change. It just comes back around in slightly different clothes.
Which creates a problem. Stop? Publish some final piece saying “that’s everything I had to say, we’re done”? Or accept that the repetition is the actual subject, that life itself is circular, that you’re just documenting the wheel turning and turning and turning.
Because that’s what it is, watching yourself and everyone you know get thrown the same problems again and again. You’re supposed to get better at handling them, or at least handle them differently. But the core pattern never shifts. The new song is just the old song. The new heartbreak is the old pain with a different name.
So you keep writing. Not because you’ve discovered anything new but because the writing itself is what matters. You’re not documenting some grand arc of discovery or growth. You’re just marking time, watching the cycle repeat, keeping a record of how the wheel looks from the inside. And maybe that’s the whole thing. Maybe that’s all there is.
JJ—Elin Kastlander and Joakim Benon—made bright synth pop at exactly the right moment in the late 2000s. Album “jj nº 3” with songs like “Into the Light.” Signed to Sincerely Yours and Secretly Canadian, toured with The xx. All the positioning correct: ABBA lineage, comparisons to La Roux, the whole apparatus of electronic pop working as designed.
Listening felt clean and distant at once. Well-executed, nothing out of place, and somehow unremarkable. There’s that gap between competent and compelling—JJ lived in it. Not because anything was wrong, but because everything was so settled. They’d found the formula and did it right, and maybe that was enough. But it was also maybe all there was to it.
Jasmin was lightning. Shaved head and everywhere else, dressed like fury, the kind of punk who actually meant it—didn’t just listen to Slipknot and In Extremo and Knorkator but genuinely wanted to see the whole world burn in anarchist fire. She had a story about being raised by Romani, never got tired of telling it to anyone.
I was killing time at the reception desk of this nursing home—soul-crushing pay, pointless job—when she showed up doing community service. She’d blow past me on the bridge before the storage shed like I didn’t exist. But hours later in the elevator we were all over each other. The chapel on the top floor had decent light and nobody going up there. We were pulling off clothes, throwing them around, her pressed against the cold wall while the old people were downstairs sleeping. Then back together, back downstairs, lighting a joint in the common room like we hadn’t just broken three different rules.
Except the old man in the wheelchair. Herr Brechtl. He was staring at us with this look in his eyes when we were trying to get presentable again, started muttering something about penises and towels like he was talking in his sleep. Then he grabbed us and pulled us into his room. Tea. He made tea and explained why he’d specifically asked for a window facing the school’s sports field—the young girls in their PE uniforms, he said, matter-of-fact, like this was just conversation. He had albums. Decades of vacations where nobody wore anything. He’d named things. He had words from another era that somehow didn’t land mean, just old, just sad and horny in a way that made you laugh. We did laugh. We sang. And when he dozed off mid-sentence we got out of there.
The bathroom tiles are where it changed. Her talking about systems, about collapse, about everything being a lie we’d swallowed. And me suddenly willing to believe her, to burn it with her, to walk away from religion and reason and the whole compromised world. We had hands on each other swearing on nothing at all that we’d never touch this capitalist fundamentalist false-choice nightmare again. It felt like conversion. It felt like the first true thing either of us had ever felt.
Then we went to Lidl and stole some hot dogs because we were hungry.
Two weeks later there’s a party. A girl named Sabrina. Blonde, this actual smile on her face, one breast bigger than the other, white socks. I kissed her. I went home with her. The next day Jasmin and I got ice cream like none of it had happened, like we’d never sworn anything at all.
There’s a story about what she did after that. Her best friend’s bathroom sink. She supposedly smashed his head into it so hard over what I’d done that it just broke apart. I never saw her again. But I’m absolutely certain she’s somewhere deep, still plotting, building toward something that’s going to drag every one of us straight down to her, where we’ll spend eternity together listening to Herr Brechtl tell his nude vacation stories.
The obvious thing about forbidden drugs is how much sexier they become once they’re forbidden. You’re told in school that coke and LSD will destroy you, and somehow that makes them the most compelling thing in the world. Not because they’re actually good, but because the warning itself creates the wanting. That’s the structure of adolescence in any society that tries to prohibit things: the prohibition is the advertisement.
By the time I was paying attention, cocaine and ecstasy were already classics. What was new was the chemistry—people figured out how to synthesize mephedrone in a kitchen, call it Meow Meow or plant food, and sell it online before anyone official could stop them. Legal gray areas are marketing genius. A few people died in England. The Berlin clubs didn’t pause. Why would they.
Drugs split cleanly into two worlds. One is the party version: young, hot, doing whatever keeps the night spinning. Models, hipsters, club kids, people who look good under strobe lights. That’s the version you see. The other is what happens when the high stops being a bonus to living and becomes the whole point—sex work for rent and drugs, bathroom stalls, the soft collapse of thinking clearly. Most people aren’t in either world; we’re just close enough to both to feel the difference.
VICE made a documentary series about Swansea, a Welsh town where those two worlds collided hard. People fighting for love, for basic life, for the next high. It wasn’t gentle. Watching it made me understand why I’d rather be on the side where I can still think and my veins don’t look like a road map. Not because I’m better. Just because that’s the bargain I picked.
There’s something particularly grim about February Mondays. The snow stopped being interesting weeks ago—it’s accumulated, compacted, turned the color of concrete. You wake up and it’s still dark. The day ahead feels flat before it even starts.
Music gets you through it, but not all music. The sad songs you love in November feel like quicksand by February. You need something with a different temperature to it.
I started grabbing tracks that had some kind of lift without being saccharine. Toro y Moi with ’Low’—that shimmer that cuts through everything. Ellie Goulding’s ’Under the Sheets’ because she knows how to make production feel warm. Brett Anderson doing that thing where melancholy sounds intelligent instead of needy. Then Delphic, Adam Green, Vampire Weekend, Tegan and Sara from Canada—each carrying something that pushed back against the season instead of drowning in it.
The logic was dumb but real: assemble enough songs that didn’t deny winter but wouldn’t let it win, either. Songs to listen to while pacing the apartment. Songs that made the hours feel less glacial.
By the time I finished that first run-through, the place felt marginally less cold. Not warmed by the music exactly—more like the season had loosened its grip for forty-five minutes. That’s enough.
It was one of those summer days where the heat brands itself into your skin and the night doesn’t come. I was sitting with Eva somewhere near Prenzlauer Berg, working ice cubes to nothing with a straw while she watched the waiter move between tables, and she asked about Adam just to kill the silence. We hadn’t seen each other in years and honestly I didn’t care how his life was going. Then: “How’s Sina?” Something in me stopped. I knocked my cocktail to the floor. Not an accident—I watched it break on the concrete, the glass and fruit and liquid scatter, and I smiled. It felt necessary.
Two years since the night she left my apartment screaming, and we haven’t spoken since. But I knew what she’d built: the right people, the right parties, something on a music channel, modeling gigs, affairs with musicians and TV people who mattered. I’d see her at events, sometimes photographed her in expensive clothes with expensive people around her. She’d smile for the camera like a professional, then walk straight to the bar without looking at me. Most nights that was when I’d leave.
The mathematics of it were brutal. While her life accelerated into luck and money and actual recognition, mine collapsed into self-doubt and rage and this grotesque gratitude for hating everyone. I started seeing her in other women. Moved through Berlin scanning faces—schoolgirls, designers, prostitutes—hunting for her scattered freckles, reddish gold hair, bright blue eyes, only to understand with increasing numbness that they were all just hollow imitations, secondary characters who could never be what she was, who could never survive the weight of obsession I stupidly placed on them.
By night I’d lie awake on pills and energy drinks, scrolling her photos with one hand and the other busy, jealous of every person connected to her, everyone who mattered in her life, everyone she let close. I’d become less than human—a ghost in a city made of glitter and drugs, exactly what she’d said I would be.
A few days after Eva, someone called and asked me to shoot an after-party for a Schweighöfer premiere at a hotel. I went late and already drunk. Candles everywhere, a bartender, a boss doing a full-bore New York accent that made me want to scream. I shot maybe two hundred frames and kept fifteen. It didn’t matter. I was an artist, was how I thought about it, and artists don’t have to care about results or utility or whether anything means anything to anyone.
I went out to the balcony to smoke and found myself alone with the city falling away below. I was trying to blow rings at the TV tower—some stupid superstition that a perfect ring pointing at it might bring it down—when I noticed someone else on the balcony. I could see her profile first. When I saw her face I had to cough.
I still grab magazines. There’s something about it that screens don’t touch — the weight of them, the paper, the way you find things purely by accident because they’re right there on the page. You can’t stumble into anything on a laptop.
Picked up a stack the other day. The Vampire Diaries spillover from Twilight has reached television and apparently magazines, because NYLON was completely full of Nina Dobrev and Paul Wesley. Fashion coverage, some stuff on Sarah Silverman, fifteen bands nobody knows about scattered throughout. Standard celebrity magazine fare, but it works.
VICE was doing Italians talking about sex, which I never tire of. A photo essay of people eating, mouths full, and a profile on someone called Dolly Freed. That’s the magazine thing — you come in for one article and leave knowing about something you’d never sought out.
FRONT is just… direct. Two blonde women, emphasis on their bodies, Hulk Hogan’s anniversary feature, and then a whole thing about why you should own a xylophone. No connective tissue, no effort to smooth the transition. Just next article.
Cooler had Nicole Angelrath talking about snowboarding, an interview with Yeasayer. But what got me was the early nineties nostalgia spread. Edward Scissorhands, Nirvana, Pulp Fiction, that whole era we all remember as the moment when pop culture was going to transform everything. Strange to feel nostalgic for something you already considered legendary at the time.
NEON went darker. Articles about heartbreak, death, your sexual compatibility with random people. Existential magazine stuff. The kind of thing you read at three in the morning and then avoid thinking about for a week.
And then Blinker, a fishing magazine. Trout photography, some story about the Balkans, recipes for your catch. The complete range — from music to men in waders holding fish.
That’s what I like about print. It doesn’t have to make sense. The incoherence is kind of the point.
Met someone on a plane once who asked if I knew Skins. Three hours, and we barely came up for air—Tony and Michelle, Chris dying, then Effy and James and Freddie, this whole generation of kids who seemed ancient in their heads if not their faces. The show had this thing where it felt real, like you were watching actual teenagers in Bristol figure their lives out, but every so often it’d slip into something weirder, funnier, more impossible. A magic trick that worked because nobody was trying to sell it as magic.
Skins wasn’t glossy. It wasn’t about beautiful people being beautiful in expensive clothes. These were actual kids—messy, horny, broken sometimes, funny almost always—stumbling through parties and relationships and school in a way that felt earned. The show let them be themselves, which sounds simple until you realize how rarely television does that.
By the time season four was coming around, you could feel it getting darker. Not grimmer in the way prestige drama gets grim, but heavier. Effy was always the heart of it—watching her navigate whatever came next felt like the show was asking real questions about where these people go when they grow up or break or just stop being who they thought they were. Emily and Naomi, Sophia showing up, all of it felt like the show was ready to go somewhere harder.
I still wonder where it ended up. The earlier seasons left you hanging—did Sid and Cassie find each other in New York, or was that just something we told ourselves? Skins did that. It gave you beautiful questions instead of clean answers. You watched people fall apart in really human ways and the show didn’t pretend it would all work out. That’s what made it work.
Noah Kalina was the self-portrait guy. Six years of photographing himself every single day, same angle, same frame — watching his face age in video while everything else stays motionless. At some point the project circulated, became this thing everyone had seen. Celebrities wanted him to shoot them. The Simpsons made fun of it. That kind of moment happened.
But the self-portraits were never his whole thing. He’s a studio photographer, mostly does portraiture. His subjects are often nude or nearly, shot in bright overexposed light with no flattery, no mood work, no softening. Just the body as it actually is, plainly lit. The same sensibility carries through: direct observation, no translation, no performance. Documentary in every frame.
The Fettes Brot songs still work, years later. “Emanuela,” “Schwule Mädchen,” “Bettina, zieh dir bitte etwas an”—the kind that burrow into your head and don’t come out. Three guys from Hamburg made German hip-hop something crude and funny and alive, and they never stopped being good at it. Rektor Donz, König Boris, Schiffmeister. They sounded like friends talking to you.
By 2026 they’d been doing this for a long time. The Berlin tour in February landed them at Funkhaus, which used to broadcast the East German state radio, and now it’s where they played in front of people who knew these songs inside out. Maybe there’s something there—hip-hop in the room where official voices once came from—or maybe that’s just the kind of thing you think about when a building has history.
I didn’t go. You know what those shows are like if you’ve been to a few. The band plays what they’ve always played, the crowd sings along, everyone’s there because these songs stuck with them. That’s the whole thing.
Apple’s figured out religion. Steve Jobs stands on a stage in his black turtleneck and speaks vaguely about changing everything, and it spreads through tech forums and Twitter like a virus that makes people give you money instead of making you sick. The remarkable thing is how little he actually has to say. What he doesn’t say works harder than what he does.
The iPad announcement had been building for weeks. Every forum full of guesses. Jobs hyped it as the most important thing he’d ever made, which could mean anything, but it didn’t matter because people had already committed to wanting it before they saw it.
Then he showed them: something between an iPhone and a MacBook, thin and minimal. You can draw with your fingers, read books, watch videos, flip through magazines, listen to music. Or watch porn for ten hours straight—whatever you want. The point is you can do it with your hands, and that feels better than it sounds. The price landed where Apple always prices things—expensive enough to hurt, not expensive enough to make you pause.
I’m genuinely impressed. Apple’s good at making you want nice things, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Their design sense is refined enough that using anything else feels clunky and desperate by comparison. And sure, people will camp outside stores for this. People will refresh the Apple website obsessively. Some of them will convince themselves they need it; most of them just want it, and that’s honest enough.
The devotion does border on irrational—people would literally infect themselves with swine flu just to own one, or so the joke went. But irrationality in service of genuine craft and taste isn’t the worst thing. Steve Jobs has figured out how to make people want things not through manipulation but through just making something so clean and elegant that you’d be stupid not to want it.
I’m probably going to buy one. I know exactly what I’m doing when I do.
There’s a festival in Breda, Netherlands. Every October, people with red hair gather there—thousands of them, from everywhere. Bart Rouwenhorst started it because he believes they’re something special. Not just visually, though obviously that matters, but something deeper. They’re vulnerable, burn easily, got teased as kids. But they have this thing—intensity, will, something you can’t quite name. So he made a gathering for them. Four thousand people show up and stand in a room with others like them. People who otherwise feel like they’re the only one find out they’re not.
There’s something genuinely weird about organizing around an accident of pigmentation. But maybe it makes sense. Any visible marker creates its own gravity, pulls people toward it, makes them feel less alone.
Cintia Dicker came out of Brazil, red-haired, beautiful, eighteen. Someone noticed. The campaigns started—Ann Taylor, Yves Saint Laurent, Dolce & Gabbana. Then the runway work. Gucci, Matthew Williamson, Lanvin. Elle, Vogue, Sports Illustrated. By twenty-three, she’d accomplished what most models spend lifetimes trying to build. The red hair mattered, sure, because everything matters when you’re selling something. But she was selling herself, not celebrating membership in a category.
I don’t know what she does now. Probably not the festival.
So the German government is working on some new internet law, and it’s basically going to kill everything about the German web that’s worth your time. At least that’s what happens if nobody stops them, which obviously nobody will.
The official pitch is youth protection—the usual argument that sounds reasonable until you look at what it actually means. They want to rate every website by age restriction, block anything deemed harmful to minors between 10 PM and 6 AM, make site operators legally responsible for every stupid comment their users post, and completely block any international site that doesn’t comply with German youth protection rules. It sounds almost reasonable until you realize what they’re actually trying to kill: the sex, the real language, the uncensored bodies, anything that makes the internet actually interesting.
This website would vanish. Tumblr, StudiVZ, VICE, SuicideGirls—anything with adult content, anything that refuses to play it safe. Not because any of this is actually illegal or harmful. Just because it’s easier to block than to let exist.
What gets me is how banal the whole thing is. People who don’t use the internet and don’t want to are always the ones deciding anything raw is a threat. They look at what actually brings people online—the honesty, the sexuality, the language that feels real, the refusal to pretend—and they see a threat. They’re not entirely wrong about that. But they’re wrong about what the threat is. The threat isn’t the content. It’s people thinking for themselves, finding community in places nobody’s monitoring them.
I don’t know if this actually happens. Maybe I’m catastrophizing. But I recognize the shape of it now: something good dying slowly because the wrong people are scared of it, and everyone watching and shrugging because the official reason sounds fine. The good years never end loud. They just fade while you’re busy with something else.
You find her on MySpace at some point in the middle of the night, probably scrolling past noise, and something catches. That synth, that voice. British, young, self-taught on guitar. The profile says Hereford, which means nothing, but it doesn’t matter.
It happens fast when you hit at the right moment and the machinery engages. She’s 23 and suddenly everyone’s talking about her. Wrote folk songs in her room, got pulled toward electronic machines, found Vincent Frank online and thought yeah, London. Polydor came on board. Then she toured with Little Boots. Now the singles are stacking up—”Under the Sheets” already out, “Starry Eyed” coming in February, the album “Lights” in March, a UK tour right after.
There’s a speed to it that’s almost impersonal. The hype arrives before the work has time to settle.
The thing is, there’s actually something there. The synths are clean. Her voice sits in them without strain. She has that strange confidence of someone who’s been building toward this alone in a bedroom and then all of a sudden the world shows up. The British press loves a newcomer and they’ve decided this one’s it.
For now there’s just the music and the momentum. How long that lasts is anyone’s guess. But you can hear why it caught, why it’s catching, why everyone’s suddenly aware that there’s a blonde girl from Hereford making electronic pop that actually works.
The photographs don’t try to seduce you. They just exist—bodies and dirt and light filtered through red glasses, everything shot with clarity and no apology. Petra Collins and Laura-Lynn Petrick work under Fatale Femmes and their images have this directness to them that comes from not caring much about what anyone thinks.
There’s something almost quaint about the panic institutions have over imagery. A photograph of a kid in a bathing suit can get someone arrested. A nipple on television gets blurred out of existence. But the actual culture of image-making—the photographers, the artists making things—operates on completely different rules. They decided long ago that the approval machinery didn’t apply to them. Collins and Petrick are part of that world. Their work is proof that you don’t need permission to make something real.
The Fatale Femmes project is crude and sexual and playful in ways that would never survive traditional scrutiny. Breasts and dirt and inverted crosses. They exist in pockets of visual culture that most people don’t even know are there—writing for Rebelle Zine, maintaining presence at Garbage Museum, showing up on Lookbook. It’s the kind of work you find by accident and think, okay, at least this exists. At least someone is still making this.
As a maker, I think about their approach sometimes—the moment where you have to decide whether you’re making something for approval or whether it needs to exist regardless. Seems like they figured that out a while ago.
Two weeks of Berlin gray and everyone looks like they’re about to ask for a blood donation. So naturally, Victoria’s Secret decides to sell a topless bikini—just two black straps and the rest of your hope that nobody’s mother is nearby.
For $68 you’re basically paying for permission to be topless at the beach while still technically wearing a bikini. It’s a fashion thing—makes no logical sense, which is the whole point. The ads were fine. The model was fine. None of it really mattered.
But here’s what actually gets me: someone looked at a bikini and thought, “You know what this needs? Less.” And then other people agreed with them. And then they manufactured it and priced it and shipped it into the world. That takes a kind of confidence that I respect, even though the entire idea is completely stupid. You don’t buy something like this because you need it. You buy it because it exists and because wearing it says something about who you are. Probably that you’re either too comfortable with your body or too bad at reading the room. Either way, at least the company’s being honest.
On a gray day in Berlin, there’s something great about that kind of stupid honesty. You’re not being sold a lie. You know exactly what you’re getting—barely anything at all—and you’re buying it anyway. That’s kind of beautiful, actually.
Some blog somewhere decided that “Redhead of the Week” was a format worth committing to, which is either the most specific taste or the most pointless thing anyone’s ever decided to do monthly. I think I respect it either way. One of the features was Anna Lutoskin, this Hungarian model born in Budapest in 1990. She had that strawberry-blonde thing going and these green-blue eyes that read immediately in photos, the kind of face that makes sense when you’re looking at it on a screen.
The post doing the featuring included all this stuff about redheads being genetically distinct—fewer hairs than normal people, some pseudoscience about pain tolerance, vitamin D overproduction—delivered in this affectionate tone that suggested the writer actually found it funny. It was crude and specific in that way internet writing used to be, mixing observations with complete bullshit like they were the same thing, which somehow made it work.
By the time this was written she had decent credits: Glamour, Ozone, Pull and Bear, Rosa Clara, that circuit of magazines and brands where interesting faces appear but don’t necessarily become famous. It’s a weird track to be on in the model world. You accumulate real work, real proof that you’re professional and photogenic, and none of it means you’ll ever be the person everyone knows.
What stuck with me was the ending, this genuine belief that she was going somewhere bigger. The writer seemed to actually want her to make it, like they were placing a bet on her future and publishing it as a small act of faith. That kind of optimism about a stranger is rarer now. Everything feels so careful, so afraid to actually care about anything.
I don’t know where her career went. These features don’t usually tell you that story. The internet moves on, keeps finding new people to believe in for a moment. But there was something kind about that original post, the assumption that she mattered enough to keep an eye on, that she deserved that space in the rotation.
There’s a photographer named David Titlow whose work I keep coming back to. British guy, shoots fashion and culture—Vice, Elle Girl, those kinds of magazines. But the actual images are what matter. Everything in the frame coalesces into something completely imagined and simultaneously completely real: the styling, the atmosphere, the specific people who belong to that specific moment.
I remember being younger and thinking good design was about restraint, about knowing what to leave out. I was wrong. The stuff that actually holds your attention is work that knows what it wants and shows you all of it. Titlow’s photographs are willing to be excessive, sexual, a little crude. They understand that glamour and dirt coexist. That surface is substance.
Fashion photography is tricky because it usually disappears into its own slickness. You see the clothes, the concept, the aspirational bullshit, and forget there was ever a person being photographed. Titlow’s work remembers the person. There’s something human underneath the styling, and that’s what makes it matter. The style doesn’t hide the subject—it reveals it.
He runs a blog called Kill Ugly Pop, and the title is the whole statement. Not interested in refinement for its own sake. Not interested in pretending you care about things you don’t. The work photographs what it actually desires—the surfaces, the subcultures, the moments that matter to someone. A lot of photography is technically competent but hollow. This isn’t.
Larry Clark makes films by getting wrecked teenagers to destroy themselves on camera. Kids, his debut, is the one that cemented this approach — real kids, real sex, real cocaine, real collapse, with a script so thin it barely functions. Provocation as method, exploitation depending on who’s doing the judging, and I can’t unhear or unsee any of it, which I suspect was the entire point.
I was thirteen when I first watched it. Maybe fourteen — doesn’t matter, I remember everything else about that day too clearly to doubt the rest. I walked in as a kid and walked out as something that wasn’t quite a kid anymore. AIDS. Rape. The kind of casual violence that kills you slowly or quickly depending on luck. All of it suddenly real, not theoretical, not something that happened in news reports. Just what could happen. What did happen. The film spent ninety minutes making clear that my innocence was borrowed and now it was time to return it.
Certain moments have never left. A disabled man singing to himself on the subway, barely audible, barely present. Chloe Sevigny unconscious while Justin Pierce’s character takes what he wants — I don’t fully understand why that scene wired itself into me the way it did, why it tangled sex and horror together in my head and left them stuck. Leo Fitzpatrick spreading infection the way some people spread jokes, knowing better and not caring. These images have weight. They don’t fade.
By the mid-’90s, enough governments had tried to ban or restrict it that the film developed this forbidden-fruit mystique. Obscene. Corrupting. The usual guardianship. And then the film festivals picked it up, critics championed it, and it got folded into the canon of Important Films. Which is maybe right and maybe misses everything — Kids doesn’t feel honored by that machinery. It’s a threat in a suit now, but it was scarier when it was just a threat.
So yeah, Larry Clark broke something open in me that’s never quite sealed again, which I think was exactly what he meant to do. Kids will always be my first time in that particular way — not sex or drugs, but the moment I learned that art could genuinely hurt you, genuinely change you, if it was willing to go that far. Not sure if I’m grateful for that or just stuck with it. Probably both. Probably neither.
I was expecting The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus to be a beautiful wreck—the kind of film you watch out of curiosity after the actor dies before filming finishes. Heath Ledger was in the middle of it when he overdosed, and Gilliam somehow convinced Johnny Depp, Colin Farrell, and Jude Law to rotate in and out to complete the role. By all logic it should have fallen apart. Instead, Gilliam made a film where reality shifts between actors in dream sequences, and it feels less like damage control than like the actual shape of the thing.
The movie is set in a traveling carnival with a magical mirror and a ringmaster who’s been alive for centuries. It’s baroque Gilliam—visually impossible, operating on dream logic rather than narrative sense. Christopher Plummer as the doctor, Verne Troyer, Lily Cole—the cast seems to understand they’re in something that requires commitment to strangeness rather than verisimilitude. Every shift between Ledger and the others somehow serves the film instead of undermining it.
I came out of it unsettled in the specific way Gilliam’s work unsettles you. You haven’t watched a standard movie. You’ve been inside something dreamlike, visually impossible, resistant to easy interpretation. It stays with you.
The strange thing is how okay with it I was. Not okay like it’s fine, but okay like this is one of those films that actually connected. I’ve probably spent my annual allotment of being moved by cinema on this one movie, which means I’m officially free to hate everything else for the next year. Except maybe whatever Gilliam does next.
I kept coming back to a Nataliya Pirozhkova photograph from Vanity Fair. Ukrainian model, early twenties, red hair in that copper shade that photographs differently than regular auburn. Blue eyes. There’s something about it that cameras seem to understand immediately, without needing explanation.
She’s worked runways for Elie Saab, Naeem Khan, done the magazine rounds—Glamour, Harper’s Bazaar, the places that know a striking look when they see it. But that’s not what held my attention. It was the combination itself. Red at that scale against blue eyes carries a weight. Medieval Europe burned women for it. Now they end up on magazine covers. Same genetic cards, completely different world.
I found personal ads in the newspaper as a kid—older guys advertising for young girls, offering money to lick their feet. Reading through those words did something to me. My eyes got wider, my stomach tighter. Where I guess some people were turned on, I just felt queasy. Threw the paper across the room and walked out.
That’s how I thought about feet for a long time. Disgusting. Off-limits. Then I learned that feet are one of the oldest turn-ons we have. King Ludwig was famously obsessed with them. Tarantino built films around them. Entire civilizations structured themselves around foot aesthetics—Chinese foot binding wasn’t just a beauty standard, it was a whole fantasy committed in blood, the idea that the perfect woman was one who’d broken her own feet to fit an image.
These days, I get it. There’s something about the right shoes, the right angle, the right moment—clean Chucks, white socks at the wrong time, a fresh pair of sneakers—that genuinely gets to me. Not like those ads. Not predatory or wrong. Just part of how attraction actually works for me. How your brain sometimes decides what it wants.
I’m not sure if everyone’s wired this way or if it’s all different. I’ve never figured out if there’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed or if that’s even the right thing to ask. What I know is when the circumstances are right, yeah—I’m into it.
I was obsessed with photography as a kid and there were plenty of photographers I loved, but Terry Richardson’s work hit different. I was in New York at some point and decided I had to work with him, so I called his studio every single day for a year until he finally broke and said yes. Working with him taught me more than just how to light a face or frame a shot—it was how to actually be with someone when you’re photographing them, how to keep things loose and easy so the work can breathe. I owe him everything. We’re still friends.
When I moved back to Tokyo to open my own studio I was terrified. I didn’t know if it would work, if people would care, if it would all just fall apart. But it didn’t. Things fell into place almost too easily. I started shooting whoever came through—celebrities, models, the Beastie Boys, Lady Gaga, Aoi Miyazaki, Yoko Maki. Everyone brings their own energy and that’s the whole point. There’s no bad subject if they’ve got something going on.
One thing I started doing years ago was making Polaroids of people I meet, and I’ve never stopped. Most people like it. There’s something about Polaroid that cuts through everything—you shoot it and there’s this moment where nobody’s thinking about anything except what’s in front of the lens.
Milo was born in January 2009 and that changed everything. Becoming a father rewires you in ways you can’t predict. It didn’t change how I work though. The studio runs the same way. If he becomes a photographer I’d be thrilled. If he does something else creative, that’s fine. I just hope it’s something where he gets to make things.
I eat constantly. Japanese food mostly—tonkatsu, sushi, yakiniku. There’s a place, FukuSushi, where I eat way too much sushi. Living in Tokyo, I can eat the best version of everything and I don’t take that for granted.
Working with nude models is just part of the job after all these years with Terry. There’s nothing weird about it. It’s the work, that’s all it is.
I’ve been to Europe a few times but never Germany, which I want to change. Europe’s impressive. I want to show my work there more, do more exhibitions, eventually have something international. My advice to younger photographers trying to build something is obvious but it’s true: find someone whose work matters to you and try to learn from them. Shoot everything in front of you. Then keep doing it. For me right now it’s just more shows, more exhibitions, as much as possible. That’s the next phase.
Most songs you dismiss on first listen. You hear something and some instinct says not for you, and you’re gone. But then something shifts. You’re going through it—heartbreak, anger, 3 AM staring at the ceiling—and a song comes through your speakers that just gets it. You reach for it again and again. Before long it’s not just playing, it’s there with you, marking those moments with something that won’t leave.
That’s what happened with these tracks. Passion Pit, Regina Spektor, Magneta Lane—I’d heard them before, maybe not really paid attention, but when I was falling apart they were suddenly there. Rolling around in the snow like an idiot, staring up at clouds wanting to be anywhere else, wanting to be no one. Those songs stayed. They became the actual soundtrack to falling apart.
I kept coming back. Each one different—some raw, some obvious, some you’d never expect to hit—but all of them necessary in a way that’s hard to explain unless a song has done that to you. Where the song doesn’t just play, it becomes part of the furniture of your suffering. You can’t separate the music from the moment it found you.
This mixtape is what that was like. It’s not polished. It’s more like reaching into a drawer and finding the tracks that actually mattered, the ones that got you through. Some uncut diamonds. Some obvious choices. Songs I wouldn’t let go of now.
It’s New Year in 2010. You wake up with whatever’s left of your hangover and the realization that you’ve somehow made it into the future. The year itself has mythology attached to it—terrible predictions, secret prophecies, all the usual garbage people attach to dates. You start asking the big stupid questions: what’ll happen? What’ll break? Who are you going to ruin?
Hannah, Caro, and I are finishing school this year. Come summer we’re done with our training and studies, and then we’re scattered again, heading out the way we always do. My plan is to freelance after the apprenticeship, finally move some money around. Hannah and Caro talk about fashion the way other people talk about religion—they’re going to sleep their way up design houses, run the industry, become competitors, legendary empires. They don’t actually know any of this. We’re all just lying to ourselves about having a plan.
Without a real plan, I make predictions instead. Pete Doherty dies on the Eiffel Tower. Lady Gaga is three Chihuahuas sewn together, using pop music to enslave humanity and usher in the age of dogs. Emma Watson films pornography. These aren’t guesses—they’re what you say when you’re standing at the edge and you need to say something, anything, instead of admitting you’re spinning.
I could tell you what this year will be like. Mixtapes. Interviews. Diary entries from redheads in Berlin. Weird photography. All the stuff that sounds good when you’re trying to convince yourself you know what you’re doing. But honestly I’m making it up the same way everyone is. It’s January 2010 and I have no idea what comes next, and that’s the only thing that feels true.
2009 was the year I got drunk and ran through the city with a camera asking people stupid questions. Somehow nobody hit me.
Nicholas Gazin went to this ninja restaurant and ate a steak the size of a laptop and passed out happy. He spent the rest of the year figuring out that Jameson and Ginger Ale was the perfect drink because you can keep going until you’re hammered enough to fall down the stairs with your pants off. Guinness started feeling like work by comparison.
My friend Hannah spent the year trying to break some Desperados beer record while also drinking Sambucca, didn’t pull it off, but got home from a drive doing a bit where she kept saying she was about to puke — which she wasn’t — and they had to pull over on the highway like five times. The whole thing was funny because her friend’s car was brand new and he was terrified she was going to trash it, but then two weeks later he threw up in it himself. This is what friendship looks like.
Juliet Elliott biked through New York for five days, and it was just riding every day, going out every night, meeting people who mattered. She quit her job at Warner Records around the same time because she couldn’t take the office life anymore. Suddenly it was lighter. Better. She got obsessed with Sleep after seeing them play an entire album at this festival, sat in a rented caravan for two nights with her crew just listening.
Avatar was somehow the best film I watched all year even though it’s this bloated monument to special effects and self-righteous environmental messaging. Maybe I was just staring at Michelle Rodriguez. She reminds me of someone from another life.
Bat For Lashes’ “Two Suns” was the album that stuck around. One song, “Daniel,” might actually be the song of the decade. Carolin swore by The Gaslight Anthem after her relationship ended, said her friends showed her what real loyalty looked like. Palina had these random little moments — Shakira asking where her H&M earrings came from. That’s the texture of the year — small moments, stupid drinks, friends who actually get it.
The year felt like Hannah described it once: “We’re just normal people trying to take over the world like Pinky and the Brain, or Hitler.” Which explained absolutely nothing and everything at the same time.
The best thing about 2009 is that it’s over. Not because it was bad, but because I can look back at getting drunk with a camera asking strangers stupid questions without having to figure out what it meant. It just was what it was.
I’ve waited in bars at 11:59, certain this was the year—this was finally going to be it. Midnight hits, everyone screams, I feel the same as I did at 11:58. Hungrier for something to happen, but nothing does.
Everyone talks about New Year’s Eve like it’s supposed to be some kind of turning point. The perfect party, the perfect people, the perfect moment where you feel alive and ready for whatever comes next. One night that justifies the entire year. Except it never does.
I’ve spent it in the wrong bars with people I didn’t actually like, in a friend’s apartment that was too loud, alone because that felt more honest than faking it. I’ve seen couples fighting at midnight, watched friends get destroyed and cry into their drinks, waited outside in the cold for something to feel like something. It never does. It’s just another night that happens to change numbers.
Every year I think I’ll finally figure out the formula—the right people, the right place, the right headspace. And every year I’m wrong. The night comes, it happens, and it’s either fine or boring or uncomfortable, but it’s never the thing I imagined. It’s never transcendent. It’s just a night where everyone’s performing the same expectation at the same time.
The weird part is that once I stopped needing it to be something, it got easier. I’ve had better conversations on random Tuesdays than on New Year’s Eve. Moments that mattered more because nobody was trying to make them matter. The pressure to feel something specific when a clock hits midnight is what ruins the whole thing.
So I’ve learned to just exist that night without the agenda. Sometimes it’s fine. Sometimes it’s completely forgettable. Sometimes something actually happens because nobody’s working so hard to make it happen. I don’t know if that’s wisdom or just lowered expectations, but either way, it beats the alternative.
You hand a camera to a random teenager and the worst-case scenario writes itself: kids documenting each other’s violence, their cruelties, their stupidities, all rendered sharper and faster than anyone wants to see. That’s the thing people worry about. That’s what you’d expect.
Tommy Petroni was fifteen when he got a Minolta Maxxum 7000 and a Nikon D40. Kid from somewhere in America, and he did something different. Shot his siblings, his friends, the ordinary stuff around him — and somehow made it look like more than it was. Actual color, actual composition, actual seeing. Posted it to Flickr and moved on.
The randomness of it stays with me. You can’t teach that eye. A kid that age with an actual instinct for light and form, just finding it somehow. Makes you wonder what he became after fifteen, or if he kept going at all, or if the gift just calcified into habit like it does with most people.
There was a moment when every tech company thought becoming cool meant hiring VICE and building a platform with indie musicians. Vodafone 360 was theirs. They found their heroes: Lily Allen, La Roux, Peaches. In times of economic crisis and environmental collapse, obviously these were the figures who mattered. Not firefighters. Not nurses.
You could watch Santigold try something completely new. Simian Mobile Disco let you see their creative process. Club Zonder Filter documented Amsterdam with narration about “the wittiest language in the world” — I remember thinking it was absurd. Every artist the platform needed, all carefully designed in that semi-red UI.
This blog ended up on there somewhere. I could never find where exactly. That felt right for a platform so perfectly designed that it disappeared its own content into the interface. Vodafone 360 shut down a few years later like you knew it would.
What I remember now isn’t the platform or the artists or the absurd heroes framing. It’s that moment when every tech company thought becoming cool worked the same way: hire VICE, hire musicians, design something beautiful, and the coolness follows. For a while it actually did feel true. That’s what that era believed. That’s what stayed with me when the platform itself was gone.
Christmas with your family is basically a game where everyone acts out their worst impulses and you’re just sitting there watching it happen. You might as well score points for the carnage.
Your dog has no idea what Christmas is. He just knows someone’s handing him brown stuff instead of the usual bones and chicken guts, and that’s confusing to him. Two hundred points if he throws up on the good carpet every ten minutes all night. Minus five hundred if you wake up the next morning naked in a bathtub with him.
Then there’s your cousin, same one as always, except this time they’ve done something with themselves and you actually notice. Four hundred points if you’re not actually related and you disappear into the attic for a while. Two hundred points off if none of that matters to you either way.
Your parents bought the cheapest tree possible. It’s not even green anymore, it’s brown, with gaps where whole branches should be. Three hundred points if you set the thing on fire and pin it on your little brother. Minus two hundred if you catch on fire first.
Uncle Ludwig shows up already drunk. He’s gonna piss in the potato salad, grab everyone’s ass regardless of how they feel about it, and hand you a ten-euro gift card like that makes up for anything. Five hundred points if you get him naked on the roof and he stays there. Minus three hundred if the hot cousin notices him instead of you.
Your little brother got a PlayStation 3. New. Top of the line. You got socks. He tears the box open, looks at the gorgeous machine, and then he plays with the cardboard for twenty minutes. Two hundred fifty points if you pack him in there and get it shipped to Africa. Minus four hundred if he comes back years later loaded and you’re still broke.
Your grandmother didn’t make it to the bathroom in time. Not because anything’s wrong with her—she’s just thrilled everyone’s here, the roast is smelling perfect, snow’s falling outside—she didn’t notice she’d pissed herself. Three hundred points if you watch her turn into an accidental fire extinguisher. Minus five hundred if you pissed yourself laughing.
And then there’s the bonus round. A hundred points if it somehow snows indoors. Minus two hundred if your grandmother forgot you got anything at all. Minus three hundred if you actually wanted SpongeBob sheets—and got them, and nobody was joking. That’s maybe the saddest thing that happens all year.
Four hundred if you build a working sled out of the neighbor’s cats. Two hundred if you get drunk enough that the night turns into an actual story. Minus five hundred if that story is you with your head in the toilet.
The internet in 2009 was mostly garbage - endless blogs about nothing, lies, people posting about their shopping and TV shows like it mattered. But there were a few with actual substance going on.
Deef Pirmasens at Gefühlskonserve lived in Munich, gamed constantly, actually read things, didn’t apologize for his opinions. The kind of person you keep following because they’re not performing - just thinking out loud.
Neslisah wrote NESNES.DE from around Istanbul. Turkish, sharp, writing about music and photography and whatever life was throwing at her. She played this character - founder of NESNES Company, this whole empire - and pulled it off convincingly. Impossible to pin down, which was the point.
Thilo at Hasencore wrote like I did - crude, sexual, mixing it all together without apology. Sex, breasts, daily complaints, whatever came to mind. Maybe he drank too much, maybe he couldn’t get over his ex Liz, but the whole package worked. The blogs that lasted weren’t trying to please you.
The Pimpettes - Ines, Kaethe, Tanja, and the others - posted what they wanted. Faces blurred, everything else exposed. Naked breasts, fashion, frank sexuality. Unapologetic. You either got it or you didn’t.
Hotzen and Alex Hauck seemed cursed with having to be creative. Hotzen blogged design and photography, Alex ran C33 with massive posts about music videos and exhibitions - building something visually strange and inventive.
Woxy and Laura at The Fucking Fucks wrote about fashion and they were beautiful and they had taste and you could feel both on the page. Made you want to read about clothes.
Elv in Berlin took fashion seriously without being precious. Not like the twelve-year-olds posting their snoopy sweaters on Funpic. She had ideas, weird combinations that worked, danger in her choices.
Maria at ♥ parti collected images - beautiful, weird, sexual, whatever had shape. She had the eye. The volume of good stuff she found was just there if you wanted to look.
München’s Lieblingslied was two students running through Munich, asking people about their favorite songs, filming it. Simple idea, solid execution - the kind of project that made you believe someone was going to do something real with it.
Franzi at Indigoidian was 24, writing from northern Hesse about weird things, found things, sex things, stories that didn’t belong anywhere else. I followed her for a while. There was something about the writing that kept pulling me back - something I couldn’t name. The kind of discovery you make when you’re not looking for anything, and suddenly there’s something that matters.
Envy is such a stupid habit. When the bald guy next door gets a car, suddenly I need one that’s shinier and faster and probably blue. Someone else’s girlfriend is prettier and I’m obsessed with finding someone thinner with bigger tits. You want what other people have—it’s automatic, it’s dumb, it never stops. I’m not usually that guy, honestly. I don’t lose sleep over it. Except for specific things. Someone takes the last sushi plate before I get there. The fat guy at the theater has a buttered jumbo popcorn while I’m stuck with small. Some other dude makes my girlfriend come when I haven’t managed it in months. That one actually gets under my skin.
But that’s not the real thing. There’s one thing I would actually commit atrocities for, and I have zero doubt about it: superpowers. And I’d use them for good, obviously. Purely selfless. Right.
Flying would be cool. I’d shit on people’s heads from above. X-ray vision sounds nice—I’d see through walls, check if my neighbor really makes those horrific sounds during sex or if she and her boyfriend are just torturing cats in there. But the one that actually gets me, the one that would change everything, is time. If I could just stop it. Hold everything still and nothing would move.
You’re alone in the world. You can do anything. Walk up to the loudmouth who’s been pissing you off and slowly, methodically push a cactus up his ass—take your time with it. Paint Osama bin Laden’s face with a marker. Steal whatever you want from any store. Cheat on every test you’ve failed. Start a travel company. Shit on your boss’s desk, Merkel’s desk, anyone’s desk. Take naked photos of strangers on the street, people you know, in their homes. Photographs as evidence that you were there and they couldn’t stop you.
I think about this more than is probably healthy. The appeal is dark and I know it—the power to freeze the world and take whatever you want, whenever you want it, with no consequences and no one able to stop you. That’s the real fantasy. That’s what I actually want.
Coco Sumner’s got the look exactly—Sting’s face, 19 years old, the genetic download that makes the connection impossible to miss. She’s in a band called “I Blame Coco,” pursuing music and modeling and acting the way you can when you’re born into that kind of family. She and Robyn made a track called “Cesar” together and the video is genuinely hot, which is either a mark in her favor or just what happens when you have unlimited resources and collaborate with someone as good as Robyn.
The obvious reading is easy: famous kid, famous parents, shortcuts all the way. Doors open because of the name, not because she fought for anything. Maybe that’s all it is. But Robyn’s been making great music for twenty years and doesn’t usually collaborate with teenagers just because of who their parents are. So either Coco brought something to the track, or Robyn liked what she heard, or both.
The video doesn’t answer that question. It’s polished and confident and well-made, exactly what you’d expect from Robyn and a 19-year-old who grew up around music and money and professional creators. Everything is secure. You can feel it in how easily she moves through the frame—the kind of confidence that only comes from never worrying about failure.
There’s something interesting in that ease. Not whether she’ll be great at music—that’s uncertain—but what you can do when you start from complete security. Risk becomes possible. Failure becomes survivable. Everything is a choice rather than a desperation.
Whether that translates into actual artistry or just good-looking videos, I don’t know. Probably depends on whether she wants it to.
For years the porn industry was drowning in a single template—blonde, vapid, surgically inflated, with the sexual authenticity of a doll. The audience was drifting to amateur sites where at least the pretense was dropped. The old guard was panicking. Then Sasha Grey arrived, and the entire machinery flipped.
She showed up three years ago—Marina Ann Hantzis, twenty-one, thin and dark, dressed like she’d never heard of propriety—and started tearing through the rulebook on camera. In Fuck Slaves and Face Invaders 4 and the rest, she was unapologetic, direct, uninterested in performing arousal. She won awards not because the industry suddenly developed taste, but because you could actually feel something. Best threeway. Best oral. Best gangbang. These stopped being empty categories.
Then she started moving sideways. Music videos. Documentaries. She talked about the work openly. Vice and Les Inrocks put her on their covers. There was an ease to it, a confidence that felt earned instead of something she was performing.
What made her matter wasn’t that she was a porn star having opinions, but that she refused to diminish herself to make it digestible. She could have played the enlightened rebel, built a brand around transgression. She could have softened herself for a wider audience. Instead she just existed exactly as herself—dark, curious, unapologetic.
I haven’t followed this world in years. I don’t know where she is now. But I remember what it was like watching someone refuse to perform, to just be as unflinching as the work demanded. That stuck with me. In a space built on fantasy, that was something real.
We showed up at Huxley’s Neue Welt with that typical Berlin crowd—money mixed with nothing, construction workers next to people in tech. Jenny Owen Youngs was opening, earnest guitar stuff, but everyone was there for Spektor.
There’s something about how she exists on a stage that doesn’t have a name for it. Not a powerhouse, not mysterious, just completely present in a way that’s enough to hold a room. She sits down and you’re actually in the room with her, which should always be true of live music and almost never is.
Her voice is huge, genuinely big, coming out of this small frame with cello and violin and drums around her. She’d switch between these fragile little songs and these sweeping arrangements without announcing the shift, just flowing into them. “Samson,” “Two Birds,” “On The Radio”—all the ones that matter. Songs about dead relationships and weird neighbors and women who are just sluts, which is the honesty about desire and mess that I actually want to hear instead of the usual careful stuff.
What stayed with me afterward was thinking about that quality—the thing she does where she shows up and doesn’t seem to try, and somehow that’s exactly what you came for.
By the time 2009 wound down I had more albums I couldn’t stop playing than I had weeks to listen to them. The year had been full of that kind of music - the kind that grabs you and doesn’t let go.
The View came out of nowhere with “Which Bitch?” - five Scottish guys who made one of the best indie rock albums of the spring and nobody seemed to notice. Their loss. Kyle, Kieren, Pete, Steven and Darren deserved better.
Regina Spektor had already done the quiet depression-and-piano thing, but “Far” proved she could do it without getting precious about it. Clever ballads, small stories, heartbreak without the cheese. That Russian thing she does, that dry way of moving through sadness - it’s hard to explain but it lands every time.
Peter Doherty was a mess, obviously. Still is. But he’s also one of the best songwriters alive, drunk or sober. “Grace/Wastelands” went into some dark places - his own dark places - and you could understand why he’d chosen the drugs and the drinking over clarity. It was bleak but it felt honest.
Little Boots with “Hands” was lighter, brighter. Kanye somehow praised her, which was weird, but the album was just good electro-pop. No philosophy, no statements. Just solid music that didn’t need to apologize for being straightforward.
Lily Allen spent half the year either naked in magazines or announcing she was quitting music, and the other half making pop songs that stuck with you whether you wanted them to or not. I got why people hated her - the sarcasm, the depression underneath it all. But she was interesting. That album, “It’s Not Me, It’s You,” had hooks you couldn’t get rid of.
La Roux - Eleanor Jackson with that red hair and her collaborator Ben Langmaid - just came in and started hitting. “Quicksand,” “In For The Kill,” “Bulletproof.” Three singles that just worked. I kept thinking they’d disappear as fast as they arrived, but for a while there they were everywhere.
Amanda Blank was all sexual confidence. “I Love You” was basically the opposite of modest, waving her excellent ass in front of crowds, making videos that didn’t pretend to be subtle about any of it. And the music was actually good. Especially when she worked with Lykke Li.
Bat For Lashes - Natasha Khan - did this mysterious, hypnotic thing that made you want to follow her somewhere. “Two Suns” had this pull to it that made you believe in the whole thing.
Yeah Yeah Yeahs snuck in with “It’s Blitz!” - no big announcement, just tracks you kept coming back to. That’s the mark of an album that sticks, isn’t it. The songs you play over and over because they won’t leave you alone.
Marina and the Diamonds with “The Crown Jewels” was the sweetest thing pop had going that year - genuine talent, real charisma. I knew the album was coming next year and I was already sold on it.
A long relationship wraps around you. You know how someone moves, what makes them come, where everything goes. There’s this ease to it because you actually know them — their body, what works, what doesn’t. Over years the sex gets better because there’s no mystery left, just trust and the ability to completely lose yourself. It’s warm. It’s deep.
But there’s always this pull toward something different. Want to find someone beautiful and strange and just fuck them for one night without thinking about anything else. Don’t care who they are or what happens after. Just the body, the wanting, the pure physical thing. Someone new. Filthy and urgent and no history. Wake up and they’re gone and so are you and that’s the whole point.
I used to think women didn’t feel that. Figured they’d wake up feeling ashamed or guilty, wondering what it meant, whether they were sluts or broken or failing some invisible test. But I’m wrong about that. Or maybe I was always wrong. Girls want the same thing — go out and hunt and find what they need for the night and it doesn’t matter to them what anyone thinks. Why should it?
There’s this Australian thing with the shag bands that makes sense to me. Colored wristbands that signal what you’re after that night, so there’s no confusion or awkward conversations. You see what someone needs and if you need the same thing, it’s straightforward. Just: this is what I want tonight.
Every year in late November, right before the full Christmas assault hits, you reach this point where your brain’s already half-checked out but everyone else is suddenly an expert on what’s in and what’s out. What matters right now, culturally speaking. What you should care about. The lists pile up — trend predictions, year-end roundups, hot takes — and somewhere in there you’re supposed to figure out what you actually think.
Christmas does something to your judgment. The season is too much — same music looping, the decorations mandatory, everyone consuming and pretending it means something. Your taste, which felt solid in October, gets shaky. You start doubting whether you actually like what you like, or if you’re just not catching the signal everyone else seems to be picking up.
The thing is, most of it’s just noise. I mean that literally. The same five songs until they blur together, the pressure to have strong opinions about everything, the need to know exactly what’s cool right now and what’s over… it’s exhausting for no reason.
What actually matters is what lands with you when everything’s loud. What you find yourself reaching for when no one’s paying attention. That’s the real in and out — not what some expert says you should think, but what you keep coming back to. Most of the time those are completely different lists.
You notice it everywhere—the ugliest websites are usually the most successful. MySpace, before they destroyed it. Facebook. YouTube. Google. Wikipedia. Something about an obscene design makes people invest more time in it, put more emotion into the space. The ugliness matches the person using it, maybe. Or maybe it just doesn’t matter what it looks like.
Hipster Runoff had no business working. Bright clashing colors, horrible layout, the design actively hostile. But Carles, the guy behind it, had built something that actually worked. He wrote about bad music, kids melting down on the internet, the weird behavior of online culture. The comments were insane. People cared enough to fight in those threads.
Then Carles got tired. After years of this, he lost interest and decided to focus on his “fashion brand”—basically just a t-shirt. He handed the whole thing off to a couple of new writers.
The readers tore into them. For a solid week the comments were a bloodbath. Fraud. Betrayal. They wanted Hipster Runoff to die. They were that angry.
Carles came back a few days later, removed the new writers, tried to save it. Too late. Some readers were already gone. Others thought it was calculated. And some just decided they didn’t want Carles back anymore.
Here’s the thing that everyone has to learn the hard way: a blog is only as good as the person writing it. The design is irrelevant. The logo is irrelevant. The brand doesn’t matter. You can’t just swap out the author and expect the thing to survive. The voice is everything.
Meanwhile, I wonder where Robert Basic is these days. Someone should set him up with a free WordPress account, get him writing again. Even if it’s just about why he was ever famous in the first place.
I’m basically a pig. I mean that literally - I live like one. Beer bottles, dirty socks breeding under furniture, bananas rotting into something unidentifiable on the kitchen counter, dishes that have achieved sentience through sheer neglect. And I’m okay with it. The mess is comfortable. It’s the natural state when you live alone and don’t care.
The problem is when someone else shows up. Unexpected guests who have to walk into what I’ve created here and realize they’re standing in the presence of an actual slob. You can see it in their face - that moment of understanding. So despite the fact that I genuinely prefer living this way, I’ve decided I should probably do something about it. Not for me. For them. For whoever has to sit on my couch and pretend they’re not thinking about what’s under the cushions.
So I’m looking for someone specific. Someone who knows what a cleaning cloth is. Someone who thinks toilets can never be clean enough. Someone who looks at dirty dishes like they’re a personal enemy. Ideally like Berta from “Two and a Half Men” - all mouth, no mercy. Someone big and blonde would be nice. Someone competent who can walk in here with a bucket and actually fix this.
I’m aware of how this sounds. The crude part about what I want. The crude part about how I live. I’m not hiding it. This is just what I am - someone comfortable living in filth, too lazy to change, and honest enough to admit it. If you’re the type who can’t stand a mess, who sees dirt as a personal affront, who’d actually take this job: find me.
Started when I was thirteen, shooting black and white film at school. Nothing professional, just something to do. Then my grandfather died and left me his 35mm camera, and everything changed. I was obsessed—rolling through film, developing it in the darkroom, the whole ritual of it. I spent afternoons in there as a kid and loved every second. I haven’t been in a darkroom in years now and I don’t miss it, but something about that patience stuck with me.
Finished high school and went to Art Center College of Design. After graduation it was obvious: turn this into work. Strange thing is, the love hasn’t shifted. It’s different now—higher stakes, real consequences—but I still get pulled in the same way I did at thirteen.
I’ve shot everyone you can think of. M.I.A. to P. Diddy to Lykke Li to Amy Winehouse. Honestly, almost no bad experiences. Maybe I’m lucky, but I think most people soften when they feel safe. Natasha Khan and Lykke Li were both as good as you’d hope—beautiful, genuinely kind, genuinely talented. The real gift of this work is getting to meet the people you actually love and just sit with them for a day.
I don’t care about shooting famous people versus unknowns. What matters is whether someone is actually open and at ease with themselves. Could be a celebrity or nobody—doesn’t matter. The work feels best when I’m photographing someone who’s stopped worrying about looking good and just wants an interesting frame. That’s when everything flows right.
Living in New York means you’re never stable romantically. One minute you’ve quit dating for good and the next you’re completely gone for someone you just met. Funny people are my favorite kind of people. Smart funny, usually—they go together. Most of my best friends can make me laugh in that uncontrollable way, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and you can’t stop it. That’s medicine. Without laughter I’d probably be dead.
I’ve been all over Europe, spent time in Berlin, and my first impression was how gray it all was, but I loved it—relaxed, good people, great city for going out. I’d go back. Travel does something you can’t quite name. You leave as one person and come back slightly different, or maybe just more awake to who you already were.
I read magazines constantly—i-D, Purple, Dazed & Confused, Lula, Nylon, Celeste—because holding a real magazine feels better than reading online. Same with photos. I watch Mad Men religiously, love Curb Your Enthusiasm and 30 Rock. I wish Arrested Development hadn’t ended—watched an old episode last night and it’s still perfect. I’m addicted to the internet at this point, pathologically so. It’s all information, inspiration, endless entertainment. Can’t imagine living without it anymore.
Music drives the work. I listen to everything. The XX’s album was one of my favorites that year, same with The Horrors. Radiohead’s probably my favorite band, as far as current stuff goes. Drove across the entire country just to catch six of their shows when they toured. When I’m shooting I need fast, high-energy tracks to keep it moving—usually chaos on my playlists, but I love them.
What I want now is to make music videos. I’ll always shoot, but directing videos—that’s the thing that pulls me.
Pete Doherty got drunk in Berlin and smashed a parked car with a beer bottle. When nothing happened—when the car just stayed there dented and he stayed there stupid—passersby called the cops. He slept it off at the station. It’s a pretty perfect metaphor for what Pete’s been doing for the last decade.
The first argument for him is solid: he wrote songs that actually meant something. “Can’t Stand Me Now” and “Fuck Forever” and “Music When the Lights Go Out” aren’t clever—they’re just raw. He dressed like he meant it, wore his damage in the way he moved, looked like he’d been awake for three days even when he’d probably been awake for three weeks. The whole thing was coherent in a way that most people who claim to be broken aren’t. You believed it because he clearly did.
Against that: he’s spent the last fifteen years turning himself into a cautionary tale. Drugs are his diet. His face looks like it’s caving in. He’s unreliable in ways that go past rock-and-roll drama into just being mean to people. He’s a guy who had every advantage and chose to systematically destroy himself, and I’m not sure anymore why that should be interesting.
But here’s what stuck with me: it didn’t seem like an act. He wasn’t playing the tortured artist. He was actually, genuinely unable to function the way other people do, and instead of pretending he could, he just went all the way down. There’s something almost honest about that, even if the honesty comes with a bill that everyone else has to pay.
I haven’t thought about Pete in years. The songs are still there though, and they still sound like someone trying to speak while they’re drowning. That’s not nothing. It’s not nothing.
Lindsay Lohan’s been absent long enough that when you actually see her again, it lands different. And when it’s in explicit work—a shoot for Muse Magazine with photographer Yu Tsai, full sex scenes, graphic and direct—the shock hits harder.
I’ve seen her nude before, plenty of times. That’s been the trajectory for a while now. But this is another level entirely. This is committed work, shot with real technical skill, lit the way fashion photography gets lit. There’s a video component too, which is a different experience. Watching her move through it in real time lands harder.
Yu Tsai shot it well. That’s what surprised me most, honestly—the craft involved. The lighting, the framing, the compositional control. And she showed up for it. You can feel her being present in the work, not just enduring it. The skill she’s developed since the last time anyone was paying attention is noticeable.
I’m not going to pretend this is complicated on a basic level. She’s attractive, she’s doing explicit work, and I’m interested in watching it. That’s the honest truth at the bottom. But there’s something else underneath that—watching someone who got destroyed by the celebrity machine figure out how to monetize themselves deliberately, on their own terms, with actual competence.
The work is genuinely good, which is the thing I keep thinking about. It’s not desperate. It’s not sad. It’s just well-executed and composed. And that unsettles me more than if it were either of those things. It suggests she learned something useful from the wreckage. That’s where I’m sitting with this.
There’s something almost primal about the impulse to mock America. Before language, before tools, before we figured out fire, some ancestor was already sitting around complaining about whatever the American equivalent was back then — the fat, the excess, the inexplicable confidence, the way they’ll invade anyone for any reason. It’s a hobby that runs deep.
But here’s the thing: you can’t actually hate America, not when it’s given the world hot dogs and Halloween and the entire mythology of becoming something from nothing. Lindsay Lohan. Clint Eastwood. The promise that you could go from washing dishes to a million bucks in a few days if you believed hard enough and got lucky. It’s absurd and seductive in equal measure.
I think about this contradiction a lot. The way America manages to be both genuinely appalling and genuinely lovable, sometimes in the same breath. The violence, the stupidity, the sheer size of its appetites — and then somehow also the source of most of what makes modern life worth paying attention to. Music, film, the particular kind of dumb optimism that invents new things instead of just maintaining what exists.
So you end up in this permanent state with American culture: rolling your eyes while absorbing everything it touches. Cynical about it. Attracted to it anyway. And that’s where you sit, knowing full well that your irony doesn’t actually protect you from caring about any of it.
We took a wrong turn somewhere near the Velodrom—Berlin, 2009, some T-Mobile skateboarding event. The elevator near Block 32 brought us backstage, and when security saw the camera they just decided we belonged there. No resistance, no checking, just let us through into somewhere we had no business being.
The event was skateboarding finals (Renton Millar won, Carlos de Andrade, some fifteen-year-old kid), arcade games, the usual scene. But the real draw was Deichkind, the German band that treated their shows like controlled disasters. Neon, rubber boats, umbrellas, props everywhere. They had this way of making you feel like you were inside the chaos rather than watching it from outside—being subjected to the performance instead of observing it.
We ended up right in front of the stage, which meant we got the full effect. It was loud and bright and relentless, and by the end of it we were completely covered in feathers. Not just a bit—actually coated, like we’d been through some kind of explosion. We were standing in the corridor afterward, still shedding feathers, when someone handed us vodka. We drank it without thinking about it.
That whole night had the quality of something that just happened to me rather than something I chose to go see. The best nights do.
There’s a specific high you get from a racing game where everything works. You nail the line, the car does what you tell it, and for a few seconds you’re perfect at something. I remembered that feeling recently after a boozy night with friends, after years of not caring much about racing games at all.
When I was a kid, me and my crew would spend entire nights in basements and bedrooms, controller in hand. Need for Speed was always running. Fast cars, loud engines, graphics that made you feel invincible. The game didn’t need to be deep. It just needed to give you that moment where you accelerate out of a turn and you know you’re winning.
Gaming isn’t a waste of time—that’s what people tell themselves when they feel guilty. It’s the opposite. It sharpens you. Demands your attention. Creates this pure space where you can be good at something without apology.
EA keeps releasing new entries in the series, trying different approaches. Shift looks interested in making the driving feel real, in the physics of it, rather than pure arcade chaos. What matters isn’t whether it works, but that moment when your hands know what to do before your brain catches up, when you’re locked into the machine.
I don’t expect these games to mean what they meant when I was fifteen. The high’s still there, just different. Quieter. Less about proving anything and more about the simple fact that some things still feel good, that your reflexes still work, that speed and control still matter. Even if it’s just for ninety minutes.
Jordan Carroll and Katie Cooper photograph each other, their friends, their corner of Manchester - the rainbows above the house, the spider in the bushes, the sleeping cat. They’re the kind of photographers who actually notice what’s around them. You can feel it in the images.
Making art with someone else is different from making it alone. When you’re solo, in front of the screen, waiting for the work to feel alive, it becomes this lonely thing. But when you’re creating alongside a friend - sharing the thinking, the failures, the moments when you have to figure it out together - it’s more honest. It’s messier. It’s better.
I don’t know if Jordan and Katie set out to make a point about friendship and creativity, but that’s what their work is: evidence that two people can notice the same world together, and that makes everything different. It doesn’t matter if the result is genius or total garbage. The fact that it exists, made together, is what counts.
Vogue ran this editorial—Italian Vogue, December—with supermodels taking selfies. Steven Meisel shot it, but it’s staged to look like they’re just documenting their morning. Gisele Bündchen, Abbey Lee, Naomi Campbell in their underwear at the mirror, eating bananas, smoking, talking about their bodies the way you talk about yourself online.
It’s appealing because these women are confident enough that ease reads as authentic. That works even when it’s completely constructed. There’s something attractive about that.
Fashion’s been chasing authenticity forever, and now they’re chasing it by copying Instagram culture. Vogue taking selfies. It’s funny to watch, probably not funny if you work there. Probably they just think this is what you have to do now.
I won’t remember it next week, but right now it’s good.
My apartment smelled like the annual AA convention had just wrapped up. Looked like Ozzy Osbourne got bored one afternoon and decided to systematically destroy everything in it. That’s what happens when you invite a bunch of nerds, a few perpetual children, and somebody’s ex, hand them a stack of Wii games, and keep cracking fresh beers every time the conversation dies.
We worked through what felt like a thousand pizzas. Drank more beer than Hasselhoff and Sepp Maier combined. Absolutely took each other apart in Mario Kart Wii, Super Smash Bros. Brawl, Wario Ware: Smooth Moves, and New Super Mario Bros. Wii. Genuinely brutal. Christoph lost every single game. I have witnesses. I’m not exaggerating.
Even Malte, who’s openly admitted he never actually grew up, stood no chance against my finely tuned decade-long mastery of mushrooms and power-ups and the sheer ferocity I brought to controller-shaking. So I’m officially crowning myself the undisputed champion of the evening, and I’m enthusiastically taking Christoph up on his invitation to burn his apartment down next time. I’m buying gasoline on the way out.
I got invited to a record store music event in Berlin for some network’s big behind-the-scenes thing. The kind of invitation designed to make you feel like you’re part of something, with a logo printed on it that probably meant something to someone. All I remember is the free currywurst and the cameras.
Groove, in Kreuzberg, had been retrofitted for filming. Lights everywhere, cables underfoot, equipment that had no business being in a record store, piled up like someone had moved a TV studio in and not bothered to arrange it properly. Markus Kavka was hosting, doing the easy charm thing, when one of the technicians made a choice that should have cost him his job immediately. He was standing on something inadequate, installing or adjusting a lamp, when the whole rig came down. Not slowly. Just collapse. Kavka was standing maybe six feet away. For a second the universe genuinely seemed to be deciding whether to kill him in front of the cameras. Then it didn’t. The equipment missed. Off to the side. Close enough to be funny, not close enough to be tragic.
Die Happy’s singer came through, performing unplugged, singing with a slight accent that nobody cared about past the moment it happened. Then Karpatenhund. Their frontwoman was the one who’d done time in a certain magazine with certain photos that everyone silently knew about but wouldn’t say aloud, which meant she was defined by that fact as much as by her voice or the songs, whether she wanted to be or not.
By the end they had everyone singing a Christmas song for the broadcast. Some promo thing that nobody was quite confident actually mattered. Kavka got to pick a record as consolation, which was probably the least they could offer to someone who’d nearly been crushed. I would have sued for enough to retire. He just laughed and left with something under his arm. The broadcast aired on a channel I can’t receive anyway. Which felt right. A perfect moment that mostly belonged to the people actually there.
I went to the premiere of Zweiohrkuken—Til Schweiger’s sequel to Keinohrhasen—already knowing what I wanted to get out of it. Nora Tschirner gets naked in this one, and her breasts have gotten substantially larger than they were before. I’m not subtle about this and I won’t pretend otherwise. That detail alone would’ve been enough for me to show up, but I decided to actually pay attention to the rest of the film too.
What I got was a mess. The plot’s scattered—something about jealousy, relationship problems, Til Schweiger playing a trans character—and nothing quite lands. The soundtrack is that generic pop stuff designed for radio. The theater was full of women absolutely transfixed by Matthias Schweighofer in a way that felt kind of funny and sad all at once. And yes, it’s mediocre. I’ll say it plainly: it’s mediocre.
But then something shifts. I’m sitting there nearly ninety minutes in, and I’ve actually been entertained. I laughed when the slapstick got properly ridiculous. I jumped at the Eiffel Tower gag. And when the nice neighbor-doctor started performing surgery without anesthesia and blood started flying, I actually recoiled—it’s that mix of horrible and funny that shouldn’t work but does. It’s dumb, unapologetically dumb, and there’s something refreshing about a film that doesn’t apologize for being crude.
If you liked the first one, you’ll understand what this sequel is doing. And if you’re like me—no taste, no boundaries, entirely committed to watching Nora Tschirner—there’s more than enough reason to sit through it. I’m already wondering if they’ll make a third one. Probably for reasons Schweiger wouldn’t appreciate.
Merlin Bronques came through Berlin last weekend. Still a musician, still the way I remember him except darker, rougher. He made the underground rounds and pulled the hottest women, the craziest men, the smallest cocks—everything raw and explicit—straight into his camera. Three photo sets dropped: Undergrund, Kit Kat, Europeans Are Free.
I need to finally say this: Merlin is what I’m actually after. I want to make something like LastNightsParty. That’s been the real thing pushing me. The website is technically broken. Poorly made. But it’s so genuinely beautiful in its brokenness, so digitally perfect in its imperfection, that nothing else has ever shown me what I actually want. The Cobrasnake gets close. LastNightsParty got me.
What Merlin does—and this sounds intense but I mean it—is make something feel necessary that should feel disposable. His website looks like it could crash any day but it feels more real than anything professionally designed. He’s shooting people at their most defenseless. Drunk, sweating, half-naked. And he’s not making it grotesque or precious. He’s just making it matter. Making the night feel like the only thing in the world.
I think about that all the time. How he pulls it off. How to make something sloppy read as more true than something polished. How to photograph desire and intoxication and bare bodies and make people care about what you’re looking at instead of judging what they’re seeing.
Someday I’ll make something like that. So technically broken it becomes beautiful. Where people forget to check if it’s built right because they’re too busy wondering what happens next.
Some nights you show up to talk about serious shit and end up wasted at a döner restaurant toasting to love and someone’s mom. This was one of those.
The plan was talking about actual problems — internet, privacy, all the stuff that matters when you spend your life online. That lasted until the second round of drinks. After that it was just working through the menu getting progressively drunker, making fun of some guy at another table, throwing around enough inside jokes that people nearby started openly staring at us. The bathroom became the real venue — someone’s pre-internet relationship got dredged up and analyzed like a crime scene, every detail examined and debated. Turned out most of us were already weirdly connected — same neighborhood, same city, that internet thing where you’re already in someone’s orbit before you actually meet.
The night went sideways when maximum drunkenness achieved consensus: we needed to see the inside of a Warhammer shop. No reason, just urgent. We tried on leather boots, took photos, made the staff actively uncomfortable. From there it was straight to döner, loud and chaotic enough that they’ll definitely remember us.
But the thing: Sara and Jeriko. They’d been in the same circles for years, that distant internet-people way, but something that night actually connected. They kept angling closer, laughing at the same stupid shit, disappearing together like it was inevitable. By midnight you could see exactly what was happening. I had drunk witnesses. Unreliable witnesses, but witnesses.
Nights like that don’t resolve into anything. No lessons, no coherence. Just you toasting to love at midnight with people you barely know, watching something start that shouldn’t work, fully aware you’ll all be making fun of this moment for years.
I somehow got a Nintendo Wii. The details don’t matter much—some combination of bad impulses and dumb luck—but there it was, this white console on the shelf, a controller that looked like it should be turning channels on a television set.
New Super Mario Bros Wii was what sealed it. Mario and Luigi together, four-player mode, level design so cleanly done you can feel every jump before you make it. Watching it play brought everything back—all those hours with Super Mario World, Pokémon, Secret of Mana, Zelda. Just thinking about these games is enough to get my heart rate up. This is why I wanted to play games in the first place.
I handed Sandra one of those weird vibrating controllers and we spent the afternoon jumping through levels, laughing when we hit each other, both dying on the same platform at the exact same moment and somehow finding it hilarious. Yoshi’s there, doing his thing. The whole experience is so purely, unapologetically Mario that it doesn’t need anything else.
What’s strange is how right it feels to play something that doesn’t apologize for what it is. Motion controls sounded stupid on paper. The graphics are clearly a step down. Nintendo basically said fuck it, we’re building something for ourselves, and it works. No grand reaching, no trying to compete with whatever else is out there. Just games that understand their job.
I have no idea what else the Wii has or which games are supposed to matter. I’ll figure that out eventually. For now, I’m just grateful to remember why any of this mattered at all.
When I was maybe twelve, the neighbor across the street showered at seven every night with the curtains completely open. My uncle gave me binoculars for Christmas—nice ones—and for a couple years, seven o’clock was the only moment that made my days worth anything. Everything else was just background. I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing in any real way. It was just want, and proximity.
I came across Kohei Yoshiyuki sometime after that. He’d done the same basic thing but made it his actual work. Prowling parks at night with an infrared camera, shooting people who didn’t know they were being photographed. Couples, strangers, whoever. The work ended up in galleries—MoMA, institutions in Tokyo—and suddenly it had context and a name and permission.
What stays with me is how little separates those two things. The impulse is identical. The method is the same. The only real difference is that his ended up on a gallery wall, which apparently changes what it means to call it. I understand why that would matter, why seeing someone like you get called an artist instead of just…that would be validating. If it happened, maybe you’d feel less alone with it.
But I also know the people in those photographs didn’t consent to being there, and a frame and a gallery and a critical distance don’t change that. It’s the same thing. Same violation.
It’s one of those things you think about and don’t land on anything useful.
The thing about watching Kaya Scodelario play Effy is that you see her do something most actors spend their whole careers learning. She’s just there—present in a way that feels natural, this cool distance that doesn’t perform itself.
I watched Skins at the right moment in my life. Young enough to think everything meant something, old enough to understand what was actually happening. And Effy was the character you couldn’t stop watching, mostly because Scodelario understood something about stillness and power that seemed impossible for a teenager to know. She wasn’t performing mystery. She just had it.
What I remember is how she could sit in a scene and somehow be the only thing worth looking at, without doing anything visible. No expression work to decode, no technique you could point to. Just presence. Just something she understood about existing in front of a camera. Watching someone that young have that kind of knowledge is strange.
The show cycled through its cast, so she left. Did other work. But that role—that version of her in that moment—it stayed with me. I’ve seen plenty of actors since. Most of them are trying harder and getting less. There’s something about knowing how to just exist that I don’t think you learn.
I think about that sometimes. What it does to you, recognizing that power at seventeen. How it changes you when you realize you can hold a room just by being in it.
Every December, AMY&PINK would do the awards. Man of the Year, Girl of the Year, Best Unique Design, and a few others. If you were blogging, you’d see the call. You could throw your name in if you wanted to. It felt ridiculous when I did it, but I did it anyway, because someone might notice what I’d made. That felt important.
There was something genuine about having a community that cared about blogs as blogs. Not as a platform for building something or cultivating a personal brand. Just places where you wrote about what you actually thought and cared about, the stuff that made you sound like yourself. Someone might design their sidebar obsessively, someone else might keep the layout minimal and let the writing carry everything. It all mattered because it was intentional, because the choice reflected something real.
The awards weren’t big—no money, no real prestige, just a list and maybe someone mentioning you on their site. But they meant someone out there was paying attention in a real way. That someone had clicked through and read enough to get what you were doing.
By 2009, the culture was already shifting. Twitter was eating everyone’s time. Blogging had started to feel like something people used to do. But there was still enough of the old guard around to make the awards feel real, like we were defending something that didn’t actually need defending because it defended itself just by existing.
I entered once. Don’t remember if I won. I remember thinking the whole thing was funny and earnest at the same time—which is the only way anything in that scene ever felt. No one was pretending it was important. We were all just saying: I made this thing. Does anyone care? Sometimes they did.
You don’t say no to Tegan and Sara. Thursday night I grabbed Sara and headed to Astra Berlin. The place was packed—Tokyo Hotel haircuts, girls all over each other, the coat check line stretching forever. One thing was obvious right away: those two Canadian sisters aren’t indie weirdos anymore. The mainstream has them.
They wouldn’t let me bring my cola in, and the coat check lady wasn’t going to budge on it, so we stood outside with beers watching Astronautalis, this American rapper who was actually funny—these wild stories about drugs, his face getting redder and redder like he was about to have a stroke—and somehow he managed to win over even the most hardened hardcore women in that place. Sara grabbed his merch. If you ever catch him live, do it. You won’t stop laughing.
Tegan and Sara played through this nice mix of songs, old and new stuff from “Sainthood,” told some funny stories about being teenagers and doing drugs, and then Sara mentioned she’d dated a boy when she was 13. The crowd lost it. Pure anger, pure betrayal. You’d think she’d committed a crime. Les Mads had done a video interview with them earlier. By the time we left my legs were completely destroyed. I could barely walk. Next time I’m bringing a folding chair.
The velodrome in Berlin, December 2009 - some T-Mobile-sponsored extreme sports show that had no business working. Corporate money and street culture don’t usually mix well, but the lineup they put together was solid. Pierre-Luc Gagnon, some of the best European skateboarders, and for music they booked Deichkind and Blumentopf, which seemed completely incongruous until it actually didn’t.
I remember the energy of the night feeling genuine. Not curated, not a brand activation that happened to look cool - just a crowd of people who showed up because the thing sounded worth seeing. The sponsorship was obviously there, obviously necessary to make the event happen at all, but it never felt like the point. The skaters came to skate. The bands came to play. Everyone else came to watch something that was actually good.
It was still early enough that you could just go to something without documenting every second of it. No Instagram, no stories, no way to perform being there - you just went or you didn’t. That December night in Berlin had that quality, and a lot of events lose it the second money gets involved. This one didn’t.
The photographs I’m most interested in look like actual life happened in them. Not the polished stuff—no makeup, no practiced expressions, no distance. I want pictures that smell like smoke and bad decisions, where you can see exhaustion and recklessness competing on someone’s face. They work because nobody was trying. You can stare at them and disappear into the moment, convince yourself for a while that you were actually there instead of wherever you really are.
Andrea is a redhead from San Francisco, known online as Ladyfreak. Her blog and Flickr stream are loaded with exactly these kinds of photographs. Messy living rooms. Drunk people collapsing at house parties. Vulnerable moments in bathrooms. Girls kissing. Pools at night. Bands destroying things. It’s the texture of being young and chaotic and outside everything else. It’s the life that looked worth living.
When I look at what she’s captured, I feel this wanting. Not nostalgia—she’s shooting this now. Just recognition that it’s real, that it matters. And I’m outside of it, which might be the only honest vantage. But being outside makes you want in. I don’t know how to square that.
I somehow never wrote about Chris Heads here, and that’s a real gap. The guy is a photographer. Shot for Vanity Fair, Elle, Glamour. Photographed Kylie Minogue, Kelis, Devon Aoki. Works between Milan and Paris, represented by New Blood.
What catches me about his work is how direct it is. He shoots women without any of the usual editorial tricks—no imposed style, no theory, just absolute clarity about what he’s seeing and how to get it on film. That takes a specific kind of vision. Most photographers can execute technique. He has real taste.
He likes hip hop, ice cream, and sunshine. I like that this is his biography. Not some carefully crafted brand statement, just what he actually cares about. It shows in the work. There’s no straining, no trying to prove anything, just a photographer doing what he’s good at.
Should’ve covered this years ago. One of those oversights you find in your own archive and you just have to own it. Here it is now.
The daily grind wears you down. Incompetent coworkers, some boss coming apart at the seams, the guy driving the bus just went through a divorce and stopped caring who he takes down with him. You’re fighting through it with whatever love and warmth you can still muster, and people are using it against you—misunderstanding you, resenting you, jealous that you still have some nerve, some directness, some ability to not completely fold. After enough of that, there’s only one reasonable response: get yourself properly, monumentally drunk.
When you’re doing that, you need a soundtrack. Something that understands where you’re at in each phase—the pre-drink warmup, the actual party, the point where it all starts to blur together. Babyshambles can do that. Anya Marina. Be Your Own Pet when you need something uglier. Something to carry you through the whole stupid carnival until you reach that moment where the room’s spinning and you’re screaming for your mom, and then Regina Spektor walks in like she saw this coming, and “Samson” makes it feel like the night was going somewhere.
What tracks work for you at each stage? Seriously—what’s your drinking playlist? Just don’t come at me with Jürgen Drews or Mickie Krause or whatever uncool German pop is supposed to get people dancing at weddings. There’s got to be some standard of taste, even after three drinks.
Running a blog long enough, you see what people actually search for. The queries come through your analytics like an unfiltered confession. Most of it is catastrophically horny. Some of it is broken in ways you don’t want to examine. All of it is real.
“Do I have a stinking boyfriend?” “What does your girlfriend call her vagina?” “Why have sex with your ex again?” These are the things people search. There’s a girl asking if she’d sleep with someone smelly. Another asking about her first lesbian experience. Mostly it’s just need masquerading as a search term.
Then there’s the celebrity stuff—Kate Moss’s breasts, Sailor Moon undressed, Nora Tschirner naked. The obvious stuff, except specific in ways that make you uncomfortable. “Underage big breasts.” “17-year-old boy lookbook.” The specificity is what tells you everything. Not just wanting the thing, but wanting this exact version of the thing.
Some of it is pure damage. “The government wants to kill us.” “My neighbor hears the staircase.” “My little ass.” People working through something they can’t say out loud. Searching for permission or reassurance or just a name for what they’re feeling.
A lot of it is just weird. Pudding with semen. A girl peeing while standing. Too sexy for New York, right for Berlin. Sex during lawn mowing. Spinach completely naked. What does “I’m rich bitch” even mean? Who are the girls in Aggro Berlin?
What stays with you is the gap between the curated internet and this—the search box, unedited, the actual thing moving through your server logs. Desire and shame and boredom and the specific late-night weirdness that lives in people’s heads. An entire spectrum of human need, mostly unspoken, all landing on your blog for some reason.
You see enough of it and you stop being shocked. It’s not malice. It’s just the internet being honest.
I’m stressed enough that English doesn’t have a word for it anymore. Not that we need one—stress is stress, and I’ve got it in every possible concentration. The problem isn’t the stress itself. The problem is that a day is twenty-four hours and everything I need to do requires about forty-eight.
I wake up before the sun, before the bats have even finished their thing, scrolling through whatever fell onto the internet while I was asleep. Half the time it’s porn and I’m getting myself off before I’ve had coffee. The rest depends on the calendar—school, training, work, whatever’s scheduled. Then the evening is usually whatever’s available: a party, someone to kiss, a friend’s place to crash, sometimes all three.
Sounds simple when you list it like that. It’s not. Not when every moment is spoken for. School’s throwing project after project at me—nightmares that crawl into my actual sleep. And I’m supposed to be posting three times a day to this notebook, reading everyone else’s stuff, commenting, networking constantly. I’ve got girls to call, family to check in on, shows to watch, people to fuck, drinks to have, drugs to sample, laundry to wash, money to make, groceries to buy, parties to attend, thoughts to process, houses to clean, music to listen to, books to read, plants to water, favors to owe. And that’s assuming I manage to shower and eat and maintain some basic hygiene. Sleep? Not happening.
So I’m making demands. Double the hours in a day. Better yet, fund the pill that kills sleep entirely. And this weekend I’m picking a handful of things off the infinite to-do list—something involving sex and zombies, probably—and getting comprehensively wasted thinking about how things used to be. Fair warning though: if anyone gets in my way right now, it’ll be fucking fatal. I’m stressed enough that I’ve got a license to kill. Preferably somewhere dramatic like a Russian airport.
I watched Mean Girls opening weekend and spent the next few years thinking about Lindsay Lohan in ways I probably shouldn’t admit. That face, the body, the confidence in how she moved through scenes—she was just doing her job, but something about her did the work on you. Every guy I knew felt it. It wasn’t complicated.
She had the full thing early on. Mean Girls, Freaky Friday, Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen—movies that actually landed. Albums that people listened to. Teen Choice Awards, MTV Movie Awards, Young Hollywood Award. The absolute peak of early 2000s fame, the kind that gets into your bones even now. She was what everyone wanted.
And then it broke. Somewhere around Herbie, or maybe it happened gradual and you just noticed it all at once. The body changed. The face got thin in a way that made you uncomfortable to look at. The hair color followed her brain down whatever hole she was falling into. Drugs. Alcohol. The standard catastrophe, the one that’s happened enough times that it barely registers anymore.
The car accidents. The jail time. The rumors about how far down she’d gone. The moment the industry decided to stop caring and turned her into a punchline. Golden Raspberry Awards for the marker: you’re done.
There’s this weird sadness in watching someone that beautiful and talented just disappear. Not because you know her or care in any real way—you don’t—but because the attraction was real, and so is the loss of it, and you can’t quite make sense of the before and after.
She’ll always be the girl from Mean Girls in my head. Everything else is just the script.
Three old guys in a nursing home, shuffling around in bathrobes. One’s dozing on the couch. You watch for a few seconds before the faces click—Rod, Farin, Bela B. The Ärzte. They’ve been Germany’s best punk band for forty years, and now they’re in a facility dealing with the basic logistics of aging: staff helping them move, meals on schedule, the strange peace that comes with not being anyone anymore.
The video’s called “PerfektHimmelblauBreit.” It’s deliberately low-key. Two caregivers, Mandy and Bernd, move through their routines attending to the band. No drama, no angles. The rhythm of care—helping them eat, helping them rest, treating them like people who matter. It’s the opposite of their “Yoko Ono” video, which crammed chaos into 31 seconds. This one breathes. It makes you sit with it.
They play a couple of old songs, “Männer sind Schweine” and “Schunder-Song,” and there’s something strange about hearing them now. These are melodies that have been in the world for decades, written by three people who are now watching daytime television or napping. The songs haven’t changed. The people have.
The whole thing is funny in a quiet way. You make a lot of noise for a long time. Then you get old. Someone brings you porridge and pills. You fall asleep next to your friends. No redemptive arc. No tragic final chapter. What comes next. I watched it and it stayed with me—not because it was sad, but because it was real.
A blonde girl asked me if I was satisfied with my life, holding my hand as we walked through dead Berlin streets. No wind, no sound, no one around. War had silenced everything, burned the houses to ash. I looked up at the sky. Couldn’t answer, couldn’t think. White clouds on blue drifting over the ruins like they’d won something. How alive these streets used to be. How no one survived the endless night. My body was buried somewhere under this rubble. Forever.
We turned into a park with dead trees lining the path. Her bright dress caught the sun and her smile made me forget, for a moment, the pain I’d been carrying for months. We laughed. We played. Then she stopped and pointed ahead.
At the far end of the path stood a naked red-haired girl. I ran toward her. But when I got close—her empty stare, pale face, blood covering her body—I slowed down. The sky turned black. The clouds became burning sparks falling to dead earth. The ground opened up beneath us.
Paula was holding me, pressing a cold glass of water to my face. “Another nightmare?” she asked. Her breasts moved with every breath, and the smell of cheap perfume mixed with her unwashed body made me hate her more with each passing second. Paula likes orange ties.
The fact that she replaced Sina means something is profoundly wrong. Three months since Sina left in rage and tears. Every night since then these visions tear through my head, making me sick.
“I have to find her,” I told Paula, taking a long drink. The room was dark blue-black. Empty syringes scattered on the floor next to the bed. My skin was covered in cold sweat. I hung over the balcony and vomited while imagining how she dies. How she suffers. How I can’t stop any of it.
“She’s your best friend, you fucking whore,” I screamed at Paula, cursing the day I let her through the door. The long nights talking. The crying. The sex, over and over, apologizing. Where does she even come from? When did she get here? I can’t separate reality from the madness anymore, can’t tell what’s happening right now from what’s only in my head. The drugs. The music. The women. But I only want one thing. Sina back. That’s all that matters.
Daul Kim, 20, Korean model. Photographs in i-D, Dazed & Confused, Vogue, Russian Vogue — the real thing, not decoration. Then she jumped off a building in Paris.
The strange part was how it all looked fine from outside. Her blog, I Like To Fork Myself, showed nothing. Last post was just a song she liked. But people dug back and found the earlier writing — all the depression about how predictable her life was, how disgusting, about loneliness that went “from the core.” She’d been posting about it for a while. Just not in a way that read as emergency.
That gap between the photographs and the diary stays with me. You see the pattern after. You reconstruct it into a story about someone falling apart. But it was all invisible while it was happening — just a young person with a good job, posting fragments of herself online.
Most children’s magazines are garbage. They fall into three categories, all of them bad. First are the commercial ones crammed with product placement—cards, toys, whatever gets kids begging their parents for money. Second are the ones pretending to educate while pushing some ideology the publisher believes in. Third, worst of all, aren’t even for kids—they’re instruction manuals for parents on how to raise children properly.
Papier Mache is Australian and it’s different. Second issue just came out. It’s light and thoughtful without being precious. Good photographs. Stuff that actually looks interesting. Fashion that doesn’t feel like advertising. DIY projects that seem like they’d be fun. All of it centered on what matters when you’re young—that sense that anything could still happen, that the world’s still open.
It comes from The Convenience Store, an art and design blog in Sydney. Beck, Alice, and Paul—Paul does the visual design, Alice the art direction, Beck’s the dreamer. They describe themselves that way, which is nice.
I’m not convinced it travels much beyond certain pockets though. I can see it finding an audience among particular kinds of families—thoughtful ones in Berlin or Sydney or Brooklyn with taste and time and money. But those families are probably at the farmer’s market right now buying heirloom vegetables and debating schools, so maybe where a good magazine ends up doesn’t really matter. It exists. Some kids will find it.
Carlos Nunez is twenty-eight, lives in Los Angeles, and has organized his life around photographing nude women. That’s not a side project—it’s the through-line. Beach days, forest walks, drives through California. All of it serves the same purpose.
There’s something clarifying about that kind of commitment. He found the thing and stopped pretending there was anything else. Most people split the difference—we scatter ourselves across hobbies and interests, never fully committing to anything. He took one image and made it his whole life. It stopped being funny at some point and became just what he did.
I don’t know if the work is any good. That’s not the point. The point is the singular focus—spending your twenties refining one image, reproducing it from different angles, trying to get it right in each context. Whether that’s brilliant or obsessive doesn’t really matter. They’re the same thing.
I get it, though. Not the subject. The other part—the way you find one thing and make it your entire life, and at some point it’s not strange anymore because you’re just too busy doing it. The funny thing becomes the real thing.
Opposite-sex friendships are a lie people keep telling themselves. Everyone wants to believe you can just be friends, that desire isn’t sitting underneath every moment, waiting. But it always is. One of you is always hoping the other will crack, and what starts as stupid wrestling around becomes lingering touches, what’s supposed to stay light gets heavy with meaning. When the guy finally tells her how he feels, she doesn’t want him back, and that’s it—the whole thing is wrecked and he gets to spend years trying to put himself back together.
Her name was Ana. We had what I thought was the perfect version—two people who actually figured it out, who could exist in that gray space without it destroying everything. We’d drive around hot summer nights listening to Muse and Mando Diao, fucking around, kissing sometimes, not kissing other times, pretending the ambiguity made us smarter than everyone else. There was something effortless about it, like we’d cracked some code that breaks other people.
Then I fell for her properly and wrecked it.
The months after were hell in the specific way only this can be. I’d tell her how I felt, she’d pull away uncomfortable, I’d convince myself it was over, then the next time I saw her I was right back to thinking maybe this time would be different. Every interaction felt like it meant something or nothing depending on how I wanted to interpret it. Maybe she did feel something. Maybe I just hadn’t said it right. Maybe if I kept trying, if I got it exactly right, she’d change her mind. The whole thing became a minefield where I was walking through my own head looking for signs that weren’t there.
Years of recovery came after that. Not clean recovery but the kind where you think you’re fine for weeks and then something reminds you of her voice and you’re back in it. The endless cycle of convincing yourself you’re past it, that you deserve better, that you’re already looking elsewhere, immediately followed by remembering exactly how she looked and wondering if there was any universe where she’d felt what you felt. You never answer that question. You just get tired of asking it.
Eventually you do build something back up. You learn to exist around her without it destroying you. The thing gets smaller, less immediate, something you can live with. You convince yourself you’re actually over it.
And then she shows up with the new guy.
There’s no smart move in that moment except smile and be polite, which is somehow worse than all the years of actual suffering. Watching her with him—seeing what her face looks like when she’s actually happy about someone, when she looks at him the way she never looked at you—hits different than any rejection. It’s confirmation of something you always knew but never quite had to see.
Every kid in the ’90s knew that grey brick for what it was—a window into worlds that made no sense on first look. I’d sit by the pool with greasy fries, that Game Boy in my hands, and the rest of the world disappeared. “Super Mario Land,” “Link’s Awakening,” “Pokémon.” The graphics were barely pixels, the sound was more chirp than music, but somehow that’s what made it matter.
The Game Boy’s official life ended decades ago, but somewhere in the last ten years I started noticing something weird: people had figured out how to turn the old hardware into an instrument. Not as nostalgia, not as irony—as a real tool for making music. LSDJ turned the Game Boy into a sequencer. Nanoloop does something similar. There’s a whole community making Game Boy music now—Pixelh8 is the most famous—and clubs started filling up with 8-bit sounds that honestly work better than most of what passes for electronic music these days.
The thing about the Game Boy is everyone has one somewhere—garage, attic, eBay if you don’t. The hardware’s just the entry point. What matters is the software. LSDJ is the most serious option—you can compose full tracks right on the device and record them to your computer through the headphone jack. Nanoloop is in the same ballpark. There are other options too. Cartridges come pre-loaded with software, or you can find the programs online and copy them onto blanks yourself. Most are free or absurdly cheap.
Once you get the software running, the learning curve isn’t steep. You’re just pressing buttons and hearing what comes out. Suddenly that little grey box starts making sounds—sequences, drums, bass lines. It takes about five minutes to realize you’re not learning an instrument so much as having a conversation with one. The 8-bit constraint isn’t a limitation, it’s the whole point. The sound is specific, retro-coded, impossible to get any other way.
There’s a real community around this stuff—8bitcollective if you’re thinking about getting into it. The people there are weirdly generous about helping beginners. But here’s the thing about chiptune: you’re not learning a genre. You’re learning an instrumentation, a vocabulary. Stay yourself. Make what you want. The Game Boy doesn’t care if you’re recreating something or inventing something new.
I’ll probably never be good at this. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I know exactly where my old Game Boy is. And I’m curious what it sounds like when you ask it to make noise instead of just play the game.
Mari Kojima’s photos show you things that don’t look polished. A friend’s bleeding nose. Naked bodies that aren’t in the business of being sexy. People at the end of a long night. There’s something fearless about it, or maybe just honest—the distinction gets thin when you’re pointing a camera at the actually-real instead of the made-for-camera.
She was born in Shimane, on the Japan Sea side of the country where the weather stays interesting. Did a year in Tasmania at some point, which is the kind of decision that tells you something about a person—Tasmania isn’t somewhere you end up by accident. Then Chicago and New York for school, fashion design competitions and some wins, the whole ambitious arc. She came back to Japan last summer though, and now she’s a photographer, does something in consumer electronics, DJs on the radio. Not scattered so much as intentionally moving, like she knows staying in one place with one practice would be the thing that killed it.
Her work is colorful without being loud about it. Each shot just sits there, patient and matter-of-fact, letting the brightness be bright. She photographs people she knows and people she doesn’t, and you can feel the difference—there’s an ease with the close ones, a curiosity with the strangers.
You can see everything on her blog, We Are The Little Island Management. The title is the whole vibe right there—deliberately strange, deliberately formal in that way that makes you smile because you get that she’s fucking with the straightforward nature of naming things. That’s the person on the other side of the camera.
I found Freelance Whales by accident, clicking through something or other online, not even looking for them. One of those discoveries that only happens when you’re not searching for it, where you stumble into something and suddenly can’t imagine how you lived without hearing it. A song called Hannah started playing and I just stopped what I was doing.
The band is five guys from Queens—Judah, Kevin, Doris, Jake, Chuck—and the song is on their album Weathervanes. It’s all about night skies and rooftops and music itself, arranged in a way that makes you feel small in the best possible way. Romantic and nostalgic, so charming it almost hurt, like remembering something that never actually happened to you.
At that point they weren’t signed to anything, so the whole album was just available online, free to take. There’s something honest about discovering a band that way. No label spending money to push it at you, no algorithm deciding you should care. Just the music and the pure accident of finding it yourself.
I’ve discovered plenty of things online and forgotten most of them within a month. But Hannah stuck. It still does.
The thing nobody really talks about is that music matters for sex in a way that nothing else does. A good song becomes part of what’s happening — not background, fuel. A bad song destroys everything instantly. You can tell in the first thirty seconds.
I spent a lot of time thinking about what actually makes a song work for this specific thing. It’s not about being romantic or slow or clever. You definitely don’t want someone singing about their dead girlfriend or their tragic childhood while you’re trying to focus on not tearing up the furniture. You don’t want lyrics pulling you anywhere but into the moment. You don’t want anything that gets between you and the other body in the room.
There were summer nights when everything felt like it was moving at the right speed. The passion would start gentle, almost testing the water, and then it would just accelerate — building until it crashes hard and keeps going. Muse was playing. Radiohead. N.E.R.D. The kind of music that doesn’t think about itself. Doesn’t demand your attention. Just sound that moves with you, that understands the rhythm without spelling it out.
When a song is really right, when you’re with the right person and the moment is right, the intensity becomes almost violent. Everything accelerates. Furniture breaks. Skin tears. You’re both sweating and breathing hard and nothing exists except the sound and the motion and the feeling of being completely consumed. And then it stops and you’re back in the real room, grinning, covered in marks, still catching your breath.
The songs that work don’t apologize. They don’t explain themselves. They just move forward and you move with them.
Action figures crowded every surface. Sneakers in colors that shouldn’t exist. SpongeBob everywhere. I saw Yasumasa Yonehara’s apartment on The Selby and I wanted everything he had.
There are spaces that trigger the standard kind of envy—the light, the room, the money. But sometimes you see how someone actually lives, and it’s unedited, unjustified, complete in itself, and that hits different. You realize you’ve been compromising your whole life without even noticing it. That’s when envy becomes something sharper.
Yonehara is a photographer based in Tokyo, known for portraits of girls that have real tenderness despite how exposed they are. But his apartment doesn’t perform anything. It’s just what he loves. Action figures, sneakers in shades of neon that don’t exist in nature, SpongeBob dolls, accumulated with the clarity of someone who knows exactly what matters. His space is maybe two hundred square feet. One of those Tokyo apartments where you’re turning sideways past furniture constantly. And every inch of it is uncompromised.
Most people spend their whole lives quietly hating their own taste, editing themselves smaller to fit into spaces that were built for normal people. He just lived. The apartment is cramped, crowded, objectively a disaster by any standard measure. But looking at it, I understand something: he never had to choose between being himself and having a nice life. He just kept it all.
Pikachu was cool when I was fifteen and so were my friends, and we truly believed it would last. We had something real under all the idiocy—Super Smash Bros marathons that went until dawn, group chats that felt important, the absolute certainty that someone would pick up the phone at three in the morning. You don’t question it at that age. You just know it’s permanent.
Then everyone scattered. Different cities, different jobs, different lives. The friendships didn’t survive it. You get Christmas messages about catching up sometime, but there’s never a sometime. These were supposed to be your people and somehow they just aren’t anymore.
What you get instead are situational friends. University friends who don’t fit when you’re older. Colleagues who vanish the moment you quit. People from bars and parties who feel real while you’re with them and completely gone the next day. I had someone I’d see most nights, dancing until closing, and I realized one morning I’d never seen her in daylight. That’s your friendship right there—perfect inside the club, nonexistent outside it.
What gets me isn’t how shallow they are. It’s how good it can feel. You laugh like you’ve known each other forever. You talk about real things. You live like there’s no tomorrow. Then something shifts and it all just stops. There’s nothing underneath to hold it up, nothing that survives the context collapsing.
I’ve accepted it. The real friendships—the ones where someone knows you—are locked away with people you haven’t thought about in years. Everything else is pleasant and uses you up and then it’s done. You end up knowing all these people who know pieces of you, but none of them know the whole thing. Somehow that’s just how it is now.
I’m going to play Pokémon in a minute. Not as nostalgia, not ironically, just because the thought of it made something click.
I remember “Bang Bang Berlin” as words getting passed around at the Scala party—one of those concepts floating through the noise and cheap beer, mentioned in passing between stickers and whatever came next. It sounded like something that might exist someday, or might not. But it actually happened. The website launched recently, and it’s a guide to Berlin and all the different scenes moving through the city.
Liz started it with three other writers—Mertol, Emer, and Jobot. The appeal is pretty straightforward: four people with different ways of seeing Berlin, writing about it from those angles. Not a house voice or a brand, just four people writing about what actually matters to them. That’s harder to do than it sounds.
They’re planning more features and video eventually. Meanwhile Liz is juggling other work—freelance journalism, a web show with Palina—the kind of hustle where you’re doing five things at once because that’s the way it works.
I don’t know where it ends up. Could be nothing, could be something that actually matters. The difference usually comes down to whether the people involved give a shit, and these four seem to actually mean it.
Can you actually live on nothing but beer? It’s the kind of stupid question that sticks with you once someone mentions it. I went down a rabbit hole trying to find the answer.
Turns out there’s research on this. Some guy named Nigel Goodwin at the University of Nottingham looked at beer’s nutritional profile, and it turns out beer has most of the vitamins and minerals your body needs to keep functioning. The only things missing are calcium and vitamin C, which you could theoretically handle with some milk and orange juice on the side. So it’s not a pure beer diet, but beer would be the bulk of it.
The volume is where it gets depressing. You’d need to drink forty-seven bottles a day. Every single day. That’s enough volume to keep you alive but also enough to keep you drunk in a way that becomes your baseline personality. You’d be bloated, your organs would be staging a quiet rebellion, and the bathroom situation would be relentless—you’d definitely be changing underwear multiple times a day just from the sheer biological fallout.
But yeah, it would technically work. You could live like this. You’d be a disaster, obviously. You’d smell like a brewery, your skin would take on an interesting hue, and anyone with a sense of smell would keep their distance. Still, the math checks out. Beer is, in theory, a complete food source. The question of whether you should is a different one entirely.
I’ve never been mainstream. It goes back to kindergarten—I was doing things in the doll corner that belonged after midnight, things my three friends weren’t doing. If I could make people from scratch, I’d make everyone even more different from each other, at least in character and taste. I believe in world peace and in helping mean-spirited people learn to relax. Men who think they can’t wear purple because they’re men irritate me. I hate those man-woman clichés. Women drive Formula 1 cars, men love shoes, men can be as creative as women. Football does nothing for me. I love kissing on park benches and watching stuffy mustache guys get uncomfortable. Really I’m just trying to show people a better way to live.
I hate bus workers who won’t help the elderly or disabled. I love art. Badly behaved kids make me furious. Smelly fish restaurants, no. The internet fascinates me—the anonymity of it, extraordinary places, the chance to make someone happy. Web 2.0 miscommunication drives me crazy. I love to travel. I love capturing good moments. Polaroids especially—nobody gets to see my secrets. I hate discovering over and over that coconuts aren’t Bounties. I love being told on Twitter that someone loves me, saying it back. I like sharing things. I love that feeling of mutual care, of looking out for each other.
My dream is owning a small, lonely island someday. A place to rest, think, and design. I want to blend my life with another woman’s, enjoy it, discover it, travel it. I don’t ask for much. If you’re reading this, you probably read the same blogs I do. Traveling alone isn’t much fun. I want someone I trust there when we discover new worlds together, and then at night in the hotel room by the fireplace, we slip back into our own world. Life’s too exciting to experience alone. You can’t hold all those moments, all those impressions, by yourself. If we don’t find each other soon, how will we tell our grandchildren about it all later?
I just want to feel loved. What you look like hardly matters. If you were bullied in kindergarten for being different, there’s a good chance I’ll find you extraordinarily beautiful. I buy everything on eBay because it’s faster, and if you want to test that underwater camera I just bought, if you want to go swimming, get in touch. Or maybe you like baking and we can make cookies before Christmas—I can’t do it myself—eat the dough together, both get belly aches. Halloween just passed. If I’d written this sooner, maybe we could already be out scaring kids together.
I miss those moments. Nobody comments on my blog because I barely maintain it anymore, but a nice email here would mean a lot.
The “Bad Romance” video is burning white rooms and unsettling makeup and Gaga refusing to blink or break character for a single second. The song is mostly “Oh-oh-oh” and “Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah” with some nonsense about wanting drama and kisses in the sand. It’s the kind of hook that shouldn’t work but does, because she commits so hard to it.
Most pop stars would be self-aware about this. They’d add some wink or distance to show they knew how stupid it was. Gaga just goes. She’s uncomfortable to look at, the video is uncomfortable, the whole thing leans into strangeness instead of away from it. There’s something genuinely bold about that.
I keep thinking about Eric Cartman from South Park nailing every Gaga song. Same unhinged energy, same refusal to soften the weirdness with irony. Someone online made that comparison and now I can’t unsee it. Cartman might actually be the more perfect vehicle for this music.
The thing is, none of this is about anything real. It’s spectacle and commitment and refusal to be normal. And maybe that’s fine—maybe that’s enough. Gaga’s not trying to save the world or make you think differently. She’s just trying to be the most bizarre pop star alive, and she’s committed enough to the bit that it works.
Most women bore me inside five minutes. I don’t know what it is—maybe it’s that they’re not thinking about anything worth thinking about, or maybe I’m just impossible. But I can’t do the conversation where someone’s talking about their hair or their breakup or wherever they live, and you’re sitting there wondering if jumping out the window would be rude. I need someone smart enough to be interesting and crude enough to be honest about what’s going on between us. Or at minimum, someone who knows what they’re doing physically.
Sandra was different. I met her more or less by accident and it felt immediately obvious that this was someone who actually got it. She was sharp in a way that was playful, could cut you down and then laugh about it, didn’t pretend to be anything. Smart. Funny in a way that landed. Physical in a way that mattered.
After that we just ended up in the same places. Parties, art things, whatever was happening. She’d show up and the whole evening would shift. Suddenly there was a point to it. I’d watch her move through a room and think, yeah, okay, this is what I actually want to be around. Someone who sees things the way they are, who doesn’t waste time on bullshit.
The thing about meeting someone who actually fits is that everything else becomes background noise. All those events and people you feel obligated to see—they suddenly reveal themselves as the waste they are. You just want to be around the person who makes you think and who makes you want to be better or weirder or whatever. Who looks at you in that way that means she’s actually there.
There’s something funny about falling in love with photography in a darkroom while making out with a crush. Sarah Small was 13 at some art camp in Washington D.C. when this happened—the kiss was forgettable, the medium wasn’t. She got a Pentax K1000 not long after and started wandering the city with it, shooting everything. Her sister Rachel, red-haired and freckled, became her first real subject, whether she wanted to be or not.
Now she lives in Brooklyn, and has been taking a self-portrait every day since 1997—almost three decades of daily images, which tells you something about what hooked her. She also sings with a Balkan a cappella group called Black Sea Hotel, and her photographs have run in Vogue, Life, The New York Times. American Photo recently named her one of the most important photographers working.
What makes her work distinct is how she photographs people—wildly different types, every kind of face and body, every style—and shoots them in colors that feel almost painfully vivid. Hot, strange, unsettling colors that somehow make each person look more real, more themselves. It’s like she’s found a way to show the specific strangeness inside every face, the thing that makes that person unrepeatable.
I don’t think she’s making a political statement or trying to say something grand about human diversity. I think she’s just paying attention, the way you do when you’re learning something new and it matters. You look at the details. You notice what others miss. And once you see it that way, you can’t unsee it. That’s what happened in the darkroom, and she never left.
Winter’s coming on fast. The temperature’s dropping by the day, the first snow’s already fallen, and you can feel the season shifting into something cold and tight. There’s this strange energy when the world locks down like this — new people show up, new decisions get made, everything feels urgent because it’s getting dark earlier.
Music matters more when you’re cold. You need something that actually moves you, that reminds you to keep moving, that fills the space winter wants to empty out. The right songs aren’t a distraction — they’re a necessity, like heat or sleep.
The Dresden Dolls get it. That theatrical mess, the way they swing between full-throttle chaos and raw confession, the feeling that anything could happen on stage — it’s exactly what you need when you want to feel alive in a dying season. Bat for Lashes brings something more distant and hypnotic, like you’re watching something beautiful happen to someone else and you’re frozen at the glass. Lykke Li doesn’t try to be big or showy but she doesn’t need to — there’s a strength in restraint like that.
There’s something almost primal about the need for music when it gets cold. It’s not really about the songs themselves. It’s about movement, about heat, about refusing to let the season make you still. You turn it up loud and you move because if you don’t you’ll just sit there watching the snow, and yeah, that’s beautiful sometimes, but not all the time.
Winter’s coming. The question is just what’s going to keep you warm.
Katy Perry in impossible clothes, Foo Fighters shaking the O2 in Berlin, Green Day setting the stage on fire—that was the MTV Europe Music Awards last night, and I was in the crowd. The Hoff wandered out and mumbled something weighty into the microphone. Miranda Cosgrove handed an award to Beyoncé, which apparently Kanye West deserved some credit for. The whole thing had this odd momentum where some moments actually landed and others died right in front of you.
The real night started after. Malte and I slipped away to the Universal afterparty, found ourselves in the VIP section, and drank with Sido and Tokio Hotel and whoever was attached to them. We watched Culcha Candela and Jan Delay and Patrice work the dancefloor, and we weren’t bad at it ourselves—dancing, eating pizza at 4 AM, somehow leaving with more than we’d brought. Palina was there too, which I wasn’t upset about.
The whole night was good in that reckless way where you know it’s also destroying you. Around 3 AM I realized something had gone wrong. I’d stopped drinking water or eating real food somewhere after midnight. Just Red Bull and adrenaline and the constant need to move. By the time I was circling those hallways, I was a ferret on coke—all twitch and no judgment—earning looks from bodyguards that made the situation very clear. The energy drink had won.
Now I’m trying to find somewhere quiet to just collapse without the body count. We’ll see how that ends.
Showed up to some G-Shock thing at the Admiralspalast because free drinks and celebrities sounded reasonable. The wristbands they handed out were white plastic and absurd, but everyone wore one, so I grabbed mine and headed straight for the vodka.
The crowd was pure Berlin circuit—models, bloggers, MTV personalities whose faces I recognized but whose names meant nothing. Palina was there, some No Angels members, the usual rotation. I did the rounds with a few German fashion bloggers, those conversations where you’re both just waiting for it to end, and then the dancefloor actually got interesting. Amanda Blank was up there, some MTV guy, Lady Sovereign. They knew how to work a drunk crowd. People were dancing like they meant it, not the careful posing you get at the wrong parties.
There were girls in green tops floating through the VIP section like part of the furniture, sweet and half-interested in whatever was happening. The Ochsenknecht brothers were somewhere fighting over the last bottles. By the end, someone was throwing G-Shock watches around like they cost nothing, and I kept one out of habit or spite or that dumb logic where free shit proves the night was good.
The MTV Europe Music Awards were the next night—months of advertising promising Beyoncé and Eminem, the whole manufactured hype machine. I didn’t believe it for a second, but I went anyway. You always go anyway, even knowing better.
I grew up saying goodbye in Spanish and Italian, waking up to Japanese pop music. My closest friends were kids of immigrants, refugee families, Germans who’d thought beyond their own borders. Their food on the table, their holidays in my calendar, their entire way of seeing the world bleeding into how I understood things.
Being forced to think only in German, to let only one culture’s inheritance live in my head, would have killed something in me. Would have made me duller and smaller and less capable of anything interesting. Every thought I’ve had worth having, every thing I’ve made worth looking at, came from having people around me who saw things differently.
Racism is straightforward. It’s people being too lazy or too scared to actually understand something foreign, so they just hate it instead. It can be obvious — slurs, violence, being asked where you’re really from. Or it can be quiet: no apartment, wrong kind, not people like us. But it’s the same thing either way: cowardice looking for an excuse.
I read something once about someone deciding to celebrate openness not as some great moral project but just as a basic acknowledgment: it would be nice if we didn’t have to keep fighting this fight. If people could just let the walls in their heads come down without making a federal case out of it. We’re not there. Maybe we won’t be for years.
What I know is simpler: I am the person I am because of people from everywhere. Take that away and I don’t get a pure version of myself — I get nothing worth knowing.
I fall for people like this: free in ways that feel like they don’t need anything from anyone, moving through the world like they’re floating above it. And I tell myself they’ll stay for me, that I’ll be different, that I’m the one who finally anchors them. It never works. One of you always wants more. One of you is always waiting.
“500 Days of Summer” is that exact film — Joseph Gordon-Levitt as Tom, who’s convinced he’s finally met someone worth derailing his life for, and Zooey Deschanel as Summer, who’s made it pretty clear from the start that she doesn’t believe in love, or at least not the kind he’s offering. The film jumps around their timeline, nonlinear, showing you the high points and the bottoming out, the moments where hope gets resurrected and the moments where it dies again. It’s funny in the way that watching someone delude themselves is funny — painful and true and darkly comic all at once.
What gets me about it is how unsentimental it stays. The Smiths play over the heartbreak scenes. There’s a dance number. The dialogue is sharp and cruel and honest. Summer says the things you’re terrified to hear, and Tom keeps hoping he misunderstood her, kept hoping his version of the story was the real one. The whole thing is designed to let you watch yourself in someone else’s desperation, and I kept laughing at how familiar it all was — how I’ve had exactly this conversation, made exactly this argument, harbored exactly this delusion.
I watched it with Sandra, and we couldn’t stop calling her a bitch. Not because we hated her, but because she was right. She was the only one being honest. Tom was the one pretending that love was supposed to override what she actually wanted, who she actually was. He kept trying to be the exception, and she kept not letting him. The film sides with her, kind of, and that’s the ugly truth it’s peddling — sometimes two people just want different things, and one of them gets hurt. No redemption, no lesson. Just the way it goes.
The soundtrack is the other half of why this lands so hard. It’s all indie and sincere, all songs that feel like they’re about love even when they’re not, and that gap between the music and the reality is where the whole thing lives. You’re watching someone’s beautiful delusion get methodically dismantled, and the Smiths are scoring it like it’s tragic and romantic when it’s really just stupid and human and sad.
It’s perfect for a first date if you’re the kind of person who doesn’t need the film to comfort you, who can watch someone get destroyed by their own hope and just sit with that. If you go in wanting to feel less alone in your failures, it’ll do that. If you go in wanting a happy ending, you’re going to learn something worse.
I’d been running this blog for years before Hannah showed up, and the difference was immediate. Not because the blog was bad before — it wasn’t — but because she had this thing where she could pull music and feeling out of nowhere and make you care about it. She’d send something over and it would be exactly right, smart and weird and funny all at once.
The blog needed that. Needed someone who could move between worlds — fashion, music, the internet’s dumb corners — without ever sounding like they were trying to impress anyone. She just knew what mattered and what didn’t, and she was ruthless about it in the best way.
What struck me most was how unselfconscious she was about being smart. No performance, no reaching. She’d write something devastating and move on like she hadn’t just made you think differently about something you thought you’d understood. That kind of ease doesn’t come from nowhere, but she never made it feel like work.
Twenty-two feels early for all that, but she was always a little ahead of where she should’ve been. I hope she keeps that intact — that willingness to find what’s interesting and throw everything at it without worrying about the shape it’ll take. The world’s too full of people who learned too early how to be careful.
There’s that moment in the middle of a concert where you stop thinking about yourself entirely. It happened somewhere in the middle of Bat for Lashes’ set at Fritz Club last night, when I realized that Natasha Khan — all five feet of her, moving across the stage like someone conducting a séance — had managed to make me feel like I was the only person in the room. Not in a flattering way. In a way that made me understand why people do stupid things. Why they write letters they never send. Why they imagine scenarios that would definitely be crimes.
I want to put her in a glass box. A beautiful, magical, terrarium-like thing with blue light and moss and nothing but her voice. Just her, performing, singing “Daniel” on a loop, never aging, never leaving, never realizing that the person pressing his face against the glass is no longer quite sane. My friend Sarah, who’d spent forty euros on a hoodie she immediately regretted, rolled her eyes at me during one of my incoherent declarations of worship. She was right to roll her eyes. I deserved it.
The band is tighter than I expected. Khan has this stillness to her — she barely moves, but the whole room moves around her. That’s genuine power. Not the fake kind you see in music venues where everyone’s trying to seem larger than they are. She’s just there, being impossibly magnetic, and you can feel everyone in the room mentally buying tickets to her next show.
There were celebrities there — the kind of minor famous people you recognize from television, the kind that make you aware you’re at an event rather than just a show. But I wasn’t interested. I was too busy mentally furnishing my glass box.
Bat for Lashes has been around for long enough that people stopped talking about them the way they used to, which means the people still showing up actually care. And Natasha Khan just turned thirty, which somehow makes her more captivating instead of less. You’d think that’s not how it works. But it is.
I don’t know what I’m going to do about any of this. I’ll probably just listen to “Two Suns” again and let that feeling sit in my chest until it becomes a regular ache, the kind you stop noticing. The kind that shapes you without you realizing. That’s the thing about obsession with someone you’ll never have — it’s not about the person at all. It’s about what the obsession teaches you about yourself. Mine’s teaching me that I’m still as dumb about beauty as I was at twenty-five.
There was this moment in 2009 when MTV was still enough of a thing that they’d fly everyone to Berlin for the Europe Music Awards and somehow manage to book Katy Perry, Green Day, and Shakira on the same stage at the O2 World. Looking back, it feels like a specific collision of pop culture moments that could only have happened then—not early enough to be retro, not recent enough to matter, but exactly at the point where everything felt possible if you were paying attention.
I remember the buzz around it, that strange competitive energy MTV awards always had back then. The artists themselves felt like the entire landscape of what was happening in music—Green Day still mattered as punk, Katy Perry was the reigning pop starlet, Shakira was inexplicably huge. It was the last moment before everything fractured into streaming and playlists and nobody agreed on what actually mattered anymore.
The weird thing was that getting tickets meant entering these strange contests and giveaways, the kind where they’d ask you ridiculous questions like who you’d rather sleep with, which always felt vaguely embarrassing and honest in equal measure. That was the internet back then—crude and unfiltered but still somehow charming about it. Now everything’s too careful.
Berlin itself was the right choice for this. The city had that energy then, felt like something was happening there. The venue, the artists, the moment—it all made sense. You’d see photos and clips afterward of people actually having fun at this thing, not performing fun for their phones. There’s something lost in that.
I never made it to that one. Too far, too much friction to actually go. But I remember it happening, remember the particular flavor of that week when it was the biggest thing, and then it was over. MTV faded pretty quietly after that. Now these awards barely register. Sometimes you see them trending and you don’t even notice because nothing’s surprising anymore.
VICE knows exactly what I need, and they nail it every month. Prostitutes, good music, breathtaking photography—not as separate things, but as one system that only works because they’re inseparable. They get that.
This month there are three spreads. “Squat Rave” is green-haired Laura and her horny dog, a bourgeois fantasy that fits in four frames. Then “Cool Kids,” which is girls making out and playing SNES—exactly where I want to be when everything outside is falling apart. And “Preppy In Pink” has Daisy, driving through New York in a car that feels like mine, for a moment that feels like mine, as long as the photographs last.
The photography makes it work. Good light, specific models, moments that feel real without apologizing. Not trying to teach you anything or sell you something you don’t want. Just images that do their job.
They pull you out of wherever you are. The weather outside becomes irrelevant. Everything you were thinking about stops existing. For a few minutes, there’s nothing but this.
Japan keeps firing on all cylinders and I’m here for it. This week alone there’s enough weird, brilliant stuff to make heads spin.
Panic Face King is exactly what the name suggests—a TV show designed to make people lose it. Johnson Banks’ Phonetikana is a font that somehow makes Japanese typography click. A hole and Maru have this cat with like twenty different faces, same character infinite moods.
I’m deep in Ikimono Gakari right now. “Joyful” is the whole vibe. J-pop at 2 AM, Girl Meets Girl with Coba-U, slo-motion people running to Nujabes—it all connects somehow. Helicopter Boyz at Yomiuri Land doesn’t need to make sense. Disney cookies where Mickey actually gets baked. Otamatone with Keromin, and the Otamatone is shaped like a dick, which is apparently intentional.
Animal Farm with the bear and tiger probably means something I’m not catching, but that’s fine. Breast Pudding, and the best part is it’s not finished. The implication is stronger than any actual punchline.
None of it needs to make sense. That’s the whole point.
Lily Allen comes back with a video where she kidnaps Elton John because apparently she’s in love with him. The song is “Who’d Have Known?” and it’s actually good, which is better than I expected.
She’s performing at Astra in Berlin on November 3rd, so she’s not just some story anymore. I’ve already figured out my approach: show up as a hairdresser. That’s apparently how it works with her.
I kept mixing up Florence and the Machine with Marina and the Diamonds. My friend wouldn’t stop talking about catching Florence at the Berlin show, and I’d nod along picturing the wrong band—one I actually liked more, if I’m being honest.
But Marina and the Diamonds: she’s British, one-woman operation, and her voice is something. Fractured and tense, built into these synth arrangements that shouldn’t work but do. I’d already heard “Obsessions” and “I Am Not A Robot” floating around—those unsettled anxious songs that grab you—and when “Mowgli’s Road” premiered last night it all clicked into place.
There’s something in the voice itself. The production’s tight, the songwriting works, but it’s the voice that does it. Desperate. Like she’s not quite sure if she should be asking or telling.
Her debut comes next spring, Family Jewels, and I’m just waiting to see if she’ll actually show up in Germany. When she does Berlin will fill up. Right now I might be the only person listening, but I’ve got no doubt about that. There’s something real happening here.
I got to the MTV Europe Music Awards in Berlin that November. Shakira, The Veronicas, Tokio Hotel — decent lineup for that moment. It’s one of those events where the spectacle matters more than the music, where the whole point is just being in the room and watching the industry do its thing. Cold night, crowded venue, everyone trying to look important. I remember feeling like I was watching something that meant everything for a few hours and nothing the day after.
Youth Novels got under my skin. I can’t fully explain it—the album understood what I was going through, made sense of the wanting and the restlessness. I wore it out. That record still shapes how I hear everything.
Then Lykke Li went quiet. I was waiting. Not desperately, just aware of the gap. When word came that she’d recorded something new, I felt that small electric thing you feel when someone you care about suddenly reappears. It lasted about ten seconds.
The song was for Twilight.
I don’t like those movies. There’s something about dark forests—the sense of something predatory waiting in the trees. Blair Witch, Wrong Turn, that whole aesthetic. So there was this moment of obvious disappointment before I even heard it.
Then I heard it. The song doesn’t let up. It moves through love and damage and heartbreak with this terrible weight. Each line lands. She sings it like there’s no way out, and that’s the entire point—that’s why it matters.
Now I want her full album. The fact that this came through Twilight almost doesn’t matter. The Killers are on there, Death Cab for Cutie, The Editors—solid company. But she’s the reason. She’s worth the whole record.
The people around you would be half as interesting if you knew everything about them. Why does Bjorn never talk about his mother? Where does Annika disappear to every Wednesday night? Why does Peter lose his mind every time someone says “flashlight”—just walks out of the room, mad? You ask and you get nothing. A shrug, subject change. Nice weather, huh.
So you write the stories yourself. Bjorn’s mother gave him up at birth. Annika’s got some secret thing on Wednesdays. Peter got beaten with flashlights as a kid. These are the only explanations that make sense.
Secrets can run deep, the kind that completely reframe someone when they surface—all the love flipping to disgust and confusion in a second. Or they’re shallow as a puddle. Annika takes a cooking class on Wednesday nights? Yawn.
But big or small, they’re just protection. From other people, from yourself. I don’t want anyone knowing I bite banana chunks off with my teeth and drop them in my cereal instead of using a knife. That I put toilet paper on every toilet seat that’s not mine because I’m convinced I’ll catch something, while my own sink at home is basically a petri dish. That I didn’t call Julia back because something about her body bothered me—something trivial I should’ve gotten past—so I just vanished.
Everything that makes you look worse, you keep. Everything that doesn’t fit the version of yourself you want to believe in gets locked away. Everybody does.
I could watch iCarly constantly and never get tired of it, which is weird to say about a children’s show but it’s the most honest thing on television about how the internet actually works. Every self-appointed guru selling the secret to online fame is full of shit. Three teenagers on Nickelodeon figured it out better than any consultant with a publishing deal ever will.
They’re making videos, they get famous, they’re suddenly dealing with stalkers and hackers and the constant pressure to just sell out and compromise themselves. The same choices that are always there, the same temptations that don’t stop. And they navigate it—they fail, they figure it out, they keep going. Then there’s pizza and chicken wings and smoothies. It’s crude and it works and it shouldn’t be this simple but it is.
The show has a weird energy sometimes, something that makes you uneasy, but the promise is clear: everyone makes it out okay. Nobody actually gets destroyed. Sam won’t show up at your place and raid your fridge no matter how real that threat feels. The show understands the internet in a way nothing else does and it keeps insisting you can survive it. That’s the only message I’ve ever heard that actually means anything.
I didn’t know Bruce Berger until I read about this song. German pop music doesn’t typically reach me—there’s usually something about the earnestness that puts distance between us. But looking into “Alle Kinder dieser Erde,” I found out he’s made a completely straightforward global anthem about protecting the planet and the kids on it, about corruption and hatred and environmental collapse. No clever angles, no irony buffer. He’s just trying.
The whole global anthem thing was basically Michael Jackson’s last actual territory before he became impossible, and since then most artists either abandoned the idea or buried it under so much irony you can’t tell if they mean it. Berger’s not doing that. He’s saying what he means. He’ll probably fail to some extent—you kind of have to when you aim at something that vast—but at least it’s a failure that matters, an attempt at something true instead of something safe. I haven’t heard the full song, so I can’t tell you if it works. But I know the impulse, and I respect it. I’d rather be around someone trying to reach people with something they actually believe in than someone performing their cynicism.
You’d be scrolling at two in the morning, falling into some random blog about fashion or hip-hop or art, and then suddenly you’re three hours deep in a stranger’s obsession. They cared about this one thing—the way clothes draped, some lyric that moved them, how to build something that hadn’t existed before. They’d written about it like it mattered because to them it did.
The German blogs especially had this energy. Someone in Berlin thinking out loud about fashion. Another person just furious and needing to say it. Someone documenting punk or fighting about music or making work nobody asked for. Each blog was its own small kingdom maintained by someone who actually gave a shit.
What you did was you linked to these things. Not for reach or followers or engagement metrics. You just thought: this matters, this person matters, other people should know this exists. It was generosity. A vote of confidence in someone else’s thinking.
Most of those blogs are dead now. The people moved on. But the whole thing ran on this kind of faith—that writing something true or weird or angry into the void could mean something, and that if other people noticed, that meant something real. That was enough for a while.
Amanda Blank, Lady Sovereign, and Bugati Force came through the Admiralspalast in November 2009 for the G-Shock Shock The World Tour. Sara and I were planning to go. Berlin had these events if you paid attention — electronic and hip-hop acts that actually mattered. The kind of cold night where you wanted to be moving, dancing, anywhere but standing still.
Everything’s broken in ways that don’t need explaining anymore. I keep reaching for the belief that things will work out, that I’m just telling myself lies in the worst direction, and then something happens that can’t be fixed and the belief cracks. I hit the ground. I bleed. I lose what’s left of the light I was holding onto.
That’s when I need friends—not theories about how to get better, not wisdom, just them. They pull me up. They make me laugh when it seems impossible. They sit with me when there’s nothing to say. We drink together, we fall apart together, we tell each other the truth that no one else will. They forgive what I can’t forgive myself. They stand with me even when they disagree.
Their faces aren’t the same as they used to be. Sometimes I resist what they’re saying, or I sit with my head down listening to them say something half-wise because being alone is worse. But I know, deep enough that I don’t have to think about it, that they’re the only thing between me and being completely lost. It’s that simple. Without them, I’d be gone.
The weird thing about an ex is that your body remembers theirs. You’ve spent months, sometimes years, learning the exact angle and pressure and rhythm—the wordless communication that comes from being inside someone’s life and skin. You know what they want without asking. You know how to make them finish in three minutes or drag it out until they’re begging. That’s not nothing.
After a breakup, when you’re sleeping with new people and they’re fumbling around like they’ve never seen another human before, you feel the loss in a very specific way. Not the person—the fit. The way this other body knew you. The efficiency of it, the shorthand.
So when you run into an ex at a party or bump into them online, there’s this gravitational pull. Not romance, not love—just the memory of how good it was, physically. How little explaining you’d have to do. The new person in your bed is enthusiastic and attractive and completely useless compared to someone who already knows your map.
I get why people do it. You’re not trying to fix anything. You’re not hoping they’ll take you back. You just want that one night where you don’t have to perform or teach. Where you can just exist in this body they already understand. And yeah, sometimes there’s an edge to it too—a little revenge, a little “look who still wants you.” The satisfaction of proving something without saying a word.
The problem is the morning after. Sometimes you feel clean, vindicated, like you just got something back that was always yours. Other times you feel like you’ve torn open something that was finally starting to scar over. You remember why it ended. You remember the arguments, the disappointment, the way they stopped trying. And now you’re lying there next to someone who knows your body better than anyone, and somehow that makes the distance worse.
I don’t have an answer for whether it’s a good idea. It depends on what you’re actually looking for when you make that call at midnight—comfort, proof, closure, or just the simple fact that they’re available and familiar. Sometimes it’s all of it at once. You probably shouldn’t do it, but you will anyway, because the knowing feeling is too strong to ignore.
“The Fountain of Youth” hooks you immediately. That melody follows you through the day, shows up on the toilet at 6 a.m., probably invades your dreams at night too. Boy Crisis, the New York band, released it last week as the lead single from their debut album “Tulipomania.” The references are obvious: MGMT, Empire of the Sun, Klaxons, that whole nu-rave thing mixed with 80s and 90s energy. That’s the kind of stuff that had people dancing hard on Berlin floors all summer. Five guys—Tal, Alex, Victor, Lee, and Owen—figured out a formula that works, or at least how to make it feel familiar enough to stick.
They didn’t invent anything here. You can hear where it all comes from. But there’s something about the execution, the way that hook plants itself and won’t leave. It feels like they might have something, or maybe I just want them to. Winter’s coming, dance floors get packed and claustrophobic, and songs like this are exactly what gets spun in those sweaty dark rooms. I’m curious whether they stick around or if this is just the summer’s last gasp.
The fear isn’t missing what’s good—it’s being behind. Being the person who still cares about what everyone’s already moved past, who hasn’t updated their taste in time. That’s what drives lists like this. Monthly reports on what matters, what you should drop before someone notices you still care about it.
Some of these have aged into comedy. Karen Gillan’s still great, just in ways these people couldn’t have predicted. Zelda, forever forthcoming. The obsession with specific snacks and body rituals that felt profound for exactly one week. But the real thing here is the anxiety—that monthly check: am I current? Am I on the right side of the divide?
The list format lets you off the hook. You don’t explain what you love or why; you just stack it against what’s supposedly out and hope you’re on the winning side. It’s permission structures, basically. Someone else deciding what’s cool so you don’t have to risk being wrong.
The specificity is what gets me. “Girls who don’t love boobs” listed under OUT—so horny, so 2010, so confidently absurd. These weren’t even arguments; they were vibes. Things that felt important for a week in a particular place. The list was the point. Staying current was the whole game.
I don’t know if I’m over it or just old enough that the fear of being outdated doesn’t land anymore. Maybe that’s the same thing.
I used to think pet ownership was cruelty. Animals packed into tiny cages, aquariums barely bigger than a shoebox, fish bowls, birds with clipped wings, dogs chained in a space smaller than a closet. Instead of forests they got sofas. Instead of oceans they got someone’s arm. It was wrong.
Partly that was sour grapes. I never had a pet growing up, so I made a virtue of not having one. No dogs to run around with, no goldfish to watch, no cat wrecking the apartment. I missed the whole thing and turned it into a moral stance, which is easy when you’ve got nothing to lose.
Then I found out about miniature pigs and the whole argument fell apart. They’ve been trendy in England and Spain for years — tiny, ridiculous, impossible to see without wanting one immediately. Someone told me Ron Weasley has one. That shouldn’t matter but it does.
Now I’m researching things I never thought I’d care about. Where do you even buy a mini pig? What do you name it? More importantly, where do I get studs and leather belts so I can turn it into a tiny punk rock pig? Actually, I should water my plants. They’re turning colors they’re not supposed to turn. Responsibility is really everything.
A week after we launched this Tumblr thing, it’s already number one in Germany. Rainy Sunday and I’m sitting here looking at the numbers trying to make sense of it. We filled it with crude content—mostly breasts, mostly things moving, mostly the kind of garbage that shouldn’t translate to any kind of success. But apparently it does.
I want to thank whoever bribed La Aureola, Fuck Prince Charming, and Rebel Girls to stay out of our way. Paid them off in money, ice cream, and other considerations. Just kept them distracted long enough for us to grab the top spot. And to Kanye West: don’t even think about moving on us right now. You’ll regret it.
While we’re working on pushing ’What’s Your Secret?’—that Scientology song—off the international throne, the site’s basically Steve Aoki completely destroyed, Uffie, some genuinely unraveled hippies. A naked photo of an ex-girlfriend hidden somewhere in the mix, just to keep things interesting.
It’s absurd. It shouldn’t work. I’m not going to spend a lot of time wondering why it does.
We had an anniversary coming up, and apparently that’s when the search queries got genuinely feral. I’ve been running this search-log series long enough to develop a feel for baseline weird—the kind of thing where you see it and think “yeah, okay, that tracks.” But this batch, Vol. 9, felt like a departure. Someone searched for “sex with an amputated leg.” Someone wanted advice on bestiality. Someone was very interested in a German TV host naked. It was like the barrier had dropped.
The range is what gets me. There’s the expected foundation—naked women, women doing things, women in specific situations. But it spirals into specificity so surgical it becomes architectural. “Analsex with anorexic women.” “Glass in the ass.” “List of things girls insert in their pussy and ass.” “Emo girls in white socks.” Someone wanted to rent a porn star. Someone asked if another person was ugly. It’s not Google being used as a tool so much as Google being used as a confessional—God’s been replaced by an algorithm and whatever’s cashing in on the anxiety.
The sexual queries explain themselves. But scattered through them are moments that feel almost poetic in their desperation. “My heart hates you.” Confucius saying things he never said. A kid looking up “when is summer in Brazil” and landing here by accident. Someone very specifically asking about reporting their boss to the tax authority. It’s a mix of perversion, randomness, intrusive thought, and the kind of query you only type alone and curious enough to take the risk.
I think what strikes me about search logs is that they’re completely unguarded. No performance, no curation, no second take. These are real, unfiltered human thoughts turned into words. You can’t fake that. The sexual content doesn’t surprise me—people want sex and think about sex constantly. What I notice is how bespoke it gets. Not “porn,” not even “hot women.” Custom-made, exact configurations of desire and curiosity and disturbance, all that weird specificity that only makes sense if you’re the exact person searching for it. That’s the internet in miniature. A lot of isolated, horny, genuinely strange people looking for the specific thing that makes sense only to them, and every so often that’s something on my blog, which is darkly funny.
I memorized every game that came my way as a kid. Sonic, Zelda, Final Fantasy—I had the pixel layouts down, the enemy patterns, the secret exits. I could hear any soundtrack and know exactly where in the game it belonged. The magazines helped, the guidebooks helped, calling a friend who’d gotten further helped. The internet didn’t exist, so you just had to live inside these games for weeks until you understood them completely.
I can’t do that anymore. Get me past the first level of anything new and I’m already done. The difficulty spike kills it, or the controls feel off, or I realize I’ve solved this exact puzzle in ten different games. I know modern games aren’t going to satisfy me. I’ve known for years that nothing made after the SNES is going to feel like the real thing. Everything actually was better. The design was tighter. The limitations forced something genuine to happen.
So I exist in this stupid limbo of searching and never finding. Steam sales, used copies, whatever—I’m convinced each one will be it. The one that brings the feeling back. The one worth caring about. But they never are. The problem isn’t the games. It’s that I’m trying to buy my way back to being a kid with infinite free time and no other context except the world inside the cartridge. You can’t buy that back. You can’t recreate that kind of presence of mind.
The Wii sits in the back of my head sometimes. Just buy it. Go backward. Let the old games be the old games. At least they’re honest about what they are. But that’s not actually what I’m searching for. The search isn’t about finding a good game. It’s about finding the person I was who could disappear into one for eight hours. That person is gone. And no amount of hunting through new releases or digging up old ones is going to change that.
Prinz Pi—Friedrich Kautz from Berlin, also known as Prinz Porno—has never made apologies for what he makes music about. His video for “3 Minuten” is him doing exactly what you’d expect: scenes of drinking, fucking, partying, the whole crude machinery that feels like living when you’re young enough to believe it.
The video doesn’t turn away. Drunk people, naked people, the club and porn culture mixed together without filter. But it’s not just celebration—there’s a critical distance, a slight remove that keeps it from being just another party anthem. He’s looking at the scene and you know it.
Three minutes, the song is tight. No fat, no waste. It moves with its subject. You watch it and understand why Berlin responds to him. He’s not trying to make this mean something bigger. He’s just describing what’s actually there—the crude and the honest are the same gesture.
It sits with you after. Not because it’s trying to be profound. Because it isn’t.
Disney is evil. Not in a fun, exaggerated way—evil in the way that most large institutions are evil. NDAs that keep employees quiet. Control mechanisms. A business model built on conditioning people’s emotional expectations. It works especially well on girls. They absorb the princess narratives young enough that it becomes structural. Later, they expect their actual relationships to match what Disney taught them, which is impossible.
Dating someone who grew up on Disney means committing to the whole thing. There’s an unspoken contract: watch the films, let them destroy you at the right moments, perform enjoyment of the Disney universe. By the third viewing of The Lion King, your defenses are gone and you’re crying at Mufasa and you don’t even care anymore. That’s the victory. Disney wins. It always wins.
I grew up on it too, so I can’t really judge. I was small, waking up early to watch Darkwing Duck, Captain Balu—those cartoons that pump courage and friendship directly into your brain before you know what’s happening. The messages stuck. They were supposed to stick. I remember learning from them in the way you only learn as a kid, without realizing you’re learning. It wasn’t like Dragon Ball Z, where it’s just constant violence and yelling. Disney had a point. Disney was trying to teach you something.
I watched Pepper Ann once with an ex—this blonde girl, busty, nothing special—and I was already thinking about someone else. Already knew what I was doing was garbage. Watched the whole episode anyway. Still remember what it was about, like my brain was cataloging the betrayal in real time. Disney does that. Even when you’re doing something you hate yourself for, the message gets through. It sticks.
So I’m grateful to Disney, which is fucked up because I also blame them for everything. They gave me something real as a kid. But they also wired me to expect love to feel like a fairy tale, and they wired every person I’ve cared about the same way. It’s a trap. I’m always going to be the guy who doesn’t measure up to the prince they imagined. I’m always the villain in their story.
And it all focuses on Mickey. That fucking mouse. Those enormous ears. That stupid laugh. The endless “Oh boy” routine like he’s not just a character but a philosophical position that Disney has decided to torture people with forever. I hate him. Not like hating a bad guy in a movie—actually, genuinely hate him. If I ever saw him in person—if I found myself in Disneyland and that thing appeared in front of me—I don’t trust myself. I really don’t. That mouse is everything Disney did to me, compressed into one ridiculous character. I want to hit it. I want to hit it so hard it stops smiling.
Found Soko Magazine online a few years back—a Buenos Aires digital publication with photography worth actually looking at. The second issue had Elly Jackson from La Roux just existing on the page in that way she does, like smiling would be beneath her. Nirrimi Joy Hakanson’s photographs, all natural light, no studio setup needed. Work from Jonathan Leder, Manolo Campion, other photographers with actual taste.
There was this whole ecosystem of digital magazines around then. No printing costs, no distribution headaches. You made a PDF and people found it if they gave a shit. It meant magazines could take more risks, focus on the work instead of the logistics.
I got into browsing PDF Mags for a while, whatever new magazines showed up. Most of it was students making vanity projects. But some of it stuck. The Vice Guide to Berlin was one I kept around for years—funny, practical, written by people who actually lived there.
Lost track of all that eventually. But I remember Soko mattering when I found it. That’s the thing about magazines sometimes—not whether you keep coming back to them, just that they mattered when you needed them.
Losing someone you love does something to you that you can’t prepare for, no matter how much you’ve thought about it or told yourself that you understand mortality is coming for everyone. Everyone who’s felt it knows that specific helplessness—the moment they’re just gone, the door they won’t walk through again, and suddenly you’re standing in this fast, indifferent world alone. It breaks something inside you. Grief doesn’t heal. It settles like a chronic illness that never quite leaves your body.
I tell myself I should be ready for it, that understanding death’s inevitability softens the blow when it comes. It doesn’t. When the people who gave you love and comfort suddenly get replaced by dark, circular thoughts—by what-ifs, by imagined universes where someone made a different choice and changed everything—it’s still cruel beyond words. You get stuck asking one question that never stops repeating: Why? Why them, why this way, why now, why can’t there be another answer?
A few days ago, my friend’s father died. Unexpected. She’s someone who brought light into my life when things got gray and strange, who made everything feel less lonely, and now I’m watching her eyes go dull in a way I’ve never seen. I can sit with her through this. I can tell her she’s not alone. I can be present. But I can’t take the pain away. I can’t protect her from what she’s feeling, and that’s its own kind of helplessness—knowing you’d take it from her if you could, and knowing you can’t.
Being sick means you get to stay in bed all day, which sounds perfect until you realize you’re completely trapped. You’re locked in your room while everyone else is out having an actual weekend—drinking, sleeping with people, feeling like something’s happening. I was stuck at home with tissues and bad television and a refrigerator that kept mocking me with its full shelves.
So what do you do for three days? Clean the apartment for absolutely no reason. Wash everything. Eat tuna and cake until you can’t taste anything anymore. Scroll through Tumblr for hours looking at statistics that mean nothing. Queue up some anime you’ve never heard of. Desperately search for a World of Warcraft alternative that works on Mac. Find Eve Online instead. Spend two hours clicking through the tutorial just to kill one enemy spaceship, then hate it so much you uninstall it immediately. Go back to Plants vs. Zombies. Try to learn Japanese. Pick at your skin. Flirt with weird kids on the internet. Check if it’s snowing yet every few minutes. It’s not.
The sun’s bright outside, which feels personal. The fridge is completely empty because I ate everything in it, so I’ll have to drag myself to the store eventually. At least I’ve memorized the entire television schedule by heart. That’s definitely going to be useful someday.
Sex is the breeding algorithm nature designed—mechanical, optimized to produce healthy offspring through appearance and scent and social position. Nothing outside of food and sleep should theoretically matter more. But humans have never been content with what nature gives us, and we’ve taken this straightforward biological imperative and buried it under layers of fantasy and complication.
Schoolgirlcostumes on kitchen tables. World records in fellatio marathons at erotic conventions. The annual GDP of small nations spent on prostitutes. The Christian church has fundamentally different opinions on all of this.
What’s most interesting is how thoroughly we’ve managed to complicate something genuinely simple. The real gap lies between what sex is supposed to accomplish—reproduction—and what we’ve actually made it accomplish. Some people want candlelit romance. Others want to get destroyed in a parking lot with a stranger. Most of us want something we can’t articulate, something that feels like both intimacy and consumption, surrender and control, vulnerability and power all at once.
The weird part is how it’s become industrialized while still being taboo. We’ve built an entire economy around human sexuality—dating apps, OnlyFans, sex work, pornography, toys, surgery—all while pretending to be scandalized by it. We sell desire and then sell shame about that desire. We package intimacy and sell it back to lonely people as a product.
I don’t think sex is less important than food or sleep. But its importance has nothing to do with reproduction anymore. It’s about ego, power, pleasure, the strange vulnerability of being wanted, the equally strange privacy of wanting someone. What actually matters isn’t frequency or configuration or how many or how often—it’s knowing what you actually want versus what you’ve been sold as wanting. Most people spend their whole lives on the wrong side of that distinction.
There’s something about seeing famous people completely naked that makes you stop and pay attention, which is probably exactly why Marc Jacobs got Milla Jovovich, Heidi Klum, and Dita Von Tease to pose this way for t-shirts. Thirty-five dollars a shirt. All the money goes to the NYU Cancer Institute.
The whole thing’s weirdly honest — no performance, no elaborate framing. Just: here’s what you’re looking at, here’s the price, here’s where it goes. Most of the time when celebrities show up naked it’s framed as art or confidence or vulnerability or some other word that makes it feel important. This time it’s just nakedness for a purpose, which somehow feels more real.
Dita Von Tease is in there, which is funny because she spends half her life barely clothed anyway. But that’s the strange thing about the campaign — when everyone’s at the same level, actually naked, all the usual celebrity distance collapses. You’re not thinking about whether they usually wear more or less. You’re just thinking about whether you want the shirt and whether you care about cancer research.
I don’t know if Jacobs dreamed this up thinking about charity, or if he just noticed what actually gets people to buy things and decided to make the money useful. Probably doesn’t matter. Either way it works.
I’m a junkie. Not for drugs or alcohol or cigarettes—got over all that years ago. My new and old addiction is the internet. The inspiration, information, the independence of it all. More addictive than everything else combined, and it puts me to sleep happy with my laptop in my arms. The real rush is getting inside people’s heads and somehow making money off it.
But we all know this doesn’t last. The whole network collapses eventually—maybe China takes over, maybe there’s a war, maybe we just exhaust the websites. Google and Twitter become memories. The nerds have to learn to look at the sun. Bloggers hike up mountains to broadcast their ego to whoever listens.
I’ll struggle when it happens. But I get bored with things fast, always have, and that boredom will carry me through. The internet just stretches the process out because there’s always another mutation, another angle to chase. But boredom always wins. Everything bores me eventually.
So when it all finally dies, I’m going to an island. High in the mountains with the ocean below. I’ll sit with my printed porn pages and a coconut drink, laughing at how seriously we all took this beautiful mess we built, how important it felt. It’ll be a fading memory, like everything else.
Goodbye, you once-rebellious medium. It was something.
I was completely hung up on Uffie before I moved to Berlin. Just stupid with it, the kind of infatuation that makes you mishear lyrics—I thought “Pop The Glock” was literally about fucking a clock. The song stuck in my head, breathy and hypnotic, and I couldn’t shake it.
Years later, it’s the end of 2009 and she’s still singing that same song. Or singing it again, which feels different somehow. Sara and I have this joke that maybe Uffie just doesn’t have anything else, or maybe this one’s got so much gravity that nothing else matters. Either way, Ed Banger finally made a video for it, and it actually landed. Sexy, neon, completely unhinged. The whole thing’s got DNA from Sébastien Teller’s “Kilometer”—that same sense of things being too bright and too much—mixed with Fratelli’s “Flathead.” It’s a video that earns the song being as loud as it is in your brain.
But watching it pull her out of the underground bothers me. The video’s excellent, and yeah, more people hearing her should be good. Except there’s always that moment when something you found—something that felt like it was just yours—suddenly belongs to everyone. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go along with it anyway. That’s what I feel about this, not regret exactly, but something unresolved. The video’s great. It’s the machinery of making her bigger that worries me.
You know what’s weird about taste? People compartmentalize it. There’s the stuff you’re supposed to like — the art, the photography, the “inspiring” things — and then there’s everything else you actually look at. The naked people. The crude jokes. The photographs that would get you fired if your boss saw them on your screen. So I thought, why separate them? Start a Tumblr and just dump it all in one place. The beautiful and the horny and the irreverent stuff mixed together, because that’s actually how taste works.
Not because I was trying to become famous or hit some number on Tumblr. I just wanted a space that didn’t pretend. Where you could look at what actually interests you without performing good taste or respectability. It’s simple enough. It shouldn’t feel radical. But it does.
There’s something freeing about it. You’re not building an aesthetic you think other people want to see. You’re just collecting the things that actually catch your eye, your interest, your desire. The photographs of bodies that move you. The artwork that speaks to something in you. The jokes that make you laugh in that uncomfortable way. All of it together, no hierarchy.
The window tells you what’s happened: summer’s gone south and left you with rain and cold creeping in quietly. I caught a flu from someone I mostly know through a phone now—that’s how viruses travel these days. Suddenly I’m stuck inside, fever and too much tea with honey, the kind of sick where hours move strange.
You know a playlist won’t fix it. But there’s something about autumn and being bedridden that calls for particular songs. Not company exactly, more like they fit the feeling in the way the weather does.
I started with John Martyn, all fingerpicking and patience. Then into Animal Collective’s fractured spaces, Lykke Li settling in like the melancholy the season already has. The Broken Family Band kept that feeling. Low moved slower. Then LCD Soundsystem came through—a shift, a little urgency cutting in.
Regina Spektor’s “Machine” has this deadpan thing that worked. The Chemical Brothers and Midlake—”The Pills Won’t Help You Know”—which made me laugh because nothing actually helps, you just wait it out. Arcade Fire felt wrong and right at the same time. Marina and the Diamonds turned everything inward. Amanda Blank got rough with it.
Death in Vegas, Born Ruffians, XTC at the end—”Stupidly Happy”—like a small joke with yourself.
The fever broke before the playlist ended. The rain’s still here. The songs got me through those days.
I was maybe thirteen when I decided the ideal career was photographing naked women. Found a Playboy with Nina Bott in it—I remember her, remember being eighteen inside my own body—and that was it. The plan seemed obvious: get a camera, get someone beautiful to remove their clothes, hit the button. Never happened. No money for equipment, hands too shaky around an attractive naked person, and nobody wanted to cooperate anyway.
Viktor Vauthier clearly has a steadier grip on the whole enterprise. He’s based in East London and he’s already made it into that tier where photographers like Richard Kern and Terry Richardson live—he’s shooting magazine covers, running a Vimeo account with his girlfriend, getting people like Lisa Olsson to stand in front of his camera. Not hobbyists. Not trying. Actual work.
The thing that separates him from the version of me I planned to be isn’t the amount of wanting. I wanted it enough. It’s that his hands don’t betray him. His eye doesn’t waver. There’s something in him that makes a woman comfortable enough to be photographed vulnerable, and I was never going to have that. Every shot would’ve been a confession.
Sometimes I look at his work—really look at it—and what I see isn’t just technical skill. It’s distance. He wants something from the image but he doesn’t need anything from the person. That might be the whole difference between a career and a fantasy.
The internet only works because of pictures. Everyone knows that. Kittens, kids, Elvis—fine. But if you’re being honest, there’s one subject that’s moved through every culture, every generation, without any resistance: photographs of girls.
Clothed, naked, real, drawn—the format barely matters. What matters is the looking, the saving, the sharing, the collecting. It used to happen in the parts of the web no one admitted visiting. Then it moved into daylight. Tumblr blogs, We Heart It, bookmark sites—thousands of people building visual archives with zero permission, copyright dead from day one. You could be scandalized. I just saw it as inevitable.
I stumbled onto Goto Motoshi through some bookmark site years back. Japanese photographer and curator. What got me was his understanding of sequence—how he’d place one image next to another and make something ordinary feel specific. BioMagazine is his current work: beautiful photographs of young women, carefully arranged so you lose a whole afternoon without noticing.
The real structure of the internet isn’t the technology. It’s the repeatable action. Look. Save. Share. Collect. Give people that loop with no friction and they’ll fill it forever. Everything else is window dressing.
Video next. Infinite, searchable, personalized to you. Someone will figure it out. I’d call it YouTube.
Some people seem to have gotten lucky at birth. They look good, they do work they actually care about, they’re in solid relationships, and they can pick whoever they want from their circle depending on the occasion — someone for sports, someone for going out, someone for a movie. You look closer and all you find is more luck: love for life, understanding, hope that barely dents under pressure.
I seem to be a magnet for the opposite kind of people. The ones who aren’t handling life very well. The creatures of darkness dealing with depression, loneliness, everything on the outside. People fighting torn-up love and loneliness and bitter thoughts about ending it, whether they chose that or had it forced. Every friendship, every relationship, everything in my life has come from that dark space.
I take them in and walk the hardest roads with them. Wine-soaked nights, surreal adventures, conversations where you say things you didn’t know were inside you. Somewhere in there their will hardens again, hope reignites, and I let them go back out into the world with it.
And the more destroyed they are — the more tormented, the more ready to be done — the more clearly I hear them, and the more I take them on. Because they have so much to say. They’re overflowing with it, their heads swimming with passion and the secret paths available to all of us. Outsiders, the rejected, the misunderstood. We recognize each other.
You wake up around three in the morning soaked through, heart hammering, and for a few seconds you don’t know where you are. Your brain has been making a film that breaks every rule of logic, and it always will.
Dreams are what you do when you’re tired of being yourself. You get to be a pirate, a criminal, something that matters, and no one gets hurt. Some people treat their dreams like prophecies. I think it’s lazier — your brain is just bored. It wants to play a game where the rules change constantly and nothing has to mean anything.
I’ve been having these weird ones. They run into each other without stopping, violent and fast-cut, like someone’s slicing between scenes. I’m with a girl from school in the Andes and it’s sexual and then I’m on a field in Berlin with some punk musician, singing sea shanties with him. Before that even ends I’m in a bathtub with an ex-girlfriend and her karate instructor, both of us naked, taking photographs, and somehow the bathtub is a level in a video game I’ve never seen.
I wake up wrung out, confused in a way that doesn’t fade. The dream stays with you. It’s still happening while you’re eating breakfast, while you’re working. You’re half somewhere else. Half still in that tub. Half still singing with someone who felt important to you in that dream-logic way real people never do.
I know I’m not alone in this. Everyone has dreams that make perfect sense until you wake up and they evaporate. But there’s something unsettling about how real it feels while it’s happening, how solid and necessary. Then you surface and you’re alone with it, soaked, staring at the ceiling, wondering what your brain was trying to say. Probably nothing. Probably it just wanted to play.
There’s something happening in Stockholm with teenagers who are making genuine work. Photographs, music, real things. Hedvig Boström, Carolina Engman, Lovisa Rantå — they didn’t wait for platforms or permission. They just started.
Hanna Håkansson is sixteen, part of that same current. She models sometimes, but the real work is the photo blog she runs with Fanny Wikstad, called Worm vs. Bird. Every frame is clean about what it wants to be — no excess, no overthinking, just direct aesthetic choices. And she’s in a band too, Shivering Heights with Sara Hellgren, making these strange eerie songs that sound like they’re transmitting from a place that doesn’t quite exist. Minor keys, genuine weirdness, the willingness to risk it.
I spent time with what she’s made, the photographs and the recordings, and one thought kept returning. She worked out something most people never figure out. Not the technical part or the tools or the connections. Just the simple fact that you can create something and share it. No permission. No waiting. You just do it. Some people understand that. Most people don’t.
I’m not sure what to conclude from that. Just that I noticed it.
First time I heard “Kabinenparty,” I laughed at the premise—a whole song about a party in a swimming pool changing room—and then the music grabbed me. Skero’s an Austrian rapper and street artist who’s been making noise for a while, solo now after years in a group called Texta, and this track from Memoiren eines Riesen is exactly the kind of thing that works because someone decided to be completely specific about something dumb.
It’s not a generic pool party. It’s the changing room. That fluorescent-lit chlorine-soaked space where you’re crammed in with strangers in varying states of undress, where everything’s awkward and real in a way that prettier settings never are. The absurdity is the point. Someone threw a party there. Someone made it into a song. Makes perfect sense.
The production has this lazy tropical vibe to it, carried mostly by Joyce Muniz on the feature. There’s Caribbean inflection happening even though we’re talking about Austria, which makes sense if you’re from somewhere that sees actual sun maybe three months a year. You dream about places where summer lasts. The rhythm doesn’t rush. It sits and moves at its own pace, which is the only tempo that works when you’re getting progressively drunker in a locker room.
What gets me is how well it actually works. The song could have been a joke, but the music is genuinely solid and Muniz has enough presence to carry the melody without overselling it. Skero built something real here. Something you want to hear more than once.
People couldn’t be bothered to vote. Too drunk, too stoned, too lazy—take your pick. Everyone was begging them to show up, and most still couldn’t manage to shuffle into a voting booth. The turnout was pathetic.
The country voted for a conservative coalition of nuclear-power enthusiasts and military hawks. The parties talking about free speech and open internet went nowhere. At least a million internet kids voted for the Pirate Party, which is something. I’ll give them that.
But what comes after—that’s harder to joke about. Surveillance, censorship, the state slowly tightening its grip. This dispatch probably ends up in the way of whatever comes next. Anyone writing here becomes a target. I used to treat these predictions like dark comedy, the paranoid game of guessing what an authoritarian government does once it settles in and feels bold. Doesn’t feel like a game anymore. Hail to our new masters.
Woke up at Sara’s and pulled the curtains back on this ridiculous sunrise over Berlin. One of those mornings where you’re still drunk but the light makes everything feel like it’s mattering. Immediately had this irresistible urge to wash the dishes. Still don’t really know why. Talked to Carsten for a bit about the Beatles and his grandmother bowling and all this nonsense, and walking back home through those few blocks with my balance still off, still feeling everything from the night before, I couldn’t stop thinking about how sharp the city looks that early. You actually see it when the rest of the city’s asleep.
We’d started at Belushi’s beforehand, pre-gaming our way to this Deep Throat Action Party at the Weise Puff. Found it through some guide app—one of those Berlin things that makes no sense until it does. Whole place was cats. Just cats everywhere. We ended up sitting with a bowl of pretzel sticks, feeding these enormous fat cats—just existing at a party with animals. Probably the most Berlin thing that could happen. We’d planned to go somewhere else after, some club on Klosterstrasse, but we were way too destroyed by that point. No point pretending otherwise. Went home instead, turned on Friends and just let it play until everything went black. I love Joey. That guy’s just doing what the voice in your head is always doing.
Uncle had sent me some money that’d hit the account, and for some reason that dish-washing urge from the morning never left. So that’s the day. Whole day dedicated to actually cleaning the place, really doing it—washing everything, fixing things, making it all new again. There’s something good about having a completely weightless reason to spend twelve hours resetting your space. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway. If you feel that pull too, we’re cleaning friends in spirit. Or whatever.
Making a choice and sticking with it—there’s this moment after when everything gets easier. You’re in motion now, past the paralysis of all possibilities. You’ve picked something, committed to a direction. Most of the time, that feels better than standing still. Unless you’ve done something genuinely stupid, like hitting your teacher with your car. Then you’re just finished.
I’m not someone who respects what passes for important in most places. Television, tabloids, the assigned urgency of whatever we’re all supposed to care about this week—it all feels hollow and bought. Not worth the breath it takes to repeat to another person.
But voting is the one thing I can’t dismiss, even though I’ve tried.
The practical reason: you prevent actual disasters. The people who want power, the bad ones, they show up. They vote. They organize. They take whatever no one bothers to defend. If you don’t vote, they win by attrition. It’s not luck—it’s the mechanism. I don’t want to live in a world where nobody felt like showing up that day.
There’s something else though, something personal. When you vote, you’ve made a choice. You’ve put yourself into it. You’re not leaving it to chance or to whoever else cared enough. You decided. And a tiny piece, a real piece, of what happens next is on you. That’s what matters to me.
I spent my childhood glued to a Super Nintendo with manga magazines in one hand and a pencil in the other, filling blank pages with drawings of naked girls from Dragon Ball and Digimon. My Bravo collection didn’t survive. Satoshi Urushihara was my god—Plastic Little, Ragnarok City, the kind of work that proved you could draw exactly what you wanted without apology. I wasn’t bad at it either, which tells you everything about how I chose to spend those years.
Ryuko Azuma’s work hits different. The guy’s based in Tokyo, and his drawings are depravity distilled—not polished, not trying to be gallery-ready. Just raw, weird, genuinely unhinged. He’ll mix grotesque self-portraits in with the explicit stuff, post it on Twitter, run a Tumblr that feels like watching someone’s brain spill out in real time. No pretense, no filter.
There’s something honest about it. The refusal to pretend you’re doing anything other than what you’re actually doing. He draws what he wants and puts it out there.
I’m older now and don’t spend my time drawing the way I used to, but I get it. The weather gets worse, the days feel longer, and you find yourself looking at work like Azuma’s and remembering that specific kind of obsession. The kind where you lose hours. The kind where nothing else matters. Maybe that never changes.
Simple usually wins. That’s what made Tetris work, and it’s why Pomplamoose stuck with me the second I found them on YouTube. Jack Conte and Nataly Dawn from California just sit there with a piano and guitar doing covers—Beyoncé, Nat King Cole, Simon and Garfunkel—and somewhere along the way the whole internet discovered them. No production, no layers, no image. Just the two of them playing.
Nataly’s voice is the thing. It’s not trying to do anything. There’s a sweetness there that doesn’t feel calculated, doesn’t have that fake-intimacy thing where you’re supposed to believe she’s singing to you personally. She’s just singing. Jack plays like he means it. The whole thing moves because they actually know how to play, and they picked songs that matter instead of whatever was trending that week.
I bought their album. I’ve watched the covers maybe too many times. There’s something about watching someone be genuinely good at something without any of the noise around it—no brand, no story, no aesthetic strategy—that makes you feel less insane about everything else. It’s a palate cleanser, I guess. When everything in pop music is screaming for attention, a duo on YouTube playing instruments sounds like relief.
Jack Conte unsettles me a little, honestly. I don’t know what it is. But that’s beside the point. The point is they’re good and simple things usually are.
Clothes sort you before you speak. Everyone’s already judged based on shoes and a jacket—the fashion kid, the gang guy, the emo at the station—and it happens faster than you’d think. That’s how it works.
One shoe made it through everything: Chucks. They’ve been cool forever, stayed slightly outside, stayed wanted by anyone with real taste. Fashion people wear them. Music people wear them. Pseudo-intellectuals and actual punks both do, as long as they have any sense at all.
Here’s the thing: it has to be real Chucks. Just canvas, one color, wearing down naturally. Not the glittery special editions or limited collaborations—those feel fake, designed, desperate. The plain ones feel true. Worn.
If you’re wearing actual Chucks, you’re signaling something. Taste. A refusal to care about trends. Good ears. A certain kind of indifference that doesn’t mean you’ve given up on anything that matters. You’re in a tribe that doesn’t need introductions. The people wearing them recognize each other.
So I’m saying it: the Chuck Taylor All Star is one of three things you need to own in life to matter. That, an iPod, and a real friend. Own those three things and you skip the line when you die. Everything else is just stuff.
Lily Allen posted one day that she was done. Out of music. She was going to do theater instead — some production called “Reasons To Be Pretty” in London’s West End. No more albums, no more tours, that was it.
Her label’s press guy came out with denials almost immediately. She wasn’t quitting, she was just worn out from touring “It’s Not Me, It’s You,” not thinking about another album yet, all the standard language when someone tells the truth too loudly.
I loved Lily Allen. Her songs were packed with dirty, clever wordplay — “Smile,” “I Could Say,” “Littlest Things.” She could be crude and frank about wanting things, about her own sexuality, about being young and female in an industry that usually made you pretend those things didn’t exist. She just leaned into it, made jokes, moved on. There was something genuinely cool about that refusal to play dumb.
When she posted that she was quitting, something in it was real. Not that she actually meant it — obviously she didn’t — but that the impulse was real. Most artists burn out on the thing that made them famous. Most artists would walk if they could. Usually by the time they’re allowed to say it, they’ve already been pulled back in.
I remember her posting it. I remember the press guy’s denial an hour later. That’s what stuck with me — the moment when she told the truth and someone immediately said she didn’t.
Every decent porno is basically about bodies fucking each other until fluids go everywhere. Not love—just sex. Tits and dicks in close-up. But what comes after the grand finale, what nature supposedly designed this whole thing for? You never see it. And when you do, it’s usually something you’re not allowed to talk about.
Kids have become the enemy, somehow. Career-ending monsters, life-sucking parasites, the thing you bring up to watch your friends’ faces drop. Every show, every conversation treats parenthood like a death sentence. Women who want kids get written off, replaced by younger, childless, ambition-obsessed girls. It’s a collective decision we made: having a child is the worst possible outcome.
Except we forget something obvious. We all were that supposed parasite once. Some kid out there is going to cure cancer, or invent something weird, or just matter in a way that echoes. We exist because our parents powered through exactly this ambivalence. We are the evidence it’s worth doing, even if we’d never admit it out loud.
So I don’t know if I want kids. Some days yes, most days no, and every other day the question just sits there unanswered. Older generations had it easy—yes or no, clear stakes, clear reasons. We got stuck with maybe, and maybe is worse. We know the world’s broken and we don’t know ourselves well enough to have kids in it. The only honest thoughts I have about it come when I’m not thinking about it on purpose, when my guard’s down. That’s probably where the real answer lives, if it exists at all.
Someone searched “I had sex with my sister” and Google sent them here. I don’t even know how the algorithm decided that was relevant, but the search log shows it happened, and once you see one like that, you can’t help but keep scrolling.
The specificity is disorienting. Not just generic porn queries—though there’s plenty of those—but “do you die from sex earlier,” “pornostars leaving the church,” “I smell like fish,” “are my breasts sick.” The questions people ask Google when they think nobody’s listening. When there’s no shame in the algorithm.
After twenty years of running blogs, you learn that people searching for specific pop culture trivia or design inspiration are the minority. Most traffic comes from things you never anticipated. Someone looking for leopards to print out. Someone asking how to remove sequoias from their back. Someone wanting to know about Harry Potter’s first on-screen kiss. You put something on the internet and it becomes a waypoint for every weird impulse and stray thought that doesn’t fit anywhere else.
The sexual searches blur together after a while—they’re the baseline, the constant hum. But the specific ones stick: “I had sex with my sister,” “hose down, legs wide,” “naked freckles.” There’s something in that specificity, that moment when someone typed the exact thought that was in their head, hit search, and maybe felt the smallest relief that the internet was listening even if nobody else was.
What gets you is the innocence in some of it. The health anxiety, the basic curiosity, the confusion. “What do the numbers on a Billy Boy condom package mean,” someone genuinely wanted to know. “Does your stomach change after you lose weight,” another person searched. “When someone says ’I’m not gay but…’—what does it mean?” Real questions from real people who didn’t have anyone else to ask.
I’ve watched the internet accumulate these tiny confessions for years now. Every search is someone alone with a question, a fear, a need, a joke, a moment of curiosity they’d never say out loud. They think it’s private. They think nobody’s paying attention. But the search logs are there, year after year, this strange archive of what people actually want to know when nobody’s watching.
It’s a kind of unfiltered truth. Not the version of themselves people present online—the curated feeds, the careful sentences, the persona. This is the question at 3 AM when you can’t sleep. This is what you actually need to know.
Everyone says print is dead, which is mostly true about the stuff that deserves to die — corporate newspapers filled with ads and garbage, local papers that don’t even pay their photographers. Good riddance. But at the edges, there are magazines that actually care, and Sneeze Mag is one of them.
It’s a Canadian skateboarding magazine, but that’s a thin description. It’s oversized, beautifully printed, and stuffed with photography that’s worth owning just to look at — skateboarding shots, half-naked girls, nice cars, fashion that doesn’t feel fake. The kind of thing you’d tape to your wall.
After “Big Hands” came “Read Her Lips,” featuring work from Tobin Yelland, JAMIL GS, and Keiichi Nitta. The printing is clean. Someone cared about every page. Word is the next issue dropped in fall for a couple bucks. My walls are pretty bare, so if you spot a copy lying around, grab an extra and I’ll take it off your hands.
Japanese lessons were supposed to be practical. What I actually got was six hours a week of legitimacy to spend scrolling through websites made entirely of pixel art and an endless rotation of smiling cats. I was already doing this anyway, but now I could call it self-improvement.
What kills the hours between lessons? J-pop. I got knocked sideways by a Sailor Moon soundtrack years ago and I haven’t recovered. My Japanese extends to maybe five words—thank you, goodbye, the basics. Everything I understand about these songs comes from melody and feeling, which means I’m 100% convinced they’re all profound emotional masterpieces. By the time I’m fluent enough to realize some of them are probably about pizza or something, I’ll be way too attached to care.
Scandal, Ikimono Gakari, Ai Otsuka, Abe Mao. Shiina Ringo especially. Asian Kung Fu Generation, Kaela Kimura, Stereopony, Spitz, Orange Range, Maaya Sakamoto, Utada Hikaru, the brilliant green. They’re all on the same shelf in my head now, the same dark room where I keep things that feel true without needing to make sense.
There’s something perfect about loving something in a language you can’t speak. All the feeling gets through without the weight of actually knowing what anything means. The songs work better this way—mysterious, invulnerable, mine in a way they wouldn’t be if I could parse every word.
I probably know half these songs phonetically by now. I still couldn’t tell you what they mean. I’m not sure I want to find out.
SuicideGirls figured out something most porn sites miss. It’s not just naked women—you can find that anywhere. It’s the aesthetic. The tattoos, piercings, dyed hair, the styling. You’re not looking at generic bodies; you’re looking at people who visibly belong to a specific world. Yeah, it’s hot. But it’s also smarter design.
PunkGrl runs the same playbook. The alternative aesthetic, the community structure, the visual consistency—it comes together as something coherent. You know what you’re getting. Whether it’s actual connection or just parasocial intimacy with better aesthetics is probably irrelevant. The design works.
I don’t really have role models, but if anyone gets to claim that title with me, it’s a small, crude Japanese kid with a big mouth who understood something essential about how to handle teachers, parents, and basically everyone else: Shin Chan.
This week I read that Yoshito Usui, the guy who created Shin Chan, was found dead in the mountains near Tokyo. He’d been missing for days. They identified him by his teeth. The news hit different than I expected—not because I was close to him, but because Shin Chan was one of those things that felt eternal, the kind of stupid perfect thing that didn’t need a creator, that just existed.
Watching the show when it aired on RTL II was like having permission to be crude and selfish and clever all at once. Shin Chan didn’t apologize for who he was. He had moves—the Po-Boogie-Woogie, the whole repertoire of chaos. He knew how to get what he wanted. He made fun of the right people. There’s something about a character like that, especially when you’re young and trying to figure out if it’s okay to be the person you actually are.
I’ve watched plenty of kids’ shows, but most of them were trying to teach you something. Shin Chan was just there, doing his thing, and if you got it, you got it. You either laughed at the jokes or you didn’t. The show didn’t care.
I don’t think about it much anymore, but knowing Usui is gone—that the mind behind all that chaos decided to take a walk in the mountains and didn’t come back—there’s a finality to it that’s harder than I’d have guessed. Not grief exactly, but something like the weight of a small, permanent loss. You don’t get more Shin Chan. You just get to remember the ones you saw.
I had one of those moments yesterday where I was laughing at something that happened on the internet, and then the laugh caught on something real underneath it. Some small act of coordination spiraled, became something larger, and suddenly it mattered. That’s when you feel why you do this—spend time scrolling, reading, watching things unfold in this space. Because real things happen here.
Digital natives—people who grew up thinking in threads and forums instead of consuming media passively—are starting to run things now. Shape culture, make policy, move the world. And the institutions are panicking. They don’t understand it, can’t control it, so they censor, legislate out of fear, treat the whole space like a threat. That’s what happens when you’re losing.
There’s something defiant about it I respect, even if I can see the risks. Power is shifting to people who grew up in this space—people who understand how information actually moves now. That terrifies everyone else, and maybe it should. But it’s hard to imagine that’s worse than what came before. The internet isn’t a moment. It’s the main story now. The only question is what comes next.
Gymnasiums have this particular smell - something between ambition and old carpet, the kind of scent that hits you the moment you walk in. I stepped back into mine last night for the first time in years and got instantly transported back to being seventeen, sitting in classrooms I hated, surrounded by people who cared way too much about grades. I couldn’t wait to leave. This time I was there by choice, for a specific reason: learn Japanese. Mostly so I could watch anime without the English dubbing stepping in and ruining everything, and also so that down the line I could understand what was actually happening in my favorite shows.
Our class was a strange mix - maybe fifteen of us. High school girls curious about anime, a couple of police officers who looked genuinely lost, some guy named Abdullah who never explained why he was there, and me. I’d expected a typical instructor, someone who’d moved here from Tokyo and picked up the teaching gig for extra money. Instead we got Daisuke Hasegawa - a Japanese rock musician, unhinged and constantly laughing at his own jokes. You couldn’t help but like him immediately.
We spent the evening writing our names in katakana - the most basic, childish version of learning Japanese possible - and playing dumb games to practice introducing ourselves. By the end of the night I could say my name without completely botching the pronunciation, which on a Wednesday in a gymnasium felt like a genuine accomplishment. The rest of the class seemed competent. I seemed like I’d need a while.
Here’s the crude truth: I’m learning Japanese because I find Japanese women beautiful, and animated Japanese women especially. Which is stupid and horny and not the kind of thing you usually say out loud, but that’s the honest answer. The cultural interest is real - I care about the design, the art, the storytelling. But the sexual interest is just as real, maybe more so. I figure Daisuke knows this about everyone in that room. He probably teaches this class specifically because he understands that most of his students are here because of that exact mix.
I left that night with a stack of katakana notes and Daisuke’s energy still bouncing around my head. Next class in a week. I’ll probably be better by then.
I’ve booked flights to America. Packed condoms and fresh underwear. Basically all I need now is my smile and the ability to comfort a heartbroken woman. After six years of voodoo spells and systematic bad luck directed at celebrity relationships, Avril Lavigne is finally single.
She announced it on her blog—said she and Deryck Whibley, the Sum 41 singer, split recently but respects him more than anyone else in the world. That’s sweet. Everyone who watched MTV in the 2000s knows that when two rock stars try dating, you’re just watching a countdown. Schedules conflict. Egos won’t bend. It never lasts.
I feel for them both. But I’ve been in love with Avril my entire life, so I’m not wasting this. The plan is straightforward: show up at her birthday party, jump naked out of a cake, and play “Complicated” on the ukulele. She’ll understand what that means. She’ll realize someone’s been waiting.
Maybe it’s all a publicity push for her next album. Maybe I’m completely insane. Doesn’t matter. I’m already on a plane headed her way. Avril Lavigne, I’m coming!
I had a 4Chan account for a few years in the mid-2000s. Not bragging about it — just a thing I did. Mostly I was curious about where all the internet’s actual culture was coming from, since nothing about it was appearing on the mainstream sites yet. And yeah, there was a lot of depravity on there. I’m not going to pretend I didn’t see it or that it wasn’t shocking the first time. But that wasn’t what interested me about the place.
What got me was how honest it was in a way that felt impossible anywhere else online. You could type something genuinely dark, actually mean it, and not have it attached to your identity or your permanent record. No algorithm deciding if your post was worth showing around. No consequences. Just you and anonymous strangers, most of whom were thinking the exact same things you were.
Once you understood the structure, the whole site made sense. It wasn’t that 4Chan attracted uniquely terrible people. It was that 4Chan removed the reasons most people have to not be terrible. Strip away the social friction — the awareness of being watched, the need to maintain an image, the fear of consequences — and what you get is this very raw, unfiltered version of what humans are actually capable of thinking. Some of it’s horrifying. Some of it’s just crude or mean or needlessly aggressive. Some of it’s actually funny in ways you’d never admit in public.
People usually treated it like a moral judgment on humanity. Like 4Chan proved we’re secretly evil. But that’s not quite right. The site just proved that most of what we present to the world is a performance, and when you disable the performance, you see something closer to the reality underneath. Usually that reality is worse. Sometimes it’s just more complicated.
I left the site eventually because spending hours in that space started to feel like I was borrowing someone else’s brain. The darkness didn’t rub off or anything dramatic — I’m not going to pretend I was corrupted by reading horrible things online. But there’s something wearing about existing in that headspace, where nothing is off limits and no one’s judging you because no one knows who you are. After a while it starts to feel less like freedom and more like drift.
He walks onto the stage at the 2009 VMAs while Taylor Swift is accepting Best Female Video. Takes the mic from her hands. Says Beyoncé had one of the best videos of all time. Walks off.
What got everyone was how utterly unambiguous it was. No performance of regret, no “oh shit I shouldn’t have done that” moment. He did it and he meant it. He thought his opinion about who deserved that award was more important than hers. She was twenty, getting her first big win, and he decided it belonged to someone else.
The internet went insane, but it wasn’t performative. South Park made him a gay fish. Keyboard Cat played him off. The memes got it right away: this wasn’t passion or ambition or even typical rudeness. It was pure conviction that the normal rules didn’t apply to him.
I wasn’t invested in either of them back then. I barely knew who they were. But I couldn’t look away because the pure unfiltered arrogance was shocking. This is what it looks like when someone with power decides that normal rules don’t apply to him. Not calculated. Just what he does.
It becomes this permanent filter for everything that came after. Even the music you might respect gets shadowed by it. The guy who would take a microphone from a kid because he thought he knew better.
Sara and I spent a weekend saving the world, which is somehow both harder and easier than it sounds, and in the end we failed anyway, but that’s not the point.
Saturday morning we were at “Freedom not Fear,” marching against data retention and mass surveillance and the whole digital apparatus designed to watch you piss. The moment I realized how many people showed up, I knew the truth: every nerd in Berlin had crawled out of their basement. WoW servers were running on fumes. Linux forums were ghost towns. We shuffled along with all of them, and for a few hours it actually felt like we were shifting something. Like showing up mattered. You feel that way sometimes even though you know it’s partly theater, but you feel it anyway.
That afternoon we caught District 9. It’s not bad—aliens in a camp, apartheid as analogy, the machinery of displacement and dehumanization. I spent the movie wanting to punch the main character, but something about the setup got to me: the way people just disappear into bureaucracy, the way systems are designed to keep you in your place. Sitting there in the dark, I felt like maybe I’d done something for them just by sitting there and agreeing they mattered. Ridiculous, but there it is.
By evening we were at Cargo for some Vice launch party for Dirt 2. Hipsters, lasers, game screens projected on the walls, the whole fabrication of cool. We lasted an hour, maybe less. The artifice was suffocating—the posture, the effort, the desperate construction of nonchalance. We bailed without a word and found ourselves on the U-Bahn heading home, and that’s when we looked at each other and knew: we were absolute, complete, irredeemable losers. Nerds at a protest feeling politically alive. Too earnest for a movie. Too weird and tired for a room full of people performing being cool.
Everything’s temporary now, or maybe it always was and I’m just paying attention. Trends disappear in weeks. People drift in and out. You find something you care about and it’s already gone.
I want the good stuff—sex, money, real friends who get it, people who make me think or laugh. I want to feel that edge where you don’t know if you’re breaking down or breaking through. Routine is dangerous; stagnation is death.
The thing is not to grip too tight. You learn that people and situations dissolve whether you want them to or not, and the only smart move is knowing when to let go before the whole thing poisons you. There’s no point carrying weight that doesn’t belong to you anymore. When something bores you or makes you miserable or sucks the air out of everything, you cut it loose and make room for the people and things that actually lift you back up.
Every goodbye carries that feeling of a foggy summer morning in it—you’ve dumped the old weight and suddenly everything’s wide open again. That’s the real rush. Baby, it’s a wild world.
I don’t understand what everyone’s problem is with Ed Hardy. The designs are genuinely good—wild animal patterns, intricate creatures, color work that actually takes skill. The branding is subtle. It’s not trying to look refined or signal anything about your taste. It’s just making something visible.
And everyone wears it anyway. Marilyn Manson. Hillary Clinton. That guy from How I Met Your Mother. It’s everywhere if you pay attention, across every kind of person. The whole narrative that it’s some specific type of person’s brand is made up.
Honestly, I think people resent it for not apologizing. It doesn’t play the minimalism game. It doesn’t signal restraint or good taste or understanding design as a theory. It’s loud and colorful and takes up space. Maybe that’s worse to people than genuinely bad design—at least bad design stays quiet.
I keep coming back to Bat for Lashes for the most basic reason: her music works regardless of what I’m doing or thinking when I put it on. Listening to “Daniel” while something real is happening with someone? Perfect. Listening alone, thinking too much? Also perfect. Just existing normally? Works. Most musicians can’t do that. They hedge, they find some middle ground they hope lands for everyone. Natasha Khan doesn’t. She goes all the way into whatever she’s exploring and you either meet her there or you don’t.
Two Suns is the same album — all the way in, no apologies, no reaching down to make things more accessible. She’s describing what it actually feels like to be in that headspace and if you’re there too, it lands completely.
I don’t need the documentary or the expanded editions or any of that. The music’s there when I need it, which is most days. That’s enough.
Your world ends and nobody marks the calendar. Not the disasters that make the news—the private ones. A phone call at the wrong moment. Something you already suspected finally said out loud. Your best friend telling you he’s moving to Brazil, already halfway there in his head, and then two weeks later he’s just gone. The future he was describing doesn’t belong to anyone now.
You stand in the wreckage and wait. Wait for it to hurt less, for things to make sense, for yourself to feel solid instead of like you’re performing being okay when really you’re nowhere near it. The longer you wait the more you realize nothing’s coming to fix it—there’s no memo, no explanation, no reason that would make this better.
Everyone gets at least one of these moments. The details change but the shape stays the same. Someone dies, or leaves, or you find out they’ve been with someone they weren’t supposed to be with. Or you ask a question and finally get an answer that rewrites everything. And you’re left with that useless question that everyone asks: why me? How do I live with this?
There’s a particular kind of alone that comes with this. Not lonely exactly—it’s more that nobody else can live in the wreckage the way you have to. They can help, they can listen, but they’re not the ones standing there at three in the morning wondering how much of yourself got buried in it.
I don’t know how you come out the other side. I just know the wreckage doesn’t disappear. You learn to move through it instead.
I followed Pixie Lott around on her promo tour in London because Jessie needed company and the magazine wanted coverage. Johannes was there shooting for BLANK. We stayed at the Hilton after, which was fine, everything was the same press junket blur—handlers and drunk friends and interviews running together.
She talked about The Kooks being her favorite band. Her parents being proud. Her friends traveling with her across Europe now. All of it genuine enough. But her songs are too pop for me. Safe. Built to chart and evaporate.
Then she performed at the Delight Studios and later at the Forum, and I had to soften a little. The woman’s got an actual voice—not the styled product but the thing underneath. Real technique. The ProSieben cameras were everywhere which was annoying, but you could hear it anyway. That counts.
So she’s talented. She’s got the trajectory, the parents, the fans. Maybe she’ll do something braver later. For now she does what she does well.
Afterward I walked London’s shopping streets with that exhausted feeling you get after a day of press events. Bought a FRONT magazine at full price, which felt like a small victory. Looked for her support act—there was actually an interesting woman opening—but never caught the name. The usual London sights: weird British faces attached to huge breasts, Tesco everywhere, that strange island energy. You see it, file it away, move on.
Nobody talks about school like it was anything but purgatory. Five days a week before dawn, herded into rooms with hormonal teenagers and teachers who were clearly at the end of their rope—probably going home to divorces they never saw coming. The mythology was always bullshit. No magic, no heroic arc, just fluorescent lights and the smell of industrial floor polish and the specific deadness of being trapped in a building with people you’d actively avoid in any other context.
I thought that was done with it. Then I went back. Needed to finish a web design apprenticeship, and suddenly I was the old guy in a classroom full of people who looked fourteen. Same beige institutional walls. Same rigid schedule. Same invisible social geography—who sits where, who’s allowed to talk to whom, which table claims which clique. Nothing had fundamentally changed since the 1930s. Teachers had just traded bamboo sticks for psychological ones. The troubled kids still hid in the bathrooms. The machinery was exactly the same.
But a wasted day could still have its moments. There was usually someone worth looking at. There were stupid funny things—a kid getting destroyed by a teacher, the specific tedium of a lesson that runs five minutes too long. And by that point, technology had reached the point where nobody was actually engaged anyway. MacBook in front of you, you just disappear. Games, actual work, a podcast—doesn’t matter. The teacher’s talking somewhere up there and you’re somewhere else entirely.
You’d think going back as an adult would feel different, like you’d have some perspective that made it bearable, maybe even interesting. It doesn’t. If anything it’s worse because you know exactly what you’re wasting. You remember being young and thinking your time had infinite supply. Now you’re counting the hours and they all feel heavier.
I got through it though. Made it to the end. The whole thing felt pointless going in and feels pointless now, but that’s how it always goes. You’re reaching toward something—a certificate, a credential, whatever—convinced it’ll mean something, and then you’re living it and it mostly just feels like being locked up for hours at a time. The slightly better version of you on the other side doesn’t compensate for the days you’ll never get back. Maybe that’s just growing up. Maybe that’s just life. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.
I was exactly the kind of guy who met women only on screens: coder, gamer, the type who’d rather spend fourteen hours optimizing someone else’s website than actually talk to people. So naturally my sexual education came from Tumblr, which back then was essentially an endless, meticulously organized library of pornography.
There were thousands of blogs dedicated to specific obsessions. Each had its own aesthetic, its own strange logic. Some were crude about it, just stated plainly what they were. Others attempted artistry with fuzzy lighting and pretentious names. Most didn’t bother trying. You could spend entire evenings jumping between them, following chains of preferences, getting lost in someone else’s taxonomy of desire. The weird part was how you’d organize it like a hobby, give it structure and levels, as if that made it something other than compulsive scrolling. But having the framework helped. If you could systematize your hunger, make it taxonomic, maybe it wasn’t just need. Maybe it was a project, a hobby, something respectable.
That whole era of the internet is gone now. Tumblr purged the adult content, the blogs vanished, and the digital world I lived in for years just ceased to exist like it was never there. It’s strange how thoroughly the internet can erase itself. I don’t particularly miss it, though I remember it clearly enough — the specific texture of very late night, the glow of the screen, different image sizes and color grades bleeding into each other. I learned nothing useful. No technique, no insight into real bodies or what anyone actually wanted. But that was never really the point.
The people I knew back then — and I didn’t know many people — would have probably been horrified if they knew how much time I spent there. But then they didn’t know much about how I spent any of my time, which was mostly alone in front of a screen. You don’t tell people. You just do it, quietly, in the dark, for years.
Lisa Mitchell’s living in a washing machine in the ’Coin Laundry’ video, asking for coins, stories, memories. It’s the kind of idea that could be precious, but there’s something genuine underneath.
She’s nineteen, born in England, raised in Australia. The song itself is understated—not trying to blow you away, just asking for something small and honest. It works.
She’s got other tracks like ’Incomplete Lullaby’ and ’Neopolitan Dreams’ with the same quality—clean, direct, nothing unnecessary.
She’s touring Australia at the moment, which is great for Australia. Hopefully she’ll get wanderlust and see the rest of the world too.
They made a 24-hour documentary about Berlin and showed it everywhere at once—on screens around the city, television, streaming online. You know the type of ambitious thing that shouldn’t work but somehow does.
You see everything. A woman in a kitchen making soup for her family, the usual daily rhythms. Kai Diekmann doing his thing at BILD. Someone in a basement apartment just hanging out, not performing. People who don’t think they’re documentary material, which makes them perfect for it.
There are readings, experimental music shows, parties happening across Berlin around the broadcast. Screens on corners, in bars, on the sides of buildings. The whole city’s turned into a gallery for it.
By now it’s dark. The night people are starting to move. That’s when watching Berlin for 24 hours gets interesting—the shift from day routines to whatever happens after dark. The city looks different in real time.
Point a camera at a city for 24 hours and you see things you’d never notice otherwise. All the small routines, the midnight shift, the person in the basement who’s just existing. That’s the whole thing—Berlin, unfiltered, with nothing to prove.
You’re born with these meat differences between your legs that basically decide your entire life before you’re old enough to argue. What color your room gets painted. What toys you’re supposed to want. The moment in puberty when you can’t go shirtless without getting stared at. And then the sex part.
One side puts it in, one side takes it in. Unless you’re into both, you only ever get to know one. And on the putting-in side? We’re useless. Everything we think we understand comes from porn that’s basically a nightmare, stories that are seventy percent lie, whatever fumbling happened with someone just as lost. We’re out there blind and drooling, poking at you like we know what we’re doing when we obviously don’t.
Sometimes I think about it. If I could be a woman for one day—just that part, just the sex—I’d want to actually feel it. The clit. A dick inside. What that orgasm feels like from in there. Not as some fantasy tourist thing. Just to know.
Because if every guy actually understood what that felt like, everything changes. You can’t go back to guessing. You can’t keep treating someone like a puzzle you’ll never solve. You’d know something real instead of running on porn and myth and your own failure.
I’m probably being naive. But that’s what I’d ask for.
So what about you? What would you do if you woke up in a body that wasn’t yours?
Some Berlin nightclubs become legendary simply by existing in the right time and place for the right people. Bar 25, White Trash, Scala — they don’t get that status through promotion; it just happens. You end up there and realize everyone around you is someone you recognize, someone like you, someone you’d actually want to spend a night with.
The Scala farewell was brutal. I cried at four in the morning, and I wasn’t sad about losing a building or a sound system. You mourn the loss of one of the few places where you can exist without performance, without the calculation that most of the world demands. When that closes, something real closes.
Coop, who built the place, isn’t letting it stay dead. He announced a new location by year’s end — different space, different setup, but the same thing in theory. I don’t know if that transfer works. Maybe the magic was always tied to that specific building, that specific moment in time. Or maybe it’s something deeper that can happen again somewhere else. Honestly, I’ll probably go to the opening night anyway. That’s what you do when a place like that comes back. You show up and hope it remembers how to be what it was.
Fashion is marketing. That’s what I think every time I see a campaign. Some beautiful girl in some beautiful scenario photographed by someone brilliant, and the clothes are just sitting there, barely noticeable under all the styling and lighting and story they’re telling. The clothes aren’t the product. The image is the product.
A supermodel can wear anything and look cool. A gas station shirt, a ridiculous turtleneck, whatever — she’s still cool. That’s the whole point of it. But that’s two percent of people, maybe less. For everyone else there’s no magic in it. Put that same shirt on a regular person and it dies somehow.
This is what gets me. Is fashion real, or am I just fooling myself? Is it about the actual clothes, or just about selling you a dream? Because from the pictures you can’t tell. You see a beautiful outfit and a beautiful person, and they work together, but which one is doing the actual work?
I’d want to see a real test. Take one outfit — a basic shirt, jeans, shoes. Shoot it on a supermodel in perfect lighting. Then shoot it exactly the same way on an ugly person. Someone overweight. Someone with bad skin. Someone who doesn’t work as a model. Same photographer, same setup, same everything. Then you could actually know if the clothes are good or if it’s all just the person in them.
Yesterday was a good day to die. Sara, Till, and I joined a zombie flashmob through Berlin—a hundred of us stumbling from Potsdamer Platz through the Reichstag to Brandenburg Gate, covered in blood and rot, chasing screaming tourists. The choreography was simple: collapse, moan, shuffle, repeat. We crashed another flashmob along the way. The VIP zombies had “Thriller” memorized—Michael Jackson’s birthday made into this perfectly synchronized undead dance that shouldn’t have worked but did.
There’s something liberating about moving like a corpse in public. You’re either all in or you’re not, and we were all in. We fell and dragged ourselves forward while tourists filmed and stared, all of us bound by the same stupid commitment.
The actual moment came later, at Subway. Still in full costume, clothes torn, fake blood still wet, ordering sandwiches. A little girl looked at Sara with wide, frightened eyes and asked what was happening. I remember that look—the genuine confusion, the moment the world stopped making sense. That’s what stays with you.
Jerico broke his camera. René missed it. I lost a white shirt. There are photos somewhere. It was stupid and perfect and worth it. Brains.
Yeah, I’ll admit it: I’m into pop acts that are obviously terrible but look good doing it. Pixie Lott, Lovers Electric, anyone who hit that exact spot where the music isn’t the point and nobody’s pretending it is. It’s not subtle. Some music exists purely to be watched.
Dolly Rockers is that formula turned into a group. Four women, perfect choreography, British pop manufactured with absolute precision because someone understood what sells. “Gold Digger” is their song on rotation right now, and the video confirms exactly what you’d suspect about why they exist.
There’s one in the middle—Brooke Challinor or Lucie Kay or Sophie King, I honestly don’t keep track of these names—and she’s why the whole thing works. Not because she can sing. Not because the song is good. Just because of how she moves in that frame and where the camera looks. That’s the entire mechanism.
I could get into the whole ethics angle, could question how much calculated sexuality with zero actual talent the market will absorb. But that’s stupid. It works because it’s designed to work. I’m watching because it works. The song gets played because she moves that way. There’s no mystery to solve here.
The Spice Girls did this thirty years ago. Dolly Rockers didn’t invent anything. They’re just doing it well enough to matter, and the one in the middle knows exactly what her job is.
People have actual wars about operating systems now. Used to be religion, money, race—the basics. Now it’s which software you run, which somehow feels worse.
Snow Leopard launches tomorrow. Thirty euros for the sixth version of Mac OS X, and they’re doing midnight releases in some cities like it’s a Harry Potter premiere. I’m grabbing it.
Nothing revolutionary in the update. Just faster, smoother, everything a little more polished. The appeal is that it doesn’t ask you to think about it. No weird hiccups, no digging through broken settings, no sense of your computer fighting you while you work. You use it and move on.
I know how that sounds. Every Mac person says the same thing, convinced their choice is more enlightened than everyone else’s. Maybe it is. Probably not. But I do know I don’t want to spend time troubleshooting my operating system, and this does that, so thirty euros seems fair.
I keep a lot of photographs. Not my own—images I find online and save without thinking too hard about why. The impulse has always been there, but the internet made it compulsive. You can spend hours scrolling through photographs by people you’ll never meet, of moments that have nothing to do with you, and they stick with you anyway.
A photograph by Carl Heindl. Kate Moss on a bicycle. Texture, light, a composition that just works. You save these without thinking about it, and months later you realize they’ve accumulated into something—a personal collection of images that mean something even if you can’t explain what.
What’s strange is that there’s no audience for it. You’re not curating for anyone but yourself. You’re just marking moments that moved you visually on a particular day, in a particular mood. Looking back through saved images is like reading old journals, except in photographs instead of words. You can see your taste shifting, or taste you didn’t even know you had starting to take shape.
This corner of the internet used to be full of people doing exactly this—spending days organizing images, building elaborate personal collections, curation as a real practice. Some of it still happens, but the platforms changed and a lot of it got flattened into algorithms. I miss that version sometimes.
Chris from Pratschwitz—outside Dresden—printed the whole thing and took it to the lake. Sent me a photo. The story’s about Sina and Paula and this photographer everyone hates, and now people are printing it. Carrying it places. Every part comes from actual painful memory, dead dreams, that stubborn hope that keeps coming back. Wanted people to feel that weight. It’s working.
The waiting destroys them. Chris said waiting a week for the next installment is like Ramadan—can’t eat, can’t drink, can’t think about sex all day. Which is brutal. Which is exactly what I was after.
Paper changes something. It’s not a blog post anymore, it’s an object someone thought was worth printing. Worth carrying. That matters more than any publishing deal. Some German publisher could find this, offer a contract, make it official. But I don’t actually care. I’m happy with how it is right now. People wait for it. They print it. That’s enough.
Went paintballing yesterday and I’m covered in bruises. Shoulders, ribs, legs—all marked up. My elbow’s torn open from where I slipped in the mud, but that’s not really part of the war narrative. Pink paint everywhere. Burst gel balls scattered across the ground like actual casualties. My friend Pedder took a shot directly to the head. Guy went down confused.
We were in the woods and these abandoned houses with a bunch of people dressed in way-too-realistic tactical gear, all of us acting like this mattered. Someone brought sausages, which is the only good decision anyone made all day. Pink splatter, people yelling, Pedder getting eliminated in the first five minutes. I mostly spent the time slipping on mud and remembering why I hate outdoor activities.
The bruises are real. The embarrassment is real. The fact that I’m not doing this again anytime soon is definitely real. I’m going back to Call of Duty, where I can at least pretend I’m competent at warfare.
Keiichi Nitta works the way Richardson, Kern, and Snow work—these photographers who’ve made a single obsession into an entire practice. He’s been in Tokyo for years shooting film and Polaroid, mostly of the women around him, mostly nude. I’m not going to be coy about the appeal of that.
He had a show in Taiwan with large prints, the kind of work that makes you understand what actually happens when someone stays in one city long enough that the line between observer and participant gets permanently blurred. The women in his photographs clearly trust him. That’s not something you can fake or buy. You have to earn it.
What I genuinely envy is the discipline—just the sheer refusal to move on, to chase something bigger, to treat it like anything other than a complete commitment. He stayed in Tokyo and photographed the same light, the same bodies, for years until he actually learned what he was looking at. That’s not talent. That’s just time and attention devoted to one thing.
Surprise: I’m not actually a Berlin native. Weird, right. I know some people are having a complete meltdown about this, and others have already unfollowed. I get it.
Two years here and nothing much has changed really. Work, school, the blog, sleeping, eating, being around people at night. Nothing that sounds like anything when you say it out loud. Nothing that makes you feel like you’ve actually done something with the time.
I didn’t save the world or find myself or become the person I was supposed to become. Just showed up mostly and did the regular things. Got okay at work, went to classes, watched people, thought about stuff worth writing.
But looking back mostly means looking forward. Final year of my apprenticeship, another round of vocational school with Gulcan and Thomi and people I actually like being around. There’s Japanese I’ve been meaning to learn. Nora and I are getting married, which should be its own kind of disaster. Maybe even MTV Cribs if the universe is feeling generous.
None of it’s glamorous or special. It probably won’t matter to anyone but the people in it. But that feels like the whole idea anyway.
VICE never asked permission. While every other magazine was polishing things smooth, VICE ran photographs that made normal people uncomfortable. Richard Kern. Dash Snow. Real damage, real bodies, real waste as documentary evidence. Photography as testimony, not product.
There’s a moment when a magazine built on transgression is ahead of the culture instead of behind it. VICE had that moment. The photography was smarter than the journalism. The design was smarter than the intent. You could feel it even in the ads. It wasn’t selling anything you didn’t want; it was laying bare who you were supposed to become. Broke. Educated. Dangerous. Unflinching.
I remember what it felt like to find something that didn’t blink. A magazine that looked at transgression and death and sexuality and didn’t apologize for any of it. That’s rarer than you’d think.
Picked up Alice in Wonderland on DVD. Been a while since I’d sat with it, and the timing felt right — some drugs, a dark room, then head out to a party afterward. There’s something about that film’s spiral-descent logic that works when you’re in the right state of mind. Wonderland and your brain syncing up. One of those nights where the pacing just works out: get weird for a couple hours, then go be around people.
There’s this thing Sara used to do with September Rave—write lyrics that were intentionally disgusting, loaded with the filthiest expressions she could find, talking about vomit and fucking and all of it—but underneath all that obscenity there was something genuinely moving about love and friendship and the ways people destroy each other. It shouldn’t have worked. You don’t pull off beautiful poetry using basically the internet’s worst language as your foundation. Except she did.
Now she’s doing dragstripGirl, which is a different creature entirely—music and design and the internet as subject matter instead of as a language. The kind of evolution that makes sense when you’ve exhausted one specific lane and want to explore what else is possible. I get it. I’m not pretending I don’t.
We were supposed to show up to this Vimeo thing at a pool bar in Wedding, the kind of event that looks promising on paper and feels like a funeral once you’re there. Except we never actually went. Stuck with her Australian roommate instead, drank beer, and basically lived on Scrubs for a night. The party wasn’t worth the effort, so we saved ourselves. Though we did lift some of those massive promotional posters on our way past, just because they were absurdly huge and stealing them felt like the only worthwhile thing about the whole scene.
What gets to me isn’t that Sara moved on from September Rave. It’s that certain kinds of writing stay with you in a particular way, and hers did. The way she could find something genuinely beautiful inside deliberately ugly material—that’s a skill. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see that collected somewhere, maybe in book form, or maybe just brought back one more time. But that’s not my call. She knows what she wants to make and what she’s ready to leave behind.
Blumio’s been in heavy rotation the last few months. A 24-year-old rapper from Düsseldorf with Japanese heritage — the kind of specific background that usually doesn’t register in German hip-hop, which made me pay attention from the start. His video for “Hey Mr. Nazi” sealed it. The whole thing is packed with wordplay, him rapping about love, racism, Japanese culture, the importance of staying clean because women notice these things. It’s specific enough to feel real, unironic.
What gets me is that he doesn’t sound like he’s performing. The clever lines are there, but there’s no distance, no sense he’s outside the words laughing at his own jokes. He sounds like he actually means all of it — the humor, the statements about racism, the whole life-affirming energy underneath.
His album is “Yellow Album,” out on his own label, and I’ve come back to it more than I usually do. Most artists I discover get a week or two of rotation, then something else takes over. This one stuck, which is rare enough that I notice it.
Maybe it’s the doubled identity — being Japanese in a German context, carrying both at once. Or maybe he just sounds like someone who actually cared about making something good, who wasn’t trying to calculate angles or play to some audience that might exist someday.
Eric Dane, the guy everyone found attractive on Grey’s Anatomy, ended up in a private sex video with his wife Rebecca Gayheart and some actress, and America absolutely lost it. The video showed them having sex, using drugs, the standard stuff. The country treated it like the apocalypse.
The timing was perfect for a scandal. Everyone was primed for the next celebrity to fail the purity test. Paris Hilton, R. Kelly, various Disney stars—the machine was hungry. Dane’s leaked tape fed it.
What gets me is the sheer absurdity of it. Americans freak out over a nipple on network television but have no problem with people getting shot in the head. A married couple has sex with another adult and it’s somehow the biggest cultural emergency. The drugs bothered people more than the sex, which tells you everything you need to know.
The real trap of a scandal like that is how the leak itself becomes the scandal. If that video stayed private, nobody would’ve known. But leak it and suddenly everyone’s talking about it, everyone’s thinking about it, everyone’s pretending to be shocked. The moral performance is exhausting. People moralize for a week and then move on to the next thing.
I don’t know what the scandal actually proved. That celebrities are people? That famous people are vulnerable to blackmail and leaks? That America has deeply neurotic ideas about sex? All of those things were already obvious. The tape just made them unavoidable for a moment.
By now nobody thinks about the video anymore. Dane moved on, the country found something else to be scandalized about, and America stayed exactly as weird about sex as it was before. Nothing changed. The only real lesson is that leaked tapes blow up because people are hypocritical, not because the content is actually shocking.
There was a club called 25, and Sina was turning 18. We danced close, bodies pressed into the bass, both high on something. In the bathroom, two girls wanted me to photograph them as they undressed. My head was splitting. There was an urge to vomit that I kept strangling down. The bigger one got on her knees while I counted white tiles on the wall, polished and endless. When she was done I went back to find Sina and picked up the dance where we’d left it. After a while she tugged my sleeve. “Can we go home? I’m tired.”
That night, something in her fractured. She cried until the room drowned in it. “Why do I do this?” she screamed, hurling a basket of apples at my head. “I love you, you bastard, but you’re a coward. A freeloader. A fraud. You hate this world but you devour what it offers. You hate these people but you fuck them. You hate these drugs but you keep chopping another line, and another.” She threw a bag against the wall. White powder fell like snow. I sat on the bed and watched, smoking.
“This world means nothing to you,” she said, her voice climbing higher. “I mean nothing. Love means nothing. How am I supposed to give myself to someone who feels nothing about love? Tell me that.” “I’m not answering that,” I said. She got colder, then hotter.
She went to the kitchen and came back with a long knife, started stabbing the pillows, the mattress, feathers erupting into the air. I leaned against the wall and smoked, untouched. She looked like a naked angel being torn apart. Then she stopped. “I have to get out.” She dropped the knife, jammed clothes into a Hello Kitty backpack, ran for the door before I’d even registered what was happening. The door slammed. I came to and ran to the balcony. I could see her reddish hair moving down the dark street. “Sina, where are you going?” Nothing. She was gone into the U-Bahn. I grabbed orange juice from the fridge, drank some, threw the carton at the wall. The yellow stain is still there. Her phone was on the bed. I picked up one of her underwear, buried myself in the ruined pillows, and tried not to think about what was coming.
That night I had a dream that felt like it was still happening when I woke, drenched and sick. I stumbled to the kitchen, poured cereal and milk, but her face wouldn’t leave—pale as death, and me holding her while I screamed the whole city’s name. I couldn’t tell what was real anymore. There was a smell I couldn’t place. Looking down at myself, blood seemed to cover half my body, or maybe it was just shadow and light playing games. I lifted a spoon of cereal and the faces came back—the ones from outside 25, all screaming her name over and over.
People kept saying she’d left with some guy from Chan Shin, someone dangerous, someone shady. She was too drunk to know what was happening. I screamed. If I screamed loud enough, if I said her name loud enough, I could undo it—I was sure of that. Phone in one hand, tequila in the other. The cold air from the window helped, washed over my head and pushed the thoughts away. I ran through the space between knowing and reaching her, I was crying.
When I turned the corner the alley was there and so was she, helpless against the filthy brick. Everything I had—every feeling—collapsed into that one moment, sharp as a gunshot. I ran to her. I said things without words, screamed them hoping they’d still somehow reach her. I held her and held her until I felt myself start to rupture. I choked on blood and tears. Her empty eyes, her soft face—they were telling me what I already knew. I wasn’t there.
I found The Front at one of those international newsstands — the kind of place where things nobody admits wanting somehow still get sold. I’d been deep in British culture for a while, mostly through Skins and its particular blend of cruelty and wit. So when this magazine showed up, crude and beautifully designed all at once, it felt like proof that real taste still had a home somewhere.
160 pages of pure density. Skate culture, sex, bodies that looked human instead of the post-production fantasy most magazines were selling. The editorial voice was what mattered though — crude in a way you almost never see in print. Not clever about it, not performing anything, just straightforwardly horny and unapologetic.
Vikki Blows was on the cover. Probably a stage name, but that felt right for the whole thing — nothing pretended to be more real than it actually was. It looked expensive and cheap at once, which is harder to achieve than it sounds.
I don’t know if it lasted. Magazines like that usually don’t. But it stayed with me as proof that you could be crude and crafted at the same time, that honest desire on a page could be a form of style, that print still had room for an actual attitude.
My life plan has some pretty non-negotiable items written into it. Marrying Nora Tschirner, for one—she doesn’t know about this yet. Controlling the entire world. Flooding Berlin and moving to Tokyo by the time I’m thirty to spend my golden years there. Live fast, die young, right? But there’s a problem with retiring to a country whose language you can’t speak. You end up just standing around looking confused all the time.
So I’m taking a beginner’s Japanese course starting in September with this teacher named Saki Matsuda. Figured I might as well actually understand what Ayumi Hamasaki and Utada Hikaru are saying to me instead of just feeling it in my bones—which, let’s be honest, is probably all death and sex and gorgeous melodrama. My brain’s gotten soft and comfortable from just consuming everything in English. I need something that doesn’t come pre-translated. I need the friction of actually working for it, conjugating verbs, copying out characters that look like tiny paintings. It’ll hurt in a way I probably need.
I’ve gotten genuinely lazy. Not the cute kind—genuinely, embarrassingly lazy. Used to ride, swim, play football. That all stopped. Now there’s a spare tire and something has to give.
So I got obsessed with a Charge Plug. Don’t ask me why this specific bike—it’s probably just how I work, thinking some new object will fix something wrong with the person using it. I went to my bike shop and asked about one. The guy laughed. Apparently those bikes sold out years ago when everyone wanted them at once. Come back next year, he said.
Next year.
But I keep seeing Charge Plugs all over Berlin. People are riding them. Which means someone out there owns one and doesn’t want it anymore. Maybe they need cash. Maybe they got bored. Maybe they’d sell it to the guy who won’t shut up about wanting one.
I had this one stupid goal for years and today I actually achieved it, so I can officially stop now. I met Nora Tschirner.
We talked, we laughed, we hugged. There are parts of my body I will never wash again. My friends kept me from completely forgetting how to speak while she was in front of me, which was the kind of help I needed.
It’s ridiculous to make a life achievement out of meeting someone, and I knew that even while it was happening. But you carry something like that for long enough and then it actually occurs and it’s both exactly what you thought it would be and sort of empty all at once. Doesn’t change anything. But you feel it in the moment, and then it’s just a thing that happened. You’ve got the photo. You shook her hand. That’s the whole thing.
The apprenticeship was the straightforward path into design. You found an agency that would take you, learned by working on real projects, emerged knowing what you were doing. There was no mystery to it, no romance—just the arithmetic of getting good: find someone better at the craft than you are, work in the same room, absorb what sticks.
Berlin had plenty of agencies doing interesting work, and they all needed people. If you wanted in badly enough, if you could convince them you had the hunger for it, they’d teach you. That was the exchange. Real work for your time, real knowledge for your effort. Not a guarantee of anything, but an actual shot at the future you wanted.
Amanda Blank has more hair on her forearms than I have on my head, but that seems exactly right somehow. She’s got this thing—raw, unguarded sexuality that doesn’t feel performed. It just is. I can’t describe it without sounding crude, and maybe that’s the point.
I got pulled into her new video for “Might Like You Better” off “I Love You”. Bright colors, straightforward lyrics—a story about wanting someone, about sex, about wondering if there’s someone better waiting. She’s worked with Santigold and M.I.A. and Ghostface Killah on heavier stuff, but this feels more intimate. Quieter. More direct somehow.
The album holds up. There’s sophistication in the production, some retro touches, and then “Leaving You Behind” with Lykke Li—a ballad that actually wrecks you. Both of them are present in it, not performing sadness but actually feeling it.
I keep thinking about Lykke Li though. She had something distinctive and then went quiet. I’m getting impatient waiting for new work.
Just got back to Berlin last Sunday after two weeks down in Bavaria and, I don’t know, I actually missed it. Montana and I had eaten our way through the usual garbage and danced around with whoever showed up, that blur of a weekend, but yeah, the city was still calling me back. Bayern’s not nothing. Berlin’s the real place though.
I should probably thank Deutsche Bahn for still being incompetent enough to occasionally just lose trains, because that’s the only reason I ended up talking to Chloé on the S-Bahn. French exchange student with this soft accent you could listen to forever. We laughed the whole ride, sang a little, worked through her French together. One of those moments that feels whole while it’s happening, you know? Don’t need to think about it afterwards.
Spent the rest of the weekend at a party on the Spree—some open-air thing called Sunday Seance Summer Affair. Frank from iHeartBerlin was there doing his thing, all energy, and Juliane, and we just talked about confetti and slave labor and grilled sausages or whatever seemed important at three in the morning. Frank already knows where to be next weekend. He always does.
Berlin’s where it happens. Everything else is just the dead time between these moments.
He crumpled in front of me, howling and gasping for breath. Paula cheered, her face bright with joy, and I felt something lift inside me. It was dark and cold, but I glowed from the inside out. So free. Such a victory. Johnny twisted his face in pain while his brain-dead friends stared at me like paralyzed rabbits. I had nothing left to lose and they knew it. He wailed.
The train was leaving. I grabbed my backpack and started running—away from my old life, from Johnny, from everyone. He yelled after me, something about killing me, and we jumped on just as the doors slammed shut. Then we were moving, heading somewhere new. I was so relieved I fell to my knees and started crying.
Paula was my best friend. She took up space the way people do when they’re not afraid of themselves—big energy, bigger heart. I loved her like I’d never loved anyone, loved her in that way where you’d give your life without thinking about it. When I opened my eyes we were locked in each other’s arms. Outside the window, trees and mountains and houses blurred past us. I buried myself in her lilac sweater, which smelled like roses, and breathed in deep. “How much longer?” I asked. “A few hours,” she said. “Fuck.”
When we got to Berlin Hauptbahnhof we went straight to Burger King. We were tired, wired with relief, and we ordered the greasiest thing on the menu—bacon, large fries, the works. We sat there reveling in our newfound freedom. I was happy, actually happy.
Paula smiled and said I could go to the bathroom if I needed to, she’d wait for me here. I went. When I came back, she was gone. At first I thought it was a joke, kept smiling, tried to play it cool. But she wasn’t behind any corner. She wasn’t anywhere. The panic came slow at first, then faster. I walked the station—every platform, every shop, every corner—looking for her. She had my phone. I found a payphone with my last few coins and called home, explained what had happened, told my mother I needed help. She just laughed. Said it was my own fault, that I should figure it out myself, something about making my own bed. Everything spun. I ended up on my hands and knees calling Paula’s name over and over, but she didn’t hear me.
The Aston Shuffle’s “Do You Want More” is interested in one thing: watching people descend into bodily chaos. They eat, they vomit, they get led through a door by an attractive person in underwear. That’s the entire structure. That’s the offer, and the title isn’t asking—it’s daring you to answer.
What works about it is the refusal to apologize. The video doesn’t frame the vomiting as ironic or subversive, doesn’t add a layer of commentary that would let you off the hook. It’s just there, crude and direct, competing for your attention with the promise of something appealing on the other side. The contrast is the point. Disgust and desire living next to each other, feeding into each other.
There’s something almost nostalgic about music videos that still believe in shock value as an actual tool rather than a marketing tactic. Most of what passes for transgressive now is just algorithmic edginess—calculated offensiveness designed to trigger shares. This is older than that. It commits to the bit without explanation, trusts that the discomfort will do the work.
I watched it once. Probably won’t watch it again. But I get what it’s doing, and there’s something honest about a music video that knows exactly what it is and doesn’t pretend otherwise. No irony, no winking, no layers of plausible deniability. Just people eating, people vomiting, and the eternal question: what are you willing to sit through to get what you want?
Drugs will wreck you. They’re addictive, they make you sick, they hollow everything out. Get deep enough into them and you end up at the station, trading your body for the next fix, and when that gets old you end it with a syringe in your vein and that’s your whole story. Everyone knows this.
Everyone except Steve Jobs, who took LSD and somehow built the most beautiful company in the world.
I read his biography because I wanted to know how someone like me — a spoiled only child with no discipline and too much entitlement — actually becomes a god. How does that happen? And the answer is harder to accept than any drug metaphor: you become an asshole. A complete one. You cheat friends out of money. You cry until they give in. You ask new employees invasive questions and treat them like they’re worthless. You refuse to pay for your daughter. You stay cruel and unmoved by anyone’s suffering until your vision is all that matters and everyone around you is too exhausted to resist.
Jobs did this, and it worked. The thing he built was so beautiful and so precise that people eventually accepted the cost. The cruelty stopped looking like cruelty and started looking like the price of greatness.
I read all this and I think about it a lot. I’d like to make something that matters. But I also don’t think I’m willing to be that cruel, and that seems like a pretty clear statement about my ceiling. Either you have it in you or you don’t. Either you can hurt people badly and live with it or you can’t. Reading his biography, it’s pretty clear which one I am.
Tavi Gevinson is 13 and writes about fashion with the certainty of someone who’s figured something out. Her blog is called Style Rookie. She talks about Karl Lagerfeld and Twiggy and puts together outfits that look both too old for her and exactly right, and it’s gotten her onto magazine covers and into television interviews—the kind of platform that usually takes much longer to earn, if you earn it at all.
There are other kids like this now. Andrea, Bronka, an 8-year-old named Arlo Weiner who apparently has a better eye for color than most adults I know. They photograph their outfits, write about them, and somehow this registers as important in a world that used to never listen to children about fashion.
Everyone’s asking the same question: at what age are you old enough to care about how you look? Is this accelerated growing up? Are these kids sacrificing something by being this style-conscious this young? Does it even matter?
I remember being 13 and caring intensely about ridiculous things: the right shirt, whether my jeans looked good, whether I had any sense of style at all. The caring was real. The panic was real. But I didn’t have an audience. That was the difference. Tavi cares about fashion and people know about it. She probably would have cared the same way in 1995; we just would never have heard.
The internet didn’t invent the stylish child. It just made them visible. Now we see the kids who care early, and they know we’re watching. That’s not the same as growing up too fast. That’s something else—growing up in front of people.
There’s this old movie everyone I know considers sacred—Eurotrip, the one with all the dumb kids drinking across Europe. We genuinely thought nothing would ever be that funny. Then we finally watched The Hangover.
I couldn’t function for like an hour. Literally couldn’t stop laughing. The whole thing just works—the setup, the timing, Mike Tyson casually appearing halfway through like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I was making those awful wheezing sounds, the kind where you have to stop watching because your eyes won’t focus.
So to the maybe two people I know who haven’t seen it yet: you need to. Not a recommendation. A requirement. It’s that good.
And to anyone out there trying to make a comedy: if you already know in your gut it won’t be this funny, save yourself the effort. The standard is set now. Nothing’s going higher.
When O.C., California got cancelled, I felt it. Not like losing a person, but like having the thing you reached for every week just vanish. I was deep in that show — used it to survive bad days, something solid to grab onto while other stuff was falling apart. Then it ended and I was looking for the next thing.
Skins showed up on E4 and I thought: okay, British version of what I just lost. Except better. Same basic shape — teenagers, their lives tangling together, consequences — but the writing got to something true. Drug dealers and sex and love, but not played for shock value. Just lived in, real as anything.
The characters were what sold it. Cassie this fragile beautiful disaster. Tony the kind of asshole who breaks your heart. Sid trying to make sense of it all. You believed them completely because the show trusted you to sit with them, inside their heads. They weren’t types; they were actual people.
I loved it immediately. The kind of thing that gets you through long rides, that you tell people about, that you can’t really explain if they haven’t seen it. Nothing to say except watch it.
It spread the way good things do — reached Germany, came out on DVD, found people who needed it. I know I wasn’t the only one looking for a lifeline at just the right moment.
The notification came this morning: position 55 on some blog ranking list. A year ago I’d been cocky enough to announce that once I made this particular chart, I’d arrive. Real importance. The kind that comes with invitations, parties, the doors that open. The upper five thousand. The people who matter.
Turns out I was right to wait.
The logic is obvious now. You get ranked, the world acknowledges you exist at a higher level. The calls come in. The galas, the premieres, the front-row treatment, all the currency that comes with being officially somebody. That’s the deal you strike.
Rockie Nolan’s photographs are all golden hour. Sunset, a 50mm 1.8, and these small characters she creates in each frame — that’s how she describes her method. When I asked if there were techniques or secrets, she laughed it off. Sunset. Character. That’s it. The rest is just showing up.
She’s nineteen, studying photography at Savannah College of Art and Design, and she’s from Lubbock, Texas, which she described as the second most conservative city in America. Not lightly. Ranchers, churches, pregnant teenagers, and a handful of college kids trying to survive it. She’s liberal, fashion-forward, visibly herself — which meant getting looks in Lubbock. People there don’t expect style that doesn’t match their own baseline of acceptable. You wear the student uniform or you get noticed for not wearing it.
Her taste is specific and consistent. Jenny Lewis as a north star (she was genuinely delighted to learn that Jenny Lewis fronts Rilo Kiley, thinking they were two different people). Red hair, which she won’t trade for anything despite the childhood teasing. Thrift stores, never more than twenty dollars an outfit. Films like Eternal Sunshine, The Virgin Suicides, Spirited Away, and Amélie — the good sad beautiful ones. Weird Lifetime movies at three in the morning when she can’t sleep. Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Decemberists, Tegan and Sara. i-D magazine, Vogue. There’s a coherence to it that reads as genuine, not assembled from lookbooks.
At Savannah she met Andrew, also a photography student. They’d had mutual friends online first, then ended up alone one day watching Scrubs, both nervous and unsure what they were doing. Nine months in and it had stuck. She spoke about missing her best friends back home the way you speak about something you genuinely love — they dance for no reason, philosophize over coffee, model sometimes. The kind of friends that make leaving harder.
For now it’s fashion photography. She’d done some editorial work that summer and wanted to keep going, maybe eventually shoot for Urban Outfitters. If that doesn’t happen, she said without sentimentality, she’ll own a vintage store or become a cat lady. She seemed equally at peace with either outcome, which is a kind of confidence that young people either have or don’t.
There’s something about meeting someone who knows exactly what she likes at nineteen. Not in an arrogant way — Rockie’s genuinely unbothered about whether anyone else agrees. It all adds up to a self that’s clearly defined and defended, in a place that wasn’t exactly built for that. I suspect Lubbock’s going to miss her long after she figures out how to do this for a living.
Dinner on Sina’s rooftop. She and Eva had cooked—lasagna, salad, pudding with chunks in it, exactly how I liked it. Adam talked about the business, the club, how hard it was to keep a place running with all the competition, customers getting weirder but funnier. I nodded and nodded but didn’t really hear him. I was one of the glittering figures in this business and it all passed right by me anyway. Sina caught me not listening and gave me this knowing look while she took a huge bite of lasagna, mouth full, and I liked that.
Adam was tall with enormous tattoos covering both arms—lions, eagles, stars, roses. Piercings on a face eaten by madness, a deep voice that underlined everything with inescapable weight. Eva was small and thin, blonde hair to her shoulders. She turned into something like a pale fairy in my head. Soft voice, composed. I would have let her read me bedtime stories.
Walking home I asked Sina why this world made her so happy. ’Which world?’ She wrapped her arm around me loosely and started dancing across the cobblestones. ’The parties, the clubs, the crazy people. The drugs and all of it.’ She stopped, turned slow to face me. ’Because you live in it.’ I looked at her like she was insane. ’I hate it. You know I do.’ ’Why though?’ ’Because nothing in it is real. Everything’s overdone, artificial. People bury their problems and wash them down with alcohol, push themselves into drug-induced headspaces before they hit the ground even harder the next morning.’
She smiled and came close, took my hands and kissed me—tender and fierce at once. ’I’m real,’ she whispered. ’And we’re both in this world.’ Some bright light broke through the dark thinking. My demons shattered into a thousand pieces and made room for something green and healing breaking through the cold dead earth.
I smiled for what felt like the first time in forever. ’See?’ she said, running ahead with her arms spread wide. ’Come on, let’s fly!’ she yelled around the corner. Wait for me.
Sina was a whirlwind, like a kid. She reminded me of my own convictions, promises I’d lost living like this. Always cheerful, carefree, full of surprises. She was Ernie, I was Bert. She’d tell me to stop being such a Bert. In hindsight I enjoyed every minute with her, but the truth is she got on my nerves sometimes with how naïvely she saw everything. Maybe I was just jealous.
I watched her pale body constantly, photographed it, touched it. I knew every freckle, every scar, every small hair. I knew how to stroke her belly to make her giggle like a chicken, which places she didn’t want touched, how to push her to quiet desperation and beyond, to orgasm. Sina was an open book for me, but so many pages were still unread, maybe blank. Those terrified me. Her past waiting somewhere, something I didn’t want to know about. Because it would change everything. It would destroy our world, end what we had.
Element just dropped the first part of Make It Count, a documentary series about skateboarding history that Kirk Dian directed. Four parts structured around the elements, with Johnny Schillereff and all the people who were actually there in the good years talking about the brand’s growth and why skateboard culture has this gravity that nothing else really touches. It’s the kind of thing that usually gets murdered by marketing, but sometimes you get people who were there just telling you what it was like.
I was into skateboarding once. Not seriously—I was the guy who bought really nice boards and broke them. Three boards, each one a progressively worse disaster. Eventually I stopped trying and watched other people get good instead. There’s that what-if you carry around when you quit something early. What if I’d stuck with it. What if I had the actual focus or the knees that don’t spontaneously fail. Maybe I’d be Tony Hawk. Probably not.
But something about skateboard culture stayed with me even after I quit. The way a board looks. The specific energy of people who are genuinely good at something. The way it’s all tangled up with girls who got into it and boys who got into it partly because of that. Element was always at the center of that scene somehow—the logo alone carried weight. Still does.
I’ll watch the documentary. I’ll think about those three boards again, and the regret that comes with it, and then I’ll get on with whatever’s next. But these small failures stick around longer than the successes. Not because they matter. Just because they’re yours.
Bat for Lashes has been on constant rotation since “Two Suns.” There’s something in the way Natasha Khan moves through those songs—the voice, the production, the way she builds a space and then just lets it exist. No excess. No need to prove anything.
The “Sleep Alone” video gets it exactly right. It’s all mist and candlelight and that particular kind of melancholy that makes you want to sit with a glass of wine and actually pay attention to what you’re listening to. Not showy, not trying to impress—just the right mood for the right song.
What gets me about her work is the restraint. She understands that you don’t need much to create an entire atmosphere. A good voice. The right kind of production. The space between the notes. Suddenly you’re somewhere else—quieter, better, more real.
I’ve noticed lately that most of what I’m reaching for comes from female artists. Khan, Lykke Li, others in that world. I’m not sure what that says about my head these days, but I stopped trying to explain it. They’re just the ones making the music I actually need to hear.
’I came home from school and saw my mother having sex with the postman.’ ’Little Lilly fucks her best friend’s father.’ ’Emma Watson with a cucumber in her vagina.’ These are real search queries from people who somehow found their way to this site. I went through the logs and collected them.
Some searches are mundane. How to lose weight. How to convince your parents to let you go to a festival. Is this TV personality English or American? Someone wanted to know what Cobra looked like in Old German font, which I still don’t understand. There’s a whole category of just basic curiosity mixed in.
But the rest of it is pure, unfiltered human desire and randomness. There’s the anatomical specificity: bouncing tits, small breasts jiggling, celebrity body questions, whether certain women are shaved. There’s geography in the desire too: gay men in Berlin, hot women from specific Bavarian regions. The precision of it — like people mapping their desires onto a search engine with the specificity you’d use in a dating app.
Then the fantasies. Not questions but scenes. Come-home-and-catch-someone narratives. Sister’s friends. Family mattresses. Celebrity fantasies that have gotten weirdly detailed. Hentai Bambi sitting in there like someone fell down a rabbit hole at 3 AM. Drug slang mixed in with porn searches. A random philosophical question about how men think about their exes just floating there among all the explicit stuff.
The random tangents are weirdly charming. Someone declaring ’Fuck metrosexuality — I’m going to chop wood now’ as if they’re announcing it to the world through a search box. Someone asking about specific celebrity porn variations like they’re narrowing down a product on a shopping site. The word ’horny’ modifying so many specific categories of person and place.
It adds up to something kind of honest in the way the internet forces honesty. No performance, no pretense. Just what people actually want to know, typed out when they think no one’s watching.
The “Boys and Girls” video is sharp. Models that look like they came off the Kate Moss assembly line, guys doing things with disco balls, locations that could be Berlin’s best club—it’s visually perfect. Pixie looks hot. Really fucking hot. You think you know where this is going.
Then the sound starts.
I don’t get it. She’s 18, blonde, built, genuinely talented, and she has everything to make something like Lykke Li or Robyn or Little Boots—something with an edge, something modern, something that actually lands. Instead she’s making bland pop that sounds engineered to offend no one. It completely betrays the world the video just sold you. You’re sitting in this cool underground space and the music sounds like a shopping mall.
The whole album’s like that. “Turn It Up” is just this beige void. Either someone lets her make music that matches what she looks like, or British people get bored and move on. Until then, keep it muted and play La Roux over it.
2008 basically sucked, but one bright spot was Hannah getting on German television. Some reality show about roommate hunting on VOX, and she was trying to rent a room in her apartment.
We tracked down the episode somehow and got it online. She looks great, the apartment is immaculate, and there’s just a steady stream of women coming through to check it out. I mean, that’s the whole appeal.
Sitting in a theater is one of the few places where you get to completely disappear into someone else’s world. For a couple hours you’re not yourself. You’re not thinking about rent or work or whatever’s broken at home. You’re just there, eyes forward, letting the screen do the work.
The problem is that what they actually show you is almost never what you want to see.
I’ve been thinking about the films that don’t exist. The ones you imagine. There’s this whole category of ideas that are too weird or too cheap or too unmarketable for anyone to actually make. Vegetarian aliens trying to explain their philosophy while obviously failing to convince anyone. Pirates with an allergy to saltwater. Megan Fox naked in a sci-fi film that’s actually worth watching. These are desires, some absurd and some just horny, but they’re all real.
The gap between what exists and what we imagine is huge. Someone will always make another superhero movie, another romance, another heist. But nobody’s making the thing you actually want, the one that only makes sense in your head. Maybe that’s why people talk about making their own films — not because they love cinema particularly, but because they want to see the one specific impossible thing that’s stuck in their brain.
I’ve never made a film. I’ve thought about it, obviously. But there’s something almost better about it living only in my head, where it can be perfect without any of the compromises that reality would bring. In my head, every cut works. Every shot means something. Every frame is exactly what I imagined. The second you try to actually make it, you’re already losing.
I’m drawn to people who don’t fit neatly into categories—the kind who keep your imagination running on half-truths and mysteries. Nothing sexier than that. Besides cheesecake, maybe.
Found Jessica Daniels, this American photographer from LA, somewhere in the depths of a website about sex in art. Looking through her Flickr, I still can’t figure out what she actually is. Model, musician, photographer—all of it, probably. The ambiguity is the point. Risky photographs next to intimate portraits next to dirty groupie shots. Nothing resolves into a clear picture.
There’s something about not knowing that keeps you looking. Work with Eric Kroll that probably says more than it should. And somehow the whole thing makes me think about cheesecake.
My closest friends describe me as a stubborn little bastard who gets obsessed with things and people with this sudden, intense passion, then drops them just as fast when I get bored. That’s probably fair.
There aren’t many things that scare me, but the ones that do are serious. Worst one: the thought that I’ll end up richer than my father. Because in my head, money’s the culprit. That’s why he’s constantly flying around from one city to the next with an army of blonde, anorexic secretaries who aren’t much older than I am, while my actual family gets left behind. My mother doesn’t know he’s fucking at least half of those empty Barbie dolls, and maybe she doesn’t want to know. Either way, I’m terrified that money does that to you—turns you into him.
The other big fear is kids. I don’t know how to be around them, don’t know what you’re supposed to do with them, and I definitely can’t handle the way these eight-year-old little shits either call me a slut or grab my ass at the bus stop. And if you smack them, they start crying and yell for their dad, who then looks at you with this mixture of disgust and creepy fucking arousal while he tears you apart. Great morning.
But mostly—and I mean mostly—I’m terrified of my bikini coming off when I jump in a pool or a lake. That happened to my best friend Paula last summer. Now the whole school knows she’s got the biggest tits and the ugliest nipples on the planet. The precocious little bitches won’t shut up about it. Neither will Johnny, that self-proclaimed idiot and guaranteed future BILD reader of the year.
Though at that exact moment, Johnny was busy doing something else. Riding me, grunting, nearly falling off the bed when he tried to finger me while he was at it. He gave up pretty quick. Better for both of us anyway—all he could do was slap his weight against my stomach like he thought it would accomplish something. At least I didn’t have to look him in the eye, which meant I had a moment to look out the open window at the park and think about things that actually mattered. Like whether Paula remembered that history presentation Dächler gave her. How many other women were on their hands and knees in front of some guy at that exact moment, counting clouds instead of paying attention. Whether I should use my Douglas voucher tonight for that new Calvin Klein perfume—the one that smells like vanilla and raspberry and works perfectly with my natural scent. I needed it.
“Turn around, you sow,” Johnny says from somewhere, and before I can even think I’m on my back and his little dick is heading straight for my face in his disgusting bathroom.
After I washed my face with warm water and grabbed a towel, I looked up and caught myself in the mirror. My deep green eyes staring back like they were judging me. I studied myself slowly while Rammstein played in the living room and weed smoke drifted in. And then it just became clear: I wasn’t just a redheaded girl whose pretty face was a cum receptacle. I had something—character, creativity, something real. And yeah, I had great tits. With that locked in me, I walked into the living room, grabbed my clothes, and ran past Johnny yelling “Fuck off, asshole!” and stumbled out into the courtyard.
The elderly deaf couple sitting on the green bench across the way seemed to enjoy watching me get dressed outside. I took my time with it, pulled a cigarette from my pocket, and headed for the bus station. And if there’s even one little shit there, I swear to god.
Merlin Bronques made party photography iconic. His website, LastNightsParty, documented the New York underground so precisely it became the template—photographers tried copying him, parties got wilder just to make his feed, the whole scene hyperaware of the lens. He published a book of the photos in 2006. Then he moved to video. LastNightsParty.tv started rolling films where you could actually see the wreckage move, opening with a short called “Ruff Night.”
I remember feeling jealous watching those early uploads. Not envious exactly—more like recognizing I was on the wrong continent. Berlin was too clean, too safe. Everything here was organized. And Bronques was capturing drunk models, genuine junkies, rich kids playing hip-hop in Brooklyn. The mess was real.
So I’d watch with popcorn and Coke, seeing girls throw up, watching people genuinely destroyed, watching the whole carousel. The odd part was I never actually wanted to be there. I was fine right here in Berlin, watching from a distance. That distance felt like the real luxury.
Evan Rachel Wood is on her hands and knees in leather boots for Terry Richardson’s i-D shoot, completely nude, fingers in her mouth. This is the move now — you want to matter again, you take your clothes off for a magazine. Lily Allen did it. Lady Gaga did it. Now Wood.
I’ve been into her since “Thirteen.” The feeling stuck even through the years when she basically disappeared and didn’t make anything worth watching. There’s something about seeing her back that works, even if the path back is through nudity.
The photos have this confidence to them. She’s completely at ease, unselfconscious. That matters more than whatever specific body the photographer is selling. Small breasts are fashionable now, apparently, and she wears it like she owns it.
I’m waiting to see who’s next. That’s always how this goes — one person does it and suddenly everyone has to do it. The cycle keeps moving, just finds new people to feed it.
I haven’t been paying Japan nearly enough attention lately, which bothers me. It’s one of those countries that just hits different—unhinged in the best way, weird, stupidly creative, and entirely itself without apology. Somehow I let the obsession fade to nothing.
Then I caught Tokyo Drift on TV and something clicked back into place. It’s a dumb movie, but there’s something in it that works. The style, the attitude, the whole vibe—it reminded me exactly why I got hooked on that particular version of Japan in the first place. That aesthetic, that confidence in being thoroughly weird.
Around the same time I stumbled onto these Polaroids from a Japanese Halloween party in 1964. They’re perfect. Exactly the kind of beautiful weirdness that Japan does better than anywhere else—this completely off-kilter sense of style that somehow makes perfect sense. Nothing borrowed, nothing trying to fit in, just its own thing entirely.
That’s what I want to pay attention to again. The culture, the strange stuff, all of it. There’s something about the way Japan embraces being absurd and sincere at the same time that nothing else quite captures. I’ve been neglecting it too long.
The Dead Weather announcement should’ve grabbed me. Jack White from the White Stripes, Dean Fertita from Queens of the Stone Age, Alison Mosshart from the Kills—all in one band. On paper, it made sense. But nothing happened. I didn’t care.
I’d seen the White Stripes live years ago. They were terrible. The announcement felt like more of that—big names looking cool without the music to back it up.
Then the second single hit. “Treat Me Like Your Mother.” Jack and Alison trading vocals, the rhythm grinding underneath, the whole thing so impossibly cool I wanted to sink into the floor.
Got the album immediately—Horehound, mid-July. All black now, apocalyptic leather jacket, threatening boots, the works. Full commitment. Hell’s Angels adoption pending, dramatic future assured. Just need to track down some nice Uzis.
I keep thinking about Eric Cartman, which is weird because he’s a murderous racist sociopath. But I can’t stop watching how he operates. He’s the only character in South Park who actually accomplishes anything. Everyone else is trapped in the same loop, constrained by the rules that keep them in place. Cartman doesn’t recognize that the rules exist.
He’s missing the brake that stops the rest of us. That makes him monstrous. It also makes him effective in a way that’s almost admirable if you can compartmentalize the monstrosity. He wants something, he figures out how to get it, he gets it. No guilt, no doubt, no time wasted wondering what people will think of him. He just moves.
I’m not saying I want to be like that. But I watch him work and there’s something clear about it. He’s decided his conscience is a liability and he’s shed it, so the world becomes just a puzzle to solve. And he solves it. Repeatedly. That’s probably what makes him a villain. It’s also what makes it impossible to look away.
South Park created something genius by making their most awful character also completely committed to what he wants. He’s terrible, but terrible in a way that works. There’s something hypnotic about that kind of commitment. Especially when it’s horrible.
Bebe Generation was one of those mid-2000s things that felt inevitable—stick some attractive young people in shared apartments, let viewers vote on who joins, offer prizes to people who participate. I probably would’ve watched it. The whole premise was utterly transparent about what it was: just the spectacle of watching other people’s lives, nothing more, nothing less. You got to vote, you might win a digicam, that was the deal. There was something almost respectable about that honesty, before reality television got anxious about its own existence and started insisting its spectacles actually meant something.
Everything we did came down to sex, basically. Not love, not dancing or anything else. When she let some junkie screw her in the bathroom at the Chan Shin opening, I was busy taking photos of the crowd—people I despised—and I told myself it didn’t bother me.
I beat her bloody in the parking lot. Every punch, every kick brought his face into sharp focus, this animal forcing himself into her, knowing nothing about her. Not that she took three sugars in her coffee. Not that she grunted like a little pig when something funny came on TV. Not the pink underwear she wore during her period. He had no fucking idea and wouldn’t have cared anyway. Just kept ramming himself into her against the wall, over and over.
When they finally pulled me off, you were gasping and crying on the dark concrete. Blood gleaming down your beautiful body. You stood up and looked at me the way a mother watches her son do something stupid and impossibly sweet.
“You love me, don’t you,” you said that night in bed, passing a joint back and forth while I kissed your bruises. “What makes you think that,” I said. “Because you got jealous. Because I fucked Cosby in the bathroom.” You laughed. “I hate you,” I said, and turned away to sleep.
I woke to your fingers clicking on the laptop. You were sitting on the floor in your white nightgown. I knelt behind you and the rage was instant—you were chatting with Cosby at dawn. I grabbed the MacBook and threw it out the window like a frisbee. You just stared at me, confused, kissed my cheek, and went to make eggs and bacon. “Buy a new one. I want to listen to music.”
I’m a fan of Nicholas Gazin, though I honestly can’t say why. Maybe his sense of style—he’s 25, making art in New York’s underground, so he pretty much has to dress well. Or maybe because he mentioned in some VICE feature that he pulls naked pictures of ex-girlfriends off the internet and turns them into drawings. That tracks.
His work is basically the visual equivalent of intrusive thoughts. Crucified eyes. Mutilated bodies. Exhausted skeletons. Brain-eating demons. Possessed ice cream. Murderous plums. Goddesses licking fried eggs with their feet. Rockets plowing into enormous hairy vaginas. Dead Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. All rendered in this meticulous style, like he’s just transcribing whatever fever-dream bullshit is floating around in his head.
And it’s working. Female admirers across the world. Real exhibitions. Actual gallery shows. So yeah, I’m starting to get it. Maybe it’s the Facebook profile picture. He’s genuinely got one of the best profile pictures ever taken. That must be it. Case closed.
Music is the only thing that actually saves you. Not metaphorically — actually. When everything is falling apart, when you’ve fucked up or someone else has, when you’re lying in bed at three in the morning knowing nothing will fix what you broke, there’s this moment where a song comes on and it doesn’t fix anything but it changes how you’re sitting with the wreckage.
I was thinking about this while listening through a playlist someone put together and posted — not trying to sell me anything, just their collection of tracks that somehow work together in this precise way. La Roux’s “Colourless Colour” opens with this brittle precision, everything clean and almost hostile, and then Amanda Palmer comes in and suddenly it’s vulnerable and raw. Those Dancing Days do something gentle. Phoenix makes you want to move. Bloc Party makes you want to feel something.
It goes deeper from there. Kleerup with longing. Regina Spektor doing her weird things with her voice. Little Boots with something electronic and sharp. Yuksek driving. The National. Metric. Fleetwood Mac, obviously — “Little Lies” is one of those songs that just lives in your nervous system whether you want it to or not.
These aren’t songs trying to be important or profound. They’re just good. They work. And there’s something about finding a collection of tracks that all hit differently but somehow belong together — it feels less like a playlist someone constructed and more like someone went through their entire record collection and pulled out what was actually keeping them alive this week.
When that happens, you want to remember it. You want to tell someone. This is what a mix tape was, back when that mattered. This is the thing.
I wasn’t really following Mischa Barton by the time the news broke. The O.C. had ended years before, and she’d drifted into that strange zone where actors you used to see everywhere just quietly disappear. Bad movies, failed pilots, that slow fade the industry does so well. Then the story landed—attempted suicide—and I felt that helpless sting you get when celebrity makes you aware of someone’s real suffering from a distance you can’t cross.
There’s nothing to do with knowledge like that. You’re not her friend. I’d watched her perform a character on television when I was younger. The gap between that and actually mattering in someone’s life is almost total. But you sit with it anyway because she’s a real person and something terrible happened and you used to know her name, so now you know her pain too, and there’s no equation that lets you do anything with it.
I don’t think about her much anymore. The news cycle carried on. Sometimes you contemplate people and what happens to them and then you forget, and that forgetting feels like a small betrayal of the caring, except caring from outside was never real anyway. It was always just watching.
Watching The Killers’ “Goodnight, Travel Well” video sits wrong with you. Made with MTV Exit and UNICEF, it doesn’t flinch away from human trafficking—young people trapped, degraded, forced into sex work. It’s all right there. The song repeats itself, resigned and mechanical, and everything about the visual registers as true in a way that makes you uncomfortable.
What stays with you is how the song and the imagery lock together. Those monotonous refrains, the darkness, the complete absence of any romantic gloss—it’s designed to stick in your head the way a trauma does. Not beautiful or exploitative in some art-film way. Just ugly and accurate.
I kept thinking about what you’re supposed to do with that information. Not the vague awareness-campaign thinking, but actually: against the people running it, against the whole machinery. The thing that gets to me is that it’s not abstract. It’s happening in cities right now, in towns where everyone else is just living their lives. The video doesn’t let you pretend otherwise.
There’s this idea that maybe you shouldn’t show things like this—censor it, make it disappear. But that’s missing the point. You’re not actually hiding the abuse by taking down the video. The abuse is real and it’s happening anyway. The video just stops letting you pretend you don’t know about it. You can turn it off, but the thing itself doesn’t vanish when you look away.
The ones who see things differently. That’s how it starts — noticing someone who doesn’t fit, who paints a wall at three in the morning because something inside them demanded color, who drives naked through dark streets with their best friends just to feel alive, who screams in an empty field until their lungs give out because joy or pain has to go somewhere.
These moments don’t make sense to anyone but the person inside them. They’re not prudent. They don’t look good on paper. But they’re the ones you remember — the ones that convince you that you actually exist, that something in you still moves on its own.
Most of us feel it, sure. That impulse to act without permission from ourselves. But we kill it with one question: what will people think? And then we spend the next thirty years remembering the thing we didn’t do, which somehow feels worse than failing at something reckless.
But if you actually believe your own life is worth living, there’s a moment where you stop asking. You kiss them. You leave. You paint the wall. You take the money and go somewhere. You get the tattoo. You say the thing you’ve been editing in your head for six months. You risk something because staying small has already cost you more than losing could ever take.
I’m not saying it always works out. Sometimes it’s terrible. Sometimes you’re sick with regret. But at least you know. At least something actually happened to you instead of just passing through.
The misfits, the rebels, the ones who don’t fit in the square holes — they’re not trying to be special. They’re just tired of apologizing for being alive.
Saw the trailer for Zweiohrküken and Nora Tschirner’s got this expression she carries through the whole thing—this specific look that gets to you. The kind of face that could hold an entire film, and if this sequel is just ninety minutes of her wearing that look, I’m completely fine with it.
The plot’s straightforward relationship collapse. Ludo bumps into an old flame, Anna loses her mind with jealousy, which makes him want space, which he immediately regrets when Anna’s ex-boyfriend shows up. It’s soap opera drama at cinema scale—the petty territorial garbage that’s unbearable when you’re living it but completely absorbing to watch. GZSZ with a real budget.
There’s something about seeing other people’s relationships fall apart that makes you check your own. Not that you’re going to fix anything—you know you won’t. But you feel that specific moment when you realize the person next to you wants something you can’t give, or you want something from them that just isn’t there. That’s what the film’s selling and Nora just sits in it without overselling.
What I want is simple. Lots of Nora Tschirner. Good dialogue. Those expressions. And if there’s a nude scene, I’m not complaining—with her, obviously. Not Til Schweiger.
Summer heat makes you stupid. All you want is cold water and something—anything—to keep your brain from running. Trashy photographs of beautiful women, celebrity gossip, weird internet stuff, doesn’t matter. The heat does that to you. Turns you into someone who needs entertainment the way you need ice water. Not because you suddenly have taste. Because you need to not think.
She was sitting in the middle of Alexanderplatz when I first saw her—huddled and unwashed, her hair greasy and matted. Behind a cardboard sign with shaky handwriting was something that went straight into my chest: “I’m homesick. Please give me money for a ticket home.” I sat a few meters away on some steps and watched her.
She was crying. People walked past without looking, avoided her, treated her like garbage. Spring hadn’t really arrived and it was getting dark. I couldn’t stand watching it anymore, got up and walked slowly toward her. “Come on. I’ll buy you something to eat.” At first she wouldn’t listen, resisted my help, resisted me. Then she lowered her defenses. She stood up, pushed a strand of hair back with long fingers, and walked beside me with careful distance between us.
“I’m Sina,” she muttered, shoving a huge bite of cheeseburger into her mouth. I found it disgusting. “Why do you look like that?” While I waited for an answer and wondered increasingly why I’d brought this gross little thing anywhere at all, my thoughts took a detour into Berlin’s nightlife. I could have given in to my desires, my feelings, my thoughts right then—could have checked out, escaped to some cheap emo’s place in my enormous apartment.
She didn’t miss my wide grin. She started spilling stories to pull my attention back to herself. “Paula and I ran away from home. She’s my best friend.” She nearly choked, took a long sip of cola. I felt sick. From how she carried herself, the smacking sounds, that disgusting smell. “I went to the bathroom at the train station and when I came back she was gone. With my backpack, my phone, my money. That stupid bitch.”
A tear slid down her freckled face. Something flickered in me—pity. Now I remembered why I’d ended up in this godforsaken place with her, and I smiled and ordered two more meals. We talked all night. She told me about her horrible family, her stupid ex-boyfriend, school, the feeling of not knowing where she belonged. Berlin was her last chance to get her life together. I knew that feeling too well.
I fed her some bullshit about working as a party photographer and wondering how I’d managed to make so much money doing something so un-Christian. I didn’t mention the drugs, the excess, the prostitutes who came and went from my place, but I told her my father didn’t take me seriously, my first love slept with my two best friends, and I’d been in prison once. That remained my secret for now.
“If you want, you can stay at my place tonight and tomorrow I’ll buy you a ticket home.” She looked confused. “Why would you do that? Why would I?” “I don’t know. I have money and you need money. I was raised Catholic. All that stuff about sharing and loving your neighbor and bullshit like that.” “Fine. But don’t touch me.” Suddenly she was a cat—all teeth and claws, that look of mistrust, fear, self-protection.
I liked the strength that radiated from her, all that hurt and inner power. In those glittering blue eyes I saw myself looking back, before I’d lost the fun in all of this. Voices of many ghosts came over me as we finally kissed under the weak light of the streetlamp. She was pale, ignorant, clueless, her whole being so full of pain and strength. That was the most beautiful part of it all.
We were at it all night. In bed, on the table, against the wall. And the next morning she didn’t want to leave anymore. I tolerated her presence the way I did my house cat. My little monkey. And I led her step by step into my world, which seemed to give her more happiness after just a short time than it had ever managed to give me.
The video for “22” opens on someone who’s already done the math on their life. Almost thirty, getting ready to go out again, knowing exactly what won’t happen tonight but going anyway. Lily Allen made this when she understood that specific exhaustion — not about being young, just about the pointless motion of still trying.
What gets me is the straightness of it. No winking, no clever self-awareness. Allen wrote a pop song about desperation in your late twenties and didn’t apologize for it. The hook sticks because it’s confessional in a way that makes you uncomfortable. You recognize yourself in it immediately.
The video’s almost hard to watch. A woman, almost thirty, still beautiful, already done. Every night out another failed attempt to convince yourself you’re still in the game. It’s bleak but it’s honest, which might be worse.
I remember thinking this shouldn’t work — pop songs aren’t supposed to be this true. But “22” existed for a moment in that space between cynicism and hope where most of us actually live, the part nobody sings about on the radio. Allen’s gift was making that unbearable feeling into something you’d listen to on repeat.
Watched Lost in Translation again the other night, and it hits the same way — that particular quality to her, the way Coppola caught something unguarded. Over the years I’d decided she’d gone full Hollywood, that whatever made her interesting had hardened into celebrity. You know how it goes.
Then a friend sent photos of her at home, nothing staged. In underwear, lounging in a garden, smoking a cigarette in sunglasses. Just existing without trying. And I thought, okay, I was wrong about this. Or not wrong exactly, but incomplete. What made Tokyo work is still there. That ease.
There’s something in these photos that shifted how I see her. Not revelation exactly — more like you can feel the distance collapse between the person and the performance. Most famous people live in that gap, always aware they’re being watched. But in these moments she looks like someone not thinking about being looked at. Just in a garden. Just smoking.
What Coppola found in her wasn’t just beauty — it was a kind of presence, the way some people can exist without broadcasting it. You can’t fake that. Most actors are too busy performing to ever just be.
The Hollywood career is real. The choices she made are real. But in these photos, in that film, in the rare moments when she stops, you see something else: someone who knows how to exist without turning it into a performance. That matters.
Found an old yearbook entry that describes me and Hannah from senior year, and it’s disorienting to see yourself rendered in that particular voice—earnest and cataloging, mixing affection with mockery the way teenage chroniclers do. They’ve captured the essentials. I was the guy with the Mac obsession, the iPod permanently attached, constantly disappearing into Japanese media and somehow managing to turn some of that into actual video work on our school trip. The apples thing is real—I apparently just carried them around and distributed them like some kind of edible hype man. The charm they mention about being popular with girls, that was happening, though I was aware of it happening, which probably means I was less charming than I thought. The distraction in class was real too. There was this guy next to me who made it impossible to focus, and I’d given up fighting it.
Then there’s Hannah’s entry, and they’re really going for the full treatment. Country girl from Stotten in her Elvis car, the one with the underpowered engine she could never quite control, always driving out to the countryside to rescue Angelika from the middle of nowhere. She’s loud about everything, doesn’t apologize for it, Black Eyed Peas blasting while she avoids your calls because her schedule’s packed with actual living. The yearbook gets playful when they describe her social life—the men she danced with, the hotel rooms in Prague, the casual cruelty of calling girls names and then battling them. It’s trying to capture something wild and uncontained, and they’re doing it by listing infractions and adventures like evidence at trial.
What actually lands, reading this now, is how specific the observations are. The apples. The videos. Hannah’s laughter cracking open social studies class. The Elvis car. Angelika always needing a ride. These are details that felt enormous and now feel like proof that we existed. The yearbook was doing the only thing yearbooks can do—preserving the texture of specific people at a specific moment, even if they got the tone slightly wrong.
There’s something unsettling about being read so literally. They’ve made me and Hannah into characters, types—the tech guy, the party girl—and there’s enough truth in it that it stings a little. I was all of those things. But reading it now, I feel like I’m looking at someone else, someone I used to wear like a suit. The Mac obsession has faded. The Japanese media thing is still there but quieter now. The charm has either developed into something else or evaporated entirely, I’m not sure which.
Hannah probably hasn’t changed as much. Or maybe she has and I just remember the version of her that lived loud, that didn’t calculate, that showed up in her weird car and picked up Angelika and called women names and danced like she owned the room. The yearbook tried to make it charming and ridiculous, which was fair. It was both.
I’ve spent time imagining my own funeral. You picture the music—what would you want playing at yours? I imagine what people will wear, which of my exes will fall apart thinking they made a mistake, which ones won’t bother showing up. You construct this entire production in your head, direct it like a film, handle every detail. Then you remember: you’ll be dead. You won’t see any of it.
Death’s the one certainty. It could be natural, could be an unfortunate encounter with a truck, could happen while you’re brushing your teeth. Faster than you expect.
Most people figure it’s the end. Game over. After that, you either go up or down—heaven or hell, depending on how many good deeds you accumulated and how many times you ran to a priest to have your conscience cleaned. It’s grim, the cosmic scorekeeping.
But people have imagined a lot of other possibilities. Some believe in underworlds or castles or reaching some kind of nirvana. Others get creative: you get reborn as a fish or a tree, or you slip through death somehow—become a vampire, become a zombie, something caught between both states. And then there are the persistent rumors: Elvis keeps getting sighted at gas stations in Nevada. Michael Jackson supposedly shows up here and there. They’re still walking around somewhere in the cracks of the world.
The thing is, nobody comes back with the answer. No message from whatever’s on the other side, no cosmic confirmation of any theory. So we’re all just guessing, picking a religion or a myth or a movie and pretending it’s truth, when really we’re just making it up like everyone else.
So what happens after? Why are we even here? The questions stay open. You spend your time thinking about them, imagining your own ending, and then one day the thinking stops.
There was a magazine spread with Lily Allen naked in it, somewhere around the late 2000s. She did it because she wanted to, and that was the whole story.
What you had to understand about Lily was that she’d never pretended to be anything other than what she was. No surgeries, no careful management of her image, no strategic vulnerability. She was crude and sexual and funny and wouldn’t apologize for any of it. If you didn’t like it, you could fuck off.
So of course she’d say yes to a magazine that wanted to photograph her naked. Of course she wouldn’t care what people thought about her body or whether she’d had work done or any of that. That level of just… not needing the world’s approval, it made everything she did feel sharper. The crudeness wasn’t performed. The refusal to conform wasn’t a brand. She just lived that way.
I respected that about her. Still do. There’s something clarifying about watching someone who doesn’t need to convince you of anything.
Palina Rojinski got put in a house with Joko and Klaas for MTV Home, basically tasked with keeping two TV personalities from disappearing entirely into their own egos. The show was the kind of premise that makes sense for exactly one season before everyone gets bored. She was there to document it, which meant she was also there to watch two men be endlessly fascinated with themselves.
She’d come to Berlin from St. Petersburg when she was six. She talked about having two cities inside her: the gray, brutal St. Petersburg with its classical music and kitsch, and then Berlin with its looseness and street art and all the bullet holes still visible in the buildings. That’s the kind of thing people say, but she actually seemed to mean it, to have thought about what each city had done to her.
What I latched onto was the music. She followed it. That’s how she ended up in clubs like Scala, where the good stuff was playing—Rye Rye, Metronomy, Zombie Zombie. And then Scala closed, like Bar 25, like all the clubs in Berlin. She was already living in the past tense.
Her taste was all over: UK Funky, Booty Bass, Crunk, Buraka Som Sistema, Little Boots, Fake Blood. And also Nouvelle Vague singing romantic chansons, which somehow fit with the rest. Not the safe choices; the actual listens of someone paying attention.
The same with clothes. She didn’t buy based on what was in. She’d find something weird and strange and wait for the moment to pair it with something else equally strange, and then suddenly you’d see the logic. That’s someone who thinks about how things go together, not someone who reads fashion blogs. That matters. That’s taste.
By the time anyone was reading this, MTV Home was already winding down. Scala was already closed. Palina stuck around in TV, but that specific thing—documenting chaos while following music into clubs that wouldn’t last the season—was already nostalgic before it finished happening.
Spent the day bouncing between German government offices—the trade office, the chamber of commerce, the tax office. Made phone calls that seemed to reach every corner of the world. Most of it was tedious, but the genuinely weird part was that everyone I talked to actually knew what they were doing and was helpful, which I wasn’t expecting at all.
When I finally stepped outside after the paperwork was finished and everything was signed, the clouds just broke open and sun poured down over Berlin. That’s when it sank in. This blog is now officially a registered business. I can write proper invoices. I’m the boss. It sounds ridiculous until you’re standing in actual sunlight and it clicks that it’s real, and then it feels kind of sexy. Even my neighbor, who’s pretty far gone mentally, wished me luck when she heard, and in her condition that carries weight.
The first thing I did as my official CEO was buy the Steve Jobs biography. I’m writing it off as a business expense, naturally, calling it professional development or required reading or whatever makes the accountant stop asking questions. I studied business administration once, which apparently prepared me for nothing, but I figured reading about a dead billionaire might magically fill in the gaps. It won’t. But the receipt is getting deducted anyway.
It’s mid-month and the account situation is what it always is. Starbucks isn’t happening. That concert everyone’s talking about isn’t happening. But this is Berlin, and somehow being broke here feels different than being broke anywhere else. The city doesn’t charge entry for most of what matters.
You get actual culture — real concerts and exhibitions and performances, things that cost money in other cities. All of it free. Part of it is broke artists moving here to make work and needing an audience. Part of it is that once everyone’s broke, the whole cultural logic shifts. You stop expecting things to have a cover charge and start asking what’s happening instead.
Someone made a guide to it eventually. Documented all the free events happening on any given night — concerts, readings, exhibitions, whatever. It sounds obvious in retrospect, but it took sitting down and actually cataloguing it. Because there’s a real difference between being broke with nowhere to go, and being broke in a city where things are constantly happening.
The weird part is it doesn’t feel like lack. You’re in some half-beautiful, half-collapsing space watching live music with other people in the exact same situation, and the energy is better than anywhere you’d have to pay entry. You stop thinking about the empty account because you’re too busy actually living in the city.
That’s the real Berlin. Not the nightclubs or the Instagram version. Just people who can’t afford anything making things happen anyway.
I can’t stop breathing. In and out. Forever. Until you discover me buried in my own soul, finally feel how much I love you, how nobody else will ever matter, how you’ll send the vultures away. My nightmares shift and mutate—coughing trees, blonde girls, graceful horses.
When I open my eyes the powder sits scattered beside you. Your breasts glow blue in the moonlight, a sight I haven’t seen in forever. I watch for hours, the careful rise and fall of your body, the rhythm of your being.
The one-sided helplessness from the great tremor is gone. My head’s clear again, full of the murky thoughts that’ve been running through it. How much everything could change—you, me, both of us. Next to your reddish-blonde hair Hugo sleeps and smiles, a thread of drool at his mouth.
A hunger I can’t shake tears through me. Cheeseburgers, greasy pizza, bratwurst loaded with eggs and noodles. I almost puke from wanting. I get up without kissing your forehead and walk naked through the apartment.
The fridge is full of beer, Red Bull, champagne. Nothing edible anywhere. The room starts to spin, the cold light boring into my stomach, my lungs, my legs. I collapse on the floor and start to cry, starving.
When Sina finds me the next morning curled like a fetus in front of the open fridge, she starts kissing me everywhere, doesn’t stop until I open my eyes and take her head in both hands and look deep into those ocean-blue eyes. Infinite stars shine in them, the end of the world, the meaning of everything is close enough to touch. My parents begin singing something joyful, dolphins leap around. Before I can finally speak the secret of our entire existence, the doorbell rings.
Sina smiles, gets up, opens it without bothering to cover herself. The postman doesn’t flinch. He hands her a package and says goodbye the way he always does—polite and completely indifferent to both of us. I feel ashamed. “Are you hungry?” she asks. “I’ll order us a pizza if you want.”
It takes almost an hour before I have something edible between my teeth. We sit on the couch and watch The O.C. on DVD. The sun blazes through the huge windows of the old apartment. The TV tower looms on the horizon.
When Ryan holds Marissa while she’s dying I run to the bathroom and vomit into the tub. It seems more fitting for what I’m doing. Sina follows me and we sleep on the cold tile floor. When I’m done she asks me: “Promise me it’ll stay like this forever?” I nod without speaking. She gets off me.
The package holds the expensive camera I’d ordered online. It’s beautiful and the first thing I photograph is Sina cleaning the bathroom. Every time I look at these photos now I get a sharp pain in my chest, that overwhelming terrible feeling of why I didn’t take better care of her. Why I wasn’t there when it happened.
Thomas smells weird. Inge’s got a blemish. At a certain age you have standards about these things. You’re waiting for someone better, someone without the flaws, the baggage, the accumulated weight of another person’s damage. That someone doesn’t exist, but you don’t know it yet.
Years move through you. The internal bouncer that was filtering your choices just stops showing up. And suddenly smelly Thomas looks fine, the blemish means nothing, and you’re living a life you didn’t choose—walking a park with someone you picked partly by accident, partly by running out of time, with two kids who inherited the smell.
So why try at all? Why compromise, adjust, swallow humiliation? Why keep showing up when you know it’ll probably end in silence?
Because love is brain damage. Butterflies. Waking and the light is right. You believe in forever, actually believe it, for those opening months. Only the truly hopeless think about what comes after—the fights, the slow distance, the moment you realize this person is just another person—when you’re still in that beginning.
I’ve had relationships that felt necessary and then weren’t. Some were wrong from day one. Some burned clean through. I know heartbreak well enough to see it coming, and I’ve lived through it anyway. Multiple times. I know what it costs.
And I’ll do it again. Not because I believe in happy endings or that this time is different. But because being alone at forty-five feels worse than loving wrong. Not worse emotionally. Worse as a failure. The failure of not trying rather than trying and losing.
That’s probably not good enough as a reason. But it’s the only one I can live with.
Fell asleep with this song playing and ended up in the most vivid dream because of it. All color and motion and light, the kind you can’t hold onto once you wake up. If I’d managed to remember any of it, that would be my next film. No luck.
I’ve never quite grasped what Dirty Projectors is actually about. The band exists since 2002, but Dave Longstreth just seems to cycle through musicians constantly—the list of former members is endless. It’s hard to keep track of who’s actually in it at any point.
But “Stillness Is The Move” just lands. Something about it gets to you. The video’s similarly strange—there’s a frontwoman who’s genuinely hot, same oddball timing as with Those Dancing Days, and apparently that’s a recurring pattern for me. There’s also some animal in the video that could be a llama, maybe an alpaca, possibly a crane. No idea what it actually is. Let’s call it Udo.
That’s about all I have for this one. The song did its thing, the dream did its thing, and now I’m left with whatever this is.
The post frequency on this blog is basically just a meter for how bored I am. So I’m making today my personal YouTube memorial day, and because ColdMirror’s Harry Potter parodies absolutely wreck me, here’s part five of “Harry Potter and the Plastic Goblet.” I can’t help it.
My ex André showed me these videos once. Crude, stupid, relentless. They broke something in how I see the whole wizard thing. I can’t take it seriously anymore. It’s a shame, actually.
The sun’s out now though. I’m getting ice cream with Mandy the Mammoth and sitting by the lake. You can watch the parodies and lose your mind. Professionalism’s dead anyway.
It’s hot in Berlin right now—the kind of heat where everyone gets stupid and talks about nothing but the weather. Fruit flies. Headaches. Sweat through your clothes. I’m at breakfast convinced that sangria is the solution. It won’t be.
Since nobody’s managing anything beyond weather talk, I’m dropping this instead: Those Dancing Days, five Swedish women with a song called “Run Run” from last year. It does what a summer track is supposed to do—nothing difficult, just something that plays while you’re trying not to think about the sun.
Linnea Jonsson is the singer. There’s something about her in the video that makes me want to run my fingers through her hair, and I’m admitting that plainly because I’ve never said that about a musician before. Crude, true, and that’s the moment.
The song itself is good. Simple and it works, which right now is all you need. The kind of thing that almost justifies drinking sangria at breakfast. Almost.
Everything was better back then. Better colors, better TV, those afternoons in the neighborhood before anybody got careful. The games with kids you knew when touching was just touching, no meaning to it yet.
Saw an old photo someone posted — Caro’s, naturally — red hair, completely wasted, staring into the camera like she’d just invented confidence. And yeah, she was cute. I was cute too, I guess. Not performing it, not aware of it. Just there, unguarded.
Now everyone’s digging through boxes for proof they weren’t always like this. I get it. There’s something about the evidence, the before-picture. The chance to show yourself that you used to feel different. I’ve got photos somewhere too. Most I don’t think about. Some I can’t forget. The difference between those two is what doesn’t change.
Went to a premiere in Berlin last night for a documentary called 9to5: Days in Porn, shot by a Munich director named Jens Hoffmann. He spent a year and a half in San Fernando Valley following the industry—cameras rolling on porn sets, the work, the repetition, the money. Sasha Grey was in it.
Bastian found it dead boring. He said it felt like German television, one of those earnest Sunday-afternoon reports about ordinary jobs that’s supposed to make you think. The kind of program you’d stumble on between game shows. He wasn’t wrong, exactly.
I didn’t mind it. Some of it was funny by accident, some of it was just interesting to watch. I spent most of my time watching Sasha Grey, not really thinking about the filmmaker’s point or what he was trying to say about the industry. Just looking at her. That was enough.
Bastian was probably right that it wasn’t saying anything new. But I got something else out of it, and I’m not going to pretend I didn’t. We walked out without really talking about it. He was ready to move on. I was still thinking about what I’d been watching.
Apparently she has something called Sasha Grey’s Anatomy now. I probably won’t watch it. But I’ll remember sitting in that cinema while Bastian checked his phone and I didn’t, while we saw the same film and came away with completely different things.
Beavis and Butt-Head had all the attention at school. Daria was the show for the kids who found that tedious. That voice making everything sound stupid, Quinn genuinely blank, Jane sketching in the background. It was all permission to not pretend.
Loved it obsessively. Forgot almost all of it. Weird how that works — shows you’re sure are permanent until years pass and all that’s left is the knowledge you felt something about it.
One thing stuck with me though. My mom had this completely flat way of talking, never performing, just — deflating anything that tried to be important. And somewhere along the way I realized I’d always been hearing Daria when I pictured her. That refusal to engage. The way she wouldn’t soften anything for anyone.
Which is probably saying something I don’t want to think about too hard.
I loved Bloc Party. Not just liked—I was actually into them, played their records constantly. ’Two More Years,’ ’The Prayer,’ ’Blue Light.’ They had something that didn’t let go.
’One More Chance’ hit exactly right. The hook landed, the production was clean. It worked.
The video was weird and I never figured out what it was trying to be. Didn’t matter though. The song is the thing.
Alone on a Friday night, green couch, beer warming in my hand while my Sims starved to death on screen. Outside, something was happening. Inside, I was watching television.
VIVA had launched a new show—vasta.tv—built around a blog and the person running it: Nadine Vasta, exactly who you’d find if you searched “attractive girl blogger” in a corporate database. The show was the obvious idea executed exactly as you’d expect: take a blog, move it to television, add a host and structure, hope people care. On paper it made sense. Why wouldn’t you want to see what blogs could actually do on real television?
Except the show was gutted. Some executive had taken the rawness and sanded it clean. No weird guests, no actual jokes, nothing that would scare the network. Vasta was likeable and the chemistry was there, but it was a blog that had been put through a corporate safety filter. The kind of thing where you forget you’re watching while it’s happening.
What got to me was imagining what it could’ve been. A real adaptation would’ve been messier, weirder, would’ve let actual people exist on camera instead of performing a version of themselves. But that’s not television. That’s not how any of this works. So instead we got a product. The host was fine. The show was fine. Everything was fine and boring and exactly what you’d expect.
The real problem was simpler and worse: I was jealous as hell. I’d been building something with actual personality, actual voice. Nobody had called with a television deal. Vasta had made the jump into something bigger, and there I was alone on a Friday night watching it happen, knowing I was already being left behind. Not because her show was better. Because it existed and mine didn’t.
By the time my Sims had starved, I’d worked myself into that specific angry jealousy where you’re mostly mad at yourself. Vasta got her shot. I didn’t. That was the problem—not that her show was mediocre, but that mediocre things got broadcast and I was still here on a Friday night, waiting.
I was out there defending you like crazy for months before your 23rd birthday, while everyone else had completely given up. All the scandals, the rehab, all those tabloid disasters — they were sure you were finished. I wasn’t.
And you actually pulled it off. The drugs stopped, the drinking slowed, those awful paparazzi moments where you forgot your underwear disappeared. I was genuinely proud. Even though I’ll admit that watching you spiral was way more entertaining than watching you get your life together.
So here’s what I wanted for you at 23: stop drinking so much, stop using, and wear some fucking underwear. Do those things and maybe you actually get your movie career back and move your life forward. That’s the whole point of getting sober anyway, right.
Berlin is genuinely great — dirty, charming, the kind of place where you feel like something could actually happen even though there’s no money and nobody’s hiring. The tourists started showing up, couldn’t quite believe there was an actual wall here, wandered through the Jewish Museum, spit from the TV tower, and got shuffled into whatever club their “alternative” tour guide had decided still counts as underground. Usually just something near the O’burger that can fit a group without collapsing.
And now VICE has done what VICE does — made a guide to Berlin, everything you supposedly need to know about the poorest city in the republic, all collected and published and given away free. It’s perfect and depressing in equal measure: the complete map to “authenticity” at zero cost. The alternative becomes the commodity becomes the guide becomes the free download. That’s the loop now.
The real thing about Berlin is that it’s still there underneath all of this. The tourists will do their rounds, the guides will keep herding, the music will keep playing somewhere you can’t quite find unless you live there. The city doesn’t care if you read the guide or ignored it — it’s already real and already corrupted and already worth living in for reasons that have nothing to do with any of this.
I need to confess something dark and embarrassing. While everyone’s out here stealing clothes from celebrities they’re obsessed with, I’ve got my extremely cool love for Nora Tschirner on one side and this whole shadow collection of crushes on the other. Sometimes—okay, fine, often—I’m into people like Collien Fernandes, Sandy Meyer-Wölden, and occasionally even Gülcan, as long as she’s not talking.
But wait, there’s more. When the planets align just right and it’s the year of the pig or whatever, I’ll even admit to having a thing for Giulia Siegel. I can’t help it. She’s tall, blonde, lean, drinks cold beer, loves dark chocolate and jungle expeditions, posed for Playboy, and works as a wildly successful DJ. Who says no to that?
Apparently 60 other desperate guys—I’m usually not in this category, but whatever—because they’re about to try their luck on ProSieben’s Giulia In Love, where they’ll basically be competing to get with Ralph Siegel’s daughter starting tomorrow at 8:15 PM. My odds just went from slim to none, so I guess I’m stuck with Nora. As for those poor bastards on the show, I wish them well. Send me a postcard when you make it to the top.
We got Basti to the Charité hallucinating, after whatever happened—some thing we couldn’t explain to the cab driver, who helped anyway. The hospital had seen this before, wounds that don’t show up on machines. Hannah turned white as plaster. Caro the nurse had other intentions entirely. She was moving Basti through hallways like the rules didn’t apply, like the staff wasn’t even there, like she knew something we didn’t.
But he was done with what was supposed to happen. In his last real minutes all he wanted was to feel something—the air on his skin, the scent of freedom in his perfect hair, the city one last time. He wanted it enough that it happened, which is more than most people get.
Then there was Igor. From his country, from before he became a doctor, from when he used to cut meat for a living. That’s where I lose the thread.
Berlin Fashion Week brings the same machinery every year—certain clubs become necessary places, photographers work the door with purpose, magazines throw parties where you get free drinks if you’re on the list. The setup is predictable and nobody pretends otherwise.
Getting invited to these things means making a quick calculation. Are the DJs worth the time? Is the crowd going to be unbearable? Will I spend four hours waiting for ten minutes of something real? These are real questions and the answer is usually some version of yes.
Magazines running these parties have to offer you something—free tickets, drinks, some kind of access. The whole economy is transparent. Nobody pretends they’re there for any other reason, and there’s something clean about that. Everyone showed up for exactly the same thing everyone knows they showed up for, and nobody feels the need to pretend otherwise.
I liked some of the old music press because of that directness. The people writing there cared about what they were covering. They were crude about it—joking loudly about what they wanted in the magazine, what was missing—not as performance but because they genuinely didn’t care if anyone outside the office was listening.
Berlin’s party scene during fashion week works because everyone’s honest about it. The DJs are usually good. The crowd is usually interesting. And there’s freedom in that clarity—everyone knowing exactly why everyone else is there.
Berlin smells like cum and stardust, at least according to Hannah, who wouldn’t shut up about it all weekend. She, Caro, Basti, and I tore through the city starting Saturday morning, and everything felt amplified, like someone had cranked all the dials at once.
We started at Tacheles, wandered into the Christopher Street Day parade—all that sweating, half-naked debauchery—and then Hannah’s running joke about the city’s particular odor became the theme for everything that followed. That night Kings of Leon at the O2 Arena. We were stuck in the cheap seats at the absolute back of the venue, management couldn’t be bothered with proper screens, and somewhere around the third song my ass went completely numb, but it didn’t matter at all. When they hit “Use Somebody” and “Sex On Fire,” all of us were screaming those lines with every other Ed Hardy bro from the eastern suburbs. There’s something about a song that genuinely works that just bypasses all the logistics and the discomfort.
After that we went to White Trash, where some flashy boyband was playing—Valient Thorr—and the singer was completely unhinged on stage, everyone feeding off that energy. Somewhere in the chaos Basti’s hand got split open with a beer bottle. It might have been funny. It might have been tragic. Caro treated it like a disaster. I just remember the blood, the shock, and the absolute certainty that this was a story that would stick with all of us.
3 a.m. at the Charité and we’re both thoroughly drunk, we stole a wheelchair, we’re racing through corridors like we owned the place. The resident physicians looked like they were ready to throw us out, or call security, or both. Hannah and Caro kept saying that scars look good on men, which is something you only hear at dawn in a hospital when everyone’s three whiskeys deep.
They flew to Munich the next afternoon, apparently took the sun with them. The details came back fragmented—something about the U-Bahn, a rubber duck, Til Schweiger. Lots of photos, they kept saying there’d be a video. It was pointless and drunk and messy in exactly the way the best weekends are. Next time we’re tearing through Munich.
Daybreakers is about vampires finally taking over the world, and Ethan Hawke’s in it, and honestly—the vampires deserve it. For centuries they’ve been the bottom of the food chain. Dracula’s the villain, Blade hunts them, crosses and garlic and sunlight, priests with holy water. They got locked up, tortured, fed that watered-down blood bank garbage instead of the real thing. Humiliated. Hunted. Never catching a break.
Then it flips. The vampires win. Humans are the livestock, and yeah, people get hurt, systems collapse. That’s the deal when the power shifts. But the moment—the actual moment—they’re in charge, here come the humans trying to take it back. A hunter switches sides, probably some complicated romance, the whole resistance gear spinning up. Can’t let the monsters have this one.
It’s the same reflex every time. The need to be the ones winning, to be the story. The vampires get one turn and we’re immediately plotting to take it away. Just let them keep it. See what they actually do with the planet. Maybe it’s worse, maybe it’s the same—but for once, why not let something else be in charge?
I was always terrible at accounting. Not just bad—genuinely, scientifically incompetent. I’d sit in class and feel this creeping dread, this almost animal panic at the thought of becoming one of those people, glued to a desk in a bank somewhere, running the same calculations day after day until the person and the job merged into one efficient, soulless thing. A robot. Nothing scared me more—maybe mutated green space spiders, but honestly I was probably just lazy.
So when Marina and the Diamonds came out with “I Am Not A Robot,” I couldn’t not pay attention, even though I doubt she wrote it thinking about my accounting anxiety. But robots are bad—we all know this, we’ve seen I, Robot, we’ve read enough—and there’s something in the song that feels like a push back against that idea. Against the fear of becoming something mechanical, predictable, standardized. The song’s not complicated. It’s just defiant in that exhausted way, like you’re tired of being treated like a machine and you’re letting everyone know it.
Marina’s voice on it has this quality where she sounds almost brittle, like she’s holding it together while she’s saying it, and that matters. The production is minimal, which makes it feel more like a statement than a song. There’s no safety in production here, no gloss to hide behind. It’s just her saying something that probably matters to a lot of people, even if what it means shifts depending on who’s listening. For me it was always that specific dread—not wanting to become functional, not wanting to turn into something with no texture or contradiction. A fear so stupid it’s almost unspoken.
I never became an accountant. I became something else entirely, which is its own kind of problem, but at least I’m not a robot about it.
I remember hearing it on breakfast TV that morning, the anchor mentioning it casually, and not really taking it in at first. Michael Jackson had died. Cardiac arrest. His body just stopped.
The internet exploded. Twitter crashed under the weight of people trying to process it all at once. Everyone’s feeds flooded with the same news, the same shock, the same “I can’t believe it.” But that digital chaos felt distant to me. I was still just standing there with coffee, trying to make it real.
Whatever he’d become in his final years, whatever the tabloids had done to him or he’d done to himself, he was still the King of Pop. Still the voice on records millions of people grew up with. Thriller. Bad. Billie Jean. The moonwalk. The whole world had watched him change from a kid in the Jackson 5 to something else entirely, something untouchable and strange.
What got me wasn’t the news cycles or the internet mourning. It was thinking about all the people who’d grown up with him, who’d learned dance moves from his videos, who’d felt something shift in pop culture because of him. That was permanent. That doesn’t get undone.
I wasn’t in the mood for jokes. Just quiet about it.
There’s something to be said for an artist who commits fully to an idea without hedging. The video for “Rabbit Heart” is Florence sinking into a river, pulled down by the people around her, and it has this whole pagan ritual quality that could tip into pure camp in less confident hands. It reminds me of Bat for Lashes’ work, though warmer somehow, less shrouded in dread.
The song itself is as baroque as it comes. Strings, drama, that voice of hers cutting through everything with real power. It’s not subtle. It’s not trying to be. Most artists would trim this back, sand down the edges, make it more palatable. She just goes deeper.
In a landscape full of artists hedging their bets, there’s something refreshing about that kind of commitment. The kind of thing that shouldn’t work but does because she means it.
“Lungs” comes out next month. I’m paying attention.
I found this website once where you guess women’s pubic hair styles from photos. Brazil, Hollywood, or hairless. That’s the whole thing. Just that. Someone built it, someone hosted it, and presumably someone played it, which means there was an audience for this specific niche.
What struck me wasn’t the crudeness—the internet is crude, always has been—but the precision of the fetish. Not just naked women (that’s everywhere), but specifically the arbitration of grooming styles. Someone had identified this exact microgenre of desire and built infrastructure around it. A game. A ranking system. Presumably a leaderboard.
It’s the kind of thing that makes you understand how the web actually works. Not the aspirational version where it connects humanity and distributes information, but the messy version where someone codes up exactly what they want to see and finds out they’re not alone. There’s something almost honest about it. No pretense. No narrative. Just the thing itself.
I didn’t play it. I looked at it for maybe thirty seconds, impressed by the commitment to a very specific vision, and moved on. But I keep thinking about whoever built it, sitting down and thinking: I’m going to make this. This exact thing. And they did. The internet let them.
Anime were my religion for years. Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, Neon Genesis Evangelion — didn’t matter how bad the dubbing was or how inconsistent the animation looked. Big eyes, transformation sequences, talking plushies. That’s basically where my whole thing with Japan started, before I even understood why.
Miyazaki films hit different though. There’s something about them that feels right — no struggle, no effort to convince you. I sat through Princess Mononoke in Koblenz and it stuck to me. Becca and I had this whole empty cinema for Howl’s Moving Castle. Those Spirited Away songs still surface when I’m walking, like they’re permanent now.
The new one is Ponyo, their version of The Little Mermaid — a mermaid escapes home, washes up on a beach, gets found by a five-year-old. Even just knowing that, you feel it. That thing Ghibli does where strangeness stops being strange. I don’t know if this one hits the way the others do, but you keep betting on them anyway.
There’s this moment in “Earthquake” where the synth comes in and you know you’re going to be listening to this album on repeat. Little Boots’ debut “Hands” is tearing through the UK right now, about to hit Germany, and it’s one of the best things I’ve heard in years. Her single “New In Town” has been everywhere for weeks, but the album is where the real depth is.
She sits somewhere between Ladyhawke, Annie, and La Roux—that bright, synthed-out electro-pop moment that shouldn’t work as well as it does. There are patches where it veers into pretty straightforward pop that loses me a little, but the overall feeling is one of relief. Someone finally made this kind of music feel fun again, feel lighter than air without being weightless, and it turns out that’s exactly what I needed to hear.
Part of why this lands so hard is that electro-pop has been a mess for a while. Swallowed by worse impulses, stretched too thin, turned into something that felt effortful and desperate. Victoria Hesketh just ignores all that and makes the album she wants to make—clever and pop and unafraid of being pretty—and suddenly the whole genre feels new again.
“Remedy” hits just as hard as “Earthquake,” but there’s a hidden track called “Hands” that shows something darker and more uncertain, and it reframes everything that came before. She clearly knows what she’s doing in ways that matter—not just hitting the technical beats but understanding what a pop song can actually hold if you don’t oversell it.
She has that thing where you can tell she’s going to matter without needing anyone to tell you that. Just the confidence in how she moves through these songs, the way nothing sounds like an accident. The kind of artist you become completely insufferable about—not because a magazine told you to, but because you heard three minutes and suddenly you can’t stop.
Mpho Skeef’s “Box N Locks” came in fast—sharp beats, clever lyrics, this underground synth that shouldn’t have worked but did. She was on Parlophone in the mid-2000s, that moment when the label was signing artists who sounded like they’d discovered their influences by accident, like they weren’t trying.
The song doesn’t ask for much. It moves, it’s there, and then it’s done. Not everything needs to be an anthem. There were a lot of artists like that—solid, brief, memorable enough but not iconic. They appeared in posts like this, got listened to a few times, and vanished into whatever comes next.
I’ve no idea where Mpho went, but those few minutes of “Box N Locks” were real. Some people make one good thing and that’s enough.
Lily Allen’s “Fuck You” video doesn’t show Lily. You get the track—that precise synth line, her voice making each profanity cut clean—and you get the concept: Paris destroyed, strangers insulted, everything in its path wrecked. But the wrecking is handled by animation or claymation or whatever. The video just lets her voice sit there and work. No faces, no performance, just the song being lethal on its own.
I was always into her though. There’s something in Lily Allen’s early stuff—this crude, unpolished confidence—that you almost never see. She wasn’t performing coolness or trying to be precious or clever in that winking way. She was just there, blunt about what she wanted and what she thought, and she didn’t seem to care if anyone liked it. That kind of honesty is rare.
The video’s smart because it trusts both the song and the audience. If it was Lily making angry faces at the camera the whole time, it’d collapse. Instead there’s just the principle of it, the chaos, the destruction, the fuck-you of it all. She gets out of her own way. Sometimes that’s the right move.
I’m basically the reincarnation of an IKEA lamp—useful only as somebody else’s decoration, no real existence of my own. So I needed to build one somewhere. The Sims 3 seemed perfect. You can make anything in this game, so I made a version of myself with everything sorted: stable job, beautiful family, no consequences for anything. The life that only exists in games.
Then I created a version of Nora Tschirner and married her. She’s a German TV personality; in my game, she’s a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist. We have a red-haired daughter named Nami, a villa with ocean views, and I disabled aging so we stay young forever. I’m a surgeon. Everything’s perfect.
The Sims 3 is the Sims 2 sequel, which was the Sims 1 sequel—a game I never played. Not much changes between versions. Better graphics, more possibilities, same basic loop: build a life and watch it either work or collapse depending on whether you remember to keep your characters fed. There’s something honest about that structure.
Then somebody made a nude mod. Conceptually great. Practically devastating. Because Sims don’t come with genitals. So my character’s naked but anatomically incomplete, Nora is nippleless, and I’m staring at this pixel-level disaster thinking about how even when you control absolutely everything, you still manage to wreck it.
The only recourse was the pool. I’ve been systematically drowning Sims to see if I can empty the whole city. It’s weirdly soothing.
Subways, Amanda Blank, and Crookers at Astra for the Levi’s Berlin Unbuttoned Tour. Britpop, Berlin electronics, beat production—three completely different moods in one room because Levi’s was throwing money at live music. Unusual enough to be worth noticing.
Jennifer moved to Florida from Venezuela three years ago, which means she’s spent those years in a place that’s not quite home, watching how people dress, picking up pieces from different cultures all mixed together in the sun. When I asked if Florida was full of fashion-conscious people, she said not really. Most of the people around her don’t think much about style. Which is interesting coming from someone who clearly does.
She doesn’t overthink it though. When I asked where her ideas come from, she shrugged and said everything. Music, films, photos, books, people, images. All of it feeds in. She just finds things and wears what feels right together. No system. No rules. Just instinct.
Her brother makes independent films, so that world was always around her. She loves indie-electro music that barely anyone else listens to—the kind of stuff you have to actively find and choose to care about. She goes to bookstores with her best friend, orders coffee, sits there for hours turning pages through magazines and books. W Magazine especially, because it covers the overlap of everything she’s interested in.
Her closest friends all have their own style, their own personalities. They’re different from each other, genuinely open people. No boyfriend yet. She seems unbothered by that, busy with other things.
When I asked about the future, she got this look like she’s aware of the time crunch. She wants to make videos, shoot photos, compose music, paint. And drink a lot of coffee—she mentioned that twice, which made me smile. There’s so much she wants to make. There’s never enough time. Once you start creating, you know exactly what she means.
The government passed an internet censorship law yesterday. The justification is child protection—the only argument that ever works in these situations, because who’s going to vote against protecting children? But the law doesn’t actually protect anyone. It just gives the state legal authority to block websites whenever it wants.
Child exploitation is real and it deserves to be stopped. But this isn’t how you stop it. You need investigation and courts, people who actually know what they’re looking at. Censorship just makes it disappear. The problem is that once you’ve built the machine to block one thing, you’ve built it to block everything. Same infrastructure, same legal justification. Today it’s child porn, tomorrow it’s political speech or news someone in power doesn’t like. You’ve already proved you’re willing to censor. China didn’t build a surveillance state through technology—they built it one reasonable law at a time.
The Pirate Party is organizing protests tomorrow. Delete Instead of Block. I don’t expect it to work. Probably won’t. But I’m tired of how easily people accept this, so I’m going to go stand around with some people who still have a problem with it.
Zitadelle Spandau filled up in July for a benefit concert—Die Ärzte’s Bela B., Peter Fox, K.I.Z., Sido, all the people who actually matter in Berlin’s music scene, all of it going straight to Berlin Tafel. No hype, no sponsorship angle, just the straightforward math of a city taking care of its own for one night.
Berlin Tafel is the kind of organization that makes sense. They take food that would otherwise disappear and they give it to people who need it. No middle layer, no inefficiency. The city’s music scene is rooted enough and active enough that every few years someone manages to pull together a lineup like that and everyone shows up. It’s worth noticing when that actually happens.
There was a design contest running alongside it—local visual artists submitting work, five pieces getting signed and auctioned. Small detail, but it’s what separates a charity concert from just a concert. It’s what happens when the whole creative community actually participates instead of just the musicians.
You don’t see this in every city. A music scene active and rooted enough to organize something that isn’t about its own profile. That’s a specific kind of cultural stability.
It’s nothing revolutionary—musicians playing for charity is maybe the baseline expectation. But the fact that it actually happened, that people showed up, that the Tafel got real support. That’s worth keeping in mind. It’s one of those moments that makes you understand why you stay in a place.
I wanted to write something different this time. Actually try, you know. Not just perverted nonsense and crude word-salad. But that’s not how this works. You’re all just little pigs.
The searches are what you’d expect. Sexual positions mixed with cartoon characters, someone looking for Japanese washing machines for absolutely no reason, diet tips for self-haters, teenagers asking medical questions about their own bodies in broken grammar. There’s someone convinced they’re a kebab, and someone else searching for help with suicidal thoughts—both ending up here because the algorithm couldn’t figure out where else to put them. These searches don’t know what they want. They’re chasing something that doesn’t exist, and Google’s best guess was me.
It’s strange when you think about it long enough. All these random people—horny, confused, desperate—crashing into this site because the internet has no better options for their specific disasters. I’ve been running something online for two decades and I still can’t make sense of it. The pervert, the confused kid, the person with a medical emergency they can’t articulate, the person mid-crisis. They all find their way here. Maybe that’s more honest than anything I could manufacture on purpose.
The thing about a t-shirt slogan is how direct it is. You’re just telling people who you are without having to open your mouth. Band name, stupid joke, some observation that made you laugh—it’s all the same. You’re broadcasting it.
The bad ones are everywhere. Motivational nonsense, corporate garbage, jokes that died five years ago and somehow made it onto fabric. But the good ones stick because they’re actually saying something true. A Ramones shirt or a vintage band tee isn’t really about the music—it’s about identity, about telling people what you care about, what you’re part of.
There’s something honest about it. You’re making a choice every time you wear one of these things. You’re deciding that this joke or this slogan or this band name is worth broadcasting to the world. It’s gutless and confident at the same time.
What gets me is how certain slogans never die. You see them recycled over and over across different decades, the same jokes reappearing on different shirts, and people keep buying them because they still work. A slogan that’s been worn by a thousand strangers, all of them thinking it says something about who they are. There’s something almost sacred about that.
Even the dumb ones matter. Some joke you thought was hilarious years ago and apparently still do. You wear it and someone else reads it and gets it or doesn’t, and either way you’ve told them something. This is how I think. This is the kind of thing I find funny. This is worth wearing.
Vany from Essen - I can’t stop looking at her picture. Reminds me of someone, which is probably why. She’s one of about forty girls applying for these bebe apartments, and right now the whole internet’s voting on whether they make the cut. Friday’s the deadline, final decision July 13th.
It’s peak early 2000s internet culture. The premise is stupid and perfect: hot girls in shared apartments, public voting, beautiful girls get picked based on looks. No framing, no pretense - that’s just the deal. You wouldn’t package it like this now, but back then it was… honest. What you see is what you get.
The funny part is how the original post handles it. The blogger’s obviously into Vany, then does this thing where he’s like, “I’m not going to push you to vote for her (VOTE! VOTE! VOTE!) because I’m being totally neutral.” It’s self-aware about the whole stupid beautiful mess and doesn’t apologize for it. That’s the real energy.
The thing about Murphy’s Law is it doesn’t just happen to you once. It comes in waves. A lamp drops on your head. The stove catches your arm. You’re genuinely worried a toilet paper holder is going to finish what the lamp started. Household appliances just give up. The Hurricane Festival gets rained out. And then 1&1 — the DSL provider, the people I supposedly paid to give me internet — decides they’re done trying. The technician came. I dropped 30 euros for a “service” call. Still nothing. They send emails about rescheduled appointments to an account with no internet. The kind of thing that would be funny if I wasn’t sitting here without a connection.
The timing is perfectly terrible because I run this website, this stupid little unknown corner, and right now it’s just sitting empty. I could joke about dead content tumbleweeds blowing across the homepage but it’s not really funny when it’s actually happening. I’ve got a hoster and a DSL company that both seem genuinely unsure how to make something work. They’ll figure it out eventually. They have to.
Apart from the injuries — and I mean, I almost lost my left hand, which would’ve been a problem, but at least my right’s still intact — things aren’t terrible. I actually like how insane the weather’s been. You never know what you’re going to get when you look outside. And I’ve somehow developed a full Red Bull addiction in the last few days. Like, every morning now I need one before anything else happens. It’s a serious habit.
Basti and I did this whole expedition to IKEA, the kind of errand that takes way longer than it should because you end up looking at everything. Then Gulcan and I headed into the Arabic neighborhood around Hermannplatz — we were hunting for a shisha setup. Got one, got some nice apple tobacco, grabbed some baklava. Now I’m just sitting here blowing apple smoke into the air, mostly just hoping the internet comes back soon.
She’d talk about trying to look withdrawn and melancholic when she was out, trying to seem like someone turned inward. And then someone would speak to her and the whole thing would collapse. She’d talk. The woman was talkative, genuinely surprised by her own talkativeness, but unbothered by it.
That contradiction—between what she presented and who she actually was—is what stuck with me about her. Not her professional work, not the specific roles, but that gap between public and private. You could see it in interviews. “Sometimes I try to look antisocial in public,” she said once. “But then someone talks to me.” And later: “I like staying home. I’m fine being antisocial. I don’t answer calls, I move my appointments around.” No apology. No performance of regret. Just the fact of it.
What surprised me was the unselfconscious quality of it. She wasn’t ashamed of the contradiction. She just acknowledged it, plainly. In the same way, she said things like: “I don’t have any sympathy for people lazy enough to form their music taste from music videos.” That’s not a statement made by someone trying to be liked. It’s someone saying what she actually thinks, and if you don’t like it, that’s fine.
There’s a particular kind of public figure you follow without ever really knowing them. You see them in work, read something they said, get a sense of how they think—and you start imagining you know something real about who they are. You don’t. You just know what they chose to show you. In her case, what she showed was someone uninterested in the work of being liked.
That kind of honesty about contradictions—being someone no one would predict, having preferences people might question, not pretending—that’s rare. By the time you realize someone mattered to you as a public figure, they’ve already moved on. The internet’s moved on. You’re left with old interviews and work you can’t always find, with this strange sense that you were paying attention all along, but in a way that felt invisible.
There are words that make me want to throw something through a window. Used to be ’homework,’ ’series finale’ — now it’s ’social media.’ Every mediocre kid from high school who used to bore people with calculus is suddenly a brilliant ’social media strategist.’ Working at some trendy agency, or from a home office full of Swedish minimalism, having these incredibly sincere conversations about Twitter and Facebook. It’s almost endearing.
Until one of them has an idea. Not a good one.
If MySpace is popular, if blogs are hot, then why not push every single product imaginable through those channels? Doesn’t matter if anyone actually needs it, doesn’t matter if it has real value. Just get it in front of eyeballs. Make it ’viral.’ Who cares what it does or whether it’s good — as long as millions of people see it.
This is where I actually lose it.
The con is simple and kind of brilliant: convince some marketing director that you have supernatural powers, that you can make people care about literally anything. Force people onto Facebook to become fans of whatever brand pays you. Get them to enter contests. Make them share it to get a friend to vote. The company pays you for this and calls it ’engagement strategy.’
What you’re actually doing is taking worthless things and manipulating people into caring about them. Sometimes those people are broke or exhausted or gullible, and they take the bait. A free contest, an exclusive offer, whatever. And you count that as a victory.
I’m tired of the whole language around it — ’social media,’ ’viral,’ ’engagement,’ ’influencer.’ It all means the same thing: getting people to care about garbage they don’t need by any manipulative method available.
So here’s the choice: figure out if what you’re selling is actually good. Something people genuinely want, something that improves their life. If it is, fine. If it’s not — if you’re just trying to move units through pure manipulation — find a different job. Something honest.
But you know they won’t, because by now this is just how things work. It became real the moment everyone agreed it was real.
I turned the weekend into a deliberate refusal to do anything. No invitations to decline, no strategic excuses—just staying home, asking nothing of myself. And I found this Tumblr called Sorry I Missed Your Party that collects photos from parties, the ones that nobody stages. The tunnel starer, the person asleep against a wall with a smile, someone who’d apparently committed their entire being to being a whale in a bathtub.
What hooks me is that they’re edited soft, almost tender, which makes the whole thing feel less like documentation and more like evidence of something real. Evidence that people actually soften around each other, that the whole strange ritual of gathering and drinking and existing in the same small space is its own kind of legitimate thing. You see someone completely wasted and completely at peace, and you understand something about what they came for. It wasn’t the image. It was five minutes of not performing.
I could have been at a party that weekend. Instead I spent it looking at pictures of other people being themselves around each other, and that felt closer to the actual thing than showing up would have.
Ray Cokes and Dieter Gorny—MTV and VIVA guys from way back—decided to launch Putpat, some new music streaming site. The name was terrible, and I assumed the whole thing was a retro idea that had no business existing when YouTube and Spotify already killed that business model years ago.
I logged in anyway, plugged in my Last.fm name mostly as a joke, and it actually pulled me in. The videos played clean and simple, one after another, with none of the usual noise. No hosts, no manufactured breaks, no algorithm deciding what you should feel. Just music.
The design works. The curation feels intentional—someone actually picked these rather than letting a machine grind through data. There’s enough personality that using my name felt personal instead of just being another user ID. All the rough edges are there—beta prompts interrupting constantly, video quality that could be sharper, that ugly test banner everywhere—but underneath is something genuine.
MTV stopped being about music a long time ago, buried under everything else it became. This feels like someone trying to remember what that actually meant. Probably won’t last, doesn’t need to. Right now, it works.
I have no idea who Lenka is — some Australian pop artist living in LA who apparently hosted Cheez TV. She’s got a new song called “The Show” that does everything pop is supposed to do: bright, catchy, designed to stick with you on the first listen. It works perfectly at what it’s made for. Just not something I’d be looking for when I actually want to listen to music. Not sure why this landed in my feed, but here it is.
Hannah got a boyfriend, which sent half the readership into mourning—our girl of endless self-doubt and comfort carbs finally decided to let someone in. The drama. The tragedy. Normal enough.
But it made me think about what actually works when you’re trying to get someone’s attention. Not in some reductive way, just: what makes a person see you as worth knowing? It’s not what people say. It’s not confidence or a line or timing. I’ve watched people fail with all of those. The thing that actually lands is weirder.
It’s noticing something true and specific about them—genuinely true—and saying it in a voice that sounds like you believe it and don’t fully understand it at the same time. That second part matters. You’re not performing anything. You’re admitting confusion about your own attention. Why did their name sound like candy? You don’t know. Neither do they. That not-knowing does something. People relax.
I watched this happen once—someone just commented on a girl’s last name, how it sounded like it could be a pastry, something sweet. It wasn’t clever. It wasn’t even that funny. But she got stuck on how direct it was, how unguarded. He looked at her while saying it, not testing her reaction but genuinely puzzled by his own noticing. She smiled. That was the whole thing.
Everything after that is just time, just conversation. But that first moment—the willingness to sound foolish and be real—that’s what actually gets through.
You make these lists to mark what stuck in a particular moment. Looking back, most of it’s dated — tangled up in German references and a year you can’t fully reconstruct. But that’s the point. It’s proof you were paying attention, alive in a specific way.
Didn’t know Jenny Wilson until I watched ’Like a Fading Rainbow,’ which is probably some blind spot of mine or just how it works—music reaches you in random order. Swedish artist, been making it since the late nineties, runs her own label, couple albums out. The kind of presence that makes you feel like you should have paid attention sooner.
But the video stops you. You watch and nothing else is happening in your head. It works on you without needing anything else.
New album called ’Hardships’ on her own label. I’ll remember her now—the way you do when something lands and you realize you weren’t looking hard enough.
I found The Virgin Suicides at Media Markt for five marks in the remainder section. The kind of place you drift into on an afternoon with nowhere better to be. Sofia Coppola’s debut, and I’d been meaning to watch it again for years.
There’s something Coppola does where she finds the most beautiful moment inside something fundamentally dark, and holds the camera there until you can’t look away. The Virgin Suicides is about five girls sealed in a house by their paranoid parents, and what longing becomes when it has nowhere to go. She shoots them close—faces, clothes, objects in rooms. There’s something voyeuristic about it, honest in a way that makes you uncomfortable. This is how they register to the boys outside the house. This is how memory exaggerates them.
The film is made from those neighbors’ recollections years later, moving through them like you’re inside a half-awake dream, a memory of a memory. It’s suffocating and beautiful. The Air soundtrack gets it because it sounds like longing itself—synths caught between pretty and mournful, refusing to choose.
What matters is how the film treats its subjects as people, not symbols. They’re just young, bored, trapped, and eventually defeated. Kirsten Dunst is luminous here in a way that rarely surfaces again—something about this moment, this role. You understand why the boys next door were destroyed by them. You end up just as destroyed watching.
There’s the moment your teeth hit the warm brownie and the ice cream melts directly into it, turning everything into this dark mud of chocolate and cold cream and not-quite-cold anymore. For thirty seconds it’s exactly what you want without having to explain why.
It’s a Burger King dessert. There’s no reason this should matter. The brownie is thick, rich, almost too much on its own—but the ice cream cuts through it, the cold against the warmth, and the combination is genuinely perfect. You get both at once. That’s the whole design of it. The contrast is everything.
I get defensive about this thing, seriously defensive, like you’re insulting my family. It’s stupid. But there’s something about caring this much about something this simple and stupid that feels true. Everyone’s got tastes they’re ashamed of until they’re not. This is one of mine. It works. That’s enough.
Celestine is 21, from DC, studies design, and models for SuicideGirls. She dislikes cheese for reasons unknown to me, loves Kill Hannah, is apparently fine with cheap vodka and casual sex. None of it seems to bother her much.
What strikes me is that she’s not trying to be two different people. Most artists I know split themselves in half—respectable at school, anything goes in private. She just moves through both spaces like there’s nothing to reconcile. Maybe there isn’t.
Gaga’s 2009 video for ’Paparazzi’ is basically a murder revenge fantasy stretched across five minutes of leather and blood. She’s a model caught between obsession and violence, and the whole thing is shot in this cold, sterile palette that makes the sex feel dangerous instead of fun. The concept doesn’t really matter — it’s an excuse to put her in increasingly minimal clothing and frame her body as both weapon and victim.
What stuck with me was how unafraid it was to just be nasty. Not in some edgy, trying-to-provoke way, but like she understood exactly what a pop star could do with her image and just went all the way with it. The dancing is sharp, the styling is ridiculous, and there’s this commitment to pure visual excess that you either get or you don’t.
I’ve watched it probably too many times, and I still don’t think it’s as good as some of her later stuff, but it’s the video that made it clear she wasn’t going to be a standard pop product. Everything after came from this moment — the willingness to be vulgar, the obsession with control and the loss of it, the way she could make you look at something you’d normally ignore. It’s the sound of someone figuring out who they are, and not caring if anyone else was comfortable with it.
Mian Mian is the only writer who’s ever really gotten into me the way she does. I keep her books within reach — “Your Night, My Day” and “La la la” — because I need to disappear into those rough, unflinching stories about sex and drugs and people trying to make sense of being alive. There’s no distance in her prose, no safety. It’s all exposed nerve.
She writes about Shanghai’s party scene with this combination of tenderness and wreckage. The characters are young, they’re looking for connection, and they’re using whatever’s available — sex, drugs, each other — to feel something true. The writing is casual and brutal at the same time, which is how actual living feels if you’re paying attention.
Her new book, “Panda Sex,” came out in German recently. It follows two sisters and their friends through that same Shanghai underworld, this time involving some literal virus that throws everything into chaos. It’s vintage Mian Mian — the setup doesn’t matter as much as what it lets her explore: desire, risk, the gap between who you want to be and who you actually are. Her publisher describes it as tracing a generation that craves love but can’t face the vulnerability it requires. That’s close to right, though “can’t face it” undersells the active running away.
I don’t know what makes one writer land with you and another bounce off. But Mian Mian landed. Everything she writes feels like the conversation you actually want to have, the one nobody pretends to have in public.
Followed Scott Matthews down a rabbit hole and found Holly Miranda. Band from Brooklyn, Detroit, Tennessee. Debut EP Sleep On Fire in March, no label behind them. I’ve been stuck on them ever since.
The music is honest in a way that feels almost reckless. Nothing polished, nothing held back. It’s the opposite of that artist music that’s designed to make you feel less alone in your problems — this just documents what the problems look like from the inside, in detail, with nothing softened. And something about that lack of mercy feels more true than anything else.
The singer’s voice matches the music. Real. Rough. You hear it and you believe every word. There’s no performance distance between you and whatever she’s describing.
I don’t have a clean takeaway here. Just that I keep coming back to this music, and that’s usually the only thing that matters.
I’ve got a thing for Filippa Smeds. Swedish redhead, something about it just works. She was in a backstage video shoot put together by photographer Emma Svensson—a whole lineup of models including Linn Gustafsson, Emma Elwin, Emma Nygren, Karoline Andersson, Sandra Hansson, Miriam Assai, Signe Siemsen, and Cissi Wallin. Quick behind-the-scenes thing, but worth watching.
There’s something about video that photos don’t capture. The way someone actually moves, how they shift their weight, these tiny gestures that matter more than you’d expect. Watching Filippa made me remember why I liked her in the first place.
I’ve been into The Sonnets lately too—Swedish band, summer sound—though it’s been raining nonstop, which kind of kills the whole summer thing. But that’s not really the point. Point is I ordered her T-shirt. Seemed like the right move.
I spent hours on Tumblr looking for images I couldn’t name. Not Instagram’s algorithm, not Pinterest’s wellness aesthetic—just collections made by people with taste and nothing to do but archive it. Scrolling through tags, landing on blogs with names like “Fuck Yeah Skinny Bitch,” just clicking, collecting. These weren’t casual reblogs. They were shrines.
You could see the whole person in what they kept. The way they arranged things, what patterns they returned to, what images they chose to save. Someone’s visual consciousness made visible. And if their taste matched yours, if you’d been looking for the same things, it felt like finding someone who actually saw the world.
A lot of them were about beauty—skin, bodies, specific kinds of light. Some thematic, architectural, about surfaces. Some frankly sexual, which was the only point. The internet back then let you look at whatever without someone measuring it, quantifying it, selling it back to you. You found things by stumbling through someone else’s collection. No algorithm, no personalization. Just someone else’s eye, and whether it matched yours.
The web used to work like that. You’d disappear into a stranger’s taste and feel less strange. Feel like someone else was looking for the same things you were looking for.
Tumblr got bought. They sanitized it, killed it. But for a while it was the place you went when you wanted to see things without explanation, and you’d find other people who wanted exactly the same things. That was the whole point.
Went into Berlin today to actually buy some clothes, which after too long felt like something that needed doing. The city was a zoo. Every other person was either trying to sell you something, recruit you, or had faster hands than eyes. I just moved through it all with my head down.
Found what I was looking for without much trouble. A white shirt, a checked one that looks like a kitchen towel but works under my black sweater, and this ridiculous branded shirt from some charity campaign that came with condoms printed with celebrity faces. Nothing special. Took an hour, cost less than it should have.
Waiting to pay, I caught myself already composing it in my head — how I’d describe it, what I’d say about it, how it all fit together. Which meant I was becoming the exact thing I’d spent the last year mocking. Every idiot with a camera and a blog was posting thrifted garbage as vintage, filling the internet with the same tired style, and there I was about to do the exact same thing.
Except I knew it was stupid. That was supposed to be the difference. I could see how oversaturated it all was, how performative, how ridiculous the whole fashion-blogging thing had become. And I was doing it anyway, knowingly and ironically, which just meant I was complicit like everyone else but at least I could be honest about it.
The clothes were fine, though. They fit. They looked fine. That was enough.
The smoke in Natasha Khan’s “Pearl’s Dream” video is so thick you could mistake it for the actual subject. She’s singing about finding a place, past oceans and kingdoms and the sun, voice staying light even when everything else in the frame is dark. The melody sticks without asking permission.
I’ve been a fan since “Daniel.” There’s something about the way Khan moves between darkness and lightness—not as opposites, just as two things that exist at once. The new video is all smoke and fog, yeah, but it’s not moody for moody’s sake. It’s just the landscape she needs.
The song doesn’t try to convince you it matters. It sits there, specific, exactly enough.
Lisa Wassmann, a photographer and Scala regular, shot the last gasping moments of the place into something beautiful—a short film packed with flashes of the actual night, people saying goodbye, and stickers torn off the walls. The kind of footage that catches the sweat and the light and the specific animal energy of a room that’s about to stop existing. You watch it and your eyes burn a little.
The Scala was always the kind of place that didn’t apologize for what it was. Loud, crude, built on the premise that a night could be genuinely wrong and genuinely good at the same time. People went there to lose something or find something, usually both. Clubs like that don’t sustain themselves on good management or smart decisions. They survive on momentum and a kind of collective weirdness, and when that dies, there’s nothing to resurrect it with.
I never lived in Berlin, never actually spent a night there drinking and dancing and pressing against strangers’ bodies while the sound system tried to vibrate you into a different person. But I knew people who did, and I knew the type of place it was—the kind you hear stories about years later, always slightly exaggerated, always sounding like the best night or the worst night of someone’s life. The Scala had that weight. It mattered in a way most venues don’t.
There’s something perversely perfect about having a photographer there to document the ending, someone who was part of the place shooting it as it vanished. Not archival footage, not a documentary about the club as a historical object, but just her eye on the final hours. The people there knew they were losing it. They were paying attention. That’s different from nostalgia, which is easier and emptier.
Whatever Scala was—the music, the debauchery, the specific way bodies moved in that space—it’s gone now. The footage is a window, but windows just remind you that you’re on the wrong side of the glass.
Keiichi Nitta photographs nude women on Polaroid, develops the print in front of them, and hands it over. They write their name across their own body. That’s the work.
The Polaroid format matters. Those specific colors, that grain, the physical singularity. But the signature is key. The subject isn’t just material; she’s writing her authorization onto her own image as it develops. A simple gesture that transforms the entire thing.
I’m into it for obvious reasons—naked bodies are visually interesting. But the work has substance. It’s not wrapped in irony or artistic distance. Just the direct fact of it: woman, photographer, paper, pen. Her hand on her own image.
It makes you think about consent and autonomy and desire without feeling like homework.
I watch the postal truck and know before he even stops that my package isn’t making it to my apartment. The postman doesn’t actually look at addresses. He just buzzes, waits for any door to open, hands whatever he’s holding to whoever answers, and drives off. My building number is on the box. My apartment number is on the door. Doesn’t matter.
So somewhere in this building, my package is waiting. On a shelf behind junk. On top of a refrigerator. Opened by someone who hoped it was theirs. I’ll knock on doors until I find it, or someone will eventually leave a note, or I’ll just give up and order a replacement.
The worst part is not knowing what got routed away. Could be a book I’d forgotten about. Could be something I’ve been waiting for. Could be a lottery ticket wrapped up as a diamond. Could be a donor liver I desperately need. Could be stacks of those old AOL CDs that promised five hundred hours of free internet and seemed like the most important thing in the world in 1996. The postman doesn’t care. He’s not thinking about any of this.
Sometimes I imagine what would actually work. The postman shows up, finds me specifically, has fought through deserts and jungles to deliver my package, arrives at my door covered in blood and sweat but victorious, gasps out “Here, your package,” and then collapses knowing he’s finally done his job right. That’s what I want. Even if the box just contains a Pokemon cookbook. It’s the principle.
But he doesn’t care. Nobody does. My packages stay lost somewhere in the building, and I stay in this state of uncertainty, and nothing ever changes.
Been going through the latest Otaku Mag—the “Play” issue—and it’s the kind of thing that reminds you magazines can still matter. The whole thing converges around gaming and animation. Illustrations, comics, videos, fashion, tech, whatever the moment needs. Each page has actual design behind it, not just content shoved into a template.
There’s a specific kind of publication that doesn’t apologize or explain. It knows exactly who it’s for and goes all in. No hedging. This is just otaku in its full form—the aesthetics, the references, the merchandise, the characters people live and die for. That kind of commitment to a world is rare enough that it stands out.
I stopped collecting magazines like everyone else did, sometime in the 2000s. But every so often something shows up that makes the case again—actually worth holding, actually worth spending time with. Someone made choices here. What goes on the page, what sits next to what, how it all moves together. That’s the kind of care that’s rarer now. Everything online flattens into the same feed, the same scroll.
Ballerinas flatten women’s feet, heels don’t suit most people, and flip-flops look cheap. So if you’re into sneakers on women—and I have been, specifically white Adidas—there’s really only one option. The difference is just enormous.
I found Sneaker Girls at some point, this whole corner of the internet dedicated to women in colorful sportswear and clean kicks. They understood exactly what I already knew. The space exists because of an appetite that most people hide, and something about seeing it celebrated rather than tucked away feels important. It’s a real thing, not a secret.
Chucks beat everything though. But Adidas is close.
Cianna’s 22 from Toronto. She’s into Coldplay and herbalism and boobs. Says she’s still a virgin. She doesn’t have the typical SuicideGirls look—smaller, subtler—and I think that’s the best part. The kind of girl who’d destroy you at Mortal Kombat and make it look easy.
Basti showed me this song by MyKey Berlin the other day—guy who looks like Sido’s little brother, or so I’m told. “30°C in the Shade” is the track, and it’s somehow new to me.
It’s exactly the kind of thing that matters if you’ve spent any time in Berlin, especially in the dead heat of summer. There’s something about the rhythm and how it captures that exhaustion, the way the city feels in July. I think it needs to become Berlin’s summer anthem. That’s what I keep coming back to.
That long weekend evaporated like it was never there. Banana Montana was somewhere down south pretending the sun mattered, I was doing my thing up northeast, and somehow it all collapsed into three days of hangovers and half-sentences anyway. There was supposed to be this colossal festival in Wedding—the kind of street fair that tries to be everything at once—but I barely noticed it. I was too busy being a worthless asshole in the Berlin nightlife circuit with Mr. New Hat and whoever else felt like showing up at 4 AM, and I spent a good portion of my time trying to physically force Anne into meeting someone, which worked or didn’t depending on how you count these things, and then I just completely fell apart because TRL was dead.
But that wasn’t the only funeral. The Scala was closing, and they were going to do it properly. Frank got us in, and we showed up with the kind of energy you only have when you know it’s the last time. The beer was Black Boss—actual poison, truly—and it loosened everything just enough that we ended up in this ridiculous conversation with some guy who seemed to have figured something out about pop culture that the rest of us had completely missed. Ollie brought his girlfriend and they made something together that felt like maybe it was actual art. I got photographed in a portable toilet and it felt either important or completely worthless, could be either one.
It was the kind of goodbye that breaks you open and then leaves you numb. Woke up yesterday and found myself surrounded by black stickers, someone’s parting gift from the whole mess. White letters on each one: LOVE, WASTED YOUTH, KOWLOON, the question mark implied. The stupid perfect thing you find when you finally surface from a weekend like that, when you’re still too out of it to know what any of it actually meant.
Richard Kern put out a photo series for VICE’s ’Brazilian Issue’—fashion work, if you want to call it that. Bruna Haas, bikinis, the whole thing. Look, it’s good. But it’s summer, it’s brutal, I’m already melting from heat, and he decides to add this to my brain. Thanks, Richard.
Fair warning: don’t look at these if you’re already overheated. I’m not joking. They do exactly what they’re designed to do, and they’ll destroy you in August.
Röyksopp’s been one of those bands I keep coming back to—electronic music that doesn’t announce itself, just creates a space and lets you exist in it. Robyn, the Swedish pop artist, works the same way. She’s precise and confident without performing it.
So “The Girl and the Robot,” their collaboration, felt inevitable somehow. The track’s sleek and propulsive—the kind of thing that works equally well in a club or through headphones because it’s built with enough intelligence to breathe either way. Robyn’s voice doesn’t compete with the production. It moves through the gaps in the rhythm like she knows exactly where to land.
I found it on iHeartBerlin, one of those music blogs that occasionally surfaces something you didn’t know you needed. The song sits in that space between late-night driving and packed dance floor—the register where most music gets flattened but this one doesn’t.
I’ve had it on rotation for weeks now. That’s the test.
Hannah’s old homepage still sits on Freenet, exactly as cute as I remembered—the kind of thing that stops you for a minute because it’s so perfectly preserved, like opening a time capsule someone forgot they buried. I found it stumbling down an internet rabbit hole, the way you do.
Hannah had this way of making a space feel like her, even with all the constraints of free hosting. The photos are what matter. Photo 8 especially. That’s Hannah.
It’s strange finding these artifacts from the early web. Everyone had a homepage back then, or wanted one, and most of them are long gone. But Hannah’s still up there, this little corner of the internet from another era. I kept thinking about leaving a message in her guestbook, the way people used to do, but it felt like disturbing something. Better to just know it’s there—proof that she existed in this space, that she mattered enough to someone that they’d visit and write something down.
That’s not how the internet works now. Everything’s algorithmic, optimized, designed to keep you scrolling. Nobody’s making little homepages anymore. Nobody’s leaving messages in guestbooks. It’s easier maybe, but something got lost.
Dofus works because it doesn’t overthink itself. Cartoony isometric sprites, a color palette that feels right, a world that coheres. Turn-based combat means you’re never fighting the interface. It’s free, so there’s no guilt, just time spent in something charming that isn’t trying too hard. The game doesn’t announce how well designed it is - it just is.
Scala shut down that weekend. Went out exactly how you’d want — Junior Boys, Shir Khan, Jack Tennis all playing, the kind of final lineup you can’t complain about. No real reason it needed to close. The place was always full, the sound was good, the room had that beautiful ugliness that real clubs have before they get renovated into oblivion.
But this is what happens in Berlin now. Something good exists, people love it, and then slowly it just stops existing. Nobody makes a decision to kill it, it just accumulates small pressures until one day the owner is tired and that’s it. Gone.
I remember the buzz about the closing, the Facebook group, all these plans to show up and make the last night count. Probably I was going to go, probably I meant to. That’s what you always think about venues like Scala — there’s time, I’ll catch it again. Until suddenly there isn’t and you’re looking at another empty storefront and trying to remember what the sound was like in there at three in the morning.
Dodgeball’s one of the few sports I’m genuinely good at. The moment a friend blacks out, I snap sober instantly—some kind of curse. Philipp Poisel sings beautiful songs. Messages from Montana late at night still get me.
Iceland beat Norway by miles. Not having internet sucks when you blog. My hair feels great right now. Older women are way hotter than anyone admits. That imposter Pete Doherty is hilarious.
I’m weirdly into Dragon Quest Monsters V on the DS. Some emails I just don’t want to answer. I’ve got unwatched films rotting on my shelf. Old family sitcoms make me miss nowhere in particular. Ane Brun sings beautiful songs too. Someone’s breasts are still incredibly hot. Money would make everything move faster. Soy sauce doesn’t make everything taste better.
Gulcan and I are a great team. Felt like someone was paying attention to what I was doing here, for a minute.
Fell down a rabbit hole of old SuicideGirl stuff and found Hezza — 25, from Uruguay, has the taste I’d want: QOTSA, Elvis, Doors. Started this label, MajoRey, making underwear and basics that actually look good. Into all the right terrible TV (Two and a Half Men, that whole 70s era). The piercings work for her. What interests me is she doesn’t perform confidence — doesn’t seem to question what she likes or how she looks. Just exists in it comfortably. That matters more than whatever physical appeal she’s got. Although yeah, the physical appeal is there too. Something about being straightforward erases the need to try.
You watch enough YouTube videos and you stop noticing how compressed everything sounds until something comes along shot and mastered properly—no black bars, clean audio, the whole thing treated like it’s actually worth your time. This one reminded me why Vimeo exists, and why most artists don’t bother uploading to it.
Kish Mauve is an electropop duo from London. They put out an album called “Black Heart” at the end of March, and “Matthew” is the single. I don’t know them well enough to say if this is typical for them, but the production here is meticulous. Everything is clear—the framing, the color, the way the song sits in the mix. Most music videos look like afterthoughts next to something like this.
That precision does something. It makes you actually listen. The song has to be good for it to work, and I think this one is. Still figuring out what Kish Mauve actually means to me, but there’s something here worth coming back to.
Package arrived this morning with no return address. First thought was bomb. I spent a solid ten minutes carefully unwrapping it, totally convinced my right hand was about to get shredded, which seemed bad. Felt stupid even as I was doing it.
Out came a Gillette Venus. A women’s razor. That was the whole thing.
Apparently routed through some Heidi Klum setup I don’t understand. But yeah, free women’s razor in the mail.
The randomness is what sticks with me. Someone in a marketing office decided to spend actual money mailing this to an address. To me. It’s not even that it’s useless—I mean, it is—but it’s the fact that the decision got made and nobody apparently stopped it. No double-check, no “wait, we’re sending what to who?”
Nintendo, Ferrari, Apple—you’re watching a women’s razor company outwork you.
Hannah’s back from Tokyo and there’s this energy about her, five weeks away and suddenly she’s got strong opinions about everything — vending machines, the architecture, the food that doesn’t translate anywhere else. I was merciless with the teasing, all the standard jokes about people who come back from Asia too good for German bread, and she took it with a kind of grim determination, promised to become exactly that insufferable person just to spite me. I think she means it.
There’s always this strange moment when someone gets back from traveling that far. They’re different in small ways, caught between the person who left and the person who came back, still translating everything through what they’ve just experienced. She’s carrying this whole backlog of moments — photos, videos, stories that go on forever. And meanwhile there are exams coming up, reviews due, the regular machinery of life that didn’t pause while she was halfway around the world. The gap between those two things is hard to cross.
I found a video for her, something to ease the transition. Ikimono Gakari, a Japanese band, nothing revolutionary, just something that sounds like where she’s been. Not a recommendation exactly, just something to hold onto during the adjustment, something to listen to when Germany feels too small and she’s remembering what those streets felt like.
Grey’s Anatomy is ridiculous, and it works completely when you’re alone with it. The sex, the gore, the perfectly timed soundtrack underneath someone getting cut open or people making out in a closet — I don’t know, something about it lands. I watch it without thinking about whether it’s stupid.
Then a friend shows up and something changes. You’ve made it this far into the evening, the show’s on, you’re settled in and happy with what’s coming. You’re grinning like an idiot at the screen. And then someone walks in.
If you’re lucky they just sit quietly and look bored. If not, you get comments: “Is it always this melodramatic?” or “Does this ever get better?” And it doesn’t matter how much you’ve made peace with this show when you’re alone, how aware you are that yeah, some episodes drag or get embarrassing before something stronger comes — you still fold. You find yourself saying it: “Yeah, this one’s kind of bad.”
So throw them out. Make popcorn. Sit alone with Seattle Grace Hospital and let yourself have all of it — the sex, the blood, the earnestness — until it’s over. That’s the only way this actually works.
I used to check the search referrals on this website for entertainment. It’s a glimpse into what people are actually looking for online when they somehow end up here — not the polished stuff, the real desperate queries people type into Google at night.
You get the expected perverts, sure. Bikini photos, celebrity nudes, all the standard internet horniness. But that’s not what gets to you. It’s the collision of it all. Someone searching for “sex with my uncle.” Someone else immediately after searching for “living room color ideas.” Then another person searching for something so specific and demented you wonder what sequence of life choices led them to type it.
What really sticks are the searches that don’t fit anywhere. The existential ones landing next to the pornographic ones. “Why must the little prince be sad when there are so many roses?” — this person is wrestling with meaning at the same moment someone else is searching for a video of a vegetable. “I have feelings too, damn it!” next to “sex like mom does it.” The absurdist non-sequiturs. A whistling bird during execution. A cobra with a sledgehammer. A cream pie orgy. These aren’t people looking for anything particular — they’re just typing the inside of their heads into Google and seeing what happens.
You start to see the internet differently after you’ve read enough of these. It’s not a tool or service or information repository. It’s a mirror held up to the collective consciousness of people awake at 3am, drunk, desperate, confused, horny, angry, looking for answers to questions that don’t have answers. Sometimes it’s just noise — celebrity gossip, weather, directions. But the weird ones, the truly fucked ones, they’re like windows into someone’s specific brand of desperation or weirdness or brokenness.
And it all lands here. The sexual and the mundane, the philosophical and the grotesque, the hopeful and the depraved — all of it mixing into this strange soup of human behavior. Which is the internet in a nutshell. We’re all just searching for something, and most of it doesn’t make any sense.
Every few years nudity cycles back as the easiest gesture in a music video, and Make the Girl Dance went full-throttle with it for ’Baby, Baby, Baby.’ They sent models running through Paris wearing nothing but geometric black censoring bars — bars that somehow stayed choreographed into the movement like they were part of the costume.
What caught me was that the bars became a visual element in their own right, not just a tool. They’re designed, almost sculptural, definitely not rushed pixelation. The whole thing commits without apology, which is probably why the Illuminati jokes landed so perfectly — the video’s already doing the work of being slightly insane.
It’s a very European move. Unbothered, visually exact, a little absurd. The nudity almost becomes secondary to the gesture itself. I respect that kind of commitment to an idea this ridiculous.
The Ting Tings are moving to Berlin to write their new album. When asked about it, they’re pretty honest: Berlin’s incredible, but they don’t think they’ll actually get much work done there. Too many distractions.
That’s the trap with cities you love—they stop being inspiring once you’re trying to actually use them for something. You go for fuel and just end up wandering. Berlin especially has that quality. It’s a place where you can feel like you’re living something important just by walking down the right street.
I’ve liked their music for a while. Katie White and Jules de Martino make pop that feels like it’s not trying, which is the hardest thing to actually achieve. There’s no strain in it, no hunger. Just sharp and confident and often funny in a way that doesn’t announce itself.
Berlin might be exactly what they need, even if no real recording happens there. Sometimes the best work happens later, in some other studio in some other city, with Berlin still in your head. You remember a walk, a bar, the light at a certain time, and something clicks.
I wouldn’t mind running into Katie White there someday. It’s not a serious ambition, more like something to half-seriously wish for. Stranger things happen.
The thing that lands is the specificity. Red hair, emo-gamer, into Johnny Cash and porn without any winking about it. You see that list and you know exactly who this person is — her taste, what she’d find funny, the whole vibe. That kind of clarity, that absolute comfort with just being exactly what you are, is worth noticing.
Okay, I’ll admit it: I have a weakness for female artists. I don’t know why — maybe I just prefer listening to women sing, unless it’s that Peggy Bundy screech thing. But yeah, women musicians get to me easier.
La Roux keeps firing off singles at this relentless pace. Elly Jackson with that insane hair has already given us “Quicksand” and “In For The Kill,” and now “Bulletproof” is here to seal the deal. I’m completely into it.
Berlin rained all Sunday night—not the gentle kind, the kind that makes everything worse. I woke up already furious that the weekend had vanished, like it never actually happened.
Friday was better. Someone got us on the list for this party at Michelberger. All balloons and lollipops, people I didn’t know. We ended up talking to this guy Peter Imhoff who used to have a talk show. He was fine. There was a girl in a blue hat who made me feel small. I still think about that.
Saturday had a plan for every hour and every plan collapsed. The Ting Tings concert fell through because of my phone. Anne’s Abi exams celebration got cancelled. Scala looked promising until we got there—all the acts sucked. We set up to meet people on Friedrichstraße and instead there was a fight and someone threw up and cops showed up. We’d talked about getting duck masks and just waddling around the city making noise, but we weren’t drunk enough for that to make sense.
So we sat and watched iCarly instead. Ten episodes while a taxi driver who had no idea what he was doing took us around in circles. But somehow we ended up at White Trash, at this club called White Noise, and Maike was there with her crew, and the whole thing turned around. She’s having a birthday party next Friday. Plans fell apart and then worked out anyway, which I guess is how it goes.
I was 29, a media designer in Dresden, and I’d stopped pretending to be the guy type. Football didn’t move me, cars were just transportation, and I was done with all that other stuff. What I wanted instead was romance tangled up with silliness—depth and realism and jokes all mixed together.
I listened to Kings of Convenience, William Fitzsimmons, Anna Ternheim. Beautiful music, completely useless for dancing. But I loved dancing. Give me a good club, a good DJ, and I’d stay on the floor for hours without stopping.
I wanted children. Two of them. Not someday—soon. I thought about full diapers and sleepless nights and the moment one of them called me Dad, and I was genuinely excited. Not resigned, not accepting it as part of the deal. Excited.
I was into women in sneakers. Red hair, green eyes, freckles—pick one or get all three. Someone who preferred *Brüder Löwenherz* to Dostoyevsky. Someone who agreed sex was underrated. Someone who’d fill the apartment with handmade things and play in the sandbox.
I bathed almost every day. I believed in magic. I had opinions about gummy bears and a multicolored right eye. At 29, I knew what I wanted and I wasn’t interested in being anything else.
The professional Canon came first. Modeling school had been a detour, journalism a brief experiment, but the camera was what she actually wanted. Sonya started shooting the Moscow party circuit and her friends. That’s where the focus landed at seventeen.
Moscow doesn’t feel exotic to her because she’s lived there her whole life — it’s just the city. But you can see the local fashion moving toward cleaner lines, brighter colors, pieces cut from a single shape. She’s working from the right references: Cory Kennedy’s specific ease, the Olsens’ restraint, Twiggy’s cheekbones and attitude, Edie Sedgwick’s beautiful chaos. The sixties and nineties cycle back because they still work.
Her people are the expected crew — musicians, DJs, people she met at parties who actually make things. She’s got a girlfriend named Asya; they’ve been together long enough that she got her name tattooed on her leg four months ago. There are men interested too, which is complicated. That’s what happens when you’re young and visible.
Musically she ranges everywhere — Santigold, Elvis, electroclash like Ping Pong Bitches and Peaches. Vogue and Nylon for magazines, Lookbook for fashion specifically. She watched “Joy Division” and it stuck. Television doesn’t register for her.
She thinks about fashion history — how classical silhouettes come back, how sheer fabrics return because they answer something we keep wanting. She wants to push harder on the modeling, see if it can become real work. Maybe enroll in journalism school. The camera keeps pulling though.
Plastiscines came back, and I don’t know why that hits so hard. Their debut LP1 with “Loser” and “Mr Driver” landed like a whisper—nobody heard it, I bought it twice—and I played it until the novelty should have worn off but didn’t. The thing is, the album was good. And Katty Besnard singing it, I can’t separate what I thought about the music from what I thought about her. I was into her. Still am, if I’m being honest.
They’re back now with label backing and a brand new sound. “Barcelona” gets playlists. They get features. The production is cleaner, smarter, everything a debut should have been. Except it doesn’t work on me the way LP1 did. Something’s missing. That thing that made LP1 feel like it was only mine—like I’d found a secret that nobody else cared enough to notice—that’s gone.
I liked them more before. When they had nothing to lose and sounded like they didn’t care who was listening. Now you can hear the caution in every note, the sense that they’re thinking about how they sound. And I can’t unhear it.
Some stupid part of me still plays LP1 and remembers being into Katty. That part hasn’t changed.
That moment when you’re at work, bored to death, and the copier’s just sitting there with its lid open and nobody’s around — yeah, you know what you’re doing. Pants down, glass cold against you, finger on the button, and suddenly there’s a print that proves you did something that stupid. It’s a specific kind of office madness that only happens when you’ve been staring at beige walls long enough to lose your mind.
VICE apparently did a whole fashion shoot about it, which is transparently ridiculous but I love the commitment. They got actual people to do it, full nudity, the whole crude thing. The photos are exactly as pointless as the act itself, which I guess means they nailed the concept.
There’s an honesty to how dumb it all is. No meta layer, no artistic justification, just boredom colliding with a photocopier. That’s the whole story right there.
Found two videos this week that won’t leave me alone.
“Heart Keeps Beating” is the first one, by Mariha from Hamburg. It starts sweet, almost gentle, like it’s setting you up for something, and then it doesn’t quite go where you thought it would. Not a bait-and-switch, really — just a song that knows what it’s doing and doesn’t feel the need to explain it.
The other one I’ve been listening to for weeks, completely wearing out my iPod with it. Just found the video today. “Help I’m Alive” by Metric, Emily Haines singing, Canadian band. When I found out there was a video, I literally climbed out of the bathtub soaking wet just to watch it on a proper screen. The song’s what matters though. I keep mishearing one of the lyrics — thought it was about sheep instead of what it actually says — and honestly I like it more because I got it wrong. Sometimes your brain hears what it needs to hear.
Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A. If you had a Super Nintendo your fingers probably remember this sequence without thinking. Thirty button presses and suddenly you’re invincible, you’ve got infinite lives, you can access whatever the developers hid behind the cheat. It never felt like cheating—more like you’d discovered a password the designers accidentally left in plain sight.
The Konami Code disappeared from popular consciousness years ago, which is why it’s kind of perfect that someone started hiding it in website easter eggs as a callback. Facebook has it. Digg has it. Google Reader buried one somewhere. There’s even a whole site dedicated to tracking them all, which is wonderfully pointless—exactly the kind of thing the internet should be doing. Apparently this site has one too, which is absurd and somehow perfect.
Nothing about this is useful or makes sense, which is part of why it works. You remember the code, you find it somewhere online, you type it in, something dumb happens, and for a moment you’re thinking about being eight years old and feeling clever. That’s the whole transaction. It’s not trying to be more than that, and I respect that.
I walked into the Star Trek premiere expecting nothing and Abrams actually pulled it off. The story was threadbare but it didn’t matter — the visuals had real weight, the action moved clean, there was this energy running through it that kept me locked in. I was there for it.
This is my first Trek film, which means the purists don’t have to take me seriously, but I watched Voyager for years and I was genuinely fucking sad when they canceled it. That was a real loss. So when the hardcore fans start tearing apart the remake for desecrating the original or whatever, I get it, but I know what I felt in that theater and I’m not going to apologize for it.
I wanted more. Hours more, I wouldn’t have minded. The series idea is sitting right there — the ship, the space, whatever comes next. That’s all you need. I think it could actually work.
I was living on slimy canned ravioli, cheap pasta, whatever was left at the breakfast buffet. The basics, nothing you’d mention later. Then at some point I actually got decent at cooking. Stopped burning everything, started remembering salt without thinking about it. The kitchen went from a disaster zone to just a place where food happened. Haven’t needed an ambulance over my cooking yet, which feels like an achievement.
Now I’m in there almost every day making something different. Pasta salad with baguette. Schnitzel and fried potatoes. Eggs with bacon cooked until it’s nearly black. Most nights it actually works and the plate comes back clean. There’s something good about knowing you made something someone wanted to finish. This phase won’t last forever though. Eventually I’ll hit the point where I give up entirely and eat Thai every single night. But that’s not yet. Tonight it’s leftovers.
There’s something about black and white that makes cute things unsettling. Blurstd’s Paper Moon wears that Paper Mario style but drains the color, and suddenly the same visual language reads differently. The sweetness is still there—the soundtrack makes sure of that, all sugary little melodies—but the starkness underneath changes how you see it.
It’s a platform game, the kind that runs smoothly on Windows or Mac, free to play. The thing that gets you is how the black and white world feels dreamlike and sharp at the same time. You’re jumping through these clean, beautifully rendered screens and something about the palette creates this subtle wrongness, even when nothing on screen is actually wrong.
I’ve always been interested in that tension in design—taking visual language that’s meant to be appealing and removing one element to shift the whole feeling. Most indie games chase that now, trying to be creepy by putting horror into cute shapes, but Paper Moon doesn’t try. It just exists that way. The unease isn’t a statement, it’s just what happens when you combine those particular ingredients.
The kind of game that sticks with you longer than you’d expect.
Saw a commercial for some skincare brand and couldn’t focus on the product because I was too busy looking at the model. Her name was Dari, and she had this gap between her front teeth that I found genuinely appealing. The brand was running some campaign where they’d put young women into shared apartments across different cities and have them make content—music, fashion, lifestyle stuff, all tied back to the product. I didn’t care about any of that. I was just looking at her.
What I noticed was how honest it all was. They knew the formula: show an attractive person on screen and people will pay attention. No mystery to it. No need to hide behind some clever concept. I paid attention, and I wasn’t embarrassed about it. Not to the skincare or the campaign or the premise, just to her. There’s something almost refreshing about that kind of straightforwardness.
I never would have signed up for whatever they were doing, never would have auditioned or moved into one of those apartments. But I kept thinking about her for a bit after. That’s all it really is sometimes—you see someone and something sticks. Not a grand thing, not a lesson, just: I found her attractive and my brain held onto the image. And then eventually you move on.
We were climbing the stairs when a beer bottle hit Sarah’s face. One second she was there, the next her hair was dark with blood and she was screaming. The chanting started from everywhere at once—black masks, slogans, the leftist fury that had been building all day. It should have been light out but the burning Molotovs and camera flashes and the endless blue lights above Kottbusser Tor had broken the sky into something unnatural. Sarah sank against the tiled wall, crying.
We’d walked straight into a trap. The U-Bahn station had become a fortress—red on the ground, reeking of vomit and booze and sweat. Cops in green gear surrounded us, helicopters circling overhead. The people inside had locked the gate and were throwing bottles back at the crowd. An old drunk yelled something about getting beaten and disappeared into the tunnels.
The medics couldn’t reach us at first. When they finally opened the big steel gate and started working on Sarah, I held her hand. Then there was this deafening roar—screaming, footsteps—and the cops had been waiting for exactly this moment. They came in a green wave with batons out. The medics threw themselves over Sarah, cursing, yelling to stop. We were yelling too—”Wounded! Medics!”—but it meant nothing. Everything went slow, my lip split, people flying against the wall and down the stairs, and the song that was playing—”Nothing to Worry About” by Peter Bjorn and John—is what I remember, which is just what sticks with you when everything’s falling apart.
One of the cops dragged me out and threw me toward the photographers. Their flashes wouldn’t stop. Some old drunk asked for a light and vanished into the crowd filming on their phones. Two girls were dancing around the riot line singing the Tetris theme. Signs came down. Someone shit right in front of the cops. Then more screaming, more footsteps coming. This time it was black-gear cops, heavier armor, pepper spray in the air. I shouldn’t have come in all black with my hood pulled up. They grabbed me and threw me into the crowd on the sidewalk. I managed to get to a traffic island. Glass and broken stones everywhere.
We were surrounded, fire everywhere, the crowd throwing everything—bottles, rocks, torn pavement—at the cops. An ambulance came out of the U-Bahn and then the station sealed shut. I watched it drive away hoping Sarah was in it. My head was pounding. You learned fast where to stand, how to react when someone screamed “Gas,” how to move when footsteps came at you. But the projectiles didn’t distinguish—they flew at cops and protesters and onlookers the same way. People were collapsing around me with their hands up, bleeding, and the cops just plowed through.
It was bizarre, all rage and violence mixed with this drunk carnival energy. When I finally made it out to the U-Bahn a few stops away that night, I was destroyed. Back in Kreuzberg was another universe—fire, stones, glass, blood—but down here it was peaceful and quiet, the kind of normal that makes you doubt what you’d just lived. I fell asleep on the train with my lip bleeding, that warm trickle, wondering if I’d actually been there at all.
Passion Pit’s “The Reeling” showed up and I immediately fell into it. They’ve been building toward their debut album for a few years, and this track is a solid indication they know what they’re doing. There’s something about the synths and the way Michael Angelakos sings that just pulls you in. Not much else to say — it’s one of those songs that does the job without needing explanation.
I was sick as hell that week — everything hurt, I’d run out of everything. Cornflakes, aspirin, the will to function. So I did what you do: watched music videos at noon.
Sigur Rós’ ’Gobbledigook’ came up. The song is what you’d expect from them — massive strings swelling, Jónsi’s voice floating somewhere between singing and breathing, everything building toward this thing that’s almost too beautiful to be real. The video is just naked people in white space, moving slowly, these small gestures that shouldn’t be sensual but somehow are. No performance, no narrative — just bodies being bodies.
I think I loved it because it wasn’t asking anything of me. The song did all the emotional lifting, and the video was just… there. Calm. Presence. No story. By the time it ended I felt marginally less like I was dying. That was enough.
I’m researching this film, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, and I keep getting stuck on one specific thing: Johnny Depp plays Tony. Jude Law plays Tony. Colin Farrell plays Tony. Heath Ledger plays Tony. Same character. Four different actors.
I checked IMDb three times thinking I was misreading it. Found the trailer, looked for some kind of explanation, some joke or press release that would make this reasonable. Nothing. It all looks entirely real. The film’s coming out in September. And I’m sitting there thinking—nobody makes a movie where four separate A-list actors play one person unless something is actually going on.
So either I’m the last person on the internet to figure out whatever this is, or I’m actually losing my mind. There’s got to be a story behind it, something that would make it make sense. But I can’t find it anywhere. The whole thing just sits there, documented and impossible.
Lily Cole’s in it too, which is at least straightforward. She’s in films now, she’s beautiful, that checks out.
But the Tony thing won’t leave my head. I don’t understand it and I want to.
A tip came through about The Ting Tings playing in Strasbourg on Arte.tv — one of those moments where you find out right before it happens or just after, and either way it doesn’t matter much. They were on a festival bill with Patrice and Miss Kittin & The Hacker, which alone made it worth paying attention.
I’ve always liked them more than seems cool. That electronic pop from the mid-2000s, with the vocals never quite centered in the mix, the beat jittery and precise at once. “That’s Not My Name” is a genuinely good song. Most people moved on to something else, but there was something right about what they were doing.
Whether I caught the stream or just the idea of the show happening, I couldn’t tell you now. Live music doesn’t always land the way you think it will. But The Ting Tings always seemed like the kind of act where you’d want to be in the room, watching them push the energy around. That’s the sort of show you file away as something you would’ve wanted to see.
Going to a Coca-Cola event to see The Kooks for free seemed like a decent idea at the time. What I didn’t account for was the six hours of opening acts designed to test my patience. Bands that sounded like they’d learned everything they knew from a village wedding in Bavaria and thought that was good enough. The genuine low point was last year’s MySpace-voted “winner,” who simply refused to leave the stage. I’ve never been more angry at people for not knowing when to quit.
But there was one legitimately good German punk band somewhere in that lineup. Andioliphilipp or something close — the flyer was already falling apart. They had actual energy, actual songs that didn’t make you regret showing up. Whatever came next for them, they’d earned it.
The Kooks got the thankless job of closing out this objectively terrible event. But they actually pulled it off. “Naïve,” “She Moves in Her Own Way” — those songs just worked. Two tracks and suddenly the whole night made sense. They saved the entire thing.
Next time Coca-Cola decides to throw something like this, maybe think about the lineup. Or don’t. Either way, I’m glad The Kooks showed up when they did.
I really liked La Roux’s “Quicksand.” Elly Jackson and Ben Langmaid made this track that sits in a weird place—electro-pop but uncomfortable, like something pressing against the edges. The kind that gets under your skin.
The album was still months out, but this single was already enough. They had another video for “In For The Kill” that looked expensive and polished. The “Quicksand” video went the opposite way: deliberately cheap, trashy, almost ugly. That friction between the immaculate sound and the intentionally ugly visuals made it work. It made the song feel less like a manufactured product and more like something with real weight.
On Lookbook.nu there’s this photographer from Cambridge named Felice Fawn who’s figured something out about fashion that most people miss. She started shooting at fourteen—just snapshots of pets and family at first—but by sixteen it became something serious. She trained as a tattoo artist in her hometown before switching to fashion photography at nineteen, and since then she’s been documenting the weird specificity of how people choose to dress.
Cambridge gave her something. She talks about loving how the place is this mix of landscape and city, with all these wide open spaces around. Most of her family lives close by. I think that kind of rootedness shows in how she approaches her work—there’s no desperation in it, no hunger to prove something. She’s not trying to escape or make it big in some industry sense. She’s just looking at what’s in front of her and figuring out how to photograph it truthfully.
What strikes me about her work is how personal it stays even while she’s building a professional practice. She prefers her own projects to client work, which makes sense—in her own shoots she can pour all the time and obsession into getting something right. She’s been influenced by Patrick Demarchelier, who has that quality of catching something true in a frame, and she hunts ideas in unlikely places—shop windows, music, the everyday. The sources don’t have to be other photographers or artists. They can be anything.
She’s living in Cambridge with her boyfriend, five years in, completely settled. Three friends she’s kept since she was twelve, people she shares a specific sense of humor with. That stability matters. It lets you do serious work when you’re not constantly scrambling to figure out who you are or where you belong. She reads Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar but also watches American Dad and Family Guy, which tells you something—she’s not precious about culture. Good is good whether it’s in a magazine or on a late-night comedy sketch.
The music anchors her. Radiohead and Thom Yorke solo recordings are what she listens to, and those are artists who care obsessively about texture and mood, about getting the small details right. I see that same attention in her photographs. She loves pastel tones and floral patterns, not because they’re trendy but because they’re soft and specific and searching—there’s something incomplete in them, something that pulls you in.
What Lookbook.nu gave her is permission to exist in a community of people who think seriously about clothes. Not fast fashion, not trends. It’s about how you move through the world, what you choose to wrap yourself in, how that becomes a conversation with everyone else paying attention. The feedback loop is different there, more peer-to-peer obsession than traditional fashion media gatekeeping.
Twenty years old and she already knows what she’s after. That clarity at that age is rare. Most people are still scrambling, but Felice has her influences locked down and her practice shaped. She’s hunting for something in how clothes and light and a person’s stillness come together in a frame, patient enough to wait for it.
“Dance With Somebody” got on my nerves almost immediately. I know I’m probably alone in this, but that song just wouldn’t let up. Then again, I caught Mando Diao at Rock im Park back in 2007 and they were genuinely good, so there’s that.
“Gloria” came along and I actually wanted to listen. The hook works—there’s something about the way they shout the name in time with the melody that gets stuck. The video doesn’t feel like a calculation either. There’s a model who looks great in it, and the whole thing feels intentional instead of just mercenary.
The problem is what happens next. MTV and NRJ Berlin will find this. They’ll play it into the ground like everything else. That’s the real destroyer—not just overplaying a song, but playing it until you actively hate it, until you change the channel the moment it comes on. Radio saturation doesn’t fade a track, it kills it.
So right now, “Gloria” works. I give it three weeks before I’m reaching for the dial.
The internet is mostly garbage—porn, hate, monkeys pissing in their own mouths. But then you find CuteBreak, this pocket of pure nothing. Kittens sneezing. Sloths wanting scratches. Puppies with that blank dumb expression. For a moment you forget everything—the boss, the bad breakup, whatever ripped you off earlier today.
There’s something about that simplicity. It’s the internet working the way it should sometimes.
The kid-pranking thing though—I’m still not sure. Making your little brother think you’re selling him. Roseanne did it constantly. The whole show was people messing with each other and nobody died. But television isn’t real life. I don’t know if that makes any of it okay.
Still. Cute animals, mild pranks, little harmless things. It beats what else is out there.
I kept a section of this journal just for found images—visual bookmarking, basically. A photo of Keeley Hazell in a bathtub, a moment caught on a New York street, a Mark Twain line I’d never noticed before. The appeal was entirely in the looking itself, no context or lesson needed. Just here’s something I found. Here’s a moment. The feed rolled constantly, new images arriving every time you checked back. That’s what pulls you back to anything like that, I think—the hunt never quite stops.
Introducing songs like you’re a morning radio host always feels awkward, which is why I hate the whole act. But Marmaduke Duke’s ’Rubber Lover’ actually deserves the mention. The video is terrible — I don’t know what they were thinking — but the song itself is excellent. Bouncy and uplifting in the simplest way, the kind of thing that picks you up. That’s all any song needs to do, really: make you feel better for a few minutes.
People will try to have sex with anything. Not as some grand philosophical observation—literally. Put a human alone with an object and something’s going in somewhere. Cucumbers, toothbrushes, bottles. Whatever fits, whatever works, whatever gets the thing done and then you spend hours feeling gross about it.
Vice Magazine apparently decided to document this impulse, which is absolutely on brand for them. They got people to strip down and systematically test objects, rate them like some deranged consumer report. Toothbrush vibrates: fine. Cucumber snaps: disappointing. Cat purrs. All supposedly scientific. All supposedly serious.
Watching them do this made me think about American Pie, which is basically the same exact impulse stretched across a feature film—kids, desperation, objects, the comedy of watching someone fumble around trying not to feel completely alone. Except American Pie had craft services and a studio behind it, which somehow made the whole thing feel slightly less bleak.
Winifred makes jewelry she can’t sell. She’s nineteen, from Perth, and the pieces just accumulate because she can’t bring herself to part with them. She tried the logical approach—make more, flood the system, maybe exhaust the attachment. It didn’t work. A few pieces have been given away as gifts but the rest stay. That attachment to your own work, the pull to keep it close—I get that.
She describes two characters in her head: Wini, organized and planned, and Fred, who just wants to party. They’re constantly at odds, but she’s learned to let both coexist. That split between control and chaos, between the version of yourself that wants order and the one that wants noise—it’s real, and she doesn’t hide from it.
Perth’s almost always sunny except winter, which is her favorite season. Australia’s getting more fashion-conscious, but there’s always been something Australian about wearing what feels right without overthinking it. No apology.
She spends hours looking at materials—just texture and color and possibility. Old clothes become new things. She designs jewelry, plush toys, iPod sleeves. The blogs matter to her: Lookbook, Chictopia, Street Peeper, and deeper in, The Sartorialist, Face Hunter, Jak & Jil, Copenhagen Street Style. Hours disappear watching how strangers in other cities put themselves together.
Music has to move her. Indie, rock, pop, R&B—whatever makes something shift. She reads magazines, mostly free online ones now (NEET, Attitude, Lula) but also Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Frankie. Watches everything: old films, cartoons, romance, action. No hierarchy, just whatever catches.
Jewelry design and fashion design—that’s where she’s headed. She wants to sell her work eventually, but there’s no rush. For now she’s just making things, reading about how strangers dress in cities she hasn’t been to yet, building a world. Holding onto the pieces that matter too much to release. Waiting to see what comes next.
NYLON was one of those magazines that understood fashion didn’t exist in a vacuum—that what people wore was connected to what they listened to, what they watched, what they believed in. It had always struck me as one of the few fashion magazines that could talk about music and art without sounding like it was slumming.
I was really into The Ting Tings during that period. Katie White and Jules de Martino make these songs that feel caught between panic and beauty — everything’s precise and clean but there’s something nervous running underneath. A show came up in Berlin, free concert at a venue in Charlottenburg. I thought about going, actually seeing them instead of just cycling through the same three songs on repeat. Live is where you find out if the precision holds up, if it’s real or just production.
I didn’t go. Free shows blur together when you’re traveling. No commitment, so you forget about it. But the want was real. That specific hunger to see someone you’ve been listening to, to have it happen in front of you — that sticks around.
The day was too nice for the office. One of those Berlin mornings where you catch the light just right and suddenly you’re thinking about literally anything else. So when I got the call about being on set for a Til Schweiger shoot, I didn’t think twice. Til Schweiger—German actor, carries every scene he’s in—sunny day, no real reason to show up to work.
The whole thing was beautiful in its stupidity. They had him getting dragged into a black van by two attractive people while someone stood off to the side with a massive hose, spraying everything down so the van would slide across the Kreuzberg courtyard at exactly the right moment. It looked ridiculous. It worked perfectly. The crew kept bringing us fruit and sweets and coffee like they were managing a group of toddlers. Schweiger had brought his daughter, maybe seven years old, and she spent the afternoon collecting rocks from the ground and handing them to crew members like she’d discovered something valuable. Everyone accepted them that way.
A school class came through by accident and immediately went feral. Screaming, cameras up, that moment when someone famous becomes real and present instead of just an image.
I don’t remember all the people I was with that day—the kind of afternoon where faces blur together—but they were good. The type who know how sets work, who have real stories, who make a random Tuesday feel like something happened. The ad probably ran. It was probably fine.
I’m the kind of person who says yes. Who shows up. Who’s never been hard to hire when there’s something worth being present for. You call, I come. It’s not complicated. And if that makes me easy, well, at least I’m consistent.
M.I.A. turned up in Indio in these glowing clothes right after having a baby. Glow-in-the-dark or EL wire, hard to tell, not that it mattered. She just looked like someone who’d figured something out. Glowing pants, glowing shoes, the whole thing built for dark rooms. You could see how it spreads—clubs, late nights, all of that. It was one of those moments where you think someone’s actually ahead instead of just trying something weird.
There’s something about the way Peoch frames people in black and white that just works. Paris photographer, and his whole thing is clean lines, contrast, models who look like they actually exist in the world instead of just posing. The color stuff is good too, but the black and white is where you see what he’s doing—he’s not chasing drama, just clarity.
Part of it is the eye for composition, part of it is finding the right people to shoot. But there’s also just confidence in the work. No unnecessary flourish, no trying to turn a portrait into something it isn’t. It’s the opposite of that overstuffed Instagram aesthetic. You look at his feed and you get the sense he knows what he likes and doesn’t care if that’s what everyone else likes.
Jon Hainstock’s barely known but he’s got everything figured out. German guy, perfect mullet, and in the video a car just hits him. Straight up hits him while he’s singing on the street. Most people would stop. He doesn’t. Keeps right on singing like it never happened.
I’ve got the same haircut, so maybe I’m not objective. But I get the same treatment — people asking when I’m getting it fixed, like something that’s working fine for you is somehow a mistake. In 2009 this was indie gospel. I wasn’t about to abandon it because strangers had opinions.
It’s the commitment that does it. You don’t stop. You don’t break character. You take the hit and keep going like you’ve already decided nothing can touch you. That’s either stupid or brilliant, and the longer I live the less difference I see between them.
Maike was opening up her new place in Kreuzberg and threw this sprawling housewarming that turned into the kind of night you only half-remember and feel weirdly grateful for anyway. The plan was simple: arrive, get wasted, see what happens. We knocked it out of the park.
The drinking had no coherence to it. Whatever was on hand went in—someone’s mystery bottle, someone else’s beer, just “here, drink this” and “there’s more where that came from.” Mixed with the right kind of chaos, it tastes like everything and nothing. I remember a blind cat at some point, someone’s mother praying in Italian in the corner, and this woman who introduced herself with a Swedish-sounding name and made everything she said sound like it belonged in a specific kind of film. We found ourselves screaming along to DJ Bobo’s “Pray” at one point, which remains one of the most shameful thirty seconds of my life and also genuinely one of the best. Orange shopping carts appeared at some moment in the night—I still don’t know where they came from—and we had strong opinions about pushing them around as though we’d solved a major engineering problem.
By the time things were winding down I couldn’t reconstruct the evening in any meaningful way. It was just a series of dumb decisions that felt inspired while we were making them.
Svenja and I split off when the conversation kept circling back to the phrase “make-out party” and we couldn’t stand it anymore. The rain was coming down hard. We were soaked by the time we got to the u-bahn, both of us dripping and useless. There was a guy behind us burping with this athletic commitment—like his body was genuinely trying to achieve something through burping alone. We didn’t care anymore. That’s how you know a night’s worked: you end up somewhere stupid and broken and you’re just fine with it.
Sebastien Tellier’s “Kilometer” video is the fantasy I’d never actually admit to. He’s in this sixties villa like some kind of slimy messiah, surrounded by beautiful half-naked women who exist purely to serve him. The whole thing is relentlessly, unapologetically horny.
I mean, if I’m being real, this is what I’d actually want. Total surrender to hedonism, no limits, no consequences. Except you know that’s the life of someone who’s already given up, the last moment before it all collapses. So I watch it with this dark satisfaction, kind of glad I’m not quite that far gone.
The thing that breaks it: NES-playing girls don’t exist. That one impossible detail kills the whole fantasy.
You wonder if models actually eat. Not whether they eat nutritionally—they obviously must—but whether they experience it the way people do, whether food means anything to them besides a number. Same thing with fucking and toilet paper. Of course they do these things. But the way they’re treated, like they’re made from different material, makes you want actual proof they’re human.
So someone made a platform where international models just post what they’re doing. Feeding horses, hunting Easter eggs, shooting photos. The camera’s always there, so it’s not raw reality—it’s curated reality, just a different kind of curation. But there’s something almost subversive about it. In a culture where everyone’s performing constantly, there’s a quiet pleasure in watching beautiful people choose to show the smaller, less polished version of the performance.
They’re still models. Still beautiful, still positioned for the gaze. But the difference is thin but real: they decided what to show you instead of having it decided for them. The algorithm still works. The hearts still circulate. But they’re circulating on something less optimized, less designed to click.
Maybe that’s the real intimacy here. Not the absence of performance, but choice within it. Models letting you see them pick what to show, instead of you watching them execute someone else’s design.
I’ve stopped following gaming news for years, but I still catch GameOne whenever I can. It’s not really about the games. Budi and Simon get fifteen minutes of MTV and they fill it with something unguarded—ideas that don’t quite land, jokes that work sideways, the specific comedy of two people genuinely figuring it out as they go. It’s the opposite of polished. It’s just them.
Then summer break comes and the show stops, which is when you realize how much you were watching it. They kept it going online—GameOne.de, Twitter, the usual spots—and somehow it doesn’t feel smaller. I still tune in sometimes even though I’m not who it’s technically for anymore, but something about them just keeps working.
You know those days when you don’t want to do much of anything, when the weather’s too good to waste on actual work or responsibility. That’s when something like Scary Girl makes sense — this Flash game where a girl is trying to figure out who this mysterious guy is, the one showing up in her dreams like he belongs there.
The world is colorful but weird in that specific Flash game way. There’s this character called Honeybunny, and an octopus that looks properly mean with a better haircut than mine. Dr. Maybe lives deep in the ocean under the whole city, just deep enough that you want to know what his deal is. It’s the kind of game that doesn’t bother explaining things, and that works in its favor.
Flash games had this thing where they couldn’t afford to waste time. No tutorial, no padding, no long intro sequences. You got an idea and you either ran with it or you didn’t. Scary Girl leans into that kind of economy. Everything it shows you means something, even when nothing quite adds up in a way you can explain.
What stays with you is how comfortable it is with not making sense. The girl looking for this guy, the creatures around her, the whole dream-logic of it — the game never smooths any of it over. It just lets you exist in that world without needing to understand why everything is the way it is. That kind of restraint is something you don’t see much anymore.
If you get hooked on it, well, there’s always the merchandise angle waiting. The game itself is free. Everything else has a price.
The photoshoots are better than the clothes. That’s the whole strategy behind Wildfox Couture. Emily Faulstich and Kimberley Gordon designed it that way—California label, very intentional about mood. Sexy vampires. Girls crowded in bathtubs. Lipstick that cuts.
Miley Cyrus has worn it. Fergie has worn it. Big names help, but that’s not why anyone’s looking. The clothes are fine, perfectly wearable. The photoshoots are what actually work.
Someone will say the pieces deserve to stand alone, that provocative imagery undermines them. Fair point. But I’ve seen both and there’s no contest. The vampire wins. It’s almost unfair how much better it is.
You meet someone cute at a party. You actually like them, the conversation flows, there’s chemistry. A kiss. The next day you’re texting, hanging out, and then you’re in bed. And for the first minute it’s good—you’re into it, your brain’s already there. Then you smell it. Not roses. Not anything close. And suddenly the only word in your head is: fish.
Nobody teaches you how to navigate this. You can’t just say, “Hey, we need to talk about your body,” because that would destroy her. But you also can’t pretend you didn’t notice, because now it’s all you can smell and the whole situation’s dying on the spot. You’re stuck between being honest and being cruel, and there’s no winning move.
Todd Strauss-Schulson made a short film about exactly this scenario. “Big Pussy” follows a guy in the same position—he really likes this girl, but he’s got to find some way to tell her without wrecking things. He asks his friends for advice. Everyone’s got a theory. Then everything goes sideways in ways he didn’t anticipate. It’s funny and brutal and deeply awkward, which is exactly how these things usually go in real life.
The film doesn’t pretend there’s a clean solution. His friends suggest all kinds of things, and none of them work. Because there isn’t a right way to say something like that. You just have to do it, and it’s going to suck, and then you both have to figure out what happens next.
Natasha Khan’s Bat For Lashes project was doing something sharp with indie-electro around 2008, 2009 — that sweet spot where art-school sensibility could meet actual hooks without feeling like a compromise. “Daniel” had that strange pull to it, the way it layered synths and vulnerability in the same breath. She was getting attention, rightfully.
Then she started covering other people’s work, which is always a test. You find out what someone actually cares about, what they hear in a song that maybe the original artist didn’t mean to put there, or put there deliberately but covered up with production. The Kings Of Leon cover of “Use Somebody” was the one that made the rounds — that song had been everywhere, the commercial pinnacle of Kings Of Leon, and Khan found something lonelier in it. She stripped away the stadium sound and let the melody do the aching work it’s supposed to do but usually doesn’t get to.
The Bruce Springsteen cover, “I’m On Fire,” was different territory. Springsteen writes about desire the way other people write about geography — it’s just there, defining the landscape. Khan’s version understood that. She didn’t try to improve on it, didn’t try to make it hers in the way that some covers do, all ego. She just sang it like someone who knew exactly what he meant.
What gets me about covers like these is that they’re not about proving you’re better than the original. They’re about living inside a song for long enough to find what matters about it. Khan had the voice for that kind of generosity, the kind that doesn’t announce itself. These versions — they stayed with me longer than they probably should have. Simple as that.
Jonathan Leder photographs women on Polaroid and film stock, which means no Photoshop, no skin smoothing, no digital filters pretending to capture reality. Just actual bodies, actual light, actual emulsion. He’s from New York, and he figured out something most photographers chase for years and half never quite catch — that photographing a beautiful woman doesn’t need an apology, and that shooting in constraints forces better work than unlimited options ever will.
Polaroid is permanent. You take the shot and it’s done. No redo, no second attempt, no RAW file to correct later. That changes everything about how you work. Look at his photographs next to standard fashion work and the difference is immediate — there’s a directness there. The skin looks like skin. Bodies look like actual bodies. Polaroid film has a color palette that’s almost too bright and warm to be real, but it reads as true in a way digital usually doesn’t.
His self-portrait is worth staring at. Not because of any technical trick — he clearly knows what he’s doing behind the camera. But there’s an unguardedness to it. When you’re the photographer you control the light and the composition. When you’re also in the frame, some of that control has to give. You see it in his eyes, or you don’t. But something came through when he pressed the shutter.
I respect work that can’t be unmade. A Polaroid. A 6x6 exposure. The shutter closes and that’s your decision, locked into film. No revision, no edit suite, no going back if you got it wrong. That kind of constraint is what interests me in any medium. It forces you to think before you make something. Forces you to know what you want before the moment passes.
There’s this 16-year-old photographer from a small Dutch village where, by her account, the words ’style’ and ’fashion’ don’t really exist. Everyone’s in black jackets, black pants, black shoes, and they seem perfectly fine with it. The rain helps — if it’s always wet and gray, why bother with clothes? She hates it. She drives to Amsterdam and Utrecht when she can, looking for people who actually care how they look, but even there you have to search. That kind of restlessness at sixteen, that impatience with your surroundings, usually means you’re going somewhere else.
Her name is Rosey Jones. She models a little, writes, calls herself a geek, reads psychology books, but photography is the thing. She’s been doing it seriously for three years. She says it’s the way she knows how to say things about herself that she can’t say otherwise. She had nine piercings in her face at one point — in her nose, her eyebrow, her lip — but she took them out for a modeling job in January and only two remain. The hidden ones: a smiley she won’t show you, and a small silver line beneath her lip. She didn’t fight about it. She understood that modeling work came first, and she was okay with that compromise. But the piercings were about declaring something, and now that declaration happens differently.
She’s got two tattoos. The first is ’Stay True’ on her wrist, done in October 2008, right when she needed it most — after years of doing what other people wanted, finally letting that version of herself go. The second is ’Stolz,’ the German word for pride, tattooed inside her lip where most people won’t see it. Her ex-boyfriend once told her she had too much pride, like it was a flaw. She decided it wasn’t. She flipped the reading on it and wore it as fact.
Her romantic life is a mess in that specific way that matters at sixteen. She’s single but her ex is still circling her thoughts, except he’s now dating her best friend, and she can’t quite get him out of her head. She’s tried seeing other people — boys, even a girl — but nothing sticks while he’s still there. She has a few genuine best friends, all women, but mostly she hangs out with guys. She likes the simplicity of it: sitting around, smoking, talking about girls, no manufactured drama, no one making mountains out of nothing.
Her taste in music is sharp. She’s obsessed with City and Colour — Dallas Green’s acoustic stuff — wakes up to it, falls asleep to it. But she also goes to metal and hardcore shows constantly, and she loves the energy of them, loves that the lyrics say something real even in all that noise. The contradiction doesn’t trouble her: tender and loud, both at once. She doesn’t read magazines, doesn’t have time for films, reads heavy books about psychology instead. Mode and fashion aren’t things you study — they’re things you have or you don’t. You either understand how to wear clothes, or you follow trends and hope for the best. She isn’t going to follow trends.
What matters to her is that in a few years people will recognize her photographs. She wants to shoot bands that matter, not just local shows but bigger names. She wants to do fashion work for real labels. She’s stated this like fact, not dream. She’ll get there. She knows it. The small village, the rain, the people in their black jackets — that’s background noise. She’s already looking past it.
I’d spent the whole day with movies and had zero interest in throwing myself into Berlin’s nightlife, so I just stayed on the couch with two Joe Wright adaptations. Keira Knightley twice in a row.
Atonement wrecks you. The child’s lie during World War II ruins everything for her sister and the man she loves, and when you realize what’s actually happened at the end, you’re just destroyed. Every time.
Which meant I was already too deep when Pride and Prejudice came on right after, so I didn’t even think about turning it off. Elizabeth Bennet, sharp and stubborn, refusing the entire marriage game, then falling for this utterly arrogant Darcy. It’s lighter than Atonement but there’s real feeling underneath – you believe what’s between them.
Two films back-to-back and I couldn’t move. Both about people who won’t settle, both with Knightley on screen the whole time, and I’m sitting here completely content to stay exactly where I am. The kind of evening that doesn’t need to turn into anything else – just sits on the couch with these two films in your head. Though I’m not lying to myself: I’m heading to bed now still seeing her the way she looks in both of them. You’d be jealous too.
I work in an industry obsessed with standing out. Loud colors, loud statements, shock value hammered into everything. This website makes things that demand attention, and I love that aggression. But somewhere I started craving the opposite—quiet photographs, soft colors, barely-there stories you have to lean in to hear.
Hrystia Kaminska is eighteen and Ukrainian. She works as Kosmodisk. Her photographs have this feeling, and the only way to describe it is unexpected summer rain. No announcement. The light shifts, the air changes, and suddenly everything looks different.
She shoots almost apologetically. Soft focus, pale colors, moments dissolving at the edges. There’s no effort showing, no trying. It’s the complete opposite of what I normally swim in, which is why I keep looking at her pictures.
I could keep talking about the intelligence of subtlety, the power of restraint. But I also need the opposite sometimes—the shock, the crude thing that just grabs you. I bounce between both. You can’t live on whispers, and you can’t feel anything if everything is screaming.
Kaminska’s work lives on one side of that. Worth spending time there.
There’s something voyeuristic about a show that’s basically structured around reading someone else’s private emails. The premise is almost nothing—an anonymous blogger on the Upper East Side documenting the chaos of rich kids at boarding school—but that’s exactly why it works. There’s a complicity from the start. You check the blog along with everyone else, waiting for the next bombshell, the next scandal, the next outfit.
The show got America hooked with the fashion and the drama and the simple fact that watching privileged people implode is endlessly entertaining. It moves fast, doesn’t take itself seriously, and has enough genuine stakes mixed in with the absurdity that you can’t look away. The clothes help. The Upper East Side setting helps. Mostly it’s just the pleasure of having a front-row seat to chaos that isn’t yours.
I picked it up because I watched The O.C. and the Gilmore Girls—that vein of teen drama that actually understands how to write fast dialogue and keep you caring. Gossip Girl is lighter than both, less interested in psychology or real consequence, more interested in the mechanics of scandal. Which is fine. Sometimes you want to watch beautiful people in expensive clothes have problems that money could actually fix.
The anonymity of the Gossip Girl figure is the whole thing. An unseen narrator, commentary without consequence, documentation without judgment. Everyone on the show is both subject and audience. They’re reading the blog about themselves. The strange loop of it—living the drama and consuming the coverage of your own drama simultaneously—that’s what makes it click.
It’s easy, it’s dumb in the best way, it looks gorgeous. I don’t need it to mean anything.
Had a list of Japanese films somewhere—made it years ago, when making lists felt like a productive use of time. Never finished it. But the films stuck, which is the only part that mattered.
Kikujiro’s Summer is the first one I think of. Takeshi Kitano playing some useless guy who gets dragged into babysitting a kid for a summer, driving around the countryside. The film just sits there. Doesn’t push. You watch it and it makes you feel okay about things, which sounds corny but it works. That’s all cinema is sometimes—permission to slow down.
Battle Royale is completely different. Same director, but a school class wakes up on a locked island with weapons and a simple instruction: kill each other. The film doesn’t wink at you about how absurd that is. It just watches it happen. When you’re young you think you’re seeing something you’re not supposed to—something transgressive about survival and cruelty that polite society hides. Later you realize the film isn’t revealing anything new, it’s just not looking away. The question it plants stays with you though: what would you do? You can’t answer it, not honestly, which is why you keep thinking about it.
Kamikaze Girls is lighter. Two girls, completely incompatible—one deep in the lolita fashion thing, the other a biker type with no patience for decoration. They find out they’re actually the same person underneath, or close enough. The film just watches this happen without making a big deal of it. Sometimes that’s the whole point.
Nobody Knows is harder to look at. Four kids in Tokyo, abandoned by their mother, who decided she couldn’t do the job anymore. The film just observes them figuring out how to keep going. Not in a dramatic way, just the daily machinery of surviving. There’s something almost unbearable about watching it done so carefully, without sentiment. Life is like that though—sad in a way that never quite deserves the name.
Then there’s The Glamorous Life Of Sachiko Hanai, which I don’t even know how to describe. The lead actress is an actual porn performer, and the film is this completely unhinged satire where she gets shot in the head, becomes omniscient, finds George W. Bush’s severed finger, and fucks her way through the cast. It shouldn’t work. It’s absurd and crude and the politics are cartoonish. But something about the sheer committed weirdness of it, the rage underneath the comedy, makes it genius. Or close enough.
I was supposed to rank these, build some kind of definitive list. The project lives on as this fragment—a few films, no hierarchy. Which is fine. The list was never the point anyway. The films were.
Anna made a song about this place and posted it on YouTube. I’d asked people to create something as a challenge—make it real, make me believe you’re actually listening. She made a song. Not clever or flattering or trying to be safe. Just genuine, the kind where you hear it and know she understood something true about what happens here. The kind that makes you realize someone really was paying attention.
I made it official. It’s the song of this notebook now. She won the postcard from Tokyo, but mostly I’m just sitting with the strange fact that someone took a random challenge seriously enough to make something real from it. That matters.
Thirty hours on a plane and maybe two hours of broken sleep, and I get to my Setagaya apartment to find there are no beds. Just mats on the floor. Everyone says Japan is this gleaming high-tech country and I’m too wrecked to think straight, hacking into my neighbor’s unsecured Wi-Fi, trying to tell someone I’m alive. I haven’t slept since I left and I’m so furious and confused I don’t even know which one.
The apartment is ridiculously tiny—I can stand in the middle and touch both walls. From outside it looks like a love hotel or maybe a brothel or maybe that’s just what these places look like. Setagaya feels like someone took America and printed it on Japanese characters—same grid, same streets, but nothing is written in anything I can read. The familiarity is actually kind of calming when I’m this destroyed.
Two hours hunting for bedding that doesn’t feel like garbage, learning how this shit works. On the street, nobody helped. Inside a shop, people were suddenly incredibly nice. Everyone has a mask. I’m apparently the only blonde in the whole district. I asked directions in English like a fucking idiot, got completely ignored, but whatever. At least the rules are clear. Cherry blossoms blooming. The place is actually beautiful and I can’t connect with it right now.
Little things caught me even through the haze. Traffic lights chime these gentle bells. Train stations have these small melodies. Men carry handbags. I swear I saw Uri Geller at the airport. Might be a hallucination. Thirty hours without sleep and I can’t trust anything my brain is telling me.
I just need to make this floor situation slightly less shit and then sleep for sixteen hours straight. Five weeks in this place sounds impossible. But the city’s got something. Maybe once I’m not completely dead I’ll actually be able to see it.
Aggro Berlin called it. After nine years running Germany’s most reliably chaotic hip-hop outfit, Sido and the crew released Ansage 8 as their final record and decided they were finished.
The new album wasn’t even bad, which seems like it should matter but apparently it doesn’t. Maybe that’s the real problem — you can’t stay genuinely angry for nine years. By the end you’re just tired.
When Fler split for Sudberlin-Maskulin earlier, everyone predicted the whole thing would collapse. It didn’t. The energy just kept moving. Maybe Aggro read that as a sign. Maybe they just didn’t care anymore.
There’s always that moment where you think this has to be some elaborate April Fools announcement, the kind of thing that gets walked back in a week. Except it didn’t. And YouTube started blocking the farewell videos for bureaucratic reasons, which feels perfect — the last word goes to some algorithm, not the band.
I’ll probably dig back through the old records eventually. Not out of nostalgia, just because endings make you curious. When did they actually have something to say? When did it become routine? You know something for years without ever quite understanding when it stopped mattering.
Berlin’s been wrapped in shimmering spring light. The sun is just obscene—I’m not exaggerating, the heat fixes something. I open the window at night. I grill with friends in the garden. I walk through the streets with a cold Becks and watch girls in thin skirts eat ice cream, and it feels like exactly the right way to exist.
Then rain shows up at the Turkish restaurant today, which felt personal. But I’m counting on heat through the holidays because I need this break. I really do. No thinking, no moving—just sun on skin and hands doing nothing. Maybe at that point humming ’You’re as hot as a volcano’ will actually feel earned instead of ridiculous.
Malte Christensen, this designer from Berlin, just called the blog “absolutely hot” and talked about how authentic it is, how we’re willing to take stances on trashy or borderline material. He’s right. It was one of those moments where someone outside sees what you’re doing more clearly than you’ve been seeing it.
Also had this random thought about how I’d mentioned wanting to play badminton with him and it just never happened.
The thing that stuck with me was realizing we basically let the SuicideGirl feature die without actually deciding to. We just stopped doing it. And Malte’s over there praising us for exactly that—the sexual honesty, the refusal to apologize for the trashy. Which we have, technically, except we’ve been quietly letting it slip.
It’s strange. Someone calling you authentic for something you’re actively losing. But his generosity was genuine. I appreciated that kind of clear-eyed reading.
I listen to songs five times in a row before they stick. If I find a good video, I know it matters. Sonny Moore’s “Mora” hit that mark—the sound, the design, the artist, all fitting together in a way that felt right.
Moore’s got the look of someone running on too much coffee or something else entirely, can’t quite tell. Reminds me of a younger, more wired version of Anthony from Antony and the Johnsons. The song’s off his album Gypsyhook, which has a title track with the same name, but “Mora” is the one that keeps playing.
The real question is whether it survives a tenth listen without wearing thin. Most things don’t. Maybe this one will.
Woke up Saturday with nothing from Knaack but shadows. Looking at the photos felt like watching someone else’s night — I couldn’t tell if that was me or some lost twin who’d somehow gotten all the actual memories. Only proof was a crumpled ticket stub in my pocket, which honestly tells you everything about how the night went.
Here’s the thing: the less you remember, the better it was. That’s just how it works. Apparently when drunk I’m an endless laughing machine, kind of insufferable about it, which the videos prove, and which is why I’m keeping those to myself — not morality, just basic decency. There are some photos that survived.
I spent the night talking someone’s ear off. The doorman mostly, but really just anyone standing still long enough. That’s what drunk me does. The confused old guy on the tram, muttering to himself the entire ride back, was somehow worse than me being loud. So I was probably fine.
Next time maybe I’ll remember actually getting there. Probably won’t. But it’s a nice thought.
I’ve always been drawn to Japanese soundtracks—Joe Hisaishi with his orchestral expanses for “Spirited Away” and “Princess Mononoke”, Yoko Kanno as Japan’s reigning instrumental composer working with Maaya Sakamoto on “Arjuna” (I’ve circled back to that album countless times, it lives permanently on my iPod), Yasunori Mitsuda defining what video game music could be with “Chrono Trigger” and still holding that standard. This is the music you put on when you need to think without interference, to create in silence. It doesn’t demand anything—it just creates a space.
There’s something specific about how these composers work. They’re not showing off. The music isn’t trying to be the main event—it’s building atmosphere, holding space for whatever’s happening in front of it, whether that’s a character on screen or your own thoughts. You could work with this music on for hours and never feel like you need to turn it off. It just exists alongside what you’re doing, supporting without intrusion.
Mono, a post-rock band from Tokyo, operates in similar territory. Their album “Hymn To The Immortal Wind” is the kind of record that makes you forget you’re in a room. You sit and listen and suddenly you’re not aware of anything else, not because it’s demanding your attention but because it’s constructed this complete world. It doesn’t announce itself or build toward any climax—just moves you through space, each swell placed so you never feel lost or jarred.
This is what I need when I’m trying to do something that requires actual concentration. Not the kind of music that demands your attention, but something that absorbs you. The kind that makes a few hours disappear without you noticing.
Came home from Knaack completely wrecked and somehow decided that tonight was the night to tear apart and rebuild the entire site. Not my smartest call, but I was past the point where I could talk myself out of anything, which actually turned out to be useful. You overthink design when you’re sober. When you’re this gone you just move things around and if they look right you leave them.
The whole thing happened on the floor. Computer Arts was open to something I’d been staring at earlier, there was this Turkish pizza I’d bought somewhere and carried around the whole night without eating, and I’d been living off aspirin. I had a Cobrasnake photo stuck in my head that fit the mood, so I used that as the anchor and built outward. No plan. Just drunk instinct and whatever was close enough to grab.
I’m not going to sit here and explain what the layout is or pretend I know why it works. I’m still not done — the subpages are a disaster, comments section is broken, and I’ll probably change half of it tomorrow when I can actually see straight. But getting drunk and just building something, not worrying if it’s clever or correct, turned out better than I expected. Maybe that’s the hangover talking. Either way it’s done enough.
Made schnitzel when I finished. Heavy, greasy, the kind of food that doesn’t fix anything but feels necessary anyway.
Clocks getting smashed apart by stylish people. That’s how “Warp” opens—The Bloody Beetroots and Steve Aoki teaming up on something that actually has an image, which for electronic music is already unusual.
I know that’s a harsh thing to say about the whole genre. Most of it’s just calculated nothing, expensive ambience, the sound equivalent of watching someone operate machinery without thinking. But Aoki has something different. There’s an actual intention behind what he’s doing, a sense that he sat down and made decisions instead of just dragging sliders and hoping something sticks. So when this showed up, I paid attention.
The video is where it matters. These are genuinely stylish people—not just attractive, actually styled with intention—destroying watches, jumping around, doing things that feel almost transgressive for a music video. There’s an energy to it like everyone’s been asleep and finally waking up angry. Playful and violent at the same time.
The track itself is solid. Driving synths, that propulsive thing Aoki does well. But it’s the video that makes this work. That’s the thing that stays with you.
MTV only plays decent videos when I’m walking home drunk at three in the morning and turn on the TV to decompress. That’s when Kerli’s “Walking On Air” came through, and I fell for it instantly—the song, the video, everything about her. Couldn’t understand why she wasn’t everywhere.
She’s Estonian. Already huge in the States, charted in Switzerland, but somehow the rest of Europe just let her slip past. The song had everything you’d want: melancholy, pop hooks, her voice with an edge to it. Should’ve landed everywhere.
There’s something weird about how you discover things drunk at random hours. Mostly garbage. But sometimes something sticks because of exactly how random it was—arbitrary, stupid, perfect. Three AM MTV shuffle lands on Kerli, and suddenly you’re thinking about timing, markets, luck, all of it.
I didn’t stop thinking about her after that night.
I’m drawn to people who express themselves without calculation. Photography, painting, film, writing, or something nobody’s quite figured out how to categorize yet—when someone’s making work from genuine interest rather than design, you feel it.
Lisa Solberg’s an artist in LA making paintings that exist outside whatever wave everyone else is riding. She has this singular voice in her work, and she operates out of a massive loft that’s a studio and a home at once. I’ve always had this inexplicable thing for huge empty lofts with that particular kind of presence—you know the ones, where there’s actually space for something to happen.
One of her paintings was made with champagne. Not a conceptual move or a story to tell; that’s just what she wanted to paint with that day. I appreciate that about artists—pursuing whatever actually interests you, regardless of whether it makes a coherent statement.
The work doesn’t ask permission. It’s just completely what it is.
I always had this idea of student life—perpetually broke, lurking around the city, drinking away future worries at basement parties, the same three clothes wearing thin because laundromats are expensive and vaguely terrifying. Somewhere in that fantasy is probably just my actual life, but yesterday I got a taste of the real thing at the Charité Mensa, or close enough.
The food was expensive, the place was packed. Basti wouldn’t stop talking—something about lazy unshaved people and whales falling from the sky, none of it making any sense. I wasn’t having the time of my life, honestly. The whole scene felt like a cliché I’d imagined a thousand times—students in a cafeteria, the kind of life I thought I wanted when I was younger.
But the weather was warm. The grass outside was full of actual unshaved students, and I found myself curious about them in a way I didn’t expect—their stories, where they were from, what made them different from the version I’d constructed in my head. And then I realized: probably nothing special. They were probably broke too, probably drinking themselves stupid on weekends, probably rotating the same clothes through the wash like the rest of us.
The real souvenir was the Mensa card they handed over—17 cents still on it. I kept it. Proof I’d touched that life, even briefly, even if it was just warm weather and other people’s chaos. Stupid and sentimental, but there it is.
I watched Gulcan get a piercing through the ear — sat there while the needle went through, and it glinted after like it was supposed to. Right after, I nearly crashed into my ex-girlfriend getting out of an elevator. Just smiled at her friend and the moment passed. That’s how days stack up.
I was on the U-Bahn with Rocko Schamoni’s “Sternstunden der Bedeutungslosigkeit.” Someone recommended it as a quarter-life-crisis read. Some guy from Reinickendorf gives me shit about my Chucks, which is funny because I’m actually into what I’m reading — this messy, unremarkable life of Michael Sonntag and his friends. Schamoni’s voice is clean and direct, the way people actually think. It reads honest.
But here’s what gets me: it’s all hidden. It’s not Rocko writing about his life. It’s Michael Sonntag. Some invented distance between author and reader.
He’s not poetic like Murakami. He’s not visionary like Mian Mian. He just writes straight and undecorated, the way you’d think it. And for a book about meaningless hours, that’s exactly what works. But why put it behind a character? Why not write that he’s into his neighbor, that he’s still wrecked over someone, that he has bad breath? Why is it always Michael instead of Rocko?
Same thing kills me about Charlotte Roche and Rebecca Martin and everyone else doing this. Why not just admit you’re into anal sex and Avril Lavigne? Why not write that you’ve gone to bed with guys who stopped caring the second it was over? Or that you pick your nose, or that you’ve made out with girls? These are the real things. This is the actual material. It matters more than whatever clean persona you’re protecting.
So I’m going to say it. I’m Marcel. I like Avril Lavigne. I pick my nose. I make out with girls. No character in between. No protective fiction. No distance. That’s it. It’s not hard once you actually say it plainly.
Though maybe we need to talk about the Avril Lavigne thing separately.
I watched this Arte episode about Tokyo and the thing that stuck with me was a drag queen living with seventeen tarantulas and three hundred and forty wigs. That’s the kind of specific commitment to something completely impractical that’s actually interesting.
The episode moves through different pockets of Tokyo’s underground scene — there’s a place called Trippple Nippples, secret model shops, people building entire lives around fashion and nightlife. No narration trying to explain why any of it matters. Just what’s actually there.
You can tell the difference between someone documenting a scene and someone showing you what someone actually cares about. This lands on the right side of that. The drag queen with the tarantula collection exists completely independent of whatever documentary framework is around her. That’s what makes it work.
I wasn’t expecting much but I ended up watching the whole thing.
Spent some time with the first issue of Vanity Teen, a free fashion magazine that dropped as a PDF. The photography is good—clean, contemporary, not trying to yell about itself. They brought in Marley Kate, Ryan Aylsworth, Karl Rothenberger: the kind of visual people worth paying attention to. What got me is the curation: it’s not the usual high-fashion apparatus. It’s someone looking at what’s actually happening in contemporary photography and saying ’this matters.’ And they’re not charging for it.
Found New Look through some magazine write-up—Dazed & Confused, maybe Cooler—and it stuck. Sarah and Adam making electro-soul out of Brooklyn, though they’re actually from Toronto and went by something else years back (Jungletalk, which doesn’t matter now). Their stuff has this weightless, almost meditative quality. The kind of music that sits in the background while you work or move through your day without asking for anything, but rewards you if you’re actually listening.
They’ve been trying to lock down label deals that keep falling apart, which sucks for them. The upside is they release everything free. Not out of some righteous indie stance, just the practical fallout of not having anyone bankroll them. There’s something satisfying about that—music that’s good enough to exist without the machinery around it.
I keep coming back to their tracks when I need something that doesn’t demand attention but won’t disappear either. Just sits there, solid and calm, waiting for whenever you’re ready to listen.
Joanna Kustra’s photographs look like paintings from the eighteenth century. There’s no visible seam between the photography and the painting — it just reads as period work, the kind that makes you stop because you’re not entirely sure what you’re looking at.
Everything pulls from Pride and Prejudice or The Duchess — that whole visual language of period cinema. The lighting, the posture, the surfaces. It’s like she understood that aesthetic completely and then made something genuinely her own inside it.
It made me think about the language from that era, too. How people actually wrote. All those subordinate clauses and digressions, the formality mixed with genuine observation. I’ve kind of seriously thought about trying something in that voice, which would be a complete disaster. Everyone would leave.
But there’s something genuinely compelling about existing in that sensibility, whether it’s visual or linguistic. The simple fact that it’s possible to make something that feels like it belongs to a completely different world altogether.
V V Brown has a song called “Crying Blood” that I can’t shake. It’s just relentless—that 50s-pop thing with her voice climbing over this hammering melody, somewhere between The Ting Tings and something older that I can’t quite place. The kind of track that burrows in and won’t leave.
It’s the architecture of it, really. There’s this swing to the rhythm that feels both retro and immediate, and her voice sits on top of it with this brightness that shouldn’t work over something that dark but absolutely does. The chorus is built for repetition—it wants to stay in your head, and it succeeds.
I’ve had it on repeat for days now. Not in the way you sometimes force yourself to listen to something you think you should like, but that involuntary thing where you catch yourself humming it or it just starts playing in your head while you’re doing something else. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway.
There’s something both very current and very dated about it, and I’m not sure if that tension is what makes it work or if I’m just trying to explain why I can’t stop listening to it. Probably the latter.
Most of the time I’m nowhere. Not in the despair where everything about life and love and the future makes me want to scream and crawl into that dark hole that somehow feels sweet in its bitterness, where I could write my pain out raw and watch it leave when I hit publish. Not in the euphoria either—that cloud-nine moment when it’s a girl or a career win or just a bright fresh day, and I’m singing out praise to the sun and freedom and love. Those feelings are intense. They’re real, and they matter.
Right now I’m stuck in the flat middle, and it’s like a kind of numbness I never expected. I go to work. I laugh at parties. I fool around. I listen to music. It all happens without any particular thrill or dread, without the feeling that something special is happening. No high, no low, just the middle distance.
It’s like watching a beloved film for the thousandth time. A movie you once loved more than anything. You know every scene, every line, every moment. You know exactly what comes next. You could recite it. So you watch it anyway, and it doesn’t break you anymore because there’s nothing left in you to break.
I’m living the exact thing I was terrified of as a kid. The ordinariness I swore with my friends I’d never let happen, not like everyone else. Routine. The everyday. A decent life that doesn’t feel like anything at all.
It’s like I surrendered in some long war and accepted the bitter-sweet defeat. I laid down my weapons and looked up at the sky and waited for it to be over. The living death has arrived. I’m a zombie now.
There’s something about finding a beautiful image you weren’t looking for. FFFFOUND! was that for me for years—an endless feed of bookmarks from people with better taste than commentary. Someone saw a face, a room, a moment of light breaking through, and thought it was worth saving. No algorithm deciding what matters, no narrative, just intention. You collect enough of these stolen moments and you start to see the pattern of what actually moves you. That’s all taste ever is.
Caroline Winberg is Swedish, which explains most of it—blonde hair, freckles, the kind of charisma that doesn’t need explaining. She’s a supermodel. The photographs exist to prove what works.
I look at them and want her to have my kids just so they’d get that smile. It’s crude. It’s honest. There’s no deeper thought than that.
I’m a designer, so I get properly anxious about network redesigns. ProSieben’s launching a new on-air look Sunday night at 20:13, right before Pirates of the Caribbean 2. Silver. Modern. Clear. Cross-platform. They’re calling it “E-Motion” — which is either a moment of pure creative clarity or just the kind of theme that someone in marketing decided would make everything cohere. There’s a Pussycat Dolls trailer backing it all, because why not.
ProSieben’s been positioning themselves as the Apple of TV stations — tasteful, forward-thinking, design-first. Nice claim. But rebrands are always a gamble. You can polish everything, change the colors, make the graphics move beautifully, and it still might land flat or just look like what everyone else is doing in a few years.
Battle Royale had shown me what Japanese anime was capable of. Years of increasingly unhinged content had raised my tolerance for shock. Then Cat Shit One came out—this computer-animated film from 2010—and somehow cracked through.
The premise seemed calculated to break brains: adorable stuffed animals running military operations somewhere in the Middle East. Iran or Iraq, the geography barely mattered. What mattered was the violence. Cute little rabbits and plush toys shooting each other, committing terrorist attacks, rendered in casual CGI brutality. Your mouth just hung open.
The surreal part is how earnestly it all played out. No irony, no commentary, no winking at the audience. Just… here are animals committing war crimes, and here’s the animation. Extreme violence filtered through a children’s picture book aesthetic, played completely straight.
And yet video games are what everyone panicked about. This film existed and people barely noticed. Everyone was still freaking out over Mortal Kombat.
Kate Moss was a mess. Everyone knew it. The coke, the bathroom incidents, the whole Pete Doherty disaster—it was all documented, all real. But somehow that wasn’t the interesting part. The interesting part was that despite being a complete wreck, she was still one of the most compelling people in fashion. Still is, honestly.
In 2002 Craig McDean shot her for i-D Magazine. The series was called “God Save The Queen,” which felt right—she looked like she needed saving, or maybe like she was already beyond it. The photographs were something else though. Gaunt, sharp, lit so brutally you couldn’t hide anything. She looked like she’d been awake for a week. She looked like she didn’t care what you thought. That’s the thing about Moss—she had this quality where the wreckage and the appeal were the same thing.
I’ve always been drawn to people like that. There’s something about not apologizing, about being exactly as broken as you are and just walking around anyway. Most people crash and that’s it, they become a punchline and disappear. Moss made the crash itself part of the mystique. She was famous partly because of the mess, not despite it.
By the time that shoot happened she’d already lived a few different lives. Model, scandal, icon, whatever she was becoming next. And she was still working, still unavoidable. You’d see her and you couldn’t quite figure out if she was bulletproof or if she was falling apart in real time and just didn’t care which.
The i-D photographs hold up. They’re the kind of thing you come back to. There’s something true in them that got missed by all the tabloid stuff. You see what made her matter. And you also see exactly why it all came apart.
There’s a particular kind of intelligence in how she holds her face. It’s not a beauty-pageant thing—it’s closer to attentiveness, like she’s tracking three conversations at once and finding them all faintly absurd. She doesn’t do the thing most actors do where they’re constantly performing for you. She seems to be thinking about something else entirely.
I got into her work through the pirate films, obviously, but what stuck was Atonement—that scene where she’s typing the letter, the light coming through the window of her room. There’s something about the way she moves through that film that feels real in a way most period dramas aren’t. She doesn’t soften herself or make herself smaller. She’s just there, sharp and present.
People have always had weird opinions about her body, which says more about them than it does about her. She just doesn’t care what shape she’s supposed to be in. There’s something genuinely punk about that, even if she’d never describe it that way.
She’ll keep getting better at this. The roles keep getting smarter—she’s not interested in being just a pretty thing on screen, and studios that understand that are lucky to have her. Twenty-four is young for an actor finding her actual range.
Pale supervisors circled the exam room like dementors from Harry Potter. IHK employees, methodical and serious, making sure no one cheated. This was the theoretical exam in Berlin’s fashion center — the thing that had cost me weeks of sleep. And it actually went okay. I wrote things that made sense. My mind didn’t go blank, which was the main thing I was worried about.
Now I’m eating fries and sleeping for a week. The practical part comes next — building a website for some museum. I don’t know which museum yet. I’m looking forward to it. Not.
Never read the Sendak book, and it’s not like anyone sat down and read it to me—my childhood wasn’t really set up for that kind of thing. But I saw the trailer for the Jonze film and something about it worked. The creatures don’t look cute or safe. They look real, wrong, unsettling. Like somewhere you’d actually want to run to if home felt small enough.
There’s this idea at the heart of it that matters: a kid escapes to a place where he’s the king, where he can make the rules, where things are honest in a way they never are at home. The trailer gets that. Jonze gets that. It’s not sentimentalizing childhood—it’s treating it seriously.
The internet’s already built this whole thing up. Everyone who grew up with the book is protective and excited. Critics are positioning it as something different, something that respects the material. I don’t have that connection to the source, which might be fine. I’m just watching the trailer and thinking, yeah, I want to see what he does with this.
Whether it holds up is another question. But the trailer’s already done its job.
Vice’s Fashion Issue landed with the usual bait that year—models in bikinis, fashion spreads, the kind of visual noise I know is designed to grab me. The issue had some comparison between Berlin and London fashion, the sort of thing that pretends to mean something but is really just expensive clothes and good photography. I looked at it. Fashion rules.
Sitting in the agency surrounded by coffee cups and practice exams, actually studying for Thursday’s mid-term instead of pretending this will happen magically. The big push toward master status, except I’m pretty sure I’ve already forgotten half of it.
This is the kind of studying where nothing sticks anymore. You’re just repeating shit and hoping your brain remembers it when it matters. There’s a specific flavor of panic in deadline studying — the certainty you’ve missed something crucial, the superstition that one more review will somehow help, the way coffee tastes like fear by the third cup.
I’ll probably run into someone from class on Thursday equally convinced they’re fucked. We’re all cramming in different spaces living the same nightmare. At least I know I’m not the only one who waited until now.
A Vodafone commercial featured a band called Superpowerless. Are they real or did Vodafone just make them up for the ad? I can’t believe I’m wondering about this. A corporation manufactures a band, sells it as culture, and everybody moves on like it’s normal now. I have no idea if Superpowerless actually exists. I don’t think they do. But does it matter anymore.
I found this video where Mario gets warped into a real city and immediately can’t cope. The joke is that he belongs in that pixel world — platforms, pipes, simple rules. Real cities don’t work that way. You can’t jump to rooftops or find a power-up in a box. The video ends with massive explosions, which feels inevitable. It’s funny because it understands exactly how out of place he’d be in anything resembling reality.
I never understood why Lily Allen went with “Not Fair” as the second single off “It’s Not Me, It’s You.” “Everyone’s At It” had more momentum, and “I Could Say” was stronger. But she did, dressed entirely in country — cowboy boots, that hair — like she was auditioning for a honky-tonk.
The styling made no sense with the song, which was just her being crude about wanting someone who could actually satisfy her. No relationship drama, no clever setup, just a straight demand for good sex. The country visual felt like a joke I wasn’t catching, or maybe the joke was the mismatch itself.
She’d already proven she could be funny and rude on record. “Not Fair” was leaning further that way — the irreverence without apology, the crude angle played straight. The production stayed minimal, which let the joke land harder.
I’m not sure the single choice was right, but the attitude was exactly her. By the second album she’d committed to that position: irreverent, funny, refusing to soften anything for the audience. The country costume was just image machinery, but at least the song underneath was genuinely honest about what it wanted.
I don’t remember how I found Scott Matthew, but there’s this song called “White Horse” and I can’t stop thinking about it. The kind of thing that doesn’t ask permission—it just hits you and won’t let go.
He’s not famous, which is probably the point. No hype, no algorithm, just a person and a song that matters anyway. Maybe it matters more because it’s not being sold to you.
I put it on with headphones at full volume and everything else disappeared. The arrangement builds in this patient, deliberate way, and by the time you realize what’s happening you’re already gone. I had tears running down my face before the first verse was over, and I don’t usually cry at songs.
That’s the thing about stumbling onto something genuinely beautiful—you want to tell someone right away, even though there’s no way to explain it that doesn’t sound desperate. You just send the link and hope they get it.
McGinley photographs young people the way someone who likes them actually sees them—loose-limbed, unguarded, bodies as landscape as much as objects. The color doesn’t perform; it just sits there, true. He’s been doing this for years and the work never got cynical, which is the only thing that matters.
Daniel’s scrubbing a fence in the hot sun, thinking this old man is crazy or just slave-driving him. Wax on, wax off. Small board, right hand, big board, left hand. And somewhere in there, it’s karate. That’s the whole film for me—a kid learning from an old man who actually cares.
The movie’s dated as hell. The clothes, the music, all of it screams 80s. Doesn’t bother me. I even liked the fourth one with the girl, which maybe says something about my taste I’d rather not think about.
There’s an honesty to it. No winking, no irony, just a story about learning something real from someone who knows it. Mr. Miyagi forever.
Opening YouTube to watch a music video used to be simple. Now there’s a banner ad, comments from every troll with a keyboard, buttons everywhere telling me to rate and share and subscribe. The whole interface is designed to interrupt me before I even hit play.
Someone used to write about YouTube being too cluttered. The complaint was straightforward: just show the video. Don’t need the engagement metrics, the sense of community, the algorithm watching what I do. Just the song and nothing else.
That’s not a thing anymore. YouTube decided engagement was more important than simple consumption. Every pixel on the screen is optimized to keep me clicking on something other than the video I came for.
I miss that simplicity. Watch something, feel something, leave. No trace. No data about it. No algorithm learning my taste. Just me and the work for five minutes and then it’s over.
Most of the time the artist’s work speaks for itself. The song doesn’t need YouTube to prove it’s worth listening to. But good luck finding anything on YouTube without wading through the noise first.
I found Renata Raksha’s work and kept going back to it. She shoots for MTV, Disney, Nylon — all the expected places — but the work overflows with strange ideas and genuine creativity. Gold glitter on faces. Women in pig masks. A real window into her actual friends. She doesn’t compromise the vision for the client. The photographs are sexual and human, full of skin and desire, the kind that make you want to spend time with them.
Amy had finally had enough of being the logo for some second-rate website, standing in the same place day after day, hand in her crotch. She still dreamed about Hannah’s distraction entry sometimes—dreamed about it at night and woke up thinking about it. So she grabbed her two best friends, Waldo (a clever magical dildo) and Mort (a zombie bride who was always depressed), and the three of them moved into a döner place where they could fight against the Klabautermann, this evil creature from German folklore whose name nobody could actually say.
One day Hermione Granger—Waldo’s old owner—showed up at their door. “You have to help me,” she said, and she wasn’t joking around. Amy and the crew put down their döner sauce and paid attention. “The Klabautermann took my enchanted cat. I can’t sleep without her. Please bring her back.” So Amy nodded and got Waldo and Mort, and they climbed into the döner time machine. It made this humming, hissing sound as time just blurred past them. When they came out the other side and opened their eyes, there was a mailbox standing there. An actual talking mailbox. “Greetings, strangers,” it said. “You’ve arrived at just the right moment to—”
Life is fucking short, we all know that. The sane move would be to quit right now, buy a broken van, drive across Australia until you hit something, just to feel alive. Nobody does it. So I’m writing down everything I want to do before a Volkswagen bus plows me under.
I want to surf. Start an agency in London. Mix milk with beer and drink it. Kiss Keira Knightley and Nora Tschirner at the same time. Write something that sticks around. See the world from up so high it stops looking like anything. Get roasted on the Simpsons. Hand a million to a stranger on the street. Be in a Johnny Depp film. Conquer a country nobody’s heard of. Show up in party photos looking like I belong. Buy MTV and play the Ting Tings for a year. Have a monkey butler. Sleep with Siamese twins. If that doesn’t work, the Olsens bound together. Go to Tokyo. Time travel. Bodyguards who are beautiful and know karate. Piss from the top of the world. Say nothing for twelve months straight.
I mean some of that. The rest is jokes, ways of not looking too closely at what I actually want. Because if you admit “I want to matter” that’s a heavy thing, something you can fail at. But if you bury it under kissing actresses and owning a monkey, it’s just a list. Just something stupid in a notebook. Not a confession.
Maybe that’s the point of bucket lists. They’re not about doing the stuff. They’re about the wanting. And wanting is the only part that’s ever going to be real.
I could write something pseudo-intellectual about black and white photography and how it strips away distraction to reveal essential truth. But these Hedi Slimane shots of Anna Selezneva just look too damn good. I don’t want to think about anything except what’s right in front of me. The monochrome works because there’s nothing but line and light and shadow, the way a face and body move through space. You see it and you can’t look away. That’s all there is.
Mikael Aguirre paints characters from games that lived in my hand when I was young. Yoshi with Baby Mario on his back. Chun-Li with her impossible legs. Sonic in the Green Hill Zone. His work gets something specific about how those sprites looked and felt—perfect, infinite, small. Looking at his paintings makes you want to play. Not want to remember playing. Want to actually play, right now, to hit that button and keep going. The work gives you that itch. But there’s no way to scratch it with just a painting.
Found this Brazilian web design agency that built their whole thing around profanity. Like, they’ve collected curse words from everywhere—Spanish, Portuguese, English—and they’re using them as actual design elements. Flash animations full of crude language, clickable words that are just there to offend. At first I didn’t really get what the deeper idea was supposed to be. Spent five minutes clicking around, watching Portuguese translations of penis and pussy cycle through, wondering if there was a point underneath the shock value or if that was the point.
But the more I looked at it, the more I kind of got what they were doing. This was the mid-2000s internet, back when Flash sites could be anything, could break any rule, didn’t have to look like every other corporate thing. They were just saying: we’re not making a portfolio site, we’re making something that makes you uncomfortable. Something with teeth. Something that doesn’t apologize.
There’s something genuinely funny about taking the whole apparatus of professional web design—the rules, the standards, the respectability—and just soaking it in profanity. Making it impossible to ignore. Not clever, not witty, just loud and crude and refusing to be polite. You can feel the pleasure in it, the deliberate transgression.
I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for this to be some kind of statement about language or politics or corporate culture. Maybe it was and I just didn’t see it. Or maybe the joke was that there was no joke—just a middle finger where you’d expect a mission statement.
The thing that gets me is how quaint it all feels now. Not because it’s not transgressive anymore, but because that kind of internet—the one where you could just build whatever you wanted, break whatever rules you felt like breaking, and nobody would shut it down—that internet barely exists now. Everything’s been absorbed, packaged, made safe. You couldn’t build Gringo today. You’d get flagged, removed, reported. The rules have calcified. The respectability has won. And somewhere there’s probably a hedge fund that owns this site now, if it still exists at all.
David Schumann went to Japan as a student and got spotted on the street by a photographer—one of those things that actually happens to people sometimes. He’s a punk rocker with tattoos, so maybe he stood out in Tokyo. The modeling world, the culture shock, the randomness of discovery, all of it became a book called The Tokyo Diaries. I’m drawn to that kind of story: a life you don’t plan for that catches you anyway.
A poet and artist in the Burning Man community died of cancer last month. His name was Fractal. A woman who knew him organized a response: a shoot with photographer Cherry Vega, prints for sale at twenty-five dollars, money to a cancer research center. Just the practical thing to do.
What I liked about it was the complete lack of performance. No moral framework, no meditation on mortality or the body or what it all means. Just: someone we cared about is gone, here’s the money we can make. In that community, nudity and sincerity aren’t in conflict — they just coexist. The form of the fundraiser wasn’t the statement. The statement was the money.
Every spring brings the same exhausting questions: which festival, can you afford it, is any of it worth the drive? Becca and I had settled on Rock am Ring, the reliable German choice. Then Hurricane Festival released their lineup and I realized we’d been idiots.
Not idiots exactly, just people who hadn’t been paying attention. Once you see a bill that serious, staying home stops being an option. Lykke Li alone would’ve been enough to rethink everything. Ladyhawke, Die Ärzte, Blood Red Shoes, Editors—these weren’t just solid, they were speaking to whoever had put this together. Duffy, Katy Perry (real pop, not trash), Faith No More, Kings of Leon. Fettes Brot for the local pride moment. Franz Ferdinand, Less Than Jake, Moby, Nine Inch Nails, Paolo Nutini, The Ting Tings—I loved them.
This wasn’t a festival lineup, it was someone’s entire taste collection accidentally programmed into a schedule. Once you see something that precise, the choice is already made. You’re driving north. You’re sleeping in the mud. You’re seeing half the bands and leaving early because your back hurts. It’s the only logical option pretending to be spontaneous.
Starbucks on a Saturday, me and Gülcan with the full setup—folders, notebooks, the confidence of people who think they’re about to be productive. Screaming kids and a smell I couldn’t place killed that in about twenty minutes. We both dropped the pretense immediately.
Got döners instead, found somewhere with sun, watched pigeons fight over scraps in the street. Just sat there talking about nothing. It was better than anything in those notebooks would’ve been.
I was going to write something glowing about Metro Station, their whole “Seventeen Forever” emo moment, but Miley Cyrus showed up in the video and it was obvious her dad was bankrolling the whole thing, and suddenly the performance fell apart. She’s not emo. She never was. The contradiction was too big.
So here’s Uh Huh Her instead, which is the thing that actually held up. Two girls in a video with a tiny unicorn and colors flying all over the place, and it works because they’re not performing. They’re just doing it. The song’s older now, but I let it play on repeat on the subway enough times to know every second of it. Not because I was forcing it to matter, but because it was genuinely good—easy to listen to, not asking anything of me, just there.
That’s the thing about Metro Station and everything it represented: emo became this product you could consume and perform. Metro Station understood that perfectly. Uh Huh Her didn’t seem to care about the performance at all. Two girls, a weird video, a song that works because it’s not trying too hard to work. That’s all they needed. That’s what made it real.
Bloc Party was built for remix collections. That production sensibility—precise, angular, all space and structure—is basically an invitation for other artists to step in and rebuild it. When their third comp came around, I was just curious who they’d picked. Armand Van Helden taking on “Signs” was the first single, and it does that thing remix comps do best: the original melody stays intact but everything else gets dismantled and reconstructed into something that lives in a different headspace entirely. I remember a “Blue Light” remix doing the same thing well.
The video for this version is strange. Not in a way that makes sense immediately, but in a way that makes you watch it again.
Came across Lauren Peralta’s work—black and white photographs about female eroticism and sexuality. American photographer. What stands out is the directness. No hedging, no ironic distance, no attempts at tasteful restraint. She just looks at the subject straight on.
Keiichi Nitta published his first book in April, Bowery Boys, and it reads like the work of someone who spent real time in Terry Richardson’s studio—that same hunger for bodies and street rawness, that same refusal to soften anything. Packed with naked girls and street types, filtered through a Japanese sensibility that shouldn’t sit well with New York street photography but somehow does. Richardson must have been a good teacher. The pictures aren’t apologizing for what they are, and that’s exactly what they need to be.
The realization came to me last night. If games have rules that make them work, and life is just another game, then there have to be glitches everywhere — ways through that only I can see, paths that make sense to nobody else. The actual machinery of how it all functions is so much more interesting than actually playing it. That’s what finally made sense: I’m not the protagonist. I’m the frame narrative.
It explains why I don’t really invest in most situations, why I’d rather laugh than break down, why I look at the spider on the wall instead of what’s happening in the center, the bonus level instead of the main quest, that one cycling riff instead of the chorus that everyone’s attached to. The story itself is secondary. The structure, the rules, the boundaries — that’s what holds my attention.
I don’t hear songs for what they are. I’m always imagining some extreme scenario where I’d play them for someone, like I’m transmitting some part of myself through the speakers. I’ve built entire opening credits and closing sequences in my head, each one more elaborate and final than the last, something that would leave someone breathless, heart pounding, mind spinning. In those sequences people love and hurt and die. But I barely watch the actual film. It’s someone else’s problem. The plot doesn’t matter. What matters is making that one moment infinite.
Maybe it makes me shallow. Maybe that’s why I’m always testing the edges, pushing to see where the boundary actually is. Because if I keep running maybe I’ll hit something — a glitch, a message from whoever’s controlling it, something that cuts through the fog and lets me see straight. An answer I can actually use. Something that gets me to that place where I’ve left everything behind and can turn around and smile down at this whole tiny world.
I’m walking through Mitte one night and some kids pass me, chasing each other, laughing hard. Just playing a game with rules and an off button. I watch them go and it clicks. I don’t want to play the games. I want to build them. I don’t want to live the life. I want to design it. I’m the frame narrative. That’s the relief I’ve been waiting for.
I was looking through Lula—Leith Clark’s magazine—and found these glossy stills from an upcoming short film by the Brownlee Brothers. The title’s impossible: “The Continuing And Lamentable Saga Of The Suicide Brothers.” Keira Knightley’s in it playing a fairy. The photos looked good, but I’ve been hunting for a trailer and can’t find one. So I’m just waiting to see what they’ve made.
She’s got “The Duchess” coming in March though, and she’s apparently naked for good portions of it, which is reason enough for me to actually go see the thing.
William Fitzsimmons sings “If You Would Come Back Home” like he’s read the ending already. His voice comes in thin and careful over fingerpicking that sounds like rain on a window — not music that tries to lift you up, but music that sits with you in the dark and doesn’t apologize for what it is.
There’s something about a song this sad that makes you want to keep it close, replay it even when it hurts. Not because you want to suffer, but because the sadness feels true in a way that most things aren’t. He’s not performing emotional breakdown. He’s just singing what it feels like to know someone’s not coming back.
I don’t know the story behind the song, and I’m not sure it matters. The specific heartbreak is his, but the shape of it is universal — most people have their own version of waiting for someone who’s never going to walk through that door. That’s why it hits.
It’s the kind of song you listen to once and then leave alone for a while.
There’s this moment in the trailer where the music just takes over and you know you’re watching something that matters. It’s Slumdog Millionaire, set in Mumbai, about two brothers—Jamal and Salim—who grow up on the same brutal streets and become entirely different people. Jamal gets on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, fighting through the questions one by one, trying to get back to Latika, this girl he lost somewhere along the way.
It plays like a fairy tale, but it’s grounded in real streets and real struggle. What actually hooked me was the trailer itself, and especially the music underneath. The soundtrack has this aliveness that just made me want to watch immediately.
This was the kind of film that swept everything for a minute, and I understood why once I actually saw it. There’s genuine affection for these characters, for this world. You go in prepared for the hype to disappoint you and it just doesn’t.
I’ve taken thousands of photos that mean nothing to me—the kind you make with a cheap camera and forget immediately. Everyone has. It’s the default mode now: cameras everywhere, no barrier between wanting to document something and actually capturing it, results are irrelevant.
Then you see what Murat Aslan does and it’s a different thing entirely. Berlin photographer, he’s shot Peter Fox, Sudberlin Maskulin, Marius Müller Westernhagen, the guys from MTV GameOne—people who matter. The work is alive. Not just technically accomplished, though it is that. There’s something in how he frames a person, how light sits in an image, that makes you actually look at the photograph instead of just absorbing it and moving on.
The thing about seeing photography that good is it changes how you look at every other image you see afterward. You start noticing when something has presence and when it’s just competent. When someone actually has a point of view. It’s not a comfortable realization if you’ve been casually making images yourself, but it’s the useful kind of uncomfortable. There’s a craft here. It requires something actual.
There’s something about The Ting Tings that just works for me. That electronic pop energy, the way they build these tracks that make you want to move even in an empty living room at two in the afternoon. I circled back to them recently, to that moment in the late 2000s when they seemed to be everywhere but still felt genuinely good. That combination is rare.
There’s a video from that era I’ve been thinking about. Just chaos. An apartment torn apart—Adidas Originals and bodies and mess everywhere, moving through it all like that’s the only way anything gets done. You can’t stage that kind of disorder, but when it happens, you want to somehow hold onto it. I’ve got this white wall in my living room that’s been blank for months. Too much space to ignore but nothing felt right for it. That video made me think: that’s it. That feeling right there.
The thing is, pulling it off would take a drink or two and a willingness to let something actually be chaos without planning it to death. That’s always the hard part, isn’t it. The commitment to mess in a space where everything else is so controlled.
Lisa Wassmann photographs people and catches them actual — no theme, no photographer’s trick, just someone being there and her watching clearly. Beautiful people, wrecked people, strange people. She treats them all the same: genuine attention, no bullshit.
There’s something about the directness of her work. She’s not making a point about anything or trying to look a certain way as a photographer. She’s just watching, clearly, and trusting that to mean something. That’s rare.
I think about that in my own practice — specificity, that unflinching eye. Making something that feels like it could only be this one thing. Her photographs have that. They don’t perform ’photograph.’ They just catch what actually happened.
She’s from Berlin, where there’s a lot of photography these days, but her work is the kind that actually matters to me.
The first stills came out - Tim Burton’s Alice with Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter. By that point the casting felt inevitable: of course Depp, of course Burton. They’d figured out their language after Sweeney Todd, that shorthand between a director who thinks in silhouettes and an actor who can make himself look like one. Mia Wasikowski as Alice, this quiet Australian actress I didn’t know, strange in just the right way.
What interested me was whether Burton could find anything new in the material. Alice is already weird, already cruel, already exactly what a Tim Burton film should be. So what does he do with it? Make it bigger? Push it further? The images looked right, but that’s not the same as knowing where he’s going.
Bat for Lashes’ “Daniel” doesn’t have room for Natasha Khan’s voice to hide behind anything—just breath and hesitation underneath the melody. It was a solid preview for “Two Suns,” and that moment where the song stops trying to convince you of anything is the one that kept pulling me back. Until it stopped working.
I was eight or nine, sitting in front of the TV with whatever action figure was selling that season. Five teenagers in spandex yelling about dinosaurs and pulling giant robots out of nowhere. The transformation sequence hit different—that moment when the music swells and you stop being some random kid and suddenly you’re chosen. You have a color. You have a job.
My friends and I would run through the neighborhood screaming “It’s morphin time” until every adult on the block wanted us dead. We’d bounce off car hoods, swing from trees, make pterodactyl sounds at maximum volume. The neighbors thought we were insane. We were.
Disney cancelled Power Rangers at some point. Seventeen years it lasted. Not surprised—the show was objectively bad. Terrible writing, effects that looked like they filmed action figures in a shoebox, acting that was completely wooden. If you actually paid attention to what was happening on screen, it made zero sense. But that was never the point.
The thing that stuck was different. It was the idea that regular people could be chosen—not because they’re special or destined or born into it, but just because they happened to be in the right place at the right time and couldn’t pretend they didn’t see what needed doing. That message burrowed deep. Still there.
I remember my first girlfriend from around that time and I think of her as the yellow ranger, not for any logical reason but because of how childhood locks things together. She was yellow, I was red.
The show’s gone now, and I haven’t thought about it in years until I heard it was cancelled. But something from those afternoons stayed. The idea that you’re chosen for something whether you want it or not. That when the world gets bad enough, you don’t get to sit it out. You show up. Go or don’t, the work is still there.
Lele Saveri shot Alice waiting. That’s the concept—not metaphorically, actually waiting, dressed in Vivienne Westwood and Levi’s and Agnes B, holding a lollipop and a balloon and a cake. Somehow it’s both funny and sad, which is probably why it works.
Most fashion photographs are about confidence and movement and knowing exactly who you are. This one’s the opposite. It’s about standing still and filling time with small things—candy, props, distractions. Everyone’s been there: waiting for someone to show up, waiting for a call, waiting for something that might not come. The images are quiet, almost like still-life photographs, which makes sense for a concept about patience and impatience mixed together.
The best part is that it doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is: a moment of waiting. Not aspirational, not transcendent. Just real.
Ellen von Unwerth shot Emma Watson in vintage clothes and it actually works. There’s the immediate part—she looks good, she’s attractive—but also something smarter in the frame. Chaplin’s in there somewhere, circus melancholy, all these references that could be pretentious but somehow aren’t.
Most famous photos of attractive people try way too hard or don’t try at all. These aren’t either. Watson’s figured out how to be in front of a camera. Von Unwerth shot her with real care, real taste. The styling, the mood, the whole thing is coherent.
She’s moved completely past Potter now. These photos are proof.
There’s this video by someone called Rogue Wanda or Tim Cash where he just keeps grinning at the camera saying “Cardoor” while doing something that might be driving or might be performance art or might be the result of whatever he’s on. Like a car crash you can’t stop watching. The kind of thing where you don’t understand what you’re looking at but you also can’t look away. Makes you wonder if you should drink less beer at night.
Two in the morning, karaoke night, and I’m standing in a room full of people absolutely butchering the hits of three decades because we’ve had enough beer to think we’re incredible. The 80s, the 90s, whatever we could find—it all sounded the same when we were singing it, which is to say it all sounded terrible. We knew it was terrible. We just didn’t care.
The neighbors cared. That’s how the cops showed up.
By the time they actually got there, I wasn’t even surprised. The whole thing was inevitable. You get drunk, you sing, you get loud enough to piss off the people next door, they call it in. It’s the natural order of things. And honestly, it probably was better for everyone that it happened when it did. We would’ve kept going otherwise, kept digging deeper into our own awful versions of these songs, kept getting louder about how much we were enjoying ourselves.
The cops didn’t have to say much. They just appeared, and you understood that the night was over. Everyone scattered home, still drunk, probably still laughing about something we’d done or said. There was something right about the way it all turned out—the inevitability of it, how everything played out exactly as it should have.
I like remixes. There’s something about hearing a track you already know get pulled completely apart and rebuilt from whatever’s left. The good ones aren’t just someone layering beats over the original — they actually understand what they’re listening to. They find what’s worth keeping and make it into something else, something you want to move to or sit with late when everything feels off.
This latest batch has some solid ones. The Ting Tings, Lykke Li, MGMT, Bloc Party, Amy Winehouse. These are people who get it. You get names you recognize but they do something real with them. Some remixes are just volume — more bass, more drums, the same song turned up. These ones actually shift how the song sits in your head.
I’m pretty sure I posted something exactly like this a month or two ago. Probably did. It’s not like I’m trying to hide it. If something’s good I want to listen to it, and if I want to write about what I’m listening to, I will. There’s a Silbermond remix in here, which is exactly the kind of thing you’re supposed to pretend is uncool if you’ve got taste. But the remix doesn’t suck and Becca loves them anyway so it’s in here.
The best ones are the ones you can ignore. They’re familiar enough that you don’t have to pay attention, but strange enough that when you do, you hear something new.
Just got back from some guy’s birthday party, half-conscious, and collapsed on the couch. Turned on the TV and Metronomy’s ’A Thing For Me’ came on and grabbed me—something about it made me need to write it down right then, dead tired as I was. Shit, it’s already Sunday.
The O.C. worked because of Marissa Cooper, and Barton played her like she actually understood what it meant. Not the money or the looks—it was watching someone with everything slowly destroy herself anyway. Just degradation in slow motion, and Barton had the gravity to make it matter.
I followed her on Twitter for a while after the show ended. The normal thing where you keep tabs on someone who lived in your living room for years. She posted about winter tanking her mood and spring saving it. Made sense—Marissa was like that too, sensitive to seasons and time and deterioration. Barton seemed to get that about the character in a way that felt real.
That whole era is gone now. Different internet, different stars. But it was good.
I have his poster on my wall. That’s the whole story right there. Steve Aoki’s this American club DJ, born in Miami, raised in California, and yeah, his sister’s worth worshipping, but what destroyed me was “Pillowface and His Airplane Chronicles” — finally downloaded it last year and couldn’t stop spinning it. He took the songs I actually cared about, the ones living in my head — Justice’s “Happen,” Uffie, Peaches, Bloc Party, Franz Ferdinand — and remixed them into these devastating, gorgeous, absolutely filthy bangers. It’s like he’d somehow read my mind and figured out exactly what I needed: something to pull my heart out of indie-depression hell and make it actually feel something. Dense, gleaming club tracks that just hit right. Thinking about it gets me sweating — that deep club-floor sweat, the kind you get at 4 AM with a hundred bodies around you — and I need to sit with ice water.
She knew it would happen. Filippa Smeds had been blogging for about a year when we talked, already pulling fifty to seventy comments a post, getting features in Elle Girl, Les Mads, Metro dubbing her Stockholm’s best-dressed girl. When I asked if she’d expected any of this, she didn’t hesitate. She’d always believed her blog would get huge. There was no other choice, really—either you have it or you don’t.
That kind of certainty at nineteen, unearned by accomplishment but riding on genuine taste and presence, should probably annoy me. Somehow it doesn’t. There’s a realness to it. She’s a Lookbook.nu kid, the kind of person for whom the entire internet is a natural stage, and she carries herself like she knows the spotlight won’t leave. Every day, a little bit more famous. It’s not the work that impresses me—it’s the permission she’s given herself.
Her sources are immediate. She pulls from everywhere: rockstar girlfriends and groupies, her mom (who was basically a music-industry muse back in the day, hung out with actual Swedish musicians), the aesthetics of everyone around her who has any kind of taste. Stockholm helps—there’s something about that city that produces these people naturally, girls who seem to understand instinctively that fashion is attention in another form. Right now there’s a whole wave of that energy coming out of Sweden, and she’s riding it without being particularly grateful about it.
I asked her about the red hair. It’s obvious why—it stops you. When she was younger she hated it, wanted to disappear into the crowd like her blonde siblings. Now she understands it as an asset, the kind of thing you don’t have to earn because you’re born with it. She says it made her shy, made her hyper-aware of how she looked. That’s probably not irrelevant to the fact that she cares so much now about dressing well. You stare at yourself long enough because of something you can’t control, eventually you learn to make the staring mean something.
Her boyfriend Adam is a musician type, not a fashion person. She went to school with him, thought his hair and tight jeans were hot, so she just walked up and took him. He’s proud of her blogging but honestly doesn’t love all the attention. He’d rather have her to himself. That detail stuck with me—there’s real friction there, between what she’s built and what someone close to her actually wants.
Her parents are splitting. She might end up in her dad’s new apartment in what she says is the nicest part of Stockholm. She lived in Germany for a month, loved it, has been to Berlin three times. She loves all kinds of films—Miyazaki, Da Vinci Code, adventure stuff. Watches Miami Ink and Sex and the City. Muse is her favorite band right now but it shifts. Reads everything: Elle, Vogue, Dazed & Confused, Inked, Self Service. Actually loves magazines.
What gets to me is that she’s already got the long view. Doesn’t need the validation, though she likes it. Keeps reaching for whatever’s next. She wants to be a rockstar or treasure hunter, maybe this year, but suspects it’ll somehow come back to fashion. Doesn’t know what’s ahead but she’s certain it’ll be something. That kind of faith in yourself, at nineteen, without irony—I don’t see it much. Rare enough that I bothered to write it down.
I played that autocomplete game where you type your name plus “needs” and see what Google autocompletes it with. Mine was “Marcel needs our help.” It’s supposed to be a joke — Google already knows what you need before you do — but it landed different when I saw it. There’s something weirdly specific about what the algorithm comes up with, like it’s picking up on something real underneath all the search noise.
Vice had a photographer shoot fashion models on nitrous oxide. Maciek Pozoga got them completely gone on balloons. Which makes sense. Models are barely there anyway.
I used to mess around with nitrous at fairgrounds. Buy a balloon, stand around, wait for the lightness. That was the whole thing. No reason for it.
Fashion magazines do ridiculous things. Pools, ketchup fights, whatever. The nitrous shoot is just the latest. Keep people’s minds off and you can sell them anything.
I think about fairgrounds sometimes. How being stupid was enough back then. It didn’t mean something. Everything means something now.
Five in the morning at a club and I haven’t gotten laid. The bus guy didn’t want to come home with me. My parents burst in with a birthday cake right before things could happen. So I lock the door, kill the lights, and beat off to take the edge off.
Masturbation is probably the biggest industry in the world. Nobody wants to admit it but the internet is basically a massive porn library with Wikipedia attached. I bought Bravo every week in school just to see naked teenagers talking about losing their virginity. You can order dildos from the catalog. It’s the most obvious thing on Earth.
But what do I actually think about when I’m alone? Is it the celebrity thing everyone supposedly fantasizes about? Or is it something else—an ex, someone I saw in class, my teacher, some guy from a café, just a random person I passed on the street? Is it something that actually happened or something I made up? A bed or somewhere weirder? It changes depending on my mood, the time of day, whatever.
What goes through your head in those moments is probably as varied as the number of people alive. Everyone’s thinking about something different, doing something different. And we know it’s not actually damaging—no hair on your palms, no degrading your spine. So you do what works, as many times as it takes.
Eventually I close the laptop and get out of the apartment. Go back to the bar or the club. Get some new material. Get some actual human interaction, hopefully. Get the lights off and start the whole thing over again.
Evan left SuicideGirls before I noticed her, but I remember the one set she posted. Red hair against a matching background, and something about it just clicked. People were still talking about it months later, which is odd for a single photo, but that was the thing—one moment, perfectly timed, and then she was gone before anything could dull it.
She had potential, which probably explains why she didn’t stick around. The smart move is usually to leave before the feeling gets old. She was at the Captivity premiere party too, so she had her own path going. Modeling for other photographers now, which is fine. There’s something to being remembered for a single perfect moment instead of becoming just another name in the archive.
Spring comes whether the weather’s cooperating or not, and with it the usual cascade—couples in parks, regrettable club decisions, the whole seasonal push toward sentiment. I’m not immune. So when Tamar’s “Purified” started circling my head, all black and white and dead serious about love’s power to remake you, I believed it. Completely. For at least three minutes.
She’s 21, from California, and doesn’t flinch. The ballad just sits there, stark and committed, refusing to undercut itself. Which works if you meet it halfway, if you’re in the right frame to let something sincere be sincere.
There’s an odd vulnerability in a song this earnest when you’ve built skepticism as your main defense. You go in half-expecting to stay detached and somewhere in those three minutes you’re actually feeling it. Spring probably deserves some blame—the season softens you, makes you permeable whether you want it to or not.
Love doesn’t fix anything material. Doesn’t matter in the larger scheme. But you listen anyway, and by the end you’re more open than you were. That’s what “Purified” understands—that you don’t need to change the world to be changed by something. You just need to let yourself be moved.
Grabbed the DS remake of Chrono Trigger after hours of trudging through the Berlin rain. Got home soaked through, turned it on before I even changed, and fell straight back in. Three seconds and I’d remembered every path, every detail—the weight of that whole world.
I was thirteen when I played the original on my SNES. The save system was broken, or I couldn’t figure it out, so I just stayed up and played through the entire thing in one long push. Three days and nights without sleeping, basically. That’s the kind of thing that burns itself into your brain at that age—you have nowhere to be, nothing else to do, so the game becomes the entire world. Soundtrack. Characters. Every detail.
I rename them as I go through this time. I’m Marcel. Becca gets to be the character with actual agency, which tracks because she’s my friend and she actually makes things. Hannah’s the spoiled princess. The frog I still haven’t named. Frog’s too obvious, but maybe that’s okay.
Every month I hit the magazine stand to see what’s actually being printed, what’s fighting to survive, what magazines still have anything to say. This time I flipped through Cooler—Australian surf photography, Kjersti Buaas and snowboards, Juliet Elliott in a photo shoot with her arm in a sling and somehow still making it work. Nylon had Kristen Stewart on the cover, and at least they let her say the obvious: nobody should wear what fashion magazines recommend. That’s honest.
NEON does their earnest thing—big questions about ambition and feelings, the kind of content that used to feel like counterculture and now just feels like they’re trying really hard. VICE though. VICE is still doing actual work. Penis-shaped mushrooms. White Lung, these Vancouver punk guys. Some guy who’s been making a Polaroid every single day for eighteen years. And Richard Kern photographing Laura naked in completely mundane moments—brushing her teeth, sitting on the toilet. That’s what magazine content should be.
Then Blonde came back. The magazine itself, not the concept. It’s rebranded as BlondE now, all glossed up and trying to occupy some mainstream-friendly space. Someone wrote in about finding it in their mailbox: “I can’t believe what showed up. BlondE is just another high-gloss fashion magazine, totally neutered. They’re writing about Copenhagen being the new Stockholm like we haven’t all read that ten times already. If I want to dress against the grain, I don’t need a magazine that takes what’s actually interesting and repackages it as tabloid generalization for people who think they’re rebels. It’s basically the Bild for fashion.”
That’s what came back. A magazine zombie—mutated, sanitized, running on fumes. All the actual content gone, just the glossy shell of something that used to matter. Every magazine either dies or comes back worse. The ones that stay dead have the right idea.
Leos Carax and Michel Gondry made a film together called Tokyo. Two filmmakers with completely different visual languages meeting over the same subject—you notice that kind of pairing.
Hannah from Munich sent me a video of herself walking through her apartment, waving at the camera. Watch it and you’d think she’s on something—Red Bull, caffeine pills, something that keeps you moving at that speed. Energy practically vibrating off the screen, everything sharp and bright. But that’s just how she is. Hannah runs like that naturally, no artificial boost, no false enthusiasm. That’s her baseline.
There’s something refreshing about someone who doesn’t calibrate their presence for an audience, who just sends you something personal and lets it land. No performance, no calculation. When someone does that, you feel like you’re actually being thought of.
I didn’t hunt for the hidden cars she apparently put in the video. The gift was simpler—someone taking time to film their own space and show you, to wave across the distance. The apartment, the energy, the attention. That was enough.
I didn’t care when GIGA shut down. One less shit TV channel in the world, big deal. By 2006, when Green and Realm ended, I’d already made my peace with the whole thing. Wasn’t planning to think about it again. Then today I went back and watched some old clips from those years, and something in my chest just opened up. Tears and everything.
GIGA was never just a channel about games and computers. It was like family. Those hosts felt closer than anyone should on television, and there was nowhere safer than that improvised insanity on the green channel. I’d come home from school and lose hours just watching them. Étienne flipping off his chair like gravity was a rumor. The fire alarm cutting through the studio and everyone scrambling out in actual panic. Daniel’s face when he thought something had gone wrong. Budi charging in dressed as a cheerleader like it made perfect sense. Your brain lighting up at weird hours trying to decode whatever Jana Inavorlas was recommending.
We were nerds, the audience was nerds, the channel was nerds. But it was fun. It was real. Genuinely special—nothing to do with ratings, nothing to do with profit, nothing to do with any of the rot. For a while, anyway. Those were good years with that fat green G, and I’m keeping them like that: chaotic, alive, full of surprises. Goodbye.
I released a bunch of WordPress themes the other day. Eleven total, five new ones, all free. They’re not perfect—I went through them once, there’s definitely stuff that needs fixing, the customization can be a pain depending on what you’re trying to do. That’s kind of the feature, not the bug.
There’s something honest about putting out work that’s still rough, that needs someone else’s hands on it to become what it’s supposed to be. You’re not selling perfection; you’re handing someone the structure and letting them make it their own. Some people want everything finished and ready to go. Fine. But others like to tinker, customize, turn your sketch into something specific to their needs. Those are the people I think about when I make stuff like this.
Tools that aren’t perfect have to trust the person using them. You’re not claiming to know the final answer; you’re just saying here’s the frame, now build your house.
There’s something about Caleb Followill’s voice that just works. It’s got this worn-in quality, like he’s been screaming into a microphone in dive bars for years, which I guess he has. Kings of Leon came up in that era when rock bands were supposed to have something to prove, and Followill’s delivery had real hunger in it—not performative, just genuinely hoarse and present.
“Use Somebody” is the obvious one, the song that got them everywhere. It’s a perfect pop-rock structure if you strip away the earnestness: big hooks, a chorus that builds, that propulsive rhythm. But what works is how much restraint lives in it. It’s not trying to overwhelm you. Followill’s voice cracks a little, stays intimate even when the whole thing blooms out. The lyrics are simple enough—wanting to be wanted, the specific ache of needing someone who sees you. Everyone gets that. That’s why it stuck around.
I went back to this song recently for the first time in years, and it still holds up. Not because it’s clever or groundbreaking, but because it’s got sincerity without being sappy, and Followill commits to every line like it matters. That’s the thing about Kings of Leon that people sleep on now—they were always better than they needed to be, even when they were just making radio hits. There’s craft underneath the accessibility. You can hear it in the production, in how the song builds, in when Followill pulls back and when he lets it rip.
The band peaked somewhere around here, maybe a little after. They got bigger and slicker, and something about that rawness got sanded down. But this song—this one’s got all the DNA you need. It sounds like wanting something you might not get, and knowing that you’re going to want it anyway. That doesn’t change.
Safari’s new beta just came out and I’ve spent the last couple hours diving into it. The startup screen shows your most-visited sites, which is convenient enough—if you just want to get back to wherever you always go, it’s right there. CoverFlow’s integrated, search suggestions work better than before, the whole thing feels noticeably faster and more stable. It’s one of those updates that makes you wonder what they were waiting for.
But on first launch, Safari displays your complete browser history right there on the home screen. Every website you actually visit, ranked by how often you’ve been there. In my case this happened to be a very comprehensive collection of pornography, meticulously ranked by frequency. Just completely unfiltered and on display, like the browser was offering up my actual habits without any pretense.
There’s something almost honest about that. And something else that makes you immediately want to delete everything and maybe find some kind of support group. I haven’t done either yet, so I guess I’m fine with it.
I made the mistake of letting Lovers Electric play in the background. Just once. “Could This Be” — Australian pop that sounds like the Ting Tings filtered through pure sugar and ketchup. Now that “bababababa” hook is in my head and I can’t get it out.
The band looks exactly like they sound: engineered cuteness, everything designed for maximum grip. The song doesn’t waste time on anything that isn’t functional. Bright production, vocals that sit between sincere and performed, a melody so simple it rewires your brain on the first listen. They made something that works, and they knew it would.
There’s something almost respectable about that level of confidence. No artistic justification, no apologizing for what it is — just pop machinery doing what it does best. The song exists to get under your skin, and it accomplishes this with complete conviction.
Now I’m stuck humming “bababababa” in the shower, which is exactly what Lovers Electric intended. I resent that they succeeded. I resent that I respect it.
On this brutally cold Sunday, I’m bundled up with hot chocolate while a kid reads from a cat book. She keeps stopping to shout ’BOM CHICKA WOW WOW!!’ with complete earnestness, and it’s perfectly absurd—something about a tiny person saying something ridiculous just works.
The pussy joke is old. Everyone knows I’m talking about actual cats. They’re cute and soft when they’re small, then they grow into indifferent creatures who barely remember you. That’s the deal.
Hannah’s at Carnival getting wasted, and I’m supposed to be finishing a project I’ve procrastinated on for a year. The muse wasn’t cooperative back then, so I’ve given up explaining it. Today, I needed this instead—the cold outside, the warmth inside, the kid repeating this phrase like it’s the funniest thing alive. It’s absurd. That’s enough.
I was flipping through Computer Arts—they’ve got this whole series on starting your own creative studio, seven pages about design and web and illustration and how to do it right. Supposedly my plan at some point, London or Tokyo or whenever I finally pull the trigger. But you read through all that and what do you actually get? Contacts. Vitamin B. Connections. One word. That’s the whole thing.
Everything else is just the machinery built around that one fact. The website, the social media, showing up to every event, the constant low-level networking—it’s all in service of knowing the right people. So you go to the stupid parties and you work the room and you collect numbers and you’re always running that calculation underneath: useful or not useful, leverage or dead weight. You can’t unsee it once you realize that’s what everyone’s doing.
But I already knew that, I think. Somewhere deep down I knew that’s why I maintain a website and post things and show up to industry events and keep in touch with people I barely remember. It’s all calculated, even when it feels organic. Everyone’s playing the same game. You make a move, you see what sticks, you position yourself for what comes next. The whole thing’s grotesque once you look at it head-on.
So now I’m supposed to have a strategy. A five-year plan. Presumably I’ll be drunk on someone’s couch in five years, which technically counts as networking. And here’s what nobody puts in these articles—you don’t actually need to speak Japanese to start a business there. Which opens up a lot of possibilities.
Lucas from Buenos Aires saw a photo online—red hair, freckles, a moment captured by some photographer named Oceanwave and posted on Flickr. He wants to find her. Doesn’t have a name, doesn’t know anything about her except what’s in that image. So he’s asking if anyone knows who she is. He’s asking me to ask you.
There’s something about that kind of desperation that I recognize. You see someone once, maybe in person, maybe just in a photograph, and they lodge in your head. Not because you actually know them, but because of something about how they looked—the way the light hit their face, an expression, the freckles. You don’t know their name, but you can’t stop thinking about them. So you do something that feels humiliating and hopeful at the same time: you ask strangers for help.
I did that once. Posted a message about someone I kept thinking about, basically begging the internet to help me find them. It didn’t work right away. Two years later, they messaged me out of nowhere. Turned out they’d seen the post. We talked a little and then didn’t. The moment had already passed by then.
But I didn’t regret it. And I think Lucas won’t either, whether he finds her or not. You ask. You see what happens. The rest is out of your hands.
Winter outside—storm, snow, everything gone to shit. I’m inside and somehow getting colder just thinking about it. Then Shiny Toy Guns comes on, and honestly, you’ve got to love a band with that name. Their song “You Are The One” has this electronic weight underneath that doesn’t exactly warm you, but it carries you through the gray afternoon when nothing else will. It sweetens the day, or at least makes the cold a bit easier to sit with.
All I can hope for now is spring coming soon and tearing the clothes off.
I was sketching in a café last week - nothing important, just working through a visual problem. Nobody was looking. The sketches were garbage. But something about being present for that felt real in a way other things don’t.
That’s what Yoko’s talking about when she describes artists as trees in the park, making the city breathe better just by existing. You don’t need an audience for what you do to matter.
I read her letter to young artists every few years now. At 20 it sounded like motivational poster bullshit. Now, having made thousands of things most people will never see, it makes sense. Your work affects the world whether the world notices or not.
The way she describes it, there’s a feedback loop - you give something out, it comes back tenfold. I used to think it was mystical. She’s just talking about integrity. If you’re honest in what you make, you feel different after. More honest. If you’re faking it, you feel hollow. The world doesn’t judge you. You judge yourself.
I’ve been at this for twenty years. Most of it disappears. Some deliberately - private work, sketches, problems I’m working through. Some just gets lost. I don’t differentiate anymore. It’s all real if you care about it while you’re doing it.
She keeps congratulating people for choosing to be an artist, but you don’t choose it. You find out one day that you need to make things or you’ll lose your mind. And then you do it whether anyone’s listening. That’s the only condition that matters.
Ely Kim spent a hundred days dancing to a hundred different songs at a hundred different locations. The video is hypnotic in the most straightforward way—no edits, no tricks, just him moving to song after song in parking lots, rooftops, apartments, streets. He’s a chubby American guy with tastes that don’t apologize, and the website that came with the project makes that clear.
What strikes me is the absence of irony. He decided to do this and then did it, without hedging or performance. Some of these dances are beautiful, most awkward, all marked by repetition. You can feel the fatigue by day seventy or eighty, the weight of doing the same thing over and over, and he keeps going anyway.
The website is exactly what you’d expect—strange, specific, unfiltered. That matters. Not because it’s daring, but because it’s genuinely weird in a way that real people are weird when they’re not curating themselves.
I found this somewhere and couldn’t stop watching. The whole thing is deadpan—no manifesto, no explanation, just someone who said they’d do something and did it. Follow-through like that is uncommon enough to be worth noticing.
Darwin Dating only accepts the most conventionally beautiful people in the world. You apply by confirming you don’t have acne, cellulite, sagging skin, stretch marks, too much body hair, unibrows, freckles, or red hair. Ten people supposedly made it through the filter.
The joke is how ugly the website is. These perfect human specimens ended up on what looks like someone’s first web design project. The whole thing is built on ruthless aesthetic filtering, and apparently that didn’t extend to, you know, making something that doesn’t look terrible.
Everyone applying knows what they’re actually trying to prove: that they’re one of the ten. Not meeting anyone. Not connection. Just the achievement of passing the checklist. That’s the real product here — the status of being filtered in.
You’re reducing a person down to a list of things you don’t have. No acne. No freckles. No red hair. Trying to engineer a human through subtraction. And the site that hosts all this algorithmic purity looks like it was built in 1997.
Summer 2009, and The Pirate Bay was in a Swedish courtroom. Somewhere in Europe I was downloading a TV series that wouldn’t air for six months, maybe a year, maybe never in any form I actually wanted. The studios controlled everything—when you could watch it, what language it came in, which territories got what. The Pirate Bay made it irrelevant.
They’d already said it wouldn’t matter. The verdict, the fine, the whole trial—the site would stay up. There was something defiant about it, the kind of stance that makes you feel like the internet is still a place where you can push back.
I was downloading music that iTunes didn’t have in my region. Software. New albums leaked before release. The speed and ease of it felt like freedom, or like pointing a finger at every corporation pretending they got to control culture. You couldn’t buy half the things you wanted. So you took them.
The copyright industry was terrified. They’d killed Napster. They’d won every battle anyone could see. But the war just shifted formats. Every service they shut down spawned three more. The Pirate Bay was the visible head—take it down and you save the entertainment industry. That’s what the trial was supposed to prove.
It proved nothing. The site’s still there. The precedent didn’t stick. Instead streaming happened—Netflix, Spotify, all of it—and the studios got rich anyway because people were willing to pay once things were actually available. The Pirate Bay became irrelevant not because they lost in court, but because the business model they exposed won. Convenient access at a reasonable price beat piracy every time.
But there was a moment when it felt dangerous, when downloading felt like the future was being decided in real time. Now it’s just nostalgia. The pirates were right about the problem and right about what would solve it—they just didn’t get to run the solution.
My knee was scraped raw against the concrete. The pavement flew past so fast I turned the blood into spotted abstract art. “Marcel, run faster, man, before those assholes catch us,” someone yelled. I could see Eniz and Ali ahead of me in the dark. We jumped fences, climbed hedges, ran down streets I didn’t even know existed. I had no idea if they were still chasing us or if we’d lost them somewhere in the last fifteen minutes of chaos, but my lungs were burning and I limped the last stretch to the playground gate. We climbed into the little house on the slide and collapsed into each other. I could hear their hearts pounding as loud as mine. Fireflies drifted around us in that eerie moonlight. We crouched there in total silence for minutes, just staring at each other, not moving, until dark shapes came running through the gate screaming our names and laughing, throwing their arms around us. It was them. The ZSC. My best friends.
It was the hottest night of that summer, and the millennium was about to change everything. Almost ten years ago now. I’m lying in bed and just before sleep drags me under, I think about that time with this ache in my chest. The intensity of it. How completely it shaped me. I close my eyes and I’m back on the couch with the crew playing video games, or I’m in a tent by a fire with Eniz and me kissing Anja, or we’re jumping off a cliff into the gravel pit, breaking into camper vans, fucked up behind a building with Kerstin and Mela, and it’s all happening at once, no time between any of it. Years when we felt invincible, when we swore it would always be like this, that we’d never let the world make us smaller, that everything we did meant something eternal.
Those summers were the most alive I’ve ever felt. You don’t get that back. Some days I can barely remember what it felt like, and other days it’s so sharp I can taste it.
When I’m deep in my own head and the old songs come on, I imagine waking up on our meadow. All my people standing over me asking if I’m okay, if I got hit in the head or something. And suddenly the whole ten years since that moment never happened — it was all just playing out in my head while I was lying there. But there’s no time to process it because I’m already chasing Sabse and Onur, everyone laughing, I’m grabbing a cheap drink from the discount store and we’re heading to the lake. And as I’m jumping into the cold water with all of them at the same moment, I’m thinking about Becca, about Berlin, about everything that came after. And I’m grateful — genuinely grateful — that this is just a dream.
The video for Peter Björn and John’s “Nothing to Worry About” is completely unhinged in the best way. These greasy pseudo-yakuzas are out cruising hot cars in broad daylight, jumping around on playgrounds with the kind of swagger that only works if you commit to the absurdity. The whole thing is shot so matter-of-factly that the weirdness just sits there perfectly.
There’s this beautiful joke running through it where these tough guys clearly have a curfew—they need to be home before the Sandman comes, like they’re kids. The song matches the video’s energy: goofy, weird, completely committed. If you’ve got a taste for absurd Japanese pop culture, this is basically made for you.
Becca came through the city over the weekend and completely ran me into the ground. We pushed through Corpse Bride in chunks—Tim Burton’s whole death-and-devotion thing playing while I got progressively more glazed. Then we made this ugly beautiful seafood situation baked with cheese and potatoes, the kind that tastes better than it looks. Shisha after that, drinks, music I’d picked specifically for the night.
This kind of exhaustion is different from the usual stuff. Not tired-from-work tired, not the dragged-down feeling of screens. It’s the specific emptiness that comes from actually being present and social and attentive for forty-eight hours straight. Your mind just stops defending itself.
I’m lying on the floor staring at the ceiling until The Simpsons comes on, and I might not have the energy to actually watch it. This is where things stand.
One moment. That’s all it takes to stop being a person and start being a problem. Kill a president—could be an accident. Sleep with the mob boss’s daughter and watch his guys fire up the acid. Synthesize an HIV cure in your kitchen and suddenly you’re worth more dead to the pharmaceutical industry than any disease is. Whatever it is, if it’s serious enough, you stop existing as a human being. You just disappear.
Real disappearing. Not the kind where you change your job or move cities. Complete. Total. Erased.
First thing: drain the bank account. Destroy the phone. Pack what fits in a bag and drive to the airport. Everything else stays. The clothes, the photos, the old accounts where you said stupid things or thought nobody would ever look—leave it all alone. Don’t delete anything. Deletion patterns can be traced. Just walk away and pretend those things belong to a different person, because they do now. That person is dead.
You pick a country that doesn’t care who anyone is. No ID requirements. Somewhere you never wanted to go. Somewhere you don’t speak the language. You get on a plane and when you land, you become someone else.
New hair. New color. Contacts for your eyes. Different walk. Different everything. If you have money, go to a surgeon and get your face worked on. Buy clothes you’d never normally wear—they’re costumes and they should feel like it. That style you spent years building, the thing that makes you recognizable? Burn it. It’s gone.
The internet is finished. Leave your old accounts up—social media, email, whatever. Don’t touch them, don’t close them. Touching them creates a pattern. Your family exists in a different world now. Your girlfriend will probably end up with your best friend. Your mother will somehow understand that you still care even though you can’t call her. But you can’t reach them. You can’t look at old photos. You can’t know what they’re doing. They’re dead to you now.
Now you build a new person from nothing. A name that doesn’t mean anything. A fake history that has nothing to do with your real life—memorize it like a script, so well that you believe it. You get a job. Something small and forgettable. Warehouse work. Kitchen. Cleaning. You move through it like you’re barely there. You become someone people forget about the day they meet you.
If you do this right—if you don’t get weak, if you don’t try to check on people you care about, if you don’t slip up—you might actually survive. You might keep moving from city to city as a ghost that nobody has a name for. Or your neighbor turns out to know somebody, and you end up on a videotape somewhere, and then it all unravels. But if you’re disciplined enough, if you stay invisible and keep moving, nobody ever catches up. Nobody ever knows you were here at all.
That’s your new life. No past. No connections. No tomorrow beyond today. Just the next moment, the next city, the next false name. And if you manage not to break, if you stay hard and stay moving, you disappear completely and nobody ever has to know you existed.
Found Scoli in that endless scroll of internet subculture, one of those profiles that actually looked like a person instead of a brand. Tattoos, deliberately messy hair, the confidence to get fake breasts and not perform shame about it. The music taste made sense — Against Me!, Queen, Foreigner, the kind of range that suggests someone who actually listens instead of curates. But the Bob Ross thing is what caught me. I used to do the same thing at odd hours, just sit with his voice and watch him paint things that made him happy. Having that as a hero says something about wanting to build instead of just rage, or maybe just needing that slowness as ballast.
Pete Doherty was on it. Lily Allen. Ladyhawke doing that synth thing I could listen to forever. And Sigur Rós—”Saeglopur”—starting as almost nothing, just this quiet moment, before it opens into what feels like a gentle emotional explosion.
There’s something about gathering songs together, seeing which ones want to sit next to each other. Not a concept, not a theme, just what speaks to what. You start to understand your own listening better—what you’ve actually been drawn to, what’s been orbiting your head. The songs tell you things about yourself you didn’t quite know.
The next one’s supposed to have the Bee Gees and ABBA. I’m only halfway joking.
The season’s here. Every year the exact same thing—girls getting remade on camera, the internet screaming about tits and drama, and I’m sitting here too. Tessa’s my favorite so far. There’s a blonde I wanted further who’s made it through another round.
What I’m actually watching for is the moment someone breaks completely. Not the fake tears—the real thing. Throwing up during bungee jumping. A genuine meltdown before they can edit it out. It’s a garbage reason to care about a show like this, but it’s why I tune in.
I’m at the window when I look up from the screen and see my reflection in the glass. Idiot.
I found Favtape last week — a website that does something charmingly specific: it picks one song for every year from 1901 to now. 1956 gets Elvis. 1987 gets Van Halen. No reasoning, no essays about why, just the song and the year. The interface is a grid that mimics the old Muxtape design, which feels appropriate for a site that’s basically one very long mixtape.
I can’t stop clicking through it. There’s something compelling about the specificity of the conceit — someone actually sat down and made a choice for every year. Not a playlist, not a top ten, just one song per year. You know it’s wrong, obviously. You know there’s no such thing as a definitive song for 1934, but the fact that the choice exists at all is weirdly hypnotic.
Scrolling through years you weren’t alive for — 1952, 1968, 1975 — you start imagining what those times sounded like. The curators are probably full of shit, but it doesn’t matter. You’re looking at their narrative about how music changed, one year at a time, like someone making a mixtape for history itself. And you can’t help building your own story on top of theirs.
I don’t think I’ve actually discovered anything new from it. It’s not useful in that way. But there’s something satisfying about a website that exists just to make a specific, slightly absurd choice and then let you live inside it for a while. That’s all it has to do.
So there’s this Japanese company that literally turned work into an RPG. Not as some clever metaphor—actually, genuinely, in the most literal way possible.
Everyone starts at level 1. You grind your job—hit your targets, work overtime, maximize bonuses—and you rack up experience points. Those points become promotions, Amazon gift cards, actual salary increases. The surreal bit: your point total displays on your desk in huge numbers where everyone can see it. When you level up, the whole office hears a congratulations fanfare. An actual sound effect celebrating your progression to level 17 or whatever.
I genuinely don’t know if this is brilliant or dystopian, but there’s something oddly honest about it. Work is literally just accumulation and progression, so why pretend? At least everyone knows the rules. At least you get that immediate feedback, that dopamine hit when the fanfare plays. It’s way more satisfying than the vague nightmare of performance metrics and waiting to see if anyone noticed you did good.
The gamer part of my brain keeps imagining the cursed castle is the office, the Princess is your project manager, and Epona is whatever sanity you’ve got left. But honestly, the system works. You’re grinding toward something visible and quantifiable. Everyone hears that fanfare when you level up. It’s bullshit progression, sure, but at least it’s upfront about it.
MGMT’s “Time To Pretend” is the kind of song that works like an emergency button, the one you hit when the day decides to just go completely sideways. I’ve got it loaded for the specific moment when it’s cold outside and your mood’s stuck somewhere dark and you need something to jar you loose. The production has this almost manic momentum, all synth and forward thrust, and there’s something about how it’s built that just forces you out of whatever you’re trapped in.
It lives in the same category as “Be The One” by The Ting Tings—immediate, architecturally designed to snap you out of it. Not because either song means anything profound or because you need to think about the lyrics. It’s almost chemical. The tempo and arrangement are just built to burn through whatever’s in the way.
I should probably make a proper playlist out of these, the kind of thing someone could actually use as a toolkit. But in the meantime, if you’re having one of those days where nothing seems to shift, this one’s worth keeping around. Just play it and don’t overthink it.
Three naked people wake up in a forest surrounded by creatures that aren’t quite human. This is the We Are Wolves video for “Coconut Night,” and it’s genuinely unsettling in a deadpan way—not trying to scare you, just strange. The costumes are clearly handmade and cheap, but that’s exactly what makes them work. Wrong without being slick about it.
The video has a simple, cyclical logic. The three wander through the woods. The creatures circle them. Then it becomes clear this is a ritual, and it escalates toward sacrifice. Triangular holes open in their chests—like that section in the Lufia games where everything turns ceremonial and dark. And then it resets. The same loop again.
I’m not sure what any of it means, which might be the whole point. We Are Wolves is a Canadian indie rock band, and I don’t know their catalog well enough to know if this weirdness is their standard thing or a one-off detour. But whatever it is, the video stays with you. It doesn’t feel like it’s trying to be unsettling, which somehow makes it more unsettling. That kind of unadorned strangeness doesn’t leave easily.
There’s thousands of news stories every day. British teens spending hours on porn, world records for breasts, a twelve-year-old supposedly dying of joy over Lego. Spiegel, Twitter, the whole endless machine—politics, culture, business, nothing stops. But does any of it actually improve your life, or is it just noise filling your head?
Doc Dart used to sing for Crucifucks. Goes by 26 now. According to VICE (and as everyone knows, they always tell the absolute truth), he decided to completely check out. Doesn’t want to know anything about the world. Doesn’t care who the president is, whether there’s a war in Gaza, what’s happening in China—genuinely doesn’t give a shit. If you try to tell him something, he covers his ears.
Which made me wonder: what happens when you actually stop? Do you just miss some jokes at parties? Does your brain get slower? Do you turn into a hermit in your own head, making up news to fill the void? Does the silence eventually make you lose it?
Thirty days without news seemed like the test to try. No politics, no culture, no anything. Just silence.
But then it gets complicated. What counts as news? Does a text from a friend count? Something you overhear? How wide do you cast the net? And would it even matter—would you actually feel different? Would you notice?
I don’t know. The whole thing’s probably stupid. But I keep thinking about it anyway.
We ran this desktop contest and the submissions just kept coming—way more than either of us expected. Hannah and I spent forever going through them trying to find the one that had it all, the one with actual charm and whatever makes something just work right.
It was macScrubs. His setup had David Lanham’s icons, a wallpaper that actually belonged there, the whole thing clean and right in a way that made forty-five other entries fade into nothing. He didn’t hurt himself by being charming about it either. Sometimes that’s the skill—knowing what looks good and not being afraid to own it.
The prize is a photo. Signed by Hannah and me. A perverted one, because why would it be anything else. Better pull your pants off now while you can still think straight, because this isn’t coming off your wall. Congrats.
I can’t stop listening to this. Sent “Be The One” to Hannah months back and she was lukewarm, but I’m completely obsessed. Five times a day minimum. It just triggers this enormous joy that I can’t explain. When I think about that NEON review trashing them, I want to puke. They’re brilliant, and anyone who doesn’t get it shouldn’t be writing about pop. Which should be obvious. But I’m the only one who feels this way, and that’s fine.
Came across Majiya on SuicideGirls one afternoon — twenty-four, eight piercings, loves The Simpsons and chocolate, hates rotten oranges. She seemed like an actual person.
It wasn’t just the look. She had actual opinions and preferences — a personality underneath the aesthetic. Most profiles feel like performance, but hers felt like life.
It’s rare on a site like that. Usually it’s just the image. But when you find someone who actually exists underneath it, someone real, well, that’s worth your time.
You spend sixteen hours a day looking at a rectangle. That’s your desktop. So naturally people go a bit insane trying to make it perfect.
I’ve always been curious what that obsession reveals. The wallpaper choice, the arrangement of applications, the theme someone picks, the utilities they actually use versus the ones they installed and forgot about. It’s a small window into how someone thinks and works. Some people keep it sparse, almost aggressive in its emptiness. Some people customize until it’s intricate and strange. Neither is wrong. The sparse desktop says “I know exactly what I need.” The layered one says “I’ve thought about this.”
There’s something about that space that’s different from everything else. Your home is your castle or whatever, but your desktop is closer—it’s the interface between you and your entire world, sixteen hours a day. And unlike your home, you can’t escape it. Can’t take a walk away from it. It’s just there, constantly, the rectangle you stare at more than anything else in your life.
What gets me is that it’s genuinely personal. Not personal like a social media profile, which is performed. Not personal like a bedroom, which is for other people to see. Your desktop is private. Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s going to judge you for the wallpaper or the icons or the weird plugin you installed three years ago. It’s just you and the thing you’re looking at.
I used Hillary the Mammal as a wallpaper for a while. Completely random choice. Felt right in the moment. Means nothing, probably reveals nothing, but it’s the kind of small decision that makes a desktop feel like yours instead of a stock installation.
The thing about desktop customization is that it’s one of the last places where you get to design entirely for yourself. No algorithm, no audience, no performance. Just the question: what makes you want to look at this eight hours a day? And then you do that. That’s it.
I didn’t know Manicure before this. No idea who they were or where they came from. The video credits are all Russian names, so I’m guessing Moscow area, but that’s just speculation. “Another Girl” is straightforward post-punk in the British style—all lean and dark. What’s strange is how well it works despite the band barely speaking a word of English. I’ve already played it three times in a row and that’s no accident.
Nick makes mixtapes for his ex and never stops. It’s the most futile romantic gesture—she’s moved on, she barely listens—but when you’re that far gone it makes perfect sense. That’s how “Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist” opens: not with a declaration but with someone stuck in a loop, making art for a ghost.
Norah finds one of those mixtapes. She doesn’t know who made it but she’s been listening obsessively, and when she runs into Nick at a concert neither of them realizes they’re already in love. The whole night unfolds from there—running through New York, following a band, the usual rom-com architecture but with real texture underneath.
What the film gets right is the insomnia of meeting someone new. That electric exhaustion where you know it’s probably nothing but you’re completely convinced for these few hours that something’s actually happening. You’ll both go back to your lives tomorrow. You’ll text maybe once. But right now the whole night feels consequential.
His band is genuinely good, which sounds incidental but it’s everything. The songs aren’t there to manipulate you into feeling something—they just exist, and the film lets you listen. That restraint matters.
The mixtape as a love language is what really lands. It’s the most teenage confession possible: everything you can’t say compressed into a sequence of songs in a specific order. Not subtle. Not clever. Just your brain handed over, hoping the other person gets the architecture of it. Nick’s doing it all wrong—pining for someone who’s moved on—but the gesture itself, the care in the curation, that’s what Norah recognizes before she even meets him.
I watched it knowing I’d want to show it to someone I was trying to convince or impress or keep around. Knowing it wouldn’t actually help, knowing I’d be left with that ache—this desire to believe maybe you’re Nick, maybe you get your night in the city, maybe the mixtape actually works. It probably won’t. But the film makes you believe it anyway, at least while you’re watching.
I heard The View somewhere in one of those nights when everyone’s too drunk and the music just keeps playing—”Same Jeans,” “Wasted Little DJ’s” on repeat. Kyle Falconer’s singing grabbed me immediately, this dirty Scottish accent that sounds like he’s been smoking and drinking his whole life, which he probably has. I went all in, the way you do when the timing feels right and the whiskey’s helping. When their new album came out, I was already waiting for it.
Then I listened to it. And it was shit. Sounded like they’d already said the interesting things on the first record and were just repeating themselves, only worse. Derivative. Safe. I put it away and went back to other stuff.
But then there was this Thursday in Berlin, the kind of weather that makes you feel like something’s about to happen. Walking to the U-Bahn, The View came through my headphones—Falconer singing about a sunny day—and I just kept listening. Somewhere between the first track and the fourth, I realized I’d been wrong. Completely wrong. “Which Bitch?” wasn’t what I’d decided it was. It’s sharp, built from something real—that sound that makes you feel like you’re sitting in a shitty pub at the end of a day that mattered, drinking something that tastes like what it should.
Songs like “Give Back The Sun” and “Unexpected” make sense now. They were always there. I just wasn’t hearing them the first time.
Most supermodels looked hollowed out, like the personality had been surgically removed for better bone structure. Lily Cole was different — twenty, English, completely arresting in a way that didn’t follow any template. Red hair, pale skin, the kind of presence that can’t be manufactured.
I saw her in Sally Potter’s Rage when it played Berlin in 2009. No idea what the plot was about. Didn’t matter — just watching her move through the frame was the whole point.
There’s something rare about finding actual character in a system designed to grind it out of everyone. She made everything else look worse by comparison, not through effort, just by existing. Proof the whole thing didn’t have to be as soulless as it always seemed.
I’ve had M83’s “We Own The Sky” on my iPod for what feels like months, playing it constantly. The song builds these massive synth swells that feel like they’re going to crack open into something apocalyptic or transcendent, then they just keep building instead. That’s the whole appeal, really.
The video’s from Matei-Alexandru Mocanu, some Romanian director I hadn’t come across before, and there’s this patience to it that matches the song—long shots, deliberate pacing, a kind of stillness. Together they create something that just works, the kind of thing you keep reaching for without being able to explain why.
Looking back at everything written about Lindsay Lohan, someone should actually stand up for her instead of just piling on. Yeah, she did the drugs, the drunk driving, all of it, but who hasn’t been stupid in their twenties? The difference is your failures weren’t stalked by paparazzi. She’s difficult now, her music got bad, she got scary thin. But that’s not the whole picture.
What actually matters is what she did in those moments that counted—how she landed in that vicious friend group in the movie before she figured out who actually cared, that heartbreaking song for her father, the body-swap film that was funny and sad and weirdly smart. She was genuinely talented at those things. That’s not nothing.
And I’m not going to pretend that’s my whole reason for thinking about her right now. There’s the matter of those freckles scattered all over her face and shoulders, little brown spots that somehow work perfectly. The color, the distribution, the way light hits them in certain pictures. It’s one of those things that probably sounds absurd to say out loud but there it is, and I’m saying it anyway.
So I’m not apologizing for it. She’s great. The work holds up. Those freckles do what they do. And I’m keeping those pictures.
Asobi Seksu is Japanese for casual sex, which is the right band name for a New York indie rock group. Yuki Chikudate’s voice drifts through their songs without pushing, half-singing, half-thinking out loud.
The video for “Me & Mary” came with illustrations by Dan-ah Kim from Brooklyn. The drawings aren’t just there to look nice—they’re actually listening to the song, both of them loose and sketchy and casual about space. There’s something good about visuals that don’t explain the music, just sit alongside it.
I have no idea if this band meant much outside a specific New York moment, and I don’t think they cared either. Some bands exist in a place and time and become a name you remember, a reference point for whoever was listening. Asobi Seksu is one of those.
Made a list of every blog worth reading in my corner of the internet. Got to the end dead tired and already thinking of three people I’d forgotten. That’s always how it goes when you try to map a community: you finish and immediately know it’s incomplete. Maybe you’ll find something new in there. If I left you out, that’s on me.
I stuck leaves all over the walls. Sounds stupid but it works—just grab whatever and plaster it everywhere randomly. Easy to add more whenever. I’m sure someone has some theory about creative spaces, but the real thing is when my head goes empty—and it goes empty a lot—I lean back and look up and suddenly there are ideas. Or I’m turned on. Both sometimes.
My mom still hadn’t seen the place, so I took photos showing where I actually live. The couch, the chair, work, Burger King on bad days. Just documentation of existing in a space. Before it happened.
I got drunk on the train yesterday and dropped the camera. Just watched it hit the floor and did nothing. So those are probably the last photos for a while. Last evidence that I was there, that the place was real.
Arisu styles hair and makes music and plays racing games seriously. These aren’t hobbies—each one is an actual commitment. That combination is rarer than you’d think.
Hair styling is technical work. You need an eye for proportion, the ability to read what someone’s really asking for, and the skill to execute it. That’s her living, and clearly she’s good at it.
The racing games probably tie into a real passion for driving and mechanics. You don’t get good at that without putting in hours, learning the details, pushing for incremental improvements. Same discipline, different medium.
Music’s separate—she’s actually making it, not just listening. That opens up a different kind of world entirely.
What strikes me is that she doesn’t treat any of these as a backup interest. Most people commit fully to one thing and let the others drift into theory. Arisu’s just doing all three, fully. That’s the interesting part.
I’d grab whatever was at the newsstand. PRINZ had Berlin writers on love and drugs. VICE was running Issei Sagawa next to Richard Kern nudes. NEON mixed breakup advice with animal sex philosophy. NYLON called Franz Ferdinand the world’s best-dressed band while also interviewing a snowboarder named Kjersti Buaas.
The magazines had this weird mix: high and low, serious and stupid, dark and trivial. You were paying for one thing that actually interested you and tolerating everything else. What stuck with me was how clearly you could see what editors thought mattered at that moment.
They were usually wrong, but the wrongness was interesting—you could feel it in what they paired together. A cannibal interview next to lingerie next to fashion advice. That’s what mattered then, visible in the choices.
Got invited to fashion week tonight, which is hilarious because I’m going to be the biggest pleb in the room. Like, extremely obviously. But I dressed up anyway — really went for it — and I’m bringing a friend to share the weirdness.
I’ve been preparing. Got my lines ready for the models. The opener: “Come with me, I’ll make you really big.” Solid stuff. But the second one’s better. I’m going to ask if they want Cini Minis for breakfast tomorrow. That lands different because they’re all starving. You can’t eat at fashion week.
If Vivienne Westwood shows up, I’m kidnapping her. Probably won’t happen, but I’m mentally committed.
The whole thing’s stupid and I know it. You show up to the party you don’t belong at, you dress up, you tell your dumb jokes. There’s something true about that.
Lykke Li showed up around the same time as Ting Tings and Ladyhawke, and she landed harder with me. I have a black and white portrait of her that’s been on my wall. She talked about art being the only way to approach life as a mystery, how she’d considered fashion and painting before landing on music as her form of expression—the thing that actually needed saying. Her video then was all purity, all clarity. No excess, nothing wasted. That’s why she stuck.
I lied to everyone about that SingStar night. Said there were no recordings, no proof. Found a video on an old camera card the other day—Anne and me, already pretty gone, telling jokes I can’t even remember. I was on Hohes C juice. Anne was on actual alcohol.
You stumble on something like that and it hits different. Not because the video’s any good—it’s grainy, pointless, the jokes don’t even land if you can hear them. But because you forgot it existed. Here’s evidence that we were there, being stupid together, and the camera caught it. One forgotten file on a memory card is all that kept it from being gone.
I have this massive blank wall at home. Actually I have several, but there’s one in particular that’s been staring at me for months — pristine white, completely empty, waiting for something. I’ve been collecting good photographs, images that stuck with me, stuff I actually want to look at every day. Printing them out seemed like the obvious next step, but then I hit this weird anxiety about execution.
The problem is obvious once you think about it: there’s a razor-thin line between “curated personal gallery” and “dorm room covered in whatever.” It’s easy to end up with the wrong thing. Teenage Bravo posters everywhere, or worse, those novelty prints — dolphins through rainbows, motivational quotes in fancy script, the whole tired aesthetic. I don’t want that. I want something that feels intentional, like I actually cared about how it looks rather than just papering over the emptiness.
What actually works is restraint. Not everything on the wall. White space is your friend here, you need breathing room between pieces. The arrangement matters too; grid patterns feel too deliberate, but pure chaos reads as careless. There’s probably a middle ground, something loosely organized but not rigid. Maybe clusters of images grouped by some logic only I understand. Colors matter more than you’d think. If you’re mixing prints and photographs, you start seeing which ones work together and which ones kill the moment.
The real question is committing to what goes up. Once you’ve printed something and punched a hole in it, once it’s actually on your wall, you can’t pretend you don’t care. It’s a declaration. That’s the part that makes me hesitate — it means admitting what I actually like, what I want to look at, what moves me. It’s easier to keep the wall blank than to say yes to something.
Twitter somehow became the place where everyone just broadcasts everything. Millions of people glued to screens, sharing every random thought, and yeah, I’m as bad as anyone. But one thing that’s kind of funny—porn stars are on there too. Just posting like everyone else. Some of the most famous adult performers have huge followings, and people engage with them like any other celebrity, because that’s what they’ve become.
It shouldn’t surprise anyone. Adult content was always going to be everywhere on the internet. The people who make it aren’t in some hidden corner anymore; they’re just part of the timeline, tweeting, building careers, doing their job. The whole normalization happened so quietly that nobody even talked about it.
The crude observation—the one that sparked this whole thing—is pretty obvious: nerds love computers, nerds love porn, so of course they follow porn stars. It’s dumb and true. But the less funny reality is just that these are people working, existing online like the rest of us. The normalcy of it is what gets me.
The PlayStation was pink. Someone had joked about it beforehand, but there it was, and it worked, and that’s all that mattered. Saturday night, friends, a microphone. I’d only brought multivitamin juice, which completely undermined the getting-wasted narrative, but nobody cared. We were loud and stupid and the TV was turned way too high, and that was the whole point.
“Umbrella-ella-ella” got destroyed, line by stupid line. Then “Wir beide” by Juli, which has always been the perfect SingStar song—something about the way it fits in your voice that lets you sound decent for just long enough before everything falls apart. We moved through some Disney stuff, “The Lion King,” “The Little Mermaid,” the kind of thing you’d never admit loving unless you had the specific permission structure that comes with karaoke and friends and late-night hours.
One blurry photo remains, too dark to make out details. The audio recordings got deleted without getting a second listen. I remember the feeling of it more than anything—that specific stupid-loud energy that probably makes no sense the next morning but felt like everything right then.
Kokeshi is basically exactly the type I go for — Japan, graphic design, photography, the obvious stuff. But it’s the other alignment that really does it: she’s too online, gets too attached to people, prefers the sex positions where she doesn’t have to do much. I’m looking at myself in a mirror and it works out.
Farin Urlaub of Die Ärzte sounds like someone who won before he started. Cher doesn’t need anything else. Mian Mian named herself and became a legend. Even Falco, the guy born Johann Hölzel in Austria, understood that your real name is the one you choose, not the one you inherit.
I’ve been thinking about this because I don’t have one yet. The name I have—the one on documents—isn’t the name of what I’m actually doing. There’s supposed to be another one. A name that means something. A name that says who I am.
In Japan they understand this institutionally. If you’re staying, you adopt a real name—not as performance but as commitment. You give yourself a new sound and become someone to match it. That’s not rebellion; it’s just practical.
The artists who pull it off don’t seem to be asking for opinions. They’ve figured out who they are, and the name confirms it.
I’m still in the figuring-out phase. Still not sure who this person is supposed to be, what they’re actually doing, what it’s for. Maybe that’s why the name isn’t here yet. Maybe you have to know first, or maybe you choose the name and grow into it. I honestly don’t know which comes first.
I had “She’s So Lovely” on rotation for a while in the mid-2000s. Scouting for Girls were one of those bands that operated in the space between pop and rock — earnest, slightly ridiculous, unironic in a way that almost seemed defiant. Three guys writing straightforward songs about romance.
The thing about their music is it asked nothing of you. No irony, no pretense, just melodies that settled into your head and production clean enough to work anywhere. “She’s So Lovely” had this quality where it could drift as background music on a good day or catch your actual attention depending on the moment. No depth to unpack, no message to decode.
I never bothered to follow what happened to them after. The mid-2000s were like that — bands arrived, had their moment, and the internet moved on. Scouting for Girls probably cycled through the same way everything did back then. But I still remember putting that song on when the weather was good, or when I wanted something uncomplicated and genuinely meant.
Sometimes you need that. A song that’s just about liking someone, no subtext, no layers, no trying.
I know I’m that guy about Japanese stuff, and yeah, I just posted something else, but I can’t help it—I’m completely blown away by Mao Abe’s track. Eighteen years old and she’s made something that’s just landing different.
I’m not exaggerating when I say I feel almost sick from how much I love this song—that dizzy kind of love when something just hits you perfect. The track gets better the more you play it, pulls you in deeper each time. I’m going to be listening to this all night, then buying the album, then listening to it all again tomorrow. This is just how it’s going to be.
I’m drowning in information streams that’ll slowly drive me insane. What’s for lunch tomorrow? Did they find that missing girl? How’s Susi doing in Canada? When does the new season of Grey’s Anatomy air? If I actually tracked each thread with any real diligence, my head would explode or I’d spend the entire day just cataloging which priorities shifted where. Anyone willing to verify the credibility of all this has basically made a hobby into a career.
So I’m grateful when someone tells me, with some air of exclusivity, that tomorrow it’s tortellini. That the girl was just at a friend’s house, he heard. That Susi’s already moved back with her mom in Castrop-Rauxel. That the new season doesn’t air until late autumn anyway. Since every new piece of information feels like an update—the latest version of some ongoing story—I just believe it all. Time’s too short for anything else. I’m normally hard to convince about most things, but it’s still easier than calling someone at university or getting Susi on the phone to verify these half-truths myself. It’ll probably be fine anyway.
Namalee Bolle operates at full saturation in London’s cultural mix — musician, designer, model, author, Super Super Magazine founder. Her whole aesthetic is Cartoon Couture: maximum neon, maximum volume, maximum brightness. The colors genuinely hurt to look at. Not subtle, not safe. Intentionally.
You can find her music online if you can locate it beneath graphics designed to cause actual eye damage. She’s built something that doesn’t apologize, doesn’t hedge, doesn’t care if you prefer things quiet and safe. It’s a philosophy as much as an aesthetic.
That’s rare enough to notice. Most cultural work moves toward subtlety. She just goes the other way entirely.
Midweek hit and I needed something to carry me through it. Lily Allen had this bratty, almost punchy energy, less careful than everything getting play on the radio. Shiny Toy Guns came in all angles and cold electricity—synthetic and hard in a way that felt right for the moment. School of Seven Bells was the opposite temperature entirely; I’d put it on late, something dream-like that didn’t ask anything of you, just held you while you worked through everything. Empire of the Sun was the outlier, psychedelic and sprawling, not what you’d expect from a playlist like this but somehow it fit.
These weren’t new discoveries. They’d all been in rotation for a while, just sitting in the headphones waiting for the right moment. But that week they seemed to click together like they were answering the same question: how do you make it through four more days without going numb? That’s all music is really for, if it’s any good at all—not fixing anything, just making it feel like something’s happening while you’re trying to survive the hours.
Bambu’s 23, sings and dances, and has decided she’ll be eaten by a shark that will launch her into her next life. Not metaphorically. As an actual scenario. How you land on that specific death fantasy, I don’t know. What shark it is, or how rebirth works via digestion—details aren’t clear. But she seems to have thought it through and landed on it with total conviction. Most people leave reincarnation abstract because the full picture is too weird to describe. Bambu’s the opposite. She’s imagined the absolute worst and owns it completely. There’s something honest in that, if nothing else.
Thursday morning I woke up knowing something had gone wrong. Not dramatically—just this weight in my chest, the scratchiness starting. By afternoon I’d collected enough used tissues around my bed to mount them as installation art. Peppermint oil and ginger tea with honey became the smell of my entire existence. The apartment reeked of it.
The worst part was the parties. There were decent ones happening that weekend and I was stuck in my tissue nest watching my mood sink lower every day with no sign of improvement. At least I wasn’t alone—half of Berlin seemed to be coughing at the same time. Some mutant cocktail of flu and cold and bronchitis that antibiotics couldn’t touch. Gulcan texted something about a stomach bug, like we were all comparing notes in some city-wide plague.
Then there’s the inevitable moment where the women in your life start telling you how pathetic men are when they’re sick. They’re not wrong, but that doesn’t make it less annoying when someone’s been talking at you for two hours about how shit life is and all you can manage is this permanent exhausted groan. And I need to be clear—not that kind of groan. Just the sound of someone who feels like garbage and can’t pretend otherwise.
The pharmaceuticals did nothing. Aspirin, Grippostad, whatever—I swallowed them with juice and tea and mineral water by the handful and nothing changed. But then one afternoon I bit into a cold green apple and something actually shifted. Not healing, not even real relief, just that first moment of actual taste cutting through the fog. Funny what works when you’re drowning in everything else.
Staying up late as kids with whoever was around, glued to the late-night stuff on TV, drinking cola to keep awake. The appeal was obvious: breasts, bodies, the whole forbidden thing. But the actual threshold, the moment you knew you cared, was seeing pubic hair. That was the marker. That meant you were looking at a woman, not some image.
Then somewhere in the last couple of decades, that changed. Someone decided to razor it all off and the decision somehow rippled through the entire culture like infection—magazines, porn sites, what everyone else was doing—until shaved became the standard and hairy became the exception. Suddenly the ideal was smooth, young, almost childlike. And we all just went along with it.
The logic doesn’t really hold if you stop and think about it. The whole cultural push is basically telling women to look younger, less adult, more like a child. It’s something we’ve absorbed without ever really discussing, just let it seep in through osmosis until it seemed natural. But it’s not natural. It’s just what everyone’s doing.
A woman who doesn’t do it, who just lets her body be what it is, ends up looking almost radical now. Maybe she’s made an actual choice about the whole thing. Maybe she’s just lazy or doesn’t care. Doesn’t matter. Either way there’s something honest about it, something that isn’t performing the script everyone else is following.
But none of it really matters in the end anyway. Get drunk with someone you actually like and you’re not thinking about any of this. You’re just there, and either it works or it doesn’t.
2009 started as a complete shitstorm — economy imploding, terror in the news, everything serious broken. But I wasn’t going to let that stop what I cared about. My response was to start paying closer attention, not less.
I decided this year would be about design, fashion, music, freaks, weird culture — noticing what actually interested me and writing about it honestly, with personality, without pretending to be some respectable magazine. Just saying what I thought.
That felt important enough to do with someone else. I brought back a collaborator because the mission mattered: keep looking at the strange and beautiful stuff, write about it truthfully, without the corporate distance.
The world could fall apart. Design and music would still happen. That was worth paying attention to.
Found her work through one of those recommendation rabbit holes—a photographer from Poland doing work that doesn’t try to convince you of anything. Marta Streng’s photographs sit in clarity and restraint. Light, color, sometimes a face. Nothing reaches for the dramatic or the conceptually clever.
What gets me, as someone who makes things, is how much discipline that takes. The kind of image that feels inevitable instead of carefully composed. That’s rarer than you’d think.
Single life is actually genius. You kiss whoever you want, you come home at four in the morning falling down drunk and nobody cares, you never have to wonder if maybe you could do better. It’s real freedom, the kind people spend their whole lives talking about and never actually getting.
Then winter comes and you remember why people pair up in the first place. You want someone warm next to you on the couch. You want to cook for someone. You want wine and a fire and the kind of small comfortable silence that only happens when there’s someone else in the room. The cold is designed for two people, apparently.
So February hits and suddenly the whole internet is drowning in couple photos. People kissing in snow, wrapped in blankets, looking perfect and happy and everything you’re not currently experiencing. It’s a specific kind of targeted sadness, marketing romance to people who can’t afford it right now.
I can look at those pictures for a minute or two. There’s something almost beautiful about watching other people be happy together. But past a certain point they just feel like a reminder of what the trade-off actually is: all that freedom you love, against warmth and company and someone to sit with while things get unbearably cold.
The joke at the end of it all is to walk outside and physically shove the happy couples around. But the real answer is just waiting it out. The cold doesn’t last forever. Neither does this particular ache.
Nora Tschirner has a new German comedy coming out called “Murder is My Business, Darling.” It’s about a mafia member who falls for a publishing employee and pretends to be an author to be near her. The premise is pretty flimsy, but I’ve stopped questioning her career choices because she always makes whatever she’s in feel real and funny. That’s usually enough.
Wake up mid-afternoon with a headache that’s basically a separate organism. That’s the moment you know whether you had an awesome night or you’re officially old—today it’s both. I’d have injected aspirin straight into my brain if that were possible, but what I actually did first was upload yesterday’s photos. All of us at Rosi’s, properly destroyed, grinning like we had somewhere to be.
Mandy wants to meet at Alexa for shopping, which kills my How I Met Your Mother time. Not that I’m devastated about missing a show I’ve already seen a hundred times when my skull feels like it’s slowly collapsing.
So I’m handling this the only rational way: another Mon Chéris. Not because it’ll fix anything. Just to stay right here. Just to keep this level for a few more hours.
Freezing yesterday, so Mandy and I went to Alexa and I picked up a jacket that actually works. Then we went to McDonald’s and ate too much, mostly because it was warm and I wanted to be full. I spent too much on a maxi-menu hoping I’d win a Wii or at least a soft serve. Got nothing. My friend who works at the Zur Goldenen Möwe told me the whole thing’s a scam anyway.
Going to Rosi’s tonight with whoever feels like going. The music’s usually good and the place is at least warm. But Hannah, you promised Nora Tschirner would come to my birthday. She never showed up. Where is she? It’s genuinely weird how I’ve gotten so good at slipping her name into everything I write. I do it completely naturally and I’m always aware of it.
I’m a designer who never learned Photoshop—no patience for it. So I’m always hunting for software that just does the work for you. Poladroid is exactly that. Put an image in, get a Polaroid out. The colors are faded just right, the frame authentic, and it even gives you that waiting period—watching the photo develop. It’s pure nostalgia, and now it’s free in beta for Mac and PC.
My old camera finally gave up the ghost after seven years or so—one of those early digital compacts with maybe two megapixels if you squinted at it. Dead. Gone. I mean, I’d been carrying it around knowing it was on borrowed time, but when it actually stopped working I realized how much I’d gotten used to having a camera in my pocket.
So last Friday I bought a new Casio. The specs are ridiculous for what I needed, but I wanted something that wouldn’t feel obsolete in a couple years. I was at the electronics store, ready to pay, when the registers all went down at once. This weird disembodied voice—very East German bureaucrat energy—came over the intercom trying to calm everyone down, promising free coffee upstairs. It took thirty minutes. Of all the ways that could have gone, it felt like the universe was testing whether I actually wanted this thing. I paid anyway.
The point is I’ve decided I’m taking this camera everywhere now. Everything. Which meant I had to actually update my photo section, which had been sitting there untouched for way too long. I borrowed a design from this other site because the old layout was starting to look like a relic. Now I’m going to be that person documenting everything, which means I’m basically handing anyone paying attention a pile of ammunition for… I don’t know, future blackmail or whatever. Worth it, probably.
So I’m 25 now. A quarter century, which supposedly means I’m supposed to have my shit together at this point — be wise, mature, grounded, the kind of guy who knows where he’s going. And I’m sitting here thinking about all that and realizing I’m completely full of it. Nothing’s changed. I’m still the same mess I was at 24, just older and slightly more aware of how little I know.
There’s this thing that happens around 25 where you’re supposed to feel some kind of shift. Like you’ve crossed a threshold into real adulthood. People tell you you’re not a kid anymore, and technically they’re right, but it doesn’t feel like anything. You wake up the same. Your problems are the same problems. Your desires are the same. You still want things you probably shouldn’t want, still make stupid decisions, still get drunk with friends and forget half of what you said.
But I’m not complaining. There’s something kind of great about not pretending anymore — about just accepting that being alive is chaotic and messy and that turning another year older doesn’t fix any of that. It just means you’ve been around long enough to see some patterns repeat, to recognize when you’re making the same mistakes again, to know that knowing better doesn’t always mean doing better.
So I drank some champagne. Felt the stupid warmth of people telling you happy birthday, which never stops being a weird thing even when you’re not 21 anymore. And I didn’t suddenly feel wiser or more certain. Mostly I just felt glad to still be here, still hungry, still interested in what comes next — even knowing full well that next year I’ll probably be just as lost as I am now.
Quarter century down. At least a quarter more to figure it out.
First was curtains. My neighbor basically lived in hotpants, and the entire block could see straight into my place whenever she walked by. Didn’t really bother me, but someone should probably close the blinds at some point. Real thrilling stuff.
I also promised myself I’d actually go to concerts instead of just talking about them. Scala, this club in Berlin I’d talked about visiting for months. And badminton, which was weird. It was the only sport where I didn’t completely suck, and I’d been saying I’d find a club in Wedding forever.
Year of actually doing things. Or that’s what I told myself anyway. God, I’m so fucking cool.
I played these songs in 2008 until they were grooves in my brain. Ladyhawke, Lykke Li, The Ting Tings, Santogold. They were there when I needed to cry, when I needed something bright and restless to shake off whatever was sitting on my chest.
Ladyhawke had this cold precision. Lykke Li was doing something I still can’t describe—it felt like she was reaching through the speakers. The Ting Tings and Santogold were different animals, pure momentum, impossible to sit still through.
I don’t think most of them actually came out in 2008. Doesn’t really matter though. A song works when it works. The ones that lasted are the ones that did what I needed—that’s the only reason anything stays.
Some films just hit. Yen Town is about this girl Ageha whose mother dies, and she gets raised by a Chinese singer named Glico and introduced to this world called Yen Town where everything’s for sale—sex, power, money. They find cash in a corpse, and suddenly this weird crew of Japanese, Chinese, and American people are rich. They buy a nightclub, Glico becomes a star, and everyone else slides into greed and crime and eventually gets hunted down by killers. It’s the whole trajectory: you want something, you get it, it kills you.
What I loved was how it refuses to look away. Japanese cinema that doesn’t add false depth or redemption narratives, just shows you what happens when people want something badly enough. Dirty. Real. That’s the film.
The more I drive between Berlin and Bavaria, the more those worlds blend into each other. They used to feel completely separate—like they erased each other from my mind. Friends, surroundings, all of it felt like a short dream that had nothing to do with real life. Now it’s different.
Christmas with family was supposed to be peaceful. It lasted about a day. Then I was caught between parties, reconnecting with old friends, staying upright, taking care of various urgent needs, just grinding through one absurd scenario after another. By my grandmother’s after-Christmas dinner I was barely conscious. I was so exhausted that tomorrow Becca and I are heading to Munich to shop. Apparently there’s an Apple Store there now and I want to see it in person. Plus I need a new game for my Nintendo DS—the drive back to Berlin is long enough without losing my mind.
Every year’s basically the same as the one before. You pay attention to the details though—the ones that made this year different, harder, more beautiful, more heartbreaking. The things that made it feel like something actually happened.
The first half of 2008 wasn’t worth living. I’ll be honest about it. Breakup, then everything fell apart at school, then someone just erased my best friend from my life. No warning, no goodbye. The logical ending to that sequence would’ve been something final and dramatic. But that’s not who I am.
So we get to the second half. Parties. People. Work that meant something. A new apartment. The city. All of it together made me feel like living again, which I wasn’t sure was still possible. And then the music. My iPod was constantly overflowing—Lykke Li, The Ting Tings, Santogold, Ladyhawke. Everything I needed that year, there exactly when I needed it.
By the end I was bowed before the whole thing. 2008 was cruel and unfair and overstuffed with feeling in both directions. Mandy and Basti and I all agreed on the same thing: 2009 had to be better. It had to be. I kept thinking about the little one I wanted there when the year ended, when the fireworks started. I hope they don’t get you.
The nightmare came sharp and didn’t fade. I woke up drenched, went to the kitchen, poured cereal and milk like it was any other morning. But I could still see her face—white like death. Still smelled it. The blood seemed like some sick play of light and shadow on my skin.
The memories from that night kept surfacing. The club. People screaming her name. Me with my phone in one hand, tequila in the other, hearing how she left with some guy—completely drunk, no control over anything, just gone. I was screaming. Not thinking. Just screaming her name like it could change something.
I opened the window and let the cold air hit. Trying to clear my head but it wouldn’t stick. The running, the crying, finding the way to her. That alley. That filthy back alley where she was lying. Everything collapsed into a single moment—impact, sound, weight. I ran to her and screamed things that aren’t even words, just noise loud enough that maybe somehow it could reach her. People’s faces blurred into pity. I held her so tight everything split open. I was choking on blood and tears. The last image that burned in—her face, empty eyes, the weight of her looking at me like I should have been there. Like I failed to be there when it mattered.
Got sent a sin calculator. One of those internet quizzes where you check off your transgressions and it totals up what you owe in penance. Mine came to €2,601.13.
The charges start straightforward. Drugs: €20. Lying: €15. Waking up next to someone and having no idea how I got there: €75. Then it gets heavier. Sex in a church: €100. Seeing more than one person at the same time: €200. Hiding bad grades: €30. Making a homemade sex tape: €15. The full accounting of a life that didn’t bother much with the rules.
And then the punchline. After all of that. After the drugs and the infidelity and the straight-up blasphemy. The real sin. The thing that costs the most. Stealing fruit: five cents. As if the calculator saved the actual judgment for something small and petty. As if that’s what I should really be ashamed of.
Some kids came by and we made Christmas cards together. Nothing complicated—just cutting and pasting and drawing for an afternoon, the kind of thing you don’t think about much while it’s happening.
Then their thank-you letters arrived. Handmade, careful, wobbly handwriting with glitter and stickers. They’d actually thought about it, actually put the time in to say thanks. I’m not usually sentimental but something about it got to me.
Those letters are still here. The Christmas feeling stuck around.
I forgot to pay the internet bill. Spent the money on oatmeal instead. They just cut me off like that—no warning, no grace period. I told myself it was an experiment, some kind of digital detox, but it wasn’t. Just a fuckup that spiraled into weeks offline.
Anyway, while I was gone: Christmas party at aperto, Marco’s birthday, and Lisa and I broke up. Three separate things that somehow all happened at once. You know how it goes. Easy come, easy go. You look away for a month and suddenly everything has changed.
I don’t have any reflections on it. Just life piling up. The internet’s back on, the bill’s paid, and I’m here again.
Last day before Christmas break at vocational school, and we’d been grinding through databases and specifications—the kind of shit that makes you genuinely question the entire premise of learning anything. So when someone suggested ditching the final class and watching a movie, I was already on board. “The Nightmare Before Christmas.” Tim Burton, 1993. I’d seen it a dozen times before, but somehow it never gets smaller.
Half the class hated it immediately. The songs got to them—that thing Burton does where characters just break into elaborate musical numbers about their feelings. But I’ve never been able to resist this film. There’s something genuinely magical about the way he builds the world. Everything feels both deeply familiar and completely wrong at once. The textures. Sally’s particular sadness. Jack’s absolute certainty about everything. It holds up.
Then Fiona Apple’s version of “Sally’s Song” came on. Lights off and crying.
There’s something about late December that makes you want to hear music that’s already a little sad. Architecture in Helsinki, Anna Ternheim, some others whose names I’ll probably forget by January—none of it is new, all of it has been on some rotation for years, but somehow it lands different in December. The year’s winding down, the light’s gone by four in the afternoon, and you’re not fighting the mood anymore, you’re just sitting in it.
I don’t have much to say about what makes these artists work. Ternheim’s songs are small and careful. Architecture in Helsinki is brighter but still melancholic underneath. They do what I need them to do. That’s really it.
I’ve been playing the same mix for weeks without changing it. That’s usually the sign that something’s actually resonating rather than just filling space. By January I’ll move on to something else, and this batch will go dormant until next December rolls around.
Heard that song again the other day and it dropped me straight back—to that Placebo and Kate Bush version that aired somewhere in The O.C., moved me to tears then and moves me to tears now. ’And if I only could, Make a deal with God, And get him to swap our places…’ That’s it. That’s the moment that sticks. There’s something in how they do that cover, something that hits different every time. I’ve been thinking about artists willing to be that open, that real with what they make. That matters. Every time someone puts something genuinely theirs out there, someone else is hearing it and carrying it forward years later. That’s worth something.
Oakley funded a film called Uniquely about snowboarders and surfers, naturally featuring their new sunglasses collection. The production is clean—sharp editing, good cinematography, the polish you get when a major brand is paying for it. I watched it because I’m into this stuff anyway.
I spent the whole time wondering where the brand ends and the filmmaking begins. The athletes are real, the locations are real, the technical execution is solid. But I can’t separate what I think about the craft from what I think about the presentation—the expensive production, the cool people, the whole glossy package. Maybe there’s no difference anymore.
There aren’t many futures that actually keep me up at night. But there’s one: making more money than my father. Because at some point I decided it’s the money that ruined everything—all those zeros are why he keeps disappearing for months with whatever girl he’s focused on, leaving the rest of us with nothing. My mother doesn’t know how deep it goes. Probably doesn’t want to.
Kids are one of those things I’ve never figured out. I don’t know how to be around them, don’t get how they think, don’t know what to do when these eight-year-old punks grab at you on the street calling you shit, and the second you push back they’re wailing for their dads, who show up looking both disgusted and interested. Specific flavor of misery.
The biggest one though—the thing that actually makes my stomach turn—is the thought of being exposed. My best friend Paula had her bikini slip off at the lake last summer. Everyone at school found out. Not just the girls gossiping about it. Tara, this complete idiot, wouldn’t let it drop. She thought it was endlessly funny that Paula’s body didn’t match her expectations.
But at that moment Tara was occupied with other things. All noise and clumsy movement, these pathetic grunting sounds, nearly falling off the bed trying to do two things at once and succeeding at neither. She gave up. Smarter move. She just lay there slapping against my stomach like that was the whole point, and I was grateful not to be looking at her face, so I stared out the window toward the park and thought about whether Paula would bring by those history notes I forgot to copy, and maybe that Douglas coupon. There was this new perfume I needed—vanilla and raspberry mixed together. It actually smelled good, which for something from a department store was basically impossible.
“Turn around,” she said, and suddenly I was on my back and she was moving forward.
The thought came to me in her bathroom after, washing my face. Looking at myself in the mirror—eyes that looked almost angry—while Rammstein played in the living room and marijuana smoke hung in the air. Something just clicked. I wasn’t just some kid whose body other people got to use. I had character. I was creative. I was actually something. And I wasn’t weak.
I went back out and grabbed my things. Told Tara to fuck herself on my way to the door. Got dressed in the courtyard while this old deaf couple watched from their bench—completely indifferent. Smoked a cigarette and headed to the bus station. God help anyone I had to deal with today.
André crashed for an extended weekend and basically never left. The whole thing blurred together—dumb pseudo-gay jokes at strangers, driving through parts of the city I’d normally avoid, drinking with my girlfriend and whoever else could make it, games we forgot the rules to, South Park marathons at three in the morning, YouTube parodies of Harry Potter on endless repeat. At some point I even snuck him into school disguised as an exchange student, which shouldn’t have worked but did.
But the moment that actually stuck was just lying on the couch with Lisa, Lost in Translation playing, some homemade liquor within reach, that complete silence where nothing needs to be said. Everything else faded next to that.
Two weeks until I see him again in Bavaria. Really looking forward to it.
A group of kids from the SOS children’s village in Marzahn came by the studio last month—twenty of them, maybe fewer. They wanted to make Christmas cards, so we made them. They’d sketch an idea or describe what they wanted, I’d help get it into the computer, and we’d print it out. Then they’d cut and paste and find glitter somehow, because there’s always glitter. There was cocoa. There were cookies I didn’t eat. Someone brought costumes and we ended up doing photo shoots that nobody had planned.
What stayed with me was how much they cared about getting it right. No overthinking, no wondering if it was cool or good—just wanted it to look the way they imagined. You lose that somewhere in the middle of trying to have taste.
The whole thing was for a good cause, which mattered, but that’s not why it was good. It was the afternoon itself. Kids thinking about their design, the printer going, someone worried theirs wasn’t dark enough. That’s the part that stuck.
I was at the Kulturbrauerei Christmas market with Basti, completely wasted on Glühwein—the kind of drunk where you think you’re being clever and have zero filter. We’d grabbed some Kaiserschmarrn and were walking around like we owned the place, grinning at nothing in particular, when I noticed Yvonne Catterfeld making out with some guy like it was the most important thing she’d ever done.
German actress, on TV all the time. Not that I was watching her specifically. It’s just weird when you see someone familiar actually existing in the real world, kissing another human being with intensity. Hard not to notice.
Her makeup artist ended up being cool and friendly, which is how Basti and I—both completely obvious in our drunkenness, both grinning like morons—got swept into conversation with her group. Elli was there, some other people in orbit, the usual. They were nice about letting two drunk guys hover around, which is honestly more patience than we deserved.
Basti became fixated on the idea that we should get ourselves in the background of one of her films. Not like, a significant role. Just visible enough that people who know us would spot us in a crowd scene, mid-grin, the specific thing where anyone else would miss us completely. For about twenty minutes that seemed like the greatest plan we’d ever had. Then we forgot about it and moved on to whatever the next stupid thing was.
The colors are aggressively modern, the typography actually breathes, and MTV pulled that signature move where they push the contrast so hard on everything it practically attacks you from the screen. MTV Iggy launches tomorrow with BoA performing in New York. It works.
MTV’s basically done, obviously. Everyone knows that. But every few years they prove they can still hire people who understand design — the Game Awards had moments, the Europe Music Awards too. Now there’s MTV Iggy, this new portal supposed to reach Asian music fans and artists.
Is it saving music television? No. The format’s collapsing and everyone knows it. But sometimes you see a company get one thing right even as everything else falls apart, and it lands. You notice it. That’s enough.
They say morning exercise drives away sorrow and worry. I’ve done enough dawn runs to know the only thing it drives away is sleep. Your mood stays where it was. Your legs get tired. Your mind doesn’t change. There’s something almost beautiful about fitness culture’s delusion—the motivational videos, the promise that your problems are one workout away from solved. They’re not. By noon you’re back to being whoever you were, just sore and minus two hours of sleep.
Years ago my design studio ended up in the background of some Hollywood movie they were shooting in Berlin. We were barely in it—a few seconds, maybe, in what looked like our own office. The only part I remember is throwing a file folder across the room by accident during one of the takes, and somehow that made it into the final cut. It’s the kind of thing that seems exciting for about five minutes and then you forget about it entirely. My colleague Christian played a security guard in the same scene, which was funnier than my accidental prop work.
Two young guys, maybe twenty, running through Shalimar Estate with rifles. Empty street, just them. One of them points his gun at a shop: “There’s a lot of alcohol here.” The other: “Yeah, so what? I don’t have a problem with alcohol.” They keep running toward the hospital where they’d be shooting people within the hour.
I watched more CNN in those days than I had since 9/11. Couldn’t look away. The attacks were so cold, so systematic, so completely without mercy. It wasn’t random in the sense of indiscriminate—it was targeted. Targeted by skin color, by nationality, by whoever happened to be in the wrong place. Witnesses said the attackers were barely adults. Kids killing people. Just kids.
I understand a lot of different things. I can follow people into spaces I’d never go. But there’s a line you don’t come back from. When innocent people are dying, when children are being murdered, understanding becomes useless. It shuts off. It just stops.
I’m happy. Actually happy, which sounds stupid to say out loud but there it is. I’m living in what’s probably the most financially fucked neighborhood in the city, and I’m happy anyway. The people here are real, they’re kind, and nobody’s beaten me up yet. The bar’s low but I’ll take it.
Becca helped me get the apartment sorted—she actually did the work while I provided commentary and got in the way. My neighbor upstairs has been treating midnight like the start of gaming prime time, speakers legitimately a war crime, but the apartment has a bathtub and somehow that makes everything okay. A bathtub sounds like nothing until you’ve only had showers for years.
Everything else is clicking. School’s good, work’s good. I’m the class rep, teaching PHP and HTML and CSS, designing things that don’t look like garbage. Got a girlfriend with a mouth on her that puts mine to shame—she burns me with jokes I didn’t see coming. That’s the type.
Little Britain, McDonald’s Monopoly, snowstorms that shut the city down for a day. It’s all the small shit that’s actually the thing. I need a couch though. That’s the only missing piece right now.
December arrives and you’re sick of Christmas music before December even starts. Ladyhawke’s been my antidote — there’s something about that production, the cold precision of it, that matches the way winter actually feels. Clean, austere, a refusal to perform emotion. Lykke Li does something similar but from deeper inside, all that weight but never melodramatic. The Ting Tings bring pure momentum, no apologies.
The rest fall into the same category. The Script, Mandi Perkins, The Submarines — artists just doing their work without trying to fit or reject the season. Maybe that’s what December needs. Not music that’s aware of itself seasonally, just music that sounds good when everything around you is trying to tell you how to feel.
Todd Selby photographs people in their spaces — artists, designers, makers, whoever’s doing something interesting — and just shows you where they work and live. The photography itself is straightforward, not trying to make anything look more dramatic than it is. What gets you is seeing how people actually arrange their days. The weird objects on the shelf. The light coming through the window at 3pm. How someone’s taste works when they’re not performing for anyone.
Mark Hunter picked it up early, and it started making the rounds. I get why. There’s no angle to it, no curation toward a particular aesthetic. Just people in their environments, and you can tell something about them from the space. It’s the kind of site that makes you want to walk around your own apartment and see what someone would think if they photographed it.
I got off the train and let Gulcan head to Hermannplatz alone. All the way I was thinking about the past, couldn’t make sense of it—why things happened the way they did, what it all meant. My stomach started hurting and I kept seeing faces from before, wondering what they were doing now, how they felt in that moment. Do you lose the right to be heard if nobody’s listening? I don’t have the strength to search for places where nothing terrible happened. The street was wet and dark, figures in black moving through it, crossing my path.
I can’t accept that she’s gone. Where is she? In the closet? The mirror? Next to the pillow? Out there somewhere? I wanted to lie down with her right then and felt ashamed of it. What I needed was to be close to someone. The ghosts from before wouldn’t let go—they dragged me down into this crushing sadness. When it really pours in this city, the silence gets heavier.
I got dizzy. Had to stop and hold onto a traffic light. Just for a moment. I saw all their faces at once—moving toward some distant future they didn’t understand, crying in front of the wreckage of their broken inner lives, begging for salvation. Or smiling down at me from somewhere split open and raw. I breathed in and tried to smile. This year I’ve been both the perpetrator and the victim. It makes me feel small, and because of that I can’t end this strange journey. If I get out, it won’t be fear that saves me. It’ll be disgust.
Walking through Berlin at night and it hits me: nothing else is coming. I’ve known her for years in different shapes, different women, but always her underneath. Every year we’d find each other and I’d learn who she was again that year, think maybe this is it, then leave. It was the only pattern I could repeat.
I’m a coward. I have to disappear from people I trust—just vanish into somewhere I’ve never been and sit alone until I feel alive. Then I come back. When I leave I feel genuinely real. When I return I feel like I’ve paid something essential for the right to come back.
I’ve written about love and heartbreak and sex and desire. About how individuals dissolve and crowds carry hope and how you can live through moments that make you feel singular in a world that’s indifferent and arrogant. I’ve said what I needed to say.
I’m twenty-four years old. I think like an old man. I’ve broken the taboos I needed to break. Lived the lives I needed to live. Written it all out. And now I’m sitting somewhere, waiting, and it’s clear to me: that’s everything I had. That’s the full inventory. So what’s left?
Spent my first night in the new apartment with no bed, no couch, no table—just standing in each room at midnight like I’d solved some great riddle. Thomi and Sven had loaded a truck at some ungodly hour and drove my life across the city, which is the kind of thing that requires a long memory. The empty space felt less depressing and more like possibility, at least for the first few hours.
Then 5 AM came. Back at the old place on my knees with a sponge, handing over keys to a stranger, straight to work. No sleep in between. The good feeling lasted until about noon, then reality just wore it down.
Vacation next week and I’m not leaving the apartment. Becca’s helping me paint. Cedric moved his dentist appointment to haul furniture on Monday. Other people are drifting through whenever they want to see what an empty apartment looks like. That’s apparently what a housewarming is now.
The furniture company won’t deliver for three to six weeks. Internet’s the same way. So I’ll be offline for a bit, which is fine. There’s something good about that—just walls and paint and nobody calling. Just the ordinary miracle of owning something small.
Halloween’s coming up. Nightmare Before Christmas, Corpse Bride, maybe Sweeney Todd if the night’s still young. The obvious choice for someone sitting alone in a house that still smells like fresh floors. Nothing fancy about it. Just what makes sense.
These party photography sites were having a moment—Last Night’s Party, The Cobra Snake, that whole scene. Same basic idea: shoot every event, upload thousands of photos, let people see what they’re missing. The appeal is pretty specific: you get to watch other people have the kind of night you’ll never have.
I’m fine with that arrangement. Wrong country, wrong look, not enough money—take your pick. The sites do me a favor by being honest about it. No pretense that everyone’s invited. Just a clear visual of who gets in and who watches from home. I’m one of the watchers.
Some guy in Japan started a petition to legalize marrying anime characters. First thing I thought: Sailor Moon. Then Nami from One Piece. The girl from Plastic Little if we’re being completely honest about it. The list makes itself when you’ve been paying attention.
I’m almost 25, old enough to admit I still think about this without completely falling apart about it. These characters stuck around because they had something—attitude, style, the indefinable thing that just lands right. And now they’re permanent. I know exactly how the story ends. I know exactly who they are on every level that matters. No surprises. No one’s going to disappoint you. They’ll never change their mind.
The difference between me and petition guy is that he said it out loud. We’re thinking the same thing though. You marry fiction because it doesn’t demand anything back. Doesn’t get tired of you. Doesn’t want anything except for you to keep paying attention. Whether that’s funny or sad probably depends on how much anime you’ve watched.
I’m not stressed, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Sure, I’m moving in a few days. Sure, half my family’s coming with a truck full of furniture. Sure, what started as anticipation has curdled into pure dread and I can’t wait for this to be over. But that’s not stress.
What actually matters is what comes after. A real vacation. Time with someone whose company I actually want. Good food. Maybe some stupid movie. I don’t care if that’s lame. You know how I am by now.
So this week is work and logistics. Cleaning, laundry, sorting, scrubbing, packing, repacking, eating between all of it, watching whatever’s on. Zero excitement. I still have no idea how I’m painting the kitchen. But once I’m in there—and this is what keeps me going—I can actually take a bath instead of this glorified closet shower. I can make real food instead of nuking frozen garbage. And best of all, I can walk three feet without my shoulder smashing into a wall. That’s the dream.
So now I need to figure out how much alcohol to buy for the housewarming.
I had Becca lined up for Ladyhawke and Black Kids at the Lido on Tuesday, thought it’d be good to drag her out. But she’s completely wrecked—couldn’t make it. Disappointing.
That’s how it goes though. The Ting Tings put out a new video anyway, and Blood Red Shoes are playing Berlin soon. At least there’s that.
Couldn’t sleep. Stomach was wrecked the entire time, and whenever I finally managed to drop off I’d dream about being trapped on some awful IKEA vacation with friends. No money, no clothes that weren’t filthy, and I didn’t want to be there anyway. Just highways the whole time. My brain wouldn’t let me wake up from it.
This morning I wanted to throw my alarm clock in the microwave.
I don’t know what people do when a night hits like that. You can’t force sleep and you can’t think your way out of insomnia. You just lie there getting more and more pissed at yourself for being awake, which makes everything worse. There’s probably some trick to it but I haven’t found it.
MiChi dropped a single called ’PROMiSE’ and I’ve been playing it on repeat. She’s one of those Japanese-English singers who’s been doing her thing in Tokyo’s underground forever, doesn’t seem to care much about getting famous. The single came with an Avril Lavigne cover (’Sk8er Boy’), which could’ve been terrible but isn’t.
I don’t speak Japanese. Most of what she’s singing gets lost on me. But here’s the thing: it doesn’t matter. Her voice has this rough, casual quality that carries the feeling whether I understand the words or not. She’s not performing, not trying to convince anyone of anything. Just singing like someone who knows how to do it.
There’s something clarifying about listening to music in a language you don’t know. You can’t parse the lyrics so you actually listen—to the tone, the phrasing, where she breathes. Those details matter more than the meaning ever could. ’PROMiSE’ works because it’s got presence. It’s a good song. The kind that makes you want to dig deeper into what else she’s done.
MTV Deutschland just killed off what was left of itself. The news division is gone, the music shows are gone, TRL’s technically still there but in what they call “energy-saving mode”—corporate speak for slowly dying. I’ve complained about MTV’s decline for years. The loss of VIVA, the death of music video programming, the way they replaced everything with reality garbage and cheap content. But this is different. This is the company finally admitting it has nothing left.
I actually used to watch MTV. Not for some noble reason—just because it existed, because it was a place where things happened first, where you could discover what came next. MTV was built for that moment, that need. Then the internet happened and that need didn’t exist anymore. Videos went to YouTube. Music went to Spotify and TikTok. Discovery became fractured across a thousand platforms. MTV just stayed in place, slowly emptying out, trying to fill the void with cheaper programming, getting smaller until there was almost nothing there.
It’s not really sad. Things end. MTV was made for a world that changed, and it couldn’t change fast enough or far enough to matter anymore. What’s strange is how long it took them to admit it. They could have done something radical years ago. Instead they just made smaller and smaller cuts until there was nothing to cut anymore.
I don’t think about MTV much now. This isn’t a shock. But there’s something final about it that gets me a little. You watch something that used to mean something just quietly disappear.
Finding a decent MMORPG on Mac when you’re burned out on World of Warcraft is like trying to read during rush hour on the subway—theoretically possible, practically a nightmare. So I spent an afternoon digging, expecting nothing, and somehow landed on Dofus.
Stupid name. Genuinely stupid. But the art style is clean, there’s something charming about the whole thing, and the best part is it costs nothing to start. I rolled a warrior, jumped in, and got hooked almost immediately. Combat is turn-based, sort of like Final Fantasy but faster, where you move your character on a grid and figure out your approach. You actually have to think instead of just machine-gunning abilities.
The game runs on Mac, Windows, and Linux, which matters when you’ve abandoned Windows. There’s something about an MMO that isn’t trying to be everything for everyone. Dofus feels intentional instead of bloated. You’re not being milked for progression—you just play because it’s fun.
I’ve been logging in most evenings. Not chasing some endgame goal or waiting for the story to pay off. Just clicking through quests, watching numbers go up, finding weird corners of the map, stumbling into a zone with slightly harder monsters and having to actually adjust my strategy. It’s straightforward in a way that games stopped being a long time ago.
There’s something restful about playing something this low-key. Nobody’s going to notice if you disappear for two months. No battle pass expiring, no seasonal gear becoming obsolete. You just play when you want. I expected to try it for an hour and move on. Instead I keep thinking about it when I’m not playing, which is usually how I know something’s actually working for me.
This show about a pie maker with the ability to bring dead things back to life shouldn’t work. Everything’s too pretty, too strange, all oversaturated colors and deadpan narration and a tenderness that has no business existing in network television. But it does work. It reminds me of Big Fish, that specific baroque excess that actually means something, and Amélie’s obsessive love of small useless beautiful things.
What got me was how it felt like remembering something that never happened. Whimsy that doesn’t apologize. You watch it once and you understand exactly what the creator cares about, and suddenly you care about it too.
It got cancelled, obviously. Networks don’t know what to do with things this weird and this soft. Too specific, too much integrity, doesn’t fit. But someone made it anyway. Spent this much care on set design and color and casting someone with the right sad eyes. That matters even after it’s gone.
I’ve got this new apartment and the walls are asking for something. I’ve been scrolling through color palettes and photos of other people’s living rooms where everything looks inevitable and right. But nothing sticks. I see a pale green that works in one context and it suddenly looks sickly in natural light. A warm gray photographs beautifully but feels like surrender in person. I know what I like when I see it, which is worse—I can taste what I want but I can’t name it, and every time I get close something else catches my eye and I start over.
It’s the designer’s version of that old paralysis where too many options means none of them feel like the true choice. Looking at other people’s spaces doesn’t help because their decisions are baked into everything else in the room—the light, the furniture, the way they live there. A color that’s bold in someone’s carefully composed photo is just a wall in your apartment. You have to live with it.
I keep looking. Everything is close but nothing lands. The walls stay blank. Maybe I’ll paint them tomorrow, or next month, or I’ll just stand here watching light move across the plaster for a while longer. The indecision might actually be the point—at least while the walls are blank, they could be anything.
My weekend had everything—relaxed and exciting and reckless and adventurous all mixed together, basically the opposite of any weekday. Friday night Na-Young, my favorite project manager, invited me to Chi Chuin in Kreuzberg because I designed their new menu. Me, Thomi, and Basti sat in this cute little place, looked at this killer painting by Ohyun Kwon on the wall, drank something called “Nep Moi”—mild stuff. The food was excellent and the owners were genuinely nice and totally unhinged.
Then we went to “Wall-E” with Susen, one of our interns. We were twenty minutes late because Berlin traffic was absolutely insane, but that film. So cute and funny and sad and just—yeah. The kind of thing that makes you want to live inside it. Susen demonstrated afterward that she has the self-preservation instinct of a confused goldfish by dragging us to Rosie’s, which is legitimately the most wrecked dive bar I’ve ever been to. The music was incredible though, and the women were real—not like those typical overdone club girls you see everywhere.
My move is getting closer—twelve more days—and I’m handling the logistics. I ordered phone and internet through Congstar. Mail forwarding application goes in Monday. Then there’s green electricity through LichtBlick. Na-Young recommended them over Vattenfall, they’ve got solid reviews, and a song playing in the background sealed the deal. Still haven’t figured out how I want to paint and furnish the new apartment, but I’ve got today to think about it. Assuming I don’t just pass out.
Müller—the German dairy company—just ran an ad campaign with the slogan “Lass dich befruchten.” That’s the whole thing. Not a metaphor, not dressed up. Just pure biological desire language for milk and yogurt products.
There’s something weirdly bold about that in a place where half the culture is always panicking about birth rates and the other half is too repressed to say “sex” in public. Here’s a milk company just printing it: you want to fuck, we have dairy, let’s not pretend otherwise. It’s crude, sure. Blunt. But it works as its own kind of honesty.
Most ads seduce you slowly. This one just puts a hand on your knee and holds it there. Makes you wonder which is actually scarier to people—raw desire stated plainly, or the soft manipulation that’s been the default forever.
They’ve got a chai drink now too. Which somehow makes it funnier. The company that tried to hornify an entire country is now offering you something soothing. I haven’t tried it yet, but I probably will.
Apple finally refreshed the portable Macs, and it’s exactly what everyone’s been predicting. Glass trackpad, LED backlighting, NVidia graphics. They’re doubling down on that iMac design language, which evidently not everyone’s on board with.
The discussions are heating up everywhere—forums, chats, blogs. The specs are fine. The trackpad will either be brilliant or terrible depending on who you ask. The display’s become a point of argument. And the design itself pulls the room in different directions. You’ve got the “Jonathan Ive is a god” crowd and then you’ve got people already hunting for their old MacBook on eBay, convinced they want nothing to do with this.
I’m undecided. Might buy one. Might chase down the older version instead. Or this whole generation might just pass me by without sticking. They’re shipping today, so I’ve got time to think about it.
There were so many fashion blogs back then. Seriously, they multiplied like rabbits — endless feeds of aspirational crap, most of it forgotten the moment you scrolled past. The good ones, the places where actual taste lived? Those were rare. You’d dig through garbage just hoping to land on someone who knew what they were doing.
LOOKBOOK.nu was different from the start. Not a blog by someone trying to sell you a vision. It was a community — people putting together their own fits with real style. No stylists. No brand deals. Just someone who knew how to dress, documenting what worked.
The mix was genuinely weird in the best way. You’d scroll and hit a girl in the most unexpected vintage combination that somehow worked, then a guy in the next post doing something completely different but equally sharp. There wasn’t one aesthetic you were supposed to follow. It was people with taste showing each other what they wore.
That was the real pull. On most fashion blogs, whoever was running it felt like they were performing — playing dress-up for the camera, following some invisible script. LOOKBOOK felt like proof that taste was actually real. That you could have it. That knowing the difference between something good and something that just looked expensive was possible.
The problem, of course, was money. You could look at these fits all day, understand why they worked, feel that rush when someone nailed it. But wanting and having were two different things. Most of it was completely out of reach. It was inspiring and depressing in equal measure — knowing what good looked like but not being able to afford it.
Studio Ghibli designing a video game is the kind of announcement that stops you. Those films — Mononoke, Spirited Away, Howl’s Castle — they’re already complete as art. The thought of that sensibility in a game you control, a world you move through, isn’t hype. It’s knowing what you’re looking at.
Ni no Kuni came out on the DS in 2009, and it’s built on a strange, dark premise for a game. A thirteen-year-old boy, this moment where he kills his mother — actual death, fracturing him. A fairy finds him after. There’s a book, passages, another world. His mother exists there, but as someone else, someone who needs saving. It’s fairy-tale logic: the world becomes a mirror of his grief, and to fix it, he has to move through it.
Ghibli’s handling the visuals. Character design, color, the weight of light in each scene. It’s not a game with anime styling bolted on. It’s what you’d see if you lived inside one of those films. The DS is this small thing, this handheld screen, and Ghibli’s filling it with the same world-building they’d use in a feature film.
I’ve never played it. But a story about a child remaking reality because he can’t accept his own — that only works if it’s beautiful. And with Ghibli, it has to be. That partnership isn’t about pretty graphics. It’s about visual language and emotional truth being the same thing.
The sun’s been out and it’s doing that thing where you forget fall’s actually happening. Hot girls in bikinis, nice water, the whole summer feeling just when you thought you’d missed it.
Doesn’t matter though because I’m moving in twenty days—Halloween, which feels scheduled specifically to make this worse. I’ve started counting hours instead of days, that stupid anxiety math. There’s a tension between wanting to slow down and enjoy this and just needing it to be done, between nice weather and the nightmare of logistics.
The kids in MGMT’s ’The Youth’ look genuinely annoyed, like someone confiscated something from them. But they’re dressed better than anyone has the right to be—the kind of effortless style that makes you question your entire wardrobe. Eric Wareheim directed it, and you can see his deadpan fingerprints all over it.
It’s a come-down song, the type that only works late in the evening when everyone’s stopped performing and the party has actually found its groove. Play it at that moment and instead of people talking louder, they go quiet. The room settles. That’s how you know a song’s actually working—not because it demands attention, but because it fits exactly what you needed without asking.
Apple’s confirmed October 14 for new MacBooks. I’m past the stage where announcements feel like events—they’re just scheduled things now, reliable as seasons. There’s always an October.
What changes? New chips, faster speeds, battery that improves slightly. The aluminum stays the same. Apple’s good at the kind of incremental change that feels inevitable, at shifting just enough that you understand why but not so much that you feel stupid about last year’s model.
As a designer, I notice tools. Better hardware means work moves faster on long days, the kind where you’re deep in something for hours. Not transformatively faster, but it adds up. And MacBooks are reliable—they last, they don’t fail, the trackpad works. After twenty years of watching these cycles, I stopped expecting anything surprising and just looked at what’s actually improved.
I’ll get one when the time comes. Not because I need it, but because a tool that works doesn’t need defending. You use it until it wears out.
Just finished the first Harry Potter book. Yeah, I know everyone else got there first. The prose isn’t fancy, and I don’t think it’s trying to be. It’s just fun following this nerdy kid around Hogwarts, the kind of book that keeps you reading past when you planned to stop.
Being in the UK while reading it, you’d pass some old building and think, that’s where this happens. The author grounded it in actual places, which makes it weirder and better.
Hermione and Ron are what makes it work. They feel like actual people—they have their own friction, they’re separate from Harry’s gravity. That’s the work that makes you genuinely care what happens to them.
I’ve circled back to this Utada song more times than I can count. “Dareka No Negai Ga Kanau Koro” operates on a frequency most people skip past. She’s singing about someone half-gone, already out of reach, the impossibility of asking them to stay. The genius is in the restraint—no melodrama, no desperate crescendo, just her voice moving through the ache like she’s already accepted it, like she’s just telling you how it is. You’re listening from inside that acceptance, which somehow makes it worse than if she were actually begging.
These are the songs you come back to when you finally understand that wanting someone to stay has never changed anything. You listen and you’re less alone with it. That’s what they do—let you know someone else felt the same thing in the same way. Not comfort, exactly. Recognition. Being named.
Utada has always known how to sit in that moment. Where everything’s about to end but you’re still there, still hoping, still half-believing it might not.
Batman’s got a crisis that could be solved with one call, but it’s not going to happen. Nobody ever makes the call in movies, not when it would actually solve anything. College Humor did a whole thing about this - how screenwriters act like phones are optional technology, like we’re in some pre-digital age where you have to physically find someone to tell them something important.
And here’s the infuriating part: screenwriters aren’t being dumb. They know phones exist. They just hate them because they destroy dramatic tension. A working phone is the death of plot - real communication means no forced misunderstandings, no bad decisions made in isolation, no running around in the dark. So they kill it. Dead battery, no signal, forgot it somewhere. You need that friction to keep a story moving.
Doesn’t make it less annoying to watch. There’s something almost contemptuous about a writer making their characters worse so their plot can work. But I get it now. Phones are the enemy of drama. Which is why you’ll never see one actually help anyone in a movie.
Hung over from the night before, so I stayed in bed with Skins season one on my iPod. Cassie’s my favorite—Hannah Murray as this gaunt, constantly wasted pseudo-model with this strange pull about her. She drifts through her scenes like nothing else exists, and you sit there the whole time with this dumb smile, just hoping she doesn’t fall, hoping she’ll actually eat.
That’s what I remember about it now. Not the storylines or the other characters, just that protective feeling. Watching someone beautiful and broken and wanting them to be okay, knowing they won’t be.
How are you doing up there? Hanging with Elvis and Tupac now? Or are they too tame for what you want? I watched Toy Story 2 yesterday. Had nothing better to do. That song came on—the one you always cried at—and I found myself tearing up too. You would’ve laughed at me. I wish you could’ve seen it.
There’s these moments where I feel like I could hug the entire world, and you’re not here so I can’t share them with you. Can’t even tell you about them. It matters.
Anyway, I’m doing fine. Moving soon, bought this ridiculous cooking game for the DS that’s somehow actually fun. Life keeps happening without you.
Going shopping now. I’ll let that song play for you. And if it rains the second I step outside, I’m blaming you. Try to write me back sometime when your new boss isn’t watching. Later.
Dinner with friends, spaghetti somewhere, and Popstars was on the TV. This is the German talent show where untalented people cry about their dreams in front of judges who’ve learned to look serious. The only good part about it was when Mandy or Anne appeared—for maybe thirty seconds you’d see someone who could actually sing, and then it went back to being garbage.
But that was kind of the point. With a full mouth and people I actually liked, tearing into these talentless singers became something we could all agree on. Everyone was thinking the same thing anyway—this is bad, these people can’t sing, the whole setup is weird. We just said it out loud. No pretense needed.
During the commercials I’d switch over to something else on the same channel, something with Nora in it. She’s the kind of person who just shifts things—the moment she appears you remember that TV doesn’t have to feel like punishment.
Then back to Popstars. I wanted to kick the set, honestly. Still kind of do.
The dark comes earlier now. I notice it most on the drive home, the sky folded into itself by 5:30. Every autumn the music shifts without warning—brightness drains out and everything gets heavier, more textured. It’s automatic.
This year it’s Robyn filtered through autumn somehow, all that dense production and breathing space. Jack’s Mannequin heavy in rotation, the kind of songs that feel written at 3am in somebody’s car. Spangle call Lilli line for the restless edge that matches the exact hour when the light’s gone. And there’s a Disney cover in there that shouldn’t work but does.
I remember being young and thinking autumn made everything sadder, more true. Music works the same way—the season finds what’s already in a song and turns it up. I’m not entirely sure what I’m hunting for in these artists right now. Maybe something that matches the speed of the light dying. Maybe just the year catching up.
My favorite Puma cologne, Create, has been discontinued. A very nice Douglas employee broke the news to me recently, which is genuinely awful. I don’t just wear this stuff — I’ve basically become it. After all these years, my actual smell has merged with it, and now it’s gone. I found a family pack with free shower gel at some drugstore and grabbed it, which buys me some time.
The other impossible thing is finding the adult hardcover edition of the first Harry Potter book. I’ve been through every bookstore looking for it with no luck. So I ordered it online instead. I want to finish all seven books before the December release of Tales of Beedle the Bard. Probably won’t happen, but I’m trying. Oh, and apparently there’s a Harry Potter anime coming in 2012, animated by Akira Toriyama — the Dragon Ball guy. Which might be genius or might be stupid. I’m too much of a nerd at the moment to tell the difference.
Sitting in vocational school learning gradation curves and histograms, I’m automating my Final Fantasy party instead. Gulcan handles the walking, I handle the menus. It feels clever for about five minutes before it just feels like half-attention to two things at once.
Tomorrow’s test is inflation and deflation. I’m grinding experience points right now. Both feel equally made-up, equally urgent. The school’s teaching me how real value works while I’m watching fake numbers climb on the same screen. One of them will matter in about 24 hours, and I still can’t figure out which.
I left Bavaria a year ago and everything there’s been falling apart since. The CSU is collapsing, Bayern Munich looks hopeless, and my family stopped showing up for each other’s birthdays. There’s the picture: Bavaria in freefall, and somehow it’s my fault for leaving. I moved to Berlin, to the Prussians and their tired jokes—something about Bavarian walls, something about Bayern at the World Cup, something about getting stabbed at the train station in ten minutes. The same old shit, but it sticks with you.
But I’ll go back eventually. The mountains pull at you. The landscape, the culture, the girls—it’s impossible to resist forever. So hold on down there, you blue-and-white faithful. There’s still hope.
Just not yet. London first. My mother lived there years back, so there’s something genetic pulling me that direction. After London, after time, probably Bavaria again. Once you leave home you realize you can’t fully leave it, but you try anyway.
At least the Munich town hall made it into the Berlin phone book. That’s something.
My head’s still buzzing. Everything comes out in fragments now because language just gave up somewhere during the night at Sladdi’s place. We were at a party and by the end I was running on nothing but pure gibberish.
Mandy was in even worse shape. She was losing it before I even started. We played pool—I actually beat Marco, which never happens—and Tomi crushed me at phone Tetris after. Then came the bottle-spinning thing, stupid even sober but absolutely unhinged when everyone’s drunk. Anne started confessing actual secrets, Sladdi was horrified, Tomi wouldn’t stop laughing, Tom barely cracked a smile (he’d smuggled McDonald’s somehow), and Mandy kept circling back to whatever was sending everyone into complete delirium.
What gets me is how convinced I became that I was actually getting smarter as I got more drunk. Language degradation as confidence. Tomi and I made a pact to spend all day Monday at trade school speaking nothing but complete bullshit. Absolute nonsense, the kind of thing that’ll be hilarious to us and incomprehensible to everyone else.
I’m sitting here eating waffles with a cheeseburger—or maybe it’s the cheeseburger with waffles, doesn’t matter—and while I was half-asleep earlier, two completely different impulses hit me. One: I want to actually read Harry Potter. The books, the whole thing, like some kind of trend-following idiot. And two: I want to burn the whole fucking city down.
Not literally. Or not entirely. It’s what your brain says when it’s exhausted and overstimulated at the same time. The night, the weekend, all of it. Just light it up and walk away. But I figure I’ll start with Harry Potter first and work my way toward that second impulse. Seems like the natural progression.
October used to hit different - you’d hate everything in small ways. Software updates, tax nonsense, even the musicians you’d been waiting for would manage to disappoint. You’d eat a box of snacks without tasting them, just filling time. You’d resent things that didn’t deserve it.
But the same month you were waiting for something. New albums coming out. Shows restarting. The move was in a few weeks - new apartment, new space to imagine into existence. Your friends were moving too, broke like you, caught in the same space. There was this sense that October was just the holding period before something shifted.
It never happened the way you thought. But the waiting was the point. October hung between seasons, and you hung with it - half-present, half-imagining, running out of time to decide what you actually wanted.
The music industry won. Muxtape got killed the way good things always get killed—quietly, by people who wake up sweating about what users might do with a simple tool. Justin had to pivot the whole thing toward bands, which means the mixtape part is gone. The reason anyone cared, dead.
It was the simplest idea. You make a mixtape, send it to someone, it lives there. That’s it. No algorithms, no viral hooks, no angle. Just music you picked and a place to put it.
I know how this works. The industry always crushes anything that gives people a little control. But watching something this genuinely good get destroyed for no reason except someone’s copyright anxiety is a specific kind of stupid. The service was better and kinder than anything else trying to do this. It didn’t feel like it was trying to get something from you. That was the part they couldn’t live with.
So there it is. Another small perfect thing, killed because it was too good at doing what it did.
Marten’s finally back from summer. He moved to Berlin and now he’s got a camera and a backlog of work that needs finishing. There’s always this gap—you shoot something, then weeks or months pass before you actually do anything with it. Makes you forget what you were thinking when you took the picture in the first place. I should check in on what he’s shot, but something about that lag feels right to me.
I dug up “Stitches” by The Dykeenies while scrolling through my iTunes the other day — one of those songs that gets buried until you randomly bump into it again. The band’s name still makes me stumble; I can never say it without it sounding ridiculous, which hasn’t stopped me from playing it anyway.
It’s a genuinely good song. Had its moment about a year ago, right when I was still tuned to that frequency. One of those tracks that hits at the right time and then settles into the background like they all do, waiting to surprise you later.
Here’s the weird part: every time I look at the band name, I think of a cocktail. Not even a particular kind, just this vague image of one. That’s just how memory works — makes these random associations stick.
There’s something about rediscovering old songs. Same notes, same everything, but you’re different now so it lands in a different place, means something slightly different. Nothing deep about it. Just that small resurrection when you’re not looking for it.
You make something and put it out there, and then you forget about it. That’s how it works. You finish, you release, you move on to the next thing. Years later someone tags you in a photo, or you’re looking at something completely unrelated and suddenly there it is—your work, somewhere you didn’t put it, doing something you didn’t plan for.
The people who ended up using my designs were impossible to predict. Models from Shanghai and Vienna. Photographers in Milan and Los Angeles. An indie rock band from India. A Canadian gossip blog. A site dedicated entirely to candy. Japanese photo blogs. American musicians I actually recognized. Someone named Jan who—honestly, I’m still not totally sure what Jan does. A pile of strangers from everywhere, connected by nothing except that they all saw the work and thought, yeah, I can use this.
It’s funny because you can’t predict what catches on or where. You could build something meant for a specific audience and have nobody notice. Then you make something off-the-cuff and it ends up on a photoblog in Tokyo or in the header of some music blog you’ve never heard of. The internet doesn’t respect your intentions.
There’s a particular feeling when you see your work in someone else’s context. It’s not pride—or it’s not just pride. And it’s not loss, though there’s something of that too. It’s more like recognizing a jacket you made years ago on someone at a bus stop. You know the seams, the weight of it, how it should sit. But they’ve worn it enough that it hangs differently now, shaped by their body, their life. It’s still the jacket you made but it’s not yours anymore. It was never really yours once it left your hands.
That’s the deal, I guess. You make something so you can let it go. You don’t get to control what happens next. All you can do is notice when it turns up somewhere, take a weird pride in the fact that it worked, that someone found it useful, and then move on to the next thing.
So TokyoPunk didn’t come back. Not really. I restarted the whole thing, and half a year of posts just evaporated—January through June 2007. I still don’t know exactly what happened. I just know they’re gone.
Do I have a backup? Please. Look at me. Do I look like the kind of person who maintains backups? Exactly.
The worst part is knowing that someone, somewhere, probably still has them. Maybe you’ve got them sitting in an old feed reader you never cleaned out. Maybe you printed something and stuck it on your wall and forgot about it. Maybe someone actually did break into the database just because they could, and now they’ve got six months of deleted TokyoPunk posts gathering dust on a hard drive. If that’s you—if you have anything from those months—I want it back.
You’ll get a real prize for it. There’s an apple somewhere around here. Half a jar of Nutella on the desk. One of those could be yours. I’m not even joking. Mostly not joking.
Christophe Kutner takes good photographs of good-looking people, which sounds like a limitation until you actually look at the work. He’s shot Milla Jovovich, Diane Kruger, Charlotte Gainsbourg. What stuck with me was Book 2, his Brazil series in black and white. The photographs are clean—just what’s there, no staging. Someone’s actually looking behind the camera.
I spontaneously hopped on a train to Rostock last night for Marten’s farewell party. What else was I going to do, stay home? We drank through the whole night, got destroyed at foosball, ate döner and donuts at six in the morning—all of it was exactly what a send-off party should be. His friends are the right kind of weird, the specific constellation that only happens in certain places with certain people. The conversations that make sense at three in the morning after too much beer, where random things somehow feel profound.
Marten shot the whole night on actual film, so we’re waiting for the photos to develop. I basically lived on trains yesterday and somewhere between Rostock and Berlin I ran into Kai, this friend I hadn’t seen in years, one of those random encounters that only happens on trains. By the time I got home I was completely wrecked, so I just put Camp Rock on and called it a night. The trip was stupid to make on zero notice, but it’s the kind of stupid that feels right.
I wanted to post a photo of my new iPod nano on Pirate Day. Anne had asked me to. Then I realized the joke was already there: here I am with a music player, and everyone online is making piracy jokes. Too perfect not to notice.
“Don’t you have to dress as a pirate?” The thing is, I kind of had the piracy part covered. (The legal team wants to go on record: this is a joke. The copyright people clearly don’t agree, but at least they made sure everyone got paid for their Fall Out Boy songs.)
Now I’m wondering about other theme days. Zombie Day could work. Just ketchup. That’s basically the whole aesthetic.
Found Matthieu Bessudo’s work in the middle of an illustration safari—a drawing so clean, so perfectly composed, so committed to its own premise that it felt like proof drawing could still do something that mattered. You clicked for the title, I know. The work itself delivered on the promise.
That was a few weeks back. Since then I’ve been hunting through every illustrator working that register, chasing the same voltage, and I finally hit the wall. Brain’s exhausted. Can’t look at another erotic image without it feeling like work. The novelty evaporated around day ten, and now I’m just staring at shapes and lines and feeling nothing register.
So I’m taking a break. Few weeks off from the whole archive-diving thing—let my brain recover, let some other kind of image back in. Call it hentai-pause if the self-awareness amuses you. Just nothing with that charge for a while. I need the air to be different.
Been sick, mostly recovered now. Existing on cough drops and melon slices, sitting at the agency doing the important work—FBI, CIA, CSI level important. The usual.
I’m almost finished with this game. It went really fast. Somewhere in the middle of it I noticed something: I’m completely addicted to the worst food. Microwaved cheeseburgers from the freezer. Those cheap cereals loaded with sugar. Chocolate milk by the bottle. Dead serious, every day.
This has to stop. But I don’t want to quit—I want something else to be obsessed about instead. Something that won’t destroy me. The problem is nothing hits the same way, and I’m not sure I care enough to change anything anyway.
Blue iPod Nano. Got it at Gravis because my headphones finally quit, wandered in, and this one caught my eye instead of the silver or black one everyone else gets.
What you do immediately with a new music player is load it with the songs that matter to you. I put on Ida Maria, Fall Out Boy, the Dresden Dolls’ Amanda Palmer, Royal Treatment Plant. Artists you actually listen to, not whatever was in rotation last week. This isn’t a device—it’s a statement about what you’ve bothered to pay attention to.
Small piece of plastic with songs in it. Weighs almost nothing. But there’s something about carrying around your actual taste, compressed into 8GB, that feels like proof of something. Like evidence you exist.
Yeah, it’s true - I’m sick. Been in bed since yesterday. Fever, cough, cold, the whole thing. Summer ends and here we are.
So I’m doing what you do: all day in bed, living off cough syrup and chocolate milk and cereal, working through Final Fantasy IV. I joke about needing someone to wish me better so I don’t have to spend another day in this boring hole, but honestly it’s fine. More than fine. There’s something kind of good about having nowhere else to be.
Hannah was hunting for illustration references for some class project, and I got roped into the search. That’s how I found myself clicking through portfolio after portfolio on a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of aimless browsing that surprises you every once in a while with something that actually sticks.
The names I kept coming back to: Jérôme Mireault, Nicc Balce, Tritz, Julia Davis, Jenny Clements, Yuke. I’m listing them like I’m about to say something intelligent about their aesthetic, but mostly I just kept opening their work and thinking, yeah, that’s the thing. That exact thing.
There’s a quality to illustration that separates the competent from the haunting, and it’s not always about technical skill. Sometimes it’s just knowing when to stop. Knowing what matters in a frame and what doesn’t. These artists had that. The work felt inevitable, like they’d found the simplest possible way to say what needed saying.
Digital illustration can feel slick in a way that feels empty. You see a lot of that. But this work—there’s something underneath. Even when it’s minimal, even when it’s just a few lines and a careful choice of color, there’s attention in it. The kind of attention that takes forever to develop, or maybe it’s the kind you just have.
I bookmarked all of them and sent the list to Hannah, which felt like I’d actually solved the problem instead of just pointing her toward more options. That’s the whole value of a bookmark, really. Not the name you can easily search again, but the visual memory of what good looks like. So you know it when you see it somewhere else.
I’m the kind of asshole who’s never satisfied, and December gives permission to want everything. There’s already gingerbread at the supermarket. Snow could start any minute.
Final Fantasy IV one more time—and I’m actually buying it this time, I swear. A better camera than what I’ve got, something that doesn’t produce complete trash. A Wii, ostensibly for the fitness games (feel free to laugh), but mostly for Smash Bros and Zelda and that deranged farm game nobody remembers. A new iPod, if someone could just decide the color for me because I’m hopeless at that kind of decision.
Those are all just padding though. What I actually want is to move into my new apartment—and throw the kind of party that matters in it. One of those new MacBooks everyone’s going on about, supposedly better than anything else ever made. Being a student in Berlin makes the price at least halfway reasonable.
So I watched this German creature feature — a movie about a killer cow, or at least that’s what I think it was about. The plot didn’t survive translation, if it ever existed. Could be the whole thing is a joke. Could be it’s accidentally brilliant. Either way, nobody really knows why this movie exists, and that’s what makes it worth watching.
It reminded me of the 50-Meter Woman, that ancient B-movie where some woman gets blasted with radiation and becomes a giant monstrosity. Same DNA — an absurd premise, practical effects held together with duct tape and hope, and a crew that just decides to commit fully. Nobody’s winking at the camera. Everyone’s deadly serious about the killer cow.
The real magic isn’t the movie itself. It’s sitting in the dark with a handful of people, collectively agreeing to follow whatever nonsense is unfolding on screen. Someone brings beer. Someone brings chips. You’re all in, not because it’s good, but because there’s something real about the attempt. These people made this thing. They tried.
I watched the whole thing. No idea why, same as nobody knows why this movie got made in the first place. But that’s kind of the point. You don’t need a reason. You just show up, you sit down, and you let yourself be carried along by something completely ridiculous. And sometimes that’s exactly what you need.
Nothing happening, just staying in. Cartoons playing, Nutella straight from the jar, while everyone else is playing Spore or whatever. I’ve got The Sims 2 running instead. Built a little family, nothing elaborate.
My daughter in the game—Nami—she’s turning out fine. Anyone who gets close to her without my say-so ends up at the bottom of the pool. No rescue squad, no second chances. It shouldn’t feel good, but it does.
Vocational school week destroys you. Waking up at six every morning, nearly passing out in the shower. By evening, there’s nothing left. So I’m home with multivitamin juice, watching Monsters collect people. Someone told me My Name Is Earl got cancelled. That’s shit—would’ve saved the night.
Put together this week’s mix: The Ting Tings’ loose, almost accidental energy, Bloc Party when they’re tight and nervous, Pop Levi, and this gutting ballad with Yoko Kanno and Ilaria Graziano. They shouldn’t work together but they do.
Muxtape’s basically a ghost now but the format still feels right. Short, constrained, forces you to think about what goes where. That discipline matters.
The world ends tomorrow morning at half past nine, or everyone gets sucked into Narnia, or turned into Pokémon, I’m not entirely sure which. Before that happens though, I wanted to say something to the people who made this possible. My parents, my family, my friends who actually showed up. My producer. Whatever’s running this thing. And to you lot, the ones who read this stuff, left comments, told me I was wrong, told me I was right, got angry, got into it. Thank you. For all of it. Keep a Knoppers bar handy tomorrow morning. See you in the next life. I’ll be the Pikachu.
My nano was finally dead. The white earbuds gave out weeks ago. When Apple announced the new lineup, I figured it was over—they’d fold everything into the touch, kill the slim device, end the pocket thing. But they brought back the nano.
Thin. Nine colors. Same price. I wanted it without thinking.
I can’t wait until Thursday when your actual birthday hits. I can’t face that day yet. You’re just gone and I feel it everywhere. I’d do terrible things to have one more night like we used to have - wine dark and sad, music soaking into everything, talking until the apartment went cold, knowing I could be myself with you. Mona, come back. This is killing me.
I remember being in the bath, steam hanging in the air, my head drowning. You came in quietly, closed the door, got in with me. You asked me something vulnerable - something you asked when you needed to know you were loved. I told you the truth. You smiled, poured champagne, held me close. The dark thoughts scattered. I felt wanted. I felt safe.
I keep reading the old texts, clicking through your playlists. I think about all the days we should have had together but didn’t. The senselessness of it still hurts. You were brilliant. You are brilliant. Mona, I know all my words dissolve into nothing anyway, into the infinite, but I want you to hear them. I want you to know how much we loved you. I want you to give me that smile - the one where you believed everything would be okay. Because then I’d believe it too. Then I’d smile back.
Rain hard enough to wash the color out of things. My jeans are still bleeding dye onto my white sneakers—that indigo running in trails that won’t come out—and I’m moving through the city in the particular way you move at three in the morning when your body has decided it doesn’t care about straight lines. Somehow we’d ended up somewhere across the Westend, no clear path back to how we got there.
I remember beating people at foosball. Someone took a loss to me that night, or maybe several someones—the details have blurred but the satisfaction stuck around. Someone else fountained vodka-orange all over my shirt in that slow-motion moment where everyone just watches. After that the evening doesn’t quite hold together. We ate döner with enough garlic sauce that it seemed architectural, the kind of decision that makes sense only when you’re already too drunk to question it. Somewhere in the noise someone mentioned a brothel in Barcelona, and in the way these things work, it sounded like maybe we were all actually going.
But Barcelona never happened. Somewhere between the spilled vodka and the kebab, the plan just dissolved. Whether anyone had meant it or it was just drunken talk, I never found out.
Sari had me wanting Final Fantasy IV months ago. Then I heard it actually came out for the DS here, which I should’ve expected but somehow didn’t, and that was it—I’m buying it today and disappearing.
I don’t know for how long. That’s just what happens when something lands that you’ve been craving. You lose the rest of your life to it for a while.
Every game store right now is the same dead inventory. Zelda ports I’ve already played three times over, whatever new releases they’re pushing that don’t grab me at all. The shelves look full but feel empty. I leave empty-handed every time.
Tales of Hearts has been out in Japan for months now. I’ve read enough about it to know it’s the exact game I need right now — that atmospheric, built-for-handheld RPG that made me want a DS in the first place. The kind you sink into and stop paying attention to the rest of the world.
There’s no Western release announced yet. I check for news periodically, which is stupid, but I do it anyway. I know it’ll probably come eventually. The waiting just eats at me more than it should. Right now there’s nothing else that even comes close.
There’s something about comedy that doesn’t need you to get it. Jake and Ami just exist in their own frequency, committed to the absurdity without performing for approval. New layout, college casual, nothing overthought. Most creators are working so hard to reach you. These two just commit and move on. That’s rarer than it should be.
There’s a strange kind of magic that happens when a corporate party actually works. Yesterday the office threw a Hawaiian thing in autumn—some excuse about grabbing one more summer before it died, but really just a reason to let everyone off the leash for a night. The music was good, the meat was grilled, the drinks were flowing, and somewhere around hour two the whole place turned feral.
Normally buttoned-up adults became wild kids. Ping pong turned violent. Water pistols appeared. Someone kept pouring vodka into the punch and everyone was too drunk to stop him. The weird beautiful part was that nobody was trying anymore—no networking, no performing, no careful versions of themselves. Just meat, alcohol, stupidity, and the strange weight of a group that decided rules don’t matter for one night.
You see something real in those moments. Strip away the work version of people and they mostly just want to be dumb together, to turn everything off, to feel the momentum of something loose and uncontrolled. No pretense, no hierarchy, just everyone letting go at the same time.
Christmas party’s coming up. I’m looking forward to it.
This one gets at the particular exhaustion of knowing it’s over before you say it. Lykke Li has this way of making a small admission feel final, like she’s already packed her bags and is just being polite about leaving. The song’s quiet enough that you feel the silence more than the words. By the time you get to ’give me the reason to stay,’ you know there isn’t one, and neither does she.
Chrome. The band, not the browser. Helios Creed on guitar, Damon Edge on drums and synth, American electronic rock pioneers from way back. Which is how you have to introduce them now, apparently, because Google’s browser completely swallowed the band’s entire existence. Not some web culture in-joke. Not a Google product. Just a group that invented something, got there first, and then got completely buried under a search engine.
You can’t even search for them properly anymore. The name is ruined.
Paul Robertson is an Australian pixel animator who makes GIFs that feel like they shouldn’t exist. SNES-style graphics, deranged movement, anatomies that ignore every law of physics and decency. That’s the whole offer.
His animations move in ways that shouldn’t work at that resolution. Joints bend wrong, muscles ripple and swell, everything stretches past reasonable limits yet somehow feels fluid. It’s crude and horny and insanely technical in this completely unashamed way. You can feel how many hours he spent pushing pixels until the movement was exactly right in being completely wrong.
Tako King is the obvious reference—just relentless octopus depravity in maximum-pervert SNES graphics. Same energy everywhere in his catalog: funny because he’s entirely sincere about whatever deranged impulse started the thing. No irony, no winking, total commitment.
He’s done work for Mecha Fetus and appeared in a few art blogs, but mostly he just makes these anonymous GIFs that live in some weird gap between fan animation, technical demonstration, and pure unfiltered id. You can’t really explain to someone why they work if they don’t already feel it.
We went to IFA on a Sunday with Tomi, though we both ran out of energy almost immediately. The whole fair is designed to exhaust you — endless booths, endless displays, endless reasons to feel like technology is about to transform your life in some way that never quite happens. We made it maybe two minutes before taking a break, and spent the rest of the day drift-shopping, looking at things we’d forget about by Tuesday.
There was this section they called an ice forest, with trees engineered to be perfectly silent. Stand under them and nothing — no rustling, no creak. It’s supposed to be calming, but it’s actually unsettling. Sony had their Rollys in there, these cute little robot things that I wanted to take home. They fit in your hand.
The highlight was actually a simple thing — Telekom’s touch wall. Just an interactive surface, nothing crazy, but it was designed well enough that you wanted to keep using it. Everything else at the fair was chasing some idea of spectacle that had nothing to do with how people actually interact with things. The massive displays, the showcase cars, the strategic positioning of beautiful women in branded outfits who looked deeply bored by the whole affair. The male gaze was so thick you could feel it, and it never seemed to occur to anyone that it was embarrassing.
They gave free cola. The giveaway odds were somewhere around zero percent. I wanted to steal the world’s largest LCD screen.
The whole thing was weirdly inspiring, in that specific way trade shows are — you’re surrounded by visions of the future that will be irrelevant in six months. But for a few hours you’re in the space where someone decided what they think the world should want next, and even when it’s obviously wrong, there’s something compelling about that kind of belief.
Found this on Mecha Fetus—just a robot running. Running endlessly. No destination you can see, no purpose that makes itself obvious. Monsters or obstacles block its path, and it keeps going anyway. You watch it and start asking the thing everyone asks. Is it running away from something? Chasing something? Is it trapped in the loop, or is this what it’s actually built for? The piece doesn’t tell you. It just shows the running.
There’s something hypnotic about watching something repetitive. The animation loops, the robot’s legs pump, obstacles come and go. After a while you stop looking for story and just sit with it. The robot doesn’t seem to question itself. Doesn’t get frustrated or tired. It just moves. There’s no exhaustion in the image, just commitment to the motion.
I think about people like that. Not metaphorically—actually like that. Working jobs that don’t make sense, staying in patterns because breaking them costs more than continuing them. Running toward something or running away, but never actually admitting which. The robot at least has the mechanical excuse.
What holds me is that it doesn’t resolve. The running doesn’t transform anything. The robot doesn’t slow down to reflect on what it’s doing. It’s this small thing, totally committed to its pointless task, and there’s something almost cool in that. Or maybe it’s just bleak. The piece sits between the two without picking a side, which is probably what it’s doing on purpose.
Grabbed Keinohrhasen at MediaMarkt for 8.90 euros because why the fuck not. Nobody buys DVDs anymore, but there it was, cheap enough to feel like stealing. Nora Winatschek on the cover, and I’ve been following her stuff for years, so that was reason enough. Three seconds, no actual decision.
Hot dogs from the freezer, McDonald’s fries, and the movie queued up. That’s dinner sorted. Berlin’s drowning outside like it does every week, the city slowly collapsing in on itself, but in here it doesn’t matter. Just me, some mediocre German rom-com, and an evening nobody planned for. Sometimes that’s the only kind there is.
Jetzt.de made me their favorite link. They described me in their piece: a young web designer who writes about what he likes and dislikes, hugs people and hates people, throws peach-flavored donuts at emos in some coffee shop. The usual stuff. Most of it’s accurate enough.
One question they couldn’t answer: who are Amy and Pink?
I still don’t have an answer for that. The names have been part of this place since the beginning and I’ve never had a proper explanation for them. No story, no grand reason. They just stuck somehow.
Your pants don’t fit. Summer won’t let go and fall’s already at the door, so you’re stuck in that narrow space between who you were and whoever’s next. Mona’s birthday was this month but Mona wasn’t there—the kind of small, pointed absence that makes everything feel slightly off for no reason you can explain.
You’re constantly getting flyers shoved in your hand. Manga avatars stare back from every screen. The distance between Berlin and Bavaria suddenly matters in a way it didn’t before—like it’s the distance between summer and whatever comes after. Empty bottles pile up on the desk. You spill apple juice and let it spread and don’t bother cleaning it up. There’s something romantic about the trash in September, something tired that doesn’t lead anywhere. You’re exhausted before the month’s even started.
But there’s good stuff running underneath all of this. New MacBooks and iPods drop in the shops. Fish tastes like something for the first time in months. The Script’s everywhere—that’s what everyone uses to convince themselves summer isn’t actually ending. Mischa Barton’s back on screens. Kidrobot’s releasing new work. Mark Chang’s photographs stick with you in a way that doesn’t feel like nostalgia. Cooler Mag keeps producing things that matter. Street fashion’s shifting in ways that feel almost right.
Oktoberfest’s coming up, so suddenly people talk like this is finally the month they reach whatever they’ve been promising themselves since spring. There’s a buzz under September that isn’t just heat. Something’s shifting, and you can’t stay still anymore. Your clothes don’t fit, your friends aren’t where they’re supposed to be, summer’s ending—and September just keeps moving forward without waiting.
I’ve been in the basement for the past few weeks. Some secret project that requires complete isolation from the outside world—no contact, no news, nothing. Sometimes I think about emerging and realizing I’ve missed something huge. Did anyone I care about do anything interesting? Probably not. But maybe. I’ll never know until I get out.
The strange thing about being cut off is how quickly you stop being anxious about it. The first few days you’re checking your phone compulsively whenever you surface, trying to piece together what you missed. By day ten you’ve stopped entirely. You become someone who only exists in relation to this one locked-away project. Everything else becomes abstract. The world could be on fire or everyone could be fine—it doesn’t matter from down here.
I wonder sometimes if anyone notices I’m gone. Probably not in any way that matters. Everyone else is living their lives the same way they always do, having the same conversations, thinking the same thoughts. I’m not missing anything important. I’m just not there for the continuity.
But there’s something oddly good about it. No obligations hanging over you, no sense that you should be doing something else with your time. You’re exactly where you need to be, doing exactly one thing, and that’s enough. It’s not peaceful. It’s more like you’ve given yourself permission to disappear for a while.
When I finally get out of here, the world will have done whatever it was going to do. I have no idea if I’ll care about what I missed.
Siemens invited me to IFA this weekend, which is kind of perfect because IFA is basically the machine that sells you appliances made visible. Thousands of booths, corporate theater, companies showing you washing machines and refrigerators like they’re going to change your life. As a designer, there’s something genuinely fascinating about seeing what manufacturers believe matters—and watching how often they’re completely wrong.
Tomi’s coming, which is the only way this makes sense. You can’t walk through that kind of spectacle alone. You need someone standing with you when they’re explaining why their new dishwasher is revolutionary, someone to share the bad free coffee with, someone to acknowledge that you both just witnessed the same absurd thing.
What gets me is the gap between what these companies are betting on and what actually moves anyone’s life forward. Most of it is just money spent very earnestly solving problems nobody had. Sometimes you find something genuinely clever. Usually you just see the machinery of how we’re sold the things we live with, all exposed at once. I’ll probably leave wired and empty. But that machinery is worth seeing.
Everyone’s got a manga avatar now, and ninety percent of them are aggressively forgettable — the same three recycled styles, character design by committee, all that dead-eyed stare. I see them everywhere and they blur into nothing. But every once in a while you find someone who actually drew their character with some care, who understands proportion and expression instead of just copying the template, and it’s a completely different thing. The difference between lazy and intentional is huge.
Step off the train at Buchloe and Berlin evaporates. Charlottenburg, the parties, the work, the school—all of it just gone, like I’d never left. I’d known it would be this way. Last time was the same. Everything here feels like another world.
I hadn’t been back since Christmas. The station was empty. Walking down that quiet street toward home, I felt time doing something strange—moving and stopping at once. Days had passed. Nothing had moved.
The weekend happened quickly. Party at André’s. Batman at the cinema. Shopping in Munich with Ana. Pork roast at my grandmother’s—the kind that’s better than anywhere else. I drank it all in, didn’t want to leave, and knew immediately why I’d had to. This town used to be my whole world. It isn’t anymore. Maybe I’ll come back someday. Not yet.
Eleven hours back to Berlin. Magazines, my iPod, Richard Milward’s Apples—enough to keep my mind from breaking. I read my aunt’s card over and over. She was congratulating me on finishing my first year of training, saying everyone was proud, telling me to keep pushing when things got hard. By the time I saw the TV tower again, I felt untethered in a way I hadn’t expected. I grabbed my pack and walked toward the student dorm. I’d be moving soon anyway. Finally.
I started hearing about Electremo floating around the music blogs and venue listings, and my first instinct was that it was a joke — someone mashing genre names together for clicks. But it was real: electro production married to emo sensibility, which is as unlikely as it sounds. Metro Station, Play Radio Play, Plushgun leading the charge. All of them with that particular kind of calculated dishevelment and synths that by every rule of taste should not work but somehow do.
The contradiction is what makes it work, I think. Emo had gotten exhausted by its own sincerity, electro was running cold, and somewhere in the Berlin underground someone figured out that you could plug one into the other. You’d catch them at the Knaack or the Alex — dark rooms where the dancefloor got weird in ways the mainstream clubs weren’t touching yet. There’s something almost sweet about how unironic the whole thing is. No winking, no deconstruction. Just genuine enthusiasm for the awkward collision.
What’s interesting is that it represents this particular moment where the internet had broken genres into small enough pieces that you could reassemble them however you wanted. Kids weren’t waiting for record labels to create the next big thing — they were doing it themselves, in basements and small clubs, mixing their own references. Muxtape was dying around the same time, and I remember feeling like that mattered somehow. One era collapsing while another got born.
It’s the kind of thing that’ll probably feel quaint in a year or two, but while it’s happening, before the trend scouts and the style reporters figure it out, there’s that moment where you know something weird is alive and nobody’s explaining it yet.
You wore me down. Months of it—’Come on, rejoin the platform,’ ’Just get back on there’—until I had nothing left and caved completely. I’m back. No principles, no spine, nothing standing between me and whatever you’re all doing on there. So go ahead, add me, write me something scathing about my lack of character, tell me which groups I need to join. This is just a summer break, okay? We’re going to agree on that. Not a fundamental collapse of everything I said I believed. Just a temporary pause. Cool?
I came to with the entire Third World War happening in my skull. Eyes crusted shut, I rolled over and found Lena’s bare ass in my face, her three-legged cat purring on top of it. Everything was hammering. Bombs. The sun broke through the window like a knife and made me want to die.
Bottles everywhere—vodka, beer, whatever. I tried to sit up and nearly fell off the bed, caught myself on the nightstand, knocked over her green glass alarm clock. Watched it fall in that weird drug clarity and explode on the floor.
The sound woke the cat. She hissed at me with the worst noise in the world. I spit back and got up.
“Keep it down.” Peter on the couch—the red one, the bad one—jeans around his thighs, his erection pointed right at me. Didn’t bother hiding it.
Peter. Imported from California a few years back. Blonde, tan, exactly the type: fitness instructor, surfer energy, shell necklace, swordfish tattoo. Completely repellent. The swordfish was bigger than his dick.
I made it to the kitchen. Cornflakes. That was the only goal. The specific sweetness, the cinnamon dust, something going right for five seconds.
“Did I seriously sleep with both of you? Again?” Lena’s voice, destroyed. She was already at the mirror on the table, the twenty marks beside it. Snorted a line while I was eating. Coke dust exploded across everything. She freaked out about the cinnamon—said it triggered her allergies—threw the mirror at me, then disappeared with one of her cats. The disabled one. The one that just tips over. Left me there with the cereal and the overwhelming sense that I’d never be clean again.
I found my clothes. Looked at Peter one more time. Walked out into the morning. The TV tower was visible down the street, and somehow it looked like Peter’s dick. Put on my sunglasses. The street was lined with green trees. It was almost ten. I was going to be late to work. Again.
The weekend was too short and absolutely full of drunk people saying absurd things—the kind of weekend where you end up with phone numbers of people you’ll probably never talk to again. Spent most of it with Lisa, my future roommate, and her chaotic friends around Berlin, mostly in Wedding. We had a decent brunch, then I found myself singing sad Corpse Bride songs with Svenja and Meike at some point, which makes way more sense when you’re already drinking. Later at Conny’s place around three in the morning we were playing those stupid games with pieces of paper where you write something dumb and it gets worse every time someone reads it. It felt profound at the time.
I even ran into Rubi-Rubi-Ruben at IM2BE at around five in the morning, just standing there in sunglasses inside a hip hop club. Pretty sure he’s the only person on Earth who actually does that.
Somewhere in all this I apparently saved a homeless guy’s life, which was good. Finally started writing that book everyone keeps asking me about—at my current pace it’ll probably come out around 2025 or so. And I’m officially stating: if someone says the word “creative” to me one more time I’m throwing them off a building, and no government on this planet can do anything about it. That was today’s sermon. The ceiling here is actually pretty nice. Going to sleep now.
Rockie Nolan. Found her work recently and that was it. Georgia girl with a name that actually works. She’s making soft, slightly surreal images that fit the exact indie-pop lane I’ve been in for years—Rilo Kiley, Mates of State, Tilly and the Wall. The freckles help.
What holds it together is the coherence. The music taste, the images, the whole aesthetic package—it all connects back to itself. That’s rarer than it should be, and it’s worth paying attention to.
When it rains like this, the day stops. Everything outside becomes irrelevant. All you want is enough blankets and music that doesn’t demand anything—just songs that sit in your head without commentary. Earworms. The ones you don’t get tired of.
I made a mix for this exact mood. Slow Down Tallahassee, Sam Sparro, Bo Pepper—I don’t even remember why I picked these, but it doesn’t matter. The point isn’t to impress anyone. The point is to disappear into your own space and not answer to anything.
August 2007. My friends scattered to Munich and Augsburg, and I ran to Berlin—away from heartbreak, away from a life that had stopped moving. I told myself it was temporary, a trial run I could bail on if it got bad. I knew I was lying.
A year later and I’m still here. The city stopped feeling like a mistake after about a week.
Tomi showed up early, chaos and absolute loyalty in one person. Jenny was the kind of disaster you know is a disaster while it’s happening but you go forward anyway. Then Mona, and she felt like I was looking at myself. A real soulmate, if that word means anything. She disappeared. Since then I’ve accumulated a lot of people—friends, colleagues, housemates, people building something and people completely lost, people who know what they want and people who are still searching. Just people living the way you live when you’re not performing.
The city works on you week by week. I was supposed to keep one foot out, ready to leave, but that plan fell apart around week three. Now it’s just where I am.
Second year’s starting soon. Another training phase, a real apartment finally, the sense of cycles moving through you. If I’d listened to the part of me that wanted to go home on day one, I never would’ve seen any of this. That’s the only thing I’m certain about.
Just watched a Japanese film with lesbian characters and couldn’t stop staring at one of their apartments. Bright, creative, clearly arranged with some thought. She had this lamp that threw stars across the entire room—just little points of light everywhere. The kind of thing that should feel gimmicky but completely didn’t.
Good design in a film hits you sideways. You’re supposed to be following the plot and instead you’re mentally stealing someone’s aesthetic, their color choices, their light. The lamp especially stuck with me. I’ve been thinking about where it came from, whether it’s an actual thing you could buy or just production design that nailed it.
That’s the point though—you see something like that and you want to rebuild your own space around the feeling it gives you. Find that same atmosphere. The search might take forever but at least you know what you’re looking for.
Each episode opens with someone’s name and that’s the whole show right there: you’re inside one person’s head for forty minutes while everyone else is just living their own impossible lives. It’s a structure that matters, because it makes sure nobody is the supporting character in their own story.
It’s about teenagers in Bristol, drugs and parties and the general disaster of being seventeen. But the way it’s made—British, unhappy, unwilling to make sadness pretty—changes everything. People’s lives come apart and the show just watches it happen without apology or sentimentality.
I’d been hearing Americans lose their minds over it for a couple of years now. One of those shows that comes from the UK and suddenly everyone is desperate to talk about it because it doesn’t feel like anything else they’re watching. The O.C. comparison comes up, and sure, the basic ingredients are the same. But this has an edge The O.C. never wanted. It doesn’t need you to want to save anyone.
It’s being added to BBC America, which probably means it’ll eventually show up in Germany too. If it does, good. One of the few English series that doesn’t feel like someone’s idea of what television should be.
Moving to Wedding in the fall. Found a small old apartment—real Berlin place, high ceilings and worn wood—and there’s a blonde girl living there right now who’s really into Hello Kitty and keeps an aquarium. She’s leaving, I’m moving in.
Been in Charlottenburg, Wilmersdorf for years. They were fine. But Wedding sits right between my work and school, which means the logistics just work. No friction. Sometimes that’s reason enough to move somewhere.
Hannah and I were at the Adidas Originals store in the Hackescher Markt — that’s the market in Berlin — and she found these Superstar I sneakers in neon from the NBA Highlights collection. Fluorescent. Stupid bright. The kind of shoe that shouldn’t exist but did anyway.
I wanted them immediately. Not because I’d been looking for them or even thinking about sneakers. Just the pure fact of seeing something and knowing, in that moment, that I needed it. The neon was almost too much, the kind of color that makes you question your taste while you’re staring at it, but I’d decided before I even finished looking.
Of course I didn’t buy them. I left the store and that was the end of it. But I think about them sometimes — not often, just the way you remember any small moment that surprised you. I couldn’t tell you now what exactly made them so appealing. Maybe the color. Maybe the moment. Either way, they’re in the past.
Hannah came to Berlin for a long weekend. We sat through Narnia 2 and Sex and the City—neither of them worth it—then moved through shopping districts so packed they felt dangerous, and spent nights on the S-Bahn where the heat and the bodies and all the eating created this feeling like being inside someone’s mouth. Hannah had brought small cinnamon-star stickers she’d made and spent the entire weekend trying to stick them on walls and people with about 40% success.
What I took from it: ordering a Spacy at a Japanese restaurant is genuinely funny. Popcorn tastes better the next day, which makes no sense but is true. Even fashion designers fall for stupid pipe jeans if you market them right. Even people who supposedly know better.
It was good to have her around. I promised to come out to Bavaria next and bring cake to her mom—I meant that. She took a bunch of photos that are somewhere online. Whenever she orders a Spacy, I hope she thinks of this weekend.
Microsoft’s Mojave Experiment was almost funny. They showed Vista to people on the street under a different name, got positive reactions, and suddenly had proof the product wasn’t broken. People just had bad PR about it. That’s not a fix, that’s desperation dressed as marketing.
I kept waiting for Apple to make some cruel, perfect commercial about this. But they didn’t need to. Microsoft had already made the best argument against itself.
I never pretended I didn’t watch the Disney cartoons. Aladdin, The Lion King—there was something there worth looking at, regardless of what you were supposed to care about at twelve. The animation held up. The character design held up. You weren’t just watching pretty colors move around.
By the time I was older, they’d basically stopped making hand-drawn films. Everything went CGI, which is fine, but there’s something different about line work. You can see the human decision-making in it. You can see exactly where someone chose that line weight, that color, that movement.
Five years later, The Princess and the Frog came out. Everyone acted like it was this big event. I probably rolled my eyes about it initially. But watching it, the thing clicked. The animation had weight. You could tell someone actually cared about the craft instead of just moving on to whatever the next technology was.
It’s weird how you forget why something mattered in the first place. You watch that film and it comes back—not the nostalgia angle, not the childhood memory thing, but the actual work. The line weight, the color, how it moves. Someone made every single frame. That’s what stays with you.
The Half-Blood Prince trailer dropped and it’s a different beast from what came before. The whole thing has this murky, almost gothic energy to it. No more of that brightly lit Hogwarts adventure nonsense — this is a film about shadows and secrets, about a school that’s rotting from the inside.
I remember being surprised by how much the tone shift landed. The earlier movies were fine, perfectly serviceable fantasy blockbusters, but they felt like they were still reaching for the school-adventure vibe of the first couple books. By the time they got here, though, you could feel something closing in. Dumbledore looks exhausted. Snape moves like a coiled threat. The whole film has this sense of things coming undone.
The dark look isn’t just aesthetic. It’s the story finally growing up, finally admitting that these kids are in the middle of a war and everything they thought they knew is potentially a lie. That’s a harder thing to make work in a blockbuster, but the trailer suggests they actually committed to it.
I’ve watched enough couples to know the pattern. They play with each other’s hair and call each other honey and bicker about nothing. The sex is always this whole thing — maybe anal, maybe not, it hurts, be gentle, forget it. And then the contraception, which somehow becomes both their problem and only her problem. The pill she forgets. The timing that’s off. The morning-after pill that wrecks her for a day. They miss things they planned. The constant negotiation. The friction wearing them down.
Being single just feels cleaner. No negotiations, no one forgetting anything, no one waiting for anyone. I exist by myself without all that friction.
It doesn’t actually make anything better, of course. But it sure feels like it does.
Tim brought back an I Love New York t-shirt from his trip to the States—the most generic souvenir possible. He knows the bit.
Half of Berlin is wearing one already. Na-Young pointed that out when I showed her mine: ’That’s kind of the whole point though, isn’t it?’ She was right. When something becomes that universal, it somehow becomes exclusive. A mass-produced shirt that makes you part of an invisible club just by wearing it.
So I’m in the club now, apparently. Whether I love New York or not—I still haven’t decided. I need to think about that.
Anna’s letter caught me unprepared. Specific and unsolicited—she’d been reading for years, she said, was my first subscriber and never stopped. The posts where I’d written about failing, about confusion, about things falling apart and then not falling apart—they’d actually reached her. At moments when she needed proof that someone else was lost too.
She cried when she read about Mona. That one still gets people. Laughed at the jokes. Felt less alone reading someone’s unfiltered thoughts about difficulty and stumbling through. And then she wrote to tell me that it had mattered, knowing she didn’t have to, that no one asks for that kind of letter.
Mail like that is hard to know how to take. It’s not quite praise. Someone saying “what you wrote helped me,” not because they’re performing gratitude but because they just wanted to say it. The difference is subtle but it lands heavier.
The whole reason to write anything is probably this: that it’ll reach someone at the exact moment they need it. That possibility is abstract, theoretical, something you do without proof. Proof is rarer and weirder than you’d expect.
Hannah’s flying in Thursday for a few days. We’ve sketched out the basics—shopping, eating, going out. The kind of weekend where you end up staying out later than you normally would because the company’s good and there’s no reason not to.
There’s something about having someone visit that changes how you see the place you live. You walk around pointing out things you’d forgotten were good. You try restaurants you’ve been putting off. The whole city feels a little sharper when there’s someone there to share it with, someone who’s actually interested in being there.
I finally understand what’s creating this emptiness. Why I fight against the things that are supposed to be good for me. Why I can’t just accept school, work, love, happiness. Something’s missing. I need a reason to push back, and I don’t have one.
History gives you the template. Real oppression, real enemies, actual stakes. That’s what made people matter. You had something to resist and that resistance defined you. It got you into the history books. It was worth the cost. Now what’s worth anything?
There’s no shortage of things that should infuriate me. Consumer culture. Globalization. The casual torture of animals. Mass surveillance. The slow creep of fascism. Exploitation most people refuse to see. You could build an entire life around fighting any one of these. But there’s no unified enemy, no clear line between us and them. Just scattered outrages with no focus, no collective identity.
I’m in Berlin—a city that should smell like rebellion. I thought the history would be embedded in the streets, that I’d feel something electric just by being here. I feel nothing. Maybe the revolutionary spirit was always bullshit, or maybe I’m too broken to sense it anymore.
That absence is what I’m mourning. That uncomplicated purpose. Instead I have freedom, which is worse. We’re so liberated that we’ve started destroying ourselves just to feel something real. Cutting, vomiting, drinking, disappearing into games and screens. At least there you have a clear objective, something that wins or loses. This is just shapeless dread. The systems are too good at hiding the real damage now. Everything’s too complicated, too entrenched to imagine changing. So everyone’s exhausted before they even start.
And you can’t trust the people claiming to help. Activists running scams. Charities enriching themselves. Half the resistance is just performance. Nobody believes anything works anymore. That’s how it’s won—not by silencing the rebels but by making them too disgusted to try.
Maybe a real enemy will emerge and I’ll be too numb by then to notice. Or maybe this is just what it’s like now—stuck between freedom and paralysis, fighting things that aren’t real. I’m waiting for that spark again. I don’t think I’ll find it.
I love getting actual mail from people who’ve found their way here. Most of it’s garbage, but every now and then something arrives that makes the whole thing feel less like I’m just shouting into the void.
Flo wrote something like that not long ago. He’d stumbled onto the site, said he liked what he found. No professional angle to it — no job offer, no networking play, nothing. He just wanted to say it meant something to him. There’s an honesty in that I can’t fake: the message with nothing in it for the sender, just acknowledgment that something here mattered.
I don’t do this for validation. But there’s a difference between wanting people to like your work and actually getting a genuine moment with someone who owed you nothing. That’s what makes the whole thing real.
I’m spinning through the same few things on repeat. Lykke Li keeps me tethered — that strange electronic production, her voice suspended inside it like she’s singing from somewhere else entirely. There’s a tension in how she sits in the mix that makes you listen differently.
The National hit different lately. Their songs move at a crawl, Will Oldham’s voice scraping against concrete, and you just let it. Then Black Kids showed back up in something I was listening to and remembered why that whole moment mattered. It’s less about discovery and more about what lands right now — same room, same speakers, same time of day. That’s the whole week.
Pixar’s short before Wall-E is just a magician and a rabbit fundamentally at odds. The magician needs him to perform; the rabbit’s more interested in sabotage. That’s the whole thing. No dialogue, no sentiment, just two characters locked in physical comedy for a few minutes. The rabbit’s a bastard, the magician’s desperate, and watching that dynamic play out without any cutesy framing is refreshing. Simple idea executed exactly right.
On a rainy Tuesday with nothing better to do, I found Hillary Rainmeer from Portland somewhere online. The kind of photographs that make all the scrolling feel worthwhile. She probably had a MySpace page in there somewhere, but I’d already checked out of that place. The pictures were enough to brighten the afternoon.
Facebook redesigned itself again and I spent the usual twenty minutes confused about where everything went. That’s become the mandatory move now — every couple years one of these networks decides the furniture needs rearranging, as if MySpace hadn’t already shown us how that goes. Some people get excited about it. Most of us just want to find our notifications.
The whole thing feels like showing up to your regular bar and discovering they’ve moved everything around. The product is identical, the people are the same, your muscle memory is completely useless. In a week you won’t even notice. You’ll just live in it like you always did.
The courtyard hits you before your eyes do. I pushed through the buzzing door into Prenzlauer Berg and found walls covered in activist slogans and scrawls, bikes piled against the building like the aftermath of something, strollers wedged between graffitied mailboxes. The whole place looked exactly like the kind of building you dismiss before you even get inside.
Then a young mother with her kid answered the door. Both of them somehow looked put-together in this falling-apart building. “Come in,” she said. I was tired enough to obey. And I was actually surprised — the apartment was beautiful. High ceilings, original plasterwork, good light. A few other people were circulating through it the way you do at a showing, checking things they didn’t care about, testing the floorboards.
The kid planted herself in her bedroom doorway and didn’t let anyone past. “Don’t take my toys,” she kept yelling, half threat, half song. Dead serious about her stuff. I’m not sure I would have behaved myself if I’d been alone with her — there was something both furious and ridiculous about her conviction. I wanted the apartment. So tired that wanting to climb into that bed with her seemed like a good enough reason. Maybe it was the only reason.
I thanked her for the tour, said I’d call Tuesday, and headed back down to the courtyard. By the time I got back outside, it didn’t look the same. The graffiti had logic to it now. The whole place had character, the kind you don’t get in clean, managed buildings. Prenzlauer Berg. Maybe it was exactly where I belonged.
The pizza guy sees the TV behind me—Pride and Prejudice playing, Keira Knightley—and says I’m a classics fan. I’m just standing there because I burnt the Bratkartoffeln too badly to fix it. Blackened edges, the smell of failure. I take the pizza, nod, don’t explain.
It’s a gorgeous film, and I’ve been sort of stuck on it. The language specifically. Every sentence is built with care, and watching something like that makes you suddenly feel the degradation in how we actually speak. Modern language is just less. I’m not talking about the cheap romantic stuff they teach in school. Real poetry. Words that exist because someone needs to move people, to make them understand something true. That careful construction versus just throwing words at a thought. The difference is real.
Going to bed before this chemical lucidity wears off. The film’s score is genuinely beautiful. I can feel it slipping already, that moment where you can still construct actual thoughts getting fuzzy around the edges. Whatever the hell was on that pizza.
Music is one of those things it’s hard to stay cynical about for long. You can tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that it’s just sound, but then a song lands right and you’re gone — eyes closed, somewhere else. The lyrics, the melody, they shift you into a different headspace where you can think about things that won’t come loose any other way.
So I keep a playlist for this. Nothing precious about it, just whatever fits right now. One track out, another in. It moves because I move, because new things arrive and old ones fade. The strange part is how much this matters — this private collection of songs, nobody else’s voice involved, running through my days. Probably the most important thing I actually control.
I’m digging through my pockets, my wallet, my backpack. Need some change. I’m starving for a kebab from my place — the good spot with the herbs and garlic. Don’t care if I smell like it. No one has to smell me today anyway.
This blonde woman comes toward me on the street and I lock her eyes. Just to see what she does. My coworker Kathi’s big on eyes — she could stare into them all day. That’s not what I’m doing. I want to watch the other person’s move. Do they look away? Down? Hold it? This one drops at the last second. I shift to her nose. My brain just names it: Ostmädchen.
It’s turned into this thing I do in Berlin now. What else is a straight guy supposed to do? Look at women. Study interesting people. Everyone else gets royal indifference or I just didn’t see them. Ostmädchen have these small noses, turned up slightly, usually open pores and freckles. West girls have noses that run flat, long with sharp nostrils. Unless they’re tilting them up at the sky to prove they’re not from the East.
Can you even tell that way? Am I just generalizing? Should I worry about sparking the whole East-West thing again? Is this racist? Ana had an even more pronounced East nose and she was from Kazakhstan. I’m trying to work through it, already imagining myself explaining it somewhere, and then my brain just stops. My hand finds the secret pocket. Two fifty. Perfect.
“One to go.” The girl next to me’s waiting for her order too. She’s looking at the kebab guy with this dismissive, stuck-up look. My brain just can’t help it: Westmädchen.
I had three magazines that mattered to me: Vice, NEON, and Blond. Just those three.
Now Blond’s apparently dying. The relaunch went nowhere, the price cut didn’t help, readers are furious, and whoever’s in charge won’t say anything about it. The whole NEON versus Blond competition probably ends here. One wins because the other just gave up. It’s sad. Really sad.
Rain came where sun was. It happens. But I found myself thinking about you — the way weather does that sometimes, shifts something in the air and suddenly you’re just there. All those plans still hanging there unrealized. We were going to watch that panda movie. Take over London. Get drunk on red wine and fall asleep in each other’s arms like we were too lazy to move. I have the song we used to play on loop all night because getting up seemed impossible. Sometimes I still put it on.
Where are you? That’s the thing that doesn’t get answered. Are you okay? Laughing somewhere? Rattling around as some kind of ghost, being the troublemaker you always were? You had this way of keeping me sharp, keeping me moving. I didn’t realize how much I needed that until you weren’t here.
I’ve wanted to scream at you. How could you. The thought of it brings the headaches back. I’ve been through it all — the rage, the tears, the sickness, acceptance, then cycling through it all again — and that void you left just won’t close. Not an inch.
But I know where I landed with it. You’re my guardian angel now, wherever you ended up. That actually lets me breathe. Lets me smile. And you stupid bitch, why did you have to die.
Coming out of Charlottenburg station with my brain still tangled up in whatever teenage fantasy was happening in that last class—the kind of thing that makes you weirdly horny for reasons you’ll never fully understand—I turn right toward Wilmersdorfer Straße. Sun on the back of my neck, a list of stupid thoughts: how one bottle of Lipton iced tea covered my entire daily sugar requirement, the petition I’m supposed to be pushing as class rep (English instead of PE), the fact that lessons were actually bearable today, probably because the usual assholes weren’t there.
A couple of emo kids outside Media Markt grin at me as I walk past. I grin back. The blonde one screams—even through my earbuds—something about my piercing. I throw up the horns and keep walking. Almost get clipped by a bus.
The bookstore’s next. New Moleskine, whatever magazine. Then Lidl, down those weird cold steps, a kid blocking the revolving door. Haven’t been here in months; the Kaiser’s is closer to my apartment. I’m trailing behind some aggressively Scandinavian family through the aisles like an idiot. Was planning on mineral water because I’d been buzzing all day, hands shaking a little—the kind of thing that makes you paranoid about whatever Michael J. Fox has. But I grab Punica apple juice instead. Bottle, no deposit.
At the register, the cashier flags over the security guard and whispers something in his ear. The guy disappears, comes back asking which one, and the cashier points—barely attempting subtlety—at the Swedish family. I’m putting my stuff away, wondering if I should wait around for whatever’s about to happen to their kid, but I don’t. Just head back up.
Outside, there’s a policewoman shoving a diving mask on some random man and handing him two beer steins, yelling something I can’t quite make out. Camera crew nearby. Some kind of street prank thing, and I’m now in the background of it. Whatever. The emo girls come past again, and the blonde one winks. And right then—standing there in this neighborhood I’ve walked through a thousand times without thinking about it—I realize I actually like it here.
I’m half-reading Feuchtgebiete, mind wandering through its crude details—shaving, pearls, the whole messy thing—and I set it down to watch Cedric steer the sailboat across the Wannsee. The sun cuts right through the water. Rebecca’s here from Bavaria for the weekend, trying to shake me out of whatever mood I’ve sunk into. Cedric’s got that effortless thing with boats.
We found the real grimy Berlin on Warschauer Straße. Late-night chicken doner at Alexanderplatz, everything dripping with grease. The Subways have a new album and it actually holds up—”Strawberry Blonde” especially. If you haven’t heard it, go listen.
The weekend moved the way these things do, too fast for how much we fit in. Broke some stupid Starbucks habit. Found a copy of Nylon. Ended up talking about how Apple’s whole coolness is leaking away year after year. Everyone’s using the same machines. You feel it. Time for something different. A real shift. Anyway, thanks to Rebecca for dragging me out of my head. See you in Bavaria soon.
I’d been in bed for days. My iPod was a graveyard of the saddest songs I could find. I was eating whatever strange shit was left in the fridge. At some point you just can’t stay there anymore, even when you’re not ready.
People would say it’s too soon, that I should’ve waited longer, been darker about it, locked myself away for months. But that’s not how it works for me. I don’t think it was ever supposed to work that way.
I’ve got her voice in my head, this sweet thing that stays. That’s what matters. I want to thank everyone who showed up, even people I couldn’t write back to. Some of those messages meant everything. They opened something that had gotten shut, got me standing again. Most of them went unanswered, but I felt them.
So now it’s forward. Third semester starts soon, second year of the training. There’s so much I can still work on — myself, my discipline, my fire. At school, at the agency, in everything. There’s a lot of life there if you’re looking at it right.
This website is coming back, but different. Familiar and new at once. Not perfect — there’s still work everywhere — but I couldn’t wait. I needed to start.
It sucks that you can’t see what comes next. But I’m going to make you proud.
I’m sitting on our bench in the park listening to the Finding Nemo soundtrack. She loved that movie—nobody else could get worked up about a dumb clownfish like she could. And now she’s gone. Just like that.
I don’t understand how someone matters that much in such a short time and then gets ripped out of your life in seconds. Mona had plans. We had plans. Conversations that were supposed to happen, ideas we were going to throw around together, all of it just stops mid-sentence. The world was supposed to change because of those conversations. Now they never happen.
Since yesterday I’ve been carrying this infinite pain, but the weird part is it’s packed full of energy and hope and this fierce sense of living. It’s like she handed me the life force she carried—the thing I always admired about her—and now it’s mine to carry forward. I hear her voice when I make decisions. I feel the way she moved in how I move. I can still taste her sweetness in the memory of her skin. What we had together, no one gets to take that.
I won’t forget you, Mona. Not ever. Berlin is poorer for losing you. The whole world is. You were the sharpest little thinker I knew—a real columnist, someone who actually had something to say. I’m going to take everything you taught me on those nights driving around, everything you stood for, and I’m going to keep living it. I’m going to live it for both of us.
You gave me courage. I miss you already. Wherever you are now, I hope you’re changing things the way you changed my world. Take care of yourself out there, little writer.
One humid summer night, after too much red wine—Hungarian wine, the cheap kind—Mona and I had the brilliant idea to write each other’s obituaries. It made sense at the time. If one of us died (which seemed impossible, which seemed like it would never happen), we’d already have something written, something honest. We sat in opposite corners of her bedroom with paper and pens and just… wrote. I wrote nothing but bullshit. You can read it yourself.
You’re sitting on your beanbag chair, grinning at me, laughing like an idiot while you’re probably writing the worst things you can think of about me. But I can do it too, watch. When you die, I can finally tell the truth about you. That you’re too stupid to fill your iPod by yourself. That you call your dad whenever you see a ladybug. That you burn literally everything when we try to cook something decent. So there.
But then I think about a time when you’re just… gone. Not there. Not with me. And it hits different. The joking stops. You’re quieter now, can you feel what I’m feeling? The thought of never hugging you from behind again, never hearing that stupid laugh when I try to be funny, not being able to sleep because you’re singing off-key in the bathroom—it terrifies me. No, Mona, we’re never going to die. We’re going to be immortal.
And now my keyboard is getting soaked through because I’m crying and I’m publishing this and it will never be good enough for you. I’ll never forgive myself for not being there in your last moments. We’re going to stay like this forever: young and free and beautiful. I miss you. My best friend died in a car accident last night.
Okay, we didn’t sink. That was the main concern—Sonjalein and I in this little boat on the Neuer See, trying to keep our phones and iPods dry. The mission succeeded, at least technically.
We were looking for turtles. Found mostly hostile ducks instead, the kind that seem genuinely interested in sinking small craft. We may have run over one, hard to say. At a certain point you stop tracking the details.
What I kept wondering about was why there are so many trees in the forest. Just… why? All of them, just standing there. It’s exactly the kind of pointless question you ask when you’re floating on a lake with someone equally bored, and it somehow feels like you’re close to understanding something about how the world gets arranged. You’re not. But for a few hours it feels that way.
Spent the weekend doing a film shoot and it absolutely destroyed me. Two solid days of filming just to get maybe five minutes of usable footage. That’s how it works though — you shoot a scene, shoot it again, the light’s changed so shoot it again, someone moves wrong, again. You’re doing the same thirty seconds over and over until everyone’s seen it a hundred times and it finally looks right. But there’s something about it. Working with a crew, everyone locked in on solving the same tiny problem, and after a few hours you stop noticing how tired you are. Your brain just shuts up and does the thing.
The working title was “Briefe an einen Engel” — Letters to an Angel. It airs October 9 on Sat.1. Whether anyone watches it, whether it matters — I have no idea. But it exists now, and that’s something.
Our agency got drafted as extras for a film shoot at Sat.1, which meant a full day of running around in costume looking busy. First thing: they didn’t like the slogans on our shirts—too on-brand, apparently—so we got marched off to a costume woman who’d apparently decided that all agency people needed to look exactly like each other. Mission accomplished, I guess.
The actual “work” was ridiculous. We’d run through the hallway, sit at desks, flip through magazines, pretend to care about spreadsheets. The kind of performance art that everyone knows is fake but nobody says anything about. In between takes, we were stuck with Caroline Beil, who was genuinely nice about the whole thing and didn’t mind when we started watching YouTube videos on a break instead of looking contemplative.
There was this film assistant—actually the best part of the day—who couldn’t stop laughing when she sat at my Mac and found Photo Booth. I don’t know what she was doing, but it was clearly funnier than whatever we were supposed to be doing on set.
One of the early scenes: I threw a newspaper across the room. Completely unintentional. No idea if they kept it in. The food was decent, which is honestly the best you can hope for on something like this.
The whole thing aired somewhere in October, though I never actually watched it. Still not sure if that newspaper made the cut.
I’m lying in hot water, steam rising in shapeless clouds. The new Coldplay album is playing softly from somewhere else in the apartment—”Lovers in Japan” mostly, the song that plays on repeat. Vanilla-scented candles are scattered around the bathroom. The whole room has gone quiet in a way that makes you forget there’s a world outside it.
Lately when I shut my eyes, my head fills with the wrong kind of thinking. Violent stuff. Sickness. The pointlessness of everything. Death mostly, and the arbitrary cruelty of being conscious and stuck in this body on this planet. Is this just the age I’m at now? The post-puberty years where you start actually thinking about existence and realize nothing you do will matter and you’re trapped here anyway? I don’t know. I let the thoughts sit there. Not much you can do except let them pass.
When I open my eyes again, the ceiling is just floating mist. I can’t tell if I’m sweating or if it’s the hot water running down my face. The bad thoughts are still there, trailing behind like something that won’t leave. Then the door opens. They come in quietly, undress, slip into the water with me. For a moment we just sit there. They ask if I’m okay. I say something meaningless. They hand me wine or champagne—something—and they just hold me. Their arms around my chest, their breath on my neck. And the noise in my head gets smaller. The terrible stuff feels further away. Quieter. They kiss my shoulder, my neck. The shaking in my hands settles. Everything is fine now. I’m okay.
Found this at work and couldn’t stop smiling about it. There’s that thing lip dubs do sometimes—total commitment to something ridiculous—that just works every time.
I ducked out on Sex and the City with Kathi, thought I’d finally write something, and now I’m sitting with some sausages realizing I’ve got nothing. Not a thought worth finishing, not even a paragraph that lands.
There are stories I could tell. Getting cast as an extra in some film this weekend. This Legalize LA shirt that makes everyone ask if I’m moments away from arrest. Being genuinely obsessed with Jappy again, the way you get absorbed in something when it finally clicks. All of it’s real, none of it feels like something I need to write down.
I could make this the post itself—this nowhere moment, this refusal. But I’m not in the mood. Not because it’s private or you don’t deserve it. Just because the whole thing feels pointless right now. So I’m going to finish these sausages and move on.
The new MySpace is boring, which might be the worst possible outcome.
I spent years tearing into it. The design was a nightmare—cluttered, counterintuitive, held together with corporate indifference. Customize your profile and you’d get something that looked like a 2005 geocities page that had lost a fight with Comic Sans. It was terrible, and I loved complaining about it.
Then they redesigned and made it clean. Normal. Like every other social network—minimal, professional, the kind of thing a brand manager wouldn’t flinch at. ’Live your life with MySpace.’ They sanded away anything that felt like personality.
What’s weird is I actually miss it now. MySpace was reliably ridiculous in a way that felt personal. You could taste the dysfunction in the interface. Now it’s competent, and I can’t even summon the energy to criticize anymore, which might be the only honest thing you could say about a social network.
The TV tower appeared on the horizon and I was genuinely glad to be home. We blew past the Brandenburg Gate and the Victory Column, Revolverheld’s “Mit dir chill’n” playing in the CD player like always, and I closed my eyes. I was already nostalgic for the week that had just ended—the nights we’d burned through, my ears still ringing from singing our lungs out at karaoke, my head pounding from tequila shots, the image of all those hairy nudists seared into my brain forever.
Saturday afternoon we pulled into what felt like the most deserted town on the northern hemisphere. The sun was brutal, the Baltic sent waves to greet us, and we had the whole house to ourselves for a week of pure debauchery. PlayStation went in, speakers cranked, food and booze spread across the kitchen and deck. Norman and Jini brought their little firecracker Ewa—without her, we’d have had maybe half the chaos. She was our mascot, this tiny thing who kept yelling “Ewa here! Ewa here!”
We screamed commentary at Germany’s World Cup matches (one brilliant, one catastrophic), grilled cheap discount meat, baked ourselves on the beach, got absurdly good at swatting seagulls, let that amazing gasoline-powered whatever-it-was rescue us from the worst situations again and again, witnessed a beautiful couple form (sorry Anne—Tom and Slady were unstoppable), massacred mutant spiders in some video game, used the windows for way more than just looking out of them, and played Mario Kart knockoffs when the wind got too vicious. I destroyed Tommy every single time, obviously.
Seven days of that hits different. After all the themed nights and Anna’s triumph over an open window, a shitty cold started creeping in. By Friday I was done—holed up inside watching MTV’s gaming marathons (I love those guys from Game One, by the way; I nearly worked with them once before Berlin happened, so yeah, look at me), and I caught a bunch of music videos I wouldn’t see at home. Somewhere in there I noticed I had a thing for Mandy from Monrose, and the Uschi from Aloha From Hell wasn’t bad either when she’s not playing a teenager. Sido had put out some solid tracks. Though I’ve still got Anna’s voice stuck in my head from when she was singing along to everything.
Now I’m back here wanting the hot sand and the sprawling bed and all those voices and faces crowded around me for days—people groaning “Look at you!”, throwing stupid insults (“I’m your mother, you son of a bitch!”, “If there’s no milk left, put the bottle back!”), making up words (“Lolomat,” “Moon protection factor”), hitting each other, making out, taking the piss, laughing until they couldn’t breathe or just staring at each other like idiots. And where the hell did Gayman go?
That was genuinely one of the best weeks. Anyone who didn’t go or backed out at the last second—whether because you were scared your relationship would fall apart or you had to feed your cat or water your stupid plants or the group vibe freaked you out—you only have yourself to blame. I’m already thinking about next year.
Saturday I’m heading to the coast for a week. It’s fucking hot and I can’t stand being in the city anymore. Beach, beer, the Euro on some bar’s TV. That’s the plan.
The laptop situation is probably not happening, so this place is going dark for seven days. I’m okay with that. Internet break sounds right.
While you’re all stuck at work or school sweating through your clothes, I’ll be on the sand with cold beer, staring at girls walking by and doing absolutely nothing about it. It’s hopeless, but Catholic guilt is stronger than motivation could ever be. The beach wins.
Only real bummer is missing the Euro party at the office—that one I would’ve actually shown up for. Can’t have both. You pick one.
Going to stock up on cold drinks, and then I’m apparently watching TopModel with Mandy. I’ll turn it off after five minutes. Might as well try.
The city had shifted in an hour. It still smelled like cut flowers and ice cream, but the sun’s relentless heat was gone, replaced by this cool, unsettled calm under the dark clouds rolling low across the sky. Sina and I walked past the cafés along the street. Their staff were already moving chairs and tables to safety, like they could sense what was coming. I felt the first drops on my skin and pulled her hand, walking faster.
A group of kids ran past us toward a hair salon awning. The trees lining the sidewalk were dancing, papers swirling up from the pavement. Just as Sina got the apartment door open, it broke—real rain—and we both laughed running up the stairs. Her neighbor from upstairs rushed past yelling about laundry. We made it inside grinning.
She was a student living alone in this big old apartment. Her brother had lived here until a year ago when he overdosed. I never really knew him. There was just a small photo of him on a shelf in the living room. I took off my wet Chucks and went out on the balcony. The city was nearly invisible, dark except for lightning flashing. The air was thick and humid. Two weeks without rain. This was the first real storm of the summer. A good summer so far.
Sina was on her oversized designer bed—a graduation gift from her parents, though she would have wanted a car. Her wet clothes were on the floor. I lay beside her, wrapped around her from behind, and closed my eyes. She smelled good. “Will you forget me?” she asked quietly. “No,” I said into her neck. “When do you leave?” “Tomorrow morning around six.” “Can I come?” “Yeah. I’d like that.”
I’d known her maybe two months. Beautiful, blonde, great legs. But I was leaving and she knew it. We’d thrown this incredible party here once—felt like the best night of my life. Now the apartment felt almost empty. She was naked next to me on the bed. The night before hadn’t gone great. My head was somewhere else and I couldn’t focus. The fridge was almost bare. I grabbed an orange juice and sat on the couch. Euronews was playing. Berlin: 28°C. I changed to sports.
The alarm went off the next morning and I just stared at it. Didn’t even need it—I’d been awake all night. Sina came in half asleep, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re not getting dressed?” She didn’t answer, just went to the bathroom. I got up and opened the balcony door. It was already light out and the air smelled like fresh bread from the Turkish market downstairs. Somewhere her neighbor was yelling about laundry.
I remembered the first time I met her. A restaurant. I fell for her immediately watching her sit across from me. Beautiful narrow face, blonde in the light, that smile she had. “Do you want kids?” I asked while eating my burger. She looked up from her salad. “Two.” “Me too.” She looked back down. “A boy and a girl,” I said. She just nodded. We went to bed that first night anyway.
When she drove me to the airport, she didn’t smile once. I didn’t say much either. “Take care,” was all I had. Then I turned around and left.
I’m actually furious right now about how much useless theory they’re forcing us through at vocational school. It’s all bloated, endless stuff that could be cut by ninety percent and still do its job. The whole point is supposed to be that we’re here learning how to actually make things, how to design, how to test what we can do as artists. That’s not what’s happening.
And somehow we’ve got separate classes for communication, sociology, sports theory — okay, sure — but nothing about modern art, nothing about what’s actually happening in design right now, nothing that connects to what we’re supposed to care about. Tomi, Jenny, and Tobi see it too, but they’ve basically surrendered. Not me. This is what I came here to do, and I’m not going to waste it learning about workplace organization.
So I want to propose something real: a class called “Creative Inspiration and Art.” Is that too much to ask for, alongside all the required bureaucracy? Yeah, knowing my luck it’ll probably get approved the year after I graduate anyway. Doesn’t matter. I’m class speaker — if I can’t complain about the curriculum, what’s the point? I want to see more work like Eduardo Morais. I want to actually make something while I’m here.
Anyway, I’m going to bed before I turn into a complete megalomaniac. Too much Mezzo Mix and you start believing your own bullshit.
June was the month where you’re embarrassed about being embarrassed, where you’re dying of thirst but nothing in the fridge is right, where your t-shirt somehow has blood on it and you stopped asking when. You’re inside when the sun’s screaming outside. The train packed with bodies, everyone sweating, everyone regretting being there. Video games suddenly more real than television. Overly sweet food tastes like a mistake in heat. That light blue bleach powder that ruins whatever you’re trying to save. Jokes that won’t die — Chuck Norris jokes, then jokes about jokes, until the joke is the format itself and nobody laughs but it keeps happening anyway.
Someone’s face. Her mouth. The whole tangled June thing of wanting to care but knowing it’s stupid, wanting to flip out but holding it back. The half-thoughts. Wanting to finally get that tattoo, to stop thinking about it and just let someone needle you with it. Coca-Cola mixed with fanta orange because sometimes the wrong thing is exactly right. Chicken nuggets at midnight straight from the cold fridge. Restaurants where you eat until you check out of time. The train ride when the destination doesn’t matter. Lying flat on grass thinking backward through summers, all the way back. Ice cream. The sky that color. One photograph you keep finding yourself looking at for no reason.
Hannah Montana coming back like a strange gift. The word “Sakura” for some reason. Finally not caring, just saying it and meaning it. Getting pulled into something stupid and magnificent. The plants need water. Sundays with people who stayed even though you thought they’d leave. June was all of that twisted together — things that should be separate, things worth wanting and things worth burning down, all mixed and inseparable.
The boat was called Gisela. Little thing on the Spree, beautiful Berlin weather, a captain who actually looked like he belonged there, and a buffet that had no right being that good. Even brought the dog along. Even the dog seemed pleased.
Chaos. Jessi spent the afternoon taking the thing apart from the inside. Simone nearly went overboard and someone was screaming “get your legs in!” at her. We looked like tourists to anyone with eyes. I didn’t care.
But something about floating there — the sun, the food, all that stupid happy chaos — it felt like an ending. We’d been at this job for four weeks, real work that somehow turned out to matter. That evening we had presentations, then beer after. Next week back to school. Saturday I’m heading to the Baltic. Everyone’s ready. Everyone’s excited about what’s coming.
I was too. But on the water that day, with Jessi destroying things and Bonnie wandering around and the Spree carrying us in circles, it just felt like a goodbye to something good.
My friend and I spent an evening listing our exes, three each, and the strange part is how a whole relationship compresses into five or six random images when you look back. A bike path. A dog. The dumb thing someone said. The lake you kept going back to. You don’t remember the conversations. You remember the texture.
Rebecca was two years. We couldn’t outrun time, which is maybe a different kind of loss—it doesn’t break you, it just slowly erodes you. The bike path to Jengen. Koko, this dog we both loved. An island with a monkey butler that doesn’t make sense now but it mattered then. We’re actually better friends now than we ever were dating. When I’m back home I see her and it’s easy.
Lukas was a year and a half. We both fell in love with other people, which might be the most honest way for something to end. Mrs. Pacman. Wax strips. A drive through Holland. Those shape how I think about him. We don’t talk anymore. Sometimes I wonder what he’s up to.
Anastasia was my best friend first. We tried being a couple and it was just anger the whole time. The train station in Turkheim. Buying organic vegetables. Nights listening to Muse. We text occasionally now, but distance doesn’t help much.
Stefan was six months and we were both bored. His pipe burst, his aunt came over with her cane, we went to the lake a lot. We’re fine now. Coffee sometimes. No tension.
Jennifer was less than six months. We were too much alike. McDonald’s, her red hair, a cat that was absurdly fat. We’re okay with each other again. We text.
Tom was over a year and a massive asshole. Motorcycles, sex on the beach, the rest I’d rather forget. I don’t know him anymore and that’s better.
It’s summer and you’d think that means happiness, heat, light, all of that. But somehow that’s when the bad love stuff hits hardest. Or maybe it’s just that summer makes being alone feel worse. Either way, you end up in the dark at 3 AM with music that has no interest in making you feel better.
I spent some time pulling together the ones that actually work—tracks that are honest about the damage without trying to fix it. There’s pop stuff like Mandy Moore’s “Only Hope” and Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles,” which shouldn’t hit as hard as they do but absolutely do. Indie and alternative bands that know how to write about falling apart: Regina Spektor, Stars, The Dresden Dolls, Paramore, Snow Patrol. Some older stuff that never gets old: The Beatles’ “Yesterday,” Fiona Apple’s “Never Is A Promise,” Johnny Cash’s version of “Hurt.” German artists too—Farin Urlaub and Juli. A bunch of others scattered through there—Sia, Evanescence, Damien Rice, Bloc Party, Ingrid Michaelson, and so on—basically anything that doesn’t flinch away from how bad it feels.
The thing about a good heartbreak track is that it doesn’t try to convince you that you’ll be okay. It just sits with you in the mess. Damien Rice’s “9 Crimes,” Duke Special’s “Last Night I Nearly Died,” The Dresden Dolls’ “The Kill”—these are dark in the way you need when you’re genuinely unsure if you can keep going. They exist for 3 AM. They exist for that moment when you’re falling apart and you need someone else to admit that feeling out loud.
But you can’t live there forever, so there’s “Hey Du” by Beatsteaks, which is basically the escape rope. It’s not about being fine. It’s just a track that says okay, come on, let’s go somewhere else now. It works because it doesn’t pretend to understand. It just offers a way out.
At some point I stopped being embarrassed about needing these. The ones that matter are the ones that don’t try to perform for you, that just exist for the people who need them.
After an absolutely insane week I was running on fumes by Friday night, but Maria was turning twenty-one and celebrating late at the Knaack, so I had to show up. Started at Tomi’s parents’ grabbing fish and cucumber salad—sounds mundane but it’s exactly what you need when you’re this destroyed, something casual and grounding. Then the power cut out across the neighborhood somehow and I might’ve caused it or just convinced myself I did in my fog. Either way we got to the car quick, picked up Sven with his cherry beer, went to Mandy’s to mess with her guinea pigs Paul and Paula for a bit.
Supposed to find some emos and bring them along, but there weren’t any, so I blamed the 80s music and we just went to the club. Somewhere in there—complete blank—I was stuffing five-euro notes into Maria’s cleavage, which definitely happened but feels like a dream now. Around three in the morning I got trapped in a conversation with two law students about proper German pronunciation, completely serious about syllables at an hour when nobody should care.
Home at four, McDonald’s Big Mac and fries, threw on Soloalbum and was just gone. Woke up with straw all over my floor and I still don’t know why.
So the story is perfect: Berlin’s phone books went out with Munich’s city hall on the cover. Not the Red City Hall where it should be—the Marienplatz, that iconic Bavarian Gothic thing. Two image files swapped somewhere in production, and suddenly a million Berlin households are holding a cover that belongs to another city entirely. The publisher called it an unfortunate error. A whole year before the next printing.
There’s something I love about this. The sheer mundane chaos of it—not a conspiracy, not sabotage, just two files with similar names in the wrong folders. Someone’s boss asks where the Berlin shot is, and by then ten thousand phonebooks are already boxed. This is what bureaucracy actually looks like: not sinister, just incompetent and unstoppable.
I think about whoever first noticed it. Opened the box, flipped through a few copies, then just stared. The sinking feeling when you realize this is going to be everyone’s problem now.
Nora’s birthday’s coming up soon, and Sonja and I ended up in the YouTube hole last night rewatching her old stuff—Halloween sketches, parody bits, the kind of obscure comedy that doesn’t get talked about anymore. Nothing makes sense when you explain it to someone who wasn’t there, but rewatching it feels like finding something you forgot you liked. The timing still lands. The absurdity still works. You remember why this person mattered.
Yeah, I know. We’re the kind of people who get excited about stupid shit. Frogs at Christmas. The smallest nothing. We light up.
In our defense, we have nothing else. So you can’t blame us for taking whatever happiness shows up.
Watch Tomi lose his mind over absolutely nothing. That’s the whole show right there. Just sit there grinning like an idiot, taking the pleasure where you find it.
I’ve got a few theories about why my taste went dead. Maybe I burned my tongue pretty badly—that’s the harmless one. Maybe it’s the weird stuff I smoke sometimes—getting darker. Or maybe it’s because I ate a whole handful of pure pasta seasoning powder that chemically burned my mouth raw. Yeah, that’s probably it.
In theory this should be great. I can eat whatever disgusting thing and not even care. No appetite for those fat kebabs anymore. Can’t taste them. Water instead of cola. Can’t taste that either. So life should actually be solid. Except kisses taste like cardboard. Blowjobs taste like cardboard. My strawberry yogurt tastes like cardboard. Can’t win. Stupid world. Where’s the nearest tongue doctor?
Was hunting for t-shirt slogans for some project and this one stuck around in my head. Sometimes a joke that dumb—so direct and crude—hits different when you realize someone actually made it into a shirt. No cleverness, no layers, just straight-up cruelty and confidence. Pointless to think about it, but I did anyway.
Matt featured a few of my themes on his WordPress site. I don’t remember much about it now—where he found them, what exactly he said—but the note was genuine. Someone out there in the world uses the things I make.
You spend weeks on a design and then you ship it and move on. You don’t think about where it lands or who pulls it down or whether they actually like it. Most of the work you do just disappears into the noise.
So when a stranger takes the time to say something, to actually put your work somewhere visible and tell you they liked it, there’s this quiet satisfaction. Not the kind you brag about. Just a moment where you think, okay, it mattered. It did something.
The thing about validation is how uncomfortable it is to sit with. You want to play it cool, say thanks, move on. You don’t ask for autographs or gush back. You just acknowledge it happened and you keep working, and maybe later—when you’re stuck on something new and wondering if any of it’s worth doing—you remember that somebody found something you made and thought it was worth sharing.
I have no idea what happened to those themes after that. They probably helped some people build what they wanted to build, got forgotten, got replaced, got lost. But somewhere out there, a small piece of work I did is still doing its job. That’s the whole thing, really.
I was at Knaack with Ines and we’re in one of those conversations—about life, emotions, whatever—when I notice this guy across the room. He’s basically me. Not vaguely. I mean he has the exact same black Adidas shoes, the exact same jeans, that green New York shirt I’m always wearing, the belt the same way. He moves like me. He laughs like me—that dumb laugh I have. And I’m watching and waiting and sure enough, he’s picking his nose the exact same way.
I couldn’t look away. This wasn’t coincidence. This was a doppelgänger.
Only real difference: he’s blonde, and he could actually sing. That’s definitely not me.
But I was too much of a coward to go talk to him. Something said if I acknowledged it, if I walked over and said anything, the universe would break. The lights would go out. Something would snap. I know it’s stupid but I felt it, so I just stood there watching from across the room like some kind of creep.
If he’s there this weekend, I’m doing it. I’m going to walk over and introduce myself. I’m going to see what happens. And if the whole place goes dark the second I open my mouth, well. You’ll know who to blame.
Yesterday was stupidly hot in Berlin. I showed up at the beach pool in Wedding with Anna, Sladdy, Tomi, Agnes, Anne, and Philipp. We sat in front of the TV with McDonald’s and chocolate muffins from Mauerpark, just trying to wait out the heat. That’s it.
Everything else that happened, the actual story, that goes in the autobiography. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas looks quaint compared to it.
We got the call that Sladdi was in the hospital—not important enough to explain—so we did the dutiful thing and visited him, which was depressing, which is why we ended up at Knaack afterwards. Karaoke in Berlin is always the same crowd: Amy Winehouse devotees with questionable commitment to the look, guys who seem to have stepped directly out of Family Guy, women with absolute certainty that their voice could carry them through any song at two in the morning. It’s beautiful in how thoroughly delusional it all is.
Everyone stayed for different reasons. Sabse was untangling something about her past with some guy—I learned way more than I needed to about her love life that night. Tomi fixated on some woman with an Amy Winehouse beehive and decided she was his entire world for the evening. Me, I stayed because Tomi’s blonde friend showed up with Thai noodles and a sausage, and I watched her eat while people destroyed songs they had no business singing. The noodles looked good. Really good. I had some.
I threw up later. That’s what sharing Thai food at a Berlin karaoke bar at two in the morning gets you.
Tonight I figured out that a Beck’s beer on the train is apparently the most normal thing in the world—everyone’s got one. At the agency, the whole team crowds around the Mac and there’s this perfect unspoken agreement: nobody looks when someone’s typing their password. Such specific respect. I’ve always been drawn to girls with accents, something about the way they shape a word.
Photo Booth had everyone acting like kids, genuinely thrilled with each picture. I want to move to Warschauer Straße. My exes are rotating through my dreams like they’ve got appointments. I need new iPod headphones. Apple’s running some giveaway that’s obviously a con.
You know I’m no good. We’re going to Hurricane Festival. Disney people keep checking my XING profile and I have no idea why. Drunk Chinese people have the funniest language. Right now I’m only listening to bands whose names start with A through D, which limits things but feels right. Had nachos with cheese and chicken, demolished it all, still hungry. I’ve got a stack of Photo Booth pictures.
The new caterer showed up at the office with this insane spread—bagels, fruit, little mozzarellas, everything. People just froze looking at it, paralyzed by the options. Too much choice does something weird to your brain. I’d bought this beat-up secondhand bike recently and decided to ride in that morning, thought it’d take at least an hour to get there.
The route through the Brandenburg Gate turned out empty, and I made it by 8:30. Pulled up to the office and it was completely dark. Lights weren’t even on. I’d beaten the place to work. That crappy bike somehow got me there before the day had even started.
As a kid I was absolutely obsessed with Lego. Hours and hours in a room that basically belonged to us—my friends and I building incredible worlds and characters, the Lion King soundtrack on repeat. It was everything. Eventually you grow up, sell it all off on eBay one day, and that’s the end of it. Marcel the builder was dead.
Then Lego Universe gets announced. An online RPG that’s going to contain every Lego brick ever made, where you can go on adventures and build things and basically live out that part of yourself you thought you’d left behind. Forget World of Warcraft—what’s an MMO if you can’t actually create anything? That’s the whole difference. Coming 2009. God, I’m so cool.
I got fan mail from England today. Still weird saying that. Scott and Gemma sent a thank you for the Stilbruch theme, along with a CD they promised held secret content. Just a letter and a package that made its way across the ocean.
There’s something about unexpected gratitude from strangers. You design something, release it, and never know where it lands or if it matters. Then one day a package arrives and proves that it did. That it meant something to someone you don’t know, on the other side of the world. The CD is still unopened somewhere. But something about them taking the time to mail it stuck with me.
I’m in the middle of gutting my music library. With nearly 7000 tracks—all totally legally obtained, obviously—iTunes is starting to choke, and so am I. I spend most of my commute just hitting skip on my iPod, which is already squeaking like it’s dying. There’s so much garbage on here it’s embarrassing.
Here’s what I’ve figured out: seventy percent of indie tracks sound exactly the same. Guys mumbling broken English into a mic, noodling with a guitar, convinced they’re the next Killers. It’s pathetic. I need melodies. Real melodies. I need lyrics that actually hit. I need something with a real voice, something I recognize. Maybe the indie thing is finally wearing on me. Probably not every asshole with a guitar deserves to be on a stage.
So it’s goodbye Fiery Furnaces, goodbye Golden Smog, goodbye Jack Penate. Off to the external hard drive where I might find you again in ten years if I’m desperate. I’m keeping only the stuff with actual melodies, songs that feel like real songs. Those go on the iPod. Then I walk around Berlin with something actually worth listening to.
For someone who watches the Simpsons regularly and enjoys seeing Disney get skewered in nearly every episode, I probably shouldn’t care about a lip dub cover of “Part of Your World.” The corporation gets mocked constantly, and there’s something satisfying about that.
But then I found this video where someone does an incredibly charming Arielle, and I couldn’t look away. The song is what carries it—there’s something about hearing that melody performed with genuine affection that caught me off guard. It’s not ironic, not self-conscious. Just earnest.
I went down a bit of a rabbit hole after that, looking for more, and at some point I realized I’d gotten way too into it. But by then it didn’t matter. Sometimes the most sincere things are the ones that get to you, even when you’ve spent years being cynical about where they come from.
Summer’s when you actually want to show people something. The photos are better, the moments feel shareable. You need a blog that doesn’t get in the way—clean, simple, letting your content do the work. I’ve been at this for twenty years and I’ve learned that the template matters way less than the decision to share at all.
I must’ve poured a thousand hours into Super Mario World growing up, but nothing like this. Luigi’s absolutely locked in — every move timed perfectly to the music, just unstoppable. It’s genuinely awesome. And then it ends and Luigi’s still just Mario’s little loser brother, which is all he’ll ever be. He can’t catch a break.
I stand in front of my closet unsure what I’m becoming. The rebellious version of myself? The serious one? The guy who just wears jeans and a black shirt and stops overthinking everything.
I’m all of them. But people only see whichever one I put on.
So I kept redesigning the website, swapping the layout like some anxious person who rearranges their furniture when they can’t sit with being still. Not trying to annoy anyone. I just couldn’t figure out which version was actually me. The clean minimal thing or the busy decorated thing. Something always felt wrong so I’d tear it down and rebuild.
Then I went back to the design I’d actually invested real time in. It was simple. It had space to breathe. I remembered Becca saying something once about my recent designs feeling cramped, and I think she was right about that.
I’m trying to just leave it now. Sit with the choice instead of constantly reopening the question. Stop treating my own space like a costume I get tired of wearing.
It’s not enlightenment or anything. It’s just what I’m wearing today. Maybe it sticks this time.
Woke up way too early one morning and there was Joy Stick Heroes on the tube — that old Nintendo commercial pretending to be a real movie. Just kids driving to California to win some video game tournament. Pure marketing, obviously, but the shameless commitment to the fantasy is what makes it work. No irony, no winking. They actually believe in this tournament, in each other, in the whole thing. That earnestness is what made it mean something back then.
One of them, the little red-haired girl I remember, apparently ended up in Rilo Kiley. Or somewhere like that. The kind of weird fact that makes you rethink what you’re looking at — a Nintendo commercial that somehow became a real launching point for actual people. That’s what stuck with me more than anything, actually. Makes the whole thing feel less disposable looking back.
May starts bad. Your allergies are absolute shit — every photo you take, you look wrecked. You’re stuck inside despite the sun being everywhere, which makes no sense but that’s how it is. You eat beer-flavored chips for days and forget vegetables exist. The internet moves like it’s 1998. You wake up at 3 AM soaked because you got the blanket situation wrong. That February deal that seemed promising completely fell apart, and May is the month where you have to really sit with that failure. You’re wearing ballet flats because everyone else is. You think about the Klabautermann — that weird sailor myth — for no reason. Grey’s Anatomy ended again. That song was cool three weeks ago and now it grates. The Baltic trip is still months away. You’re generally depressed despite the weather.
But there’s another version of May that almost cancels the first one out. The sun is just relentless and good. Lykke Li’s voice hits different. Something about outdoor festivals and megaphones makes sudden sense. Your paycheck finally showed up. Cherry blossoms are blooming somewhere and you feel it secondhand. The Friends marathon is running and it’s strangely comforting. Fresh strawberries. Making actual peace with something from your past that haunted you. Outdoor sex again without getting busted. That blonde in the window who’s become part of your May mythology. Labello Milk & Honey lip balm — that specific smell. Fermentation experiments that work. Chocolate sauce on spaghetti. Good water. Warm weather smell.
May’s the month where you can’t decide which version is true. Some days the sun covers everything and you’re invincible. Other days you’re drenched and furious at 3 AM and none of it matters. The oscillation never stops.
Oh man, Super RTL gave me a heart attack in my dream—totally cancelled Hannah Montana. Woke up thinking it was real, full panic mode, had to sit for a second and let my brain catch up. I mean, apparently I care about this show enough to actually freak out. Anyway, it was just a nightmare. Deep breath. Crisis averted.
I’ve been up all night drinking with Anna and Philipp—that guy’s actually lived through everything—but somehow I’m still wired. Won’t last much longer. The weather’s absolute shit, so these two songs have basically become my whole rotation right now.
Kate Nash’s “The Nicest Thing” is the obvious move when you haven’t slept and everything’s gray. It just pulls you under. Then The Last Shadow Puppets came through with “The Age Of The Understatement,” and I didn’t expect to feel this way about it. It’s one of those songs that destroys you completely, then launches you upward. Tears first, then rush. That’s been my whole cycle.
I remember watching this South Park episode where the internet just vanishes one morning. Everyone in town immediately comes unglued—panic, withdrawal, chaos. It’s the kind of premise that should feel like old satire, except it doesn’t anymore.
The thing is, the episode wasn’t wrong about what we’d actually be like. Watch someone go a day without their phone and you see it happen in real time—that specific anxiety, the reaching, the phantom notifications. We’re not exaggerating when we say we can’t function. We genuinely can’t, most of us.
What made the episode stick with me wasn’t the gag. It was how quickly it stopped being funny. By the end it’s just people breaking down, unable to cope with basic existence without their connection. It’s supposed to be absurd but it’s barely hyperbole anymore.
I think about that sometimes when I’m offline for a few hours and I feel that first flicker of panic, that pull toward checking something that isn’t there. How weird it is that a basic infrastructure—something that didn’t exist twenty years ago—is now so woven into everything that its absence feels like a catastrophe instead of just an inconvenience.
The episode nailed something true. We’re all just waiting for the day the internet actually breaks and we get to find out what happens.
At 3 AM you’ve already tried everything—hot milk with honey, a warm shower, the arsenal of remedies that supposedly work. The night when your brain won’t stop. When sleep feels like a language you’ve forgotten. All the usual fixes sit there, useless, and nothing works except The View.
Scottish band from the 2000s, not famous or important in any meaningful sense, but their music does something specific. Not soothing—that’s the key difference. They don’t try to soothe. The drums sit in your skull without warmth, just persistent. The guitars are thin and slightly harsh. Kieren’s voice has no comfort in it, just annoyed directness, which is exactly what you need when you’re tired of your own head at 3 AM.
I don’t know if it’s good music or if I just need it at certain hours. The distinction doesn’t matter. When you’re lying there and the only thing between you and complete internal spiral is some Scottish guy singing like he isn’t trying to convince anyone of anything, quality becomes irrelevant. You just need the sound.
Other nights I try silence, rain, brown noise, all the tricks. Nothing takes. But The View takes. There’s something almost arrogant about them—unbothered whether you find them beautiful or important or make it through the song. They’re just playing. You’re just listening. Somewhere in that mutual indifference is the only thing that works.
I still don’t sleep well those nights. But I stop thinking about the sleeping part.
Read something about Apple’s approach to business and all I could think was: they just don’t care. They see a rule and ignore it if it gets in the way. No permission needed. There’s something almost honest about that level of arrogance—most companies do the same thing but wrap it in disruption language and move-fast rhetoric. Apple doesn’t bother with the costume. They elbow past everyone to get what they want, then make it seem like it was always supposed to be that way.
I’ve been drinking Beck’s Green Lemon for a while now—bright, citrusy, nothing complicated. When I saw Beck’s Ice on the shelf, I grabbed it without thinking, except it was clear. Actually transparent. You could see straight through it in the glass like it wasn’t beer at all. The label said lime and mint, so I figured why not try.
The taste is sharper than expected—lime and mint punch harder than the Green Lemon, less sweetness. It tastes the way it looks, which is deeply weird for beer. Most beer has that amber thing going on, that color that makes it feel old or traditional or something. This is bright and vaguely unsettling, like you’re drinking a memory of a flavor instead of the thing itself.
It’s a novelty that actually works, which is rare. Most weird beer experiments taste like effort. This one just tastes good and looks strange, and that’s apparently enough. I grabbed another one the next time I was at the store.
Every Wednesday I settle in to watch Grey’s Anatomy, already wanting to know what’s about to come apart. The show’s plotting is predictable—the same disaster shapes repeating—but it works anyway. There’s always someone falling apart, always some new catastrophe to untangle. And I keep coming back for it.
Part of the ritual is loading up on snacks beforehand. Enough to keep my hands moving for an hour, to give myself something to do while I’m watching. It’s not about hunger, just the shape of the thing—the regular night, the knowing that this happens every Wednesday and I’ll be there for it.
There’s something grounding about a habit this dumb and repetitive. A shapeless week gets at least one solid night built in. Grey’s is ridiculous, but maybe that’s the point. Some weeks that’s the only comfort that actually works.
Emma Watson’s eighteen today, which is when you’re supposed to draw some kind of line, except I don’t think I ever drew one. Hermione’s been complicated for a while.
She’s getting into the London club scene apparently—drugs, the usual escape route for the eternally famous. Something hot about that. More interesting than the frozen version.
Ōkami made me want a Wii. This Clover Studio game about painting spells and mythology, motion controls woven into the narrative rather than bolted on as a gimmick—it was the kind of exclusive that made the hardware matter. The music was genuinely good, and you could feel the visual design had a philosophy behind it.
What actually got me was the website. As a web designer, I noticed the site matched the game’s visual logic instead of being just marketing. Most games don’t bother. That kind of attention to the whole system—design extending beyond the game itself—changed how I thought about what design actually means.
One click and thirty minutes vanished. That’s Failblog. I’m not usually into those oversaturated joke sites online — the ones designed to pummel you with content until something lands. But this one got me. My coworkers and I basically surrendered half the afternoon to it, just grinding through clips of people getting demolished or eating pavement. The ones who didn’t get sucked in just watched the rest of us cackling like idiots. We were probably annoying as hell. But yeah, it’s good shit. It just works.
I’d basically abandoned my DS for the better part of a year. Not consciously, just drift. Sunday I was bored enough staring out the train window that I decided to find something worth playing. The rides home were too long to waste.
I spent a weekend searching. Media Markt had nothing. Amazon and forums turned up the usual suspects and nothing I actually wanted. I almost just grabbed Anno 1701 — city builders have always appealed to me in a basic way — but then I saw The World Ends With You was coming out that week.
I’d been cooling on Square Enix. The new Mana games disappointed me, and Final Fantasy lately felt more like obligation than joy. But this game looked like they were actually trying something new. Music, graffiti, Tokyo, fear, style wrapped into a real RPG. Not the same path recycled again.
Hanging around with everyone from graduation class, and this Metros video hits exactly right. It captures that suspended moment—you’re still all together but can feel it ending. The video doesn’t apologize for it or try to be sentimental; it just sits in the awareness of something shifting.
Being back with all these people from old class photos, watching something that understands this—it’s a small perfect collision. The kind of moment that makes you want to stay a little longer before getting up and it all dissolves.
There’s a party somewhere in a warehouse space, and everyone looks like they’ve walked off a fashion shoot. Catholic school kids in expensive jackets, all acting serious about something. I’m not sure what. There’s an energy to those schools—like everyone there has already figured out how to be an adult.
Anna and her crew have this thing where every night has to be something. Not optional. Not “if something happens.” It has to happen. I don’t know where they get the energy. Maybe they’ve just decided sleep isn’t real.
Last night was the Simpsons at her place, sprawled across this loft bed that’s missing half its slats. One bad shift and you’re eating floor. Diet Coke and McDonald’s burgers that taste exactly like every other burger they’ve ever made. But there’s something about McDonald’s at three in the morning—you walk in half-asleep and there’s always someone there who looks genuinely happy to see you. That matters more than the food.
Now I’m heading out for cake and a drink, then back for TV and whatever else the night brings. This is how it’s been—the constant small momentum, the waiting between moments, the sense that something’s always about to happen. Not complaining.
A girl named Victoria Lindsay got beaten by eight teenagers in 2007. They filmed it, posted it to YouTube. Within hours the internet found them—names, addresses, photos published everywhere. Fox News ran the pictures. Comments filled with “hang them,” “kill them.”
The crime was brutal. They deserved consequences. But that response wasn’t justice—it was something else entirely. Just pure collective rage with no off switch, cruelty enabled by a crowd of strangers.
What struck me was the gap between the actual crime and the punishment. Those eight kids had their entire futures destroyed by algorithm and mob—published addresses, threats, names permanent on the internet. Consequences that had nothing to do with law and everything to do with whether enough people decided to be cruel that day.
The media made it worse, as they do. Turned it into a story about YouTube and parenting instead of what it was: a demonstration of how little restraint any of us have in a crowd. How righteous destroying someone feels when everyone’s doing it. How the internet made permanent what used to be local and temporary.
Waking up at some abandoned S-Bahn station near Potsdam on Saturday morning was my first sign things had gone wrong. The bruises on my ass were the second. The complete blank where the night should be was the third. I have fragments — herbal schnapps, a guy named Jimi Blue, weird figures in the Oranienburger — but they don’t thread together. There’s a good chance I ended up in some German fail-compilation show, which feels about right. You wake up in the wrong place with marks on your body and you just accept you went there wrong.
After that, the days went small. Finally watched the Futurama film. Loaded music onto my iPod. Bought Mian Mian’s “Candy” even though I’d already read it in German — her books have this way of circling back on themselves. Been wanting to get it for a while.
Today was shopping with Sonja, which means hunting for purple clothes and being honest about all the places our bodies don’t work right. We demolished a chocolate cake at Kaiser’s. Tomorrow back to that school thing, boring and strangely thrilling at once, and the week just keeps moving.
I was 24 and living in a student apartment in Berlin that had somehow gotten smaller. Not metaphorically—the walls moved in. My landlord laughed when I asked about anything, this real incredulous laugh at the ratio of what he was charging to what I was living in.
One night I decided to try the internet. Posted looking for a one or two bedroom apartment somewhere in Mitte or Prenzlauer Berg or Friedrichshain—max 500 euros, which even then was optimistic. Bathtub preferred, a kitchen that actually worked preferred more. But I wasn’t going to be precious about it at that point.
I think I believed someone would read it and think of something. That’s how it works sometimes—a friend’s sister, a cousin moving, someone forwarding it and a door opening. Mostly though I was just shouting into the void because the walls in that room were legitimately closing in and I didn’t have anywhere else to scream.
Did I find an apartment that way? Probably not. Probably I refreshed the rental sites like everyone else, called people, showed up to viewings where there were always nineteen other desperate people. But I remember the feeling of that room getting smaller and the absolute knowledge that if I didn’t get out I was going to come apart at the seams.
I stopped being a devoted PlayStation fan years ago—no particular reason, just moved on—but the commercials they put out sometimes are genuinely good. I’m not talking about clever marketing, I mean they’re made well. Someone clearly understood how to move you in thirty seconds, how to make an image stick. When you spend time making things, you develop a nose for that kind of work.
Most advertising is just noise. But every so often something lands that reminds you film is film, whether it’s on a theater screen or between YouTube videos. These spots do that. They make you dream a little, spark something creative. When you make things yourself, you notice when someone else has done the work right.
Watched that Fitna film yesterday, the one by Dutch politician Geert Wilders that Wikipedia apparently freaked out about. Fifteen minutes of Quran verses cut against footage of violence. It’s blunt propaganda, the kind that doesn’t really hide what it’s doing.
There’s something uncomfortable about the whole thing. Terrorism is real. There are people out there who genuinely believe violent things and act on them, and you see it constantly in the news but nobody really wants to sit with it. You want it to not be true. But then someone makes a film that says it out loud—look at this, this is what’s happening—and suddenly everyone’s worried the film itself is the problem, not the violence.
The response felt backwards. Politicians warned there would be bloodshed, as if showing footage was the dangerous part, not what the footage showed. As if people couldn’t think about what they were seeing. That seemed more insulting than the film’s argument.
I don’t have a clean take on it. The film is reductive and inflammatory. Dismissing billions of people because some of them are violent is a dishonest move. But pretending the underlying problem doesn’t exist feels dishonest too. Everyone seems determined not to look at anything straight on, whatever side they’re on.
The sun was brighter back then, the sky a deeper blue. Even the Lidl lemonade tasted better, came in cans too. Summers were hotter, the nights at the swimming pool more forbidden, the skin-on-skin more electric. And the TV—man, that was actual television. The whole Pokémon-obsessed crew sprawled in front of the screen after school, chips and cola within reach, one dubbed anime after another, and then out into the streets running like we’d sprouted tails and learned to fight like Goku.
And the games. God, the games! Nothing before or since has ever hit the same way as sitting in front of the N64, four of us crammed around the controller taking turns in Smash Bros or Mario Kart, or watching them ride through the fields in Ocarina of Time while the rest of us just stood there, perfectly happy watching Link fish—actually fish, for minutes, and we’d just stare, hypnotized by it.
But here’s what I know now: the longer you live, the more you’re already dead. I know everything and everyone, nothing lands new anymore. I’ve had enough tits and pussy for the next fifty years; given the choice between an orgasm and cake, cake wins now. I think I know what there is to know, and whatever I don’t know isn’t worth knowing. Nothing shocks me anymore—I’ve lived through worse, seen worse, felt worse.
Is that the curse? Being raised on sitcoms with stand-in families, fed internet death and fucking and advertising since birth, in a culture that just remixes itself—same music, same clothes, same emotions—on an endless loop until you’re in a box? Yeah. We’re the coolest and most burnt-out generation there’s ever been, and I live with that.
Keiichi Nitta’s Spiral Chord video is fucked up in exactly the right way. He started out working for Terry Richardson, that perverse photographer, but this is something else—visual transgression that doesn’t feel like it’s asking for permission. It just is.
Paramore’s been cycling back into regular rotation and they’re just doing something nothing else is doing right now. There’s this thing about how they write — all that melodic precision mixed with actual heaviness, the way Hayley’s voice can be both technically impressive and genuinely unguarded in the same moment. Not overthinking it, just good songs that land.
It’s not a new discovery. Been aware of them since forever, the whole teen-angst-pop-rock thing that somehow aged better than it had any right to. But listening through their catalog again, there’s something about the craft that just became more obvious. The arrangements are tight, the hooks are actually there, and they’re not trying to be something they’re not.
Maybe it’s just where my head is at right now. Some records find you at the exact moment you need them, and sometimes it’s just a band that does what they do well enough that you can’t help coming back. Paramore’s doing both.
Mona and I headed out in this fucking perfect weather and got caught up in a peace march near the zoo—troops out of Afghanistan, conscientious objectors doing time, all of it. We danced around, wore the flags, screamed for a better world. Easy to get caught up in.
I couldn’t make it home for Easter so I spent the night at Sonja’s instead. Strawberries in vodka, this massive flat screen TV I’m definitely stealing somehow, and hours with her sister and her Finnish fiancé and the grandparents talking about wedding invitations and Bruce Darnell and cellulite. The kind of night that seems pointless until you’re in it.
I’m in the middle of something I can’t quite talk about yet. It might not work out. But being part of something like that, doing the work, seeing what’s possible—it’s enough.
I found out the way you find out about these things now—a notification, something in a feed. Karina’s getting married in twelve days. She was my first real love, which is a strange thing to be at this point, because it just means I learned what wanting felt like before I understood that wanting isn’t keeping, and keeping isn’t forever.
Time doesn’t move for years, and then suddenly it’s moved everywhere. You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine, and then someone you touched is moving into a life you’ll never see, and all you get is the fact of it. The strange part isn’t that she’s getting married—that’s what people do, they move forward, find someone, build something. The strange part is that you still know her. Not who she is now, but who she was. What she smelled like. The specific angle of her face when she thought you might be it. And all of that is real and means nothing to anything anymore.
I’m happy for her. I mean it sincerely. And I think that’s when you know you’re actually old—not when you feel it, but when everyone you loved is settling into real lives and you’re just aware of it. Getting old is just watching.
A week with Becca moved like that—fast, easy, the kind you want to happen again. Meyerbeer saw us enough to nearly complete our stamp card. There was Thomas’s annual 80s party, the one nobody admits they enjoy until they’re already there. Then Sakura 2’s sushi buffet near closing time, when you’re tired and the good stuff’s gone but it’s still somehow perfect.
That was the week. Quick blur of familiar people and places, the kind that feels small while you’re living it and good when you’re looking back.
Pentecost’s coming and we’re heading to London. The city plays at being punk—sometimes it even pulls it off. Worth going for.
Had what was probably the best sex of my life last night. Too drunk to actually remember it. That’s the whole tragic comedy of it — got everything right and then checked out completely.
Becca showed up Friday and we did the dumb weekend thing—shopping, drinking, Resident Evil at stupid hours, potato salad, weather that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. By Monday I was already on vacation so it just kept rolling. Nothing happened. Just a friend, a few days, no agenda. Those weekends where something happened even though it didn’t.
Somewhere in Japan, toilet paper was being sold with Windows Vista printed on it. I don’t know what year that happened or if anyone actually bought it, but the image stuck with me. Vista had already been a punchline for years—the operating system nobody wanted, the one everyone was trying to get rid of. Microsoft knew it. The whole world knew it. And yet some company somewhere decided the answer was to slap the Vista logo on toilet paper and see what happened.
There’s something almost honest about that—not poetic, just revealing about where failed products actually end up. They don’t go gracefully or with some quiet memorial. They get stamped onto bathroom supplies in foreign countries because maybe someone will buy them. The real graveyard of capitalism is mostly just logos on discount merchandise nobody needs. Vista just happened to look particularly ridiculous in that specific form.
Someone sent me this video and it stuck with me. The whole thing’s just sweet in the way things are when they’re trying to be honest about something messy—in this case, love, which apparently tastes like tuna fish pizza and deserves to be called shitty. The quotes are the thing: “I find love shitty” dropped so casual it almost disappears, and then “Love is like tuna fish pizza,” which is absurd enough to be profound, or profound enough to be absurd. I’m still not sure which.
He stood in the stairwell with a bag of his last things. An awkward kiss that landed somewhere between my mouth and my cheek. And then, quietly: Let’s stay friends. The words hung there longer than his footsteps down the stairs, louder than the door slamming, crueler than the plate I threw at it later.
Fresh from the wound, the phrase feels like an insult. Stay friends? What does that even mean? We lived through each other’s bodies. I have names picked out for kids that will never exist. You knew every inch of me, and I told you things I’ve never told anyone. You were the center of everything, and now you want to get coffee and pretend that the past few years were just time we spent together, like roommates?
But the thing is, the phrase makes a kind of sense too. It assumes friendship is some middle ground between love and nothing. That you weren’t worth the maximum, so we’ll settle for something. That’s the logic of it, the cruelty and the honesty packed into four words.
We have these enormous expectations now that we’ve been freed from needing marriage for survival or respectability. Love became the thing we’re supposed to want, not the thing we accept. And because we can choose, we want everything: the passion and the comfort, perfect sex and total understanding, the freedom and the exclusivity, the everyday routine and the constant adventure. Forever. Every single time.
It’s an impossible standard, and we know it, and we want it anyway.
The phrase is also honest in its own way. What do you say to someone you’ve loved and hurt and don’t want to lose completely? Cutting them off feels cruel too. At least staying friends means you’re not erasing what happened. That it mattered. That they mattered.
I don’t know if we stayed friends, really. We tried for a while. But there’s something absurd about it anyway—pretending the past tense of love is friendship when what you actually feel is a kind of permanent tender ache when you run into them at the store.
Half a year of nothing. Gary went to Tokyo, sent a vague note about following the oranges and Pikachus, and then disappeared completely. I figured he’d either stopped existing or merged with some anime dimension he couldn’t escape. But he’s alive—showed up today like nothing happened, explaining it away with some story about a woman who wouldn’t let go, so he had to vanish for a while. Classic Gary.
The man’s taste took a weird turn somewhere between Narita Airport and now. Used to load his iPod with winter depression soul, pseudo-gothic droning, the occasional Amy Winehouse tribute artist nobody asked for. But Tokyo rewired something. Now it’s S Club 7, constantly, at skull-cracking volume. “S Club Party.” “Don’t Stop Moving.” Every drive, every quiet moment, every meal. I asked him once if he was serious. He looked at me like I’d questioned his religion.
The rest of him is the same chaos as always. One day he’s in Photoshop creating abominations that shouldn’t exist. The next he’s hunting down some local rock band with zero reason except that he feels like hitting something. There’s no pattern to it. No way to predict which Gary you’re going to encounter.
He’s on a plane to Queensland as I write this, swears he’ll keep sending back reports every week about what’s happening in the world, which trends are real, which ones are worthless noise. I’ve heard that promise before. But if he actually pulls it off, I’ll take it. Gary scattered across the country is better than Gary disappeared.
MyDeathSpace.com is an archive of MySpace profiles belonging to dead people. You find them there — photos, music players, wall comments, last logins from years ago. The profiles don’t age. Nobody’s updating them. It’s like walking into someone’s apartment the day they stopped living in it.
There’s a specific kind of creepy that hits different from horror movies or jump-scares. It’s the internet colliding with something it never learned how to process: people not coming back. We delete accounts, we move on to new platforms, we forget people online by default. The Internet is built on forgetting. But MyDeathSpace remembers. The profiles sit there, every detail preserved, nobody looking.
I remember when MySpace felt important. I’d spend hours on my profile, picking songs, arranging photos, writing my “about me” like it mattered. It did, in a way. My page said something about who I was. Now some of those pages belong to people who won’t ever log back in. Their profile is the most permanent version of themselves online — a photograph, but alive, but frozen.
The uncanniness comes from that gap between form and function. A grave exists to mark an absence. This is someone’s self-presentation, built to be updated, to change, to grow — and it can’t. It’s trapped in the moment they stopped touching it.
I don’t visit often. But when I do, I think about what version of myself would get stuck if someone archived my profiles. What song. What last post. What image.
Sina’s not her real name. The kids down here don’t use real names, especially the ones trying not to be found. Parents looking. Police looking. Both, maybe.
There’s a street worker named Ingo Tuchel who’s been here fifteen years. He says missing person reports from Zoo Station are rare. Sina has brown hair parted down the middle, lips cracked and bleeding, a black jacket with a fur collar. She’s small and fragile and pale, speaks clearly and politely, even laughs when Jan teases her for talking too much. You’d think she was just a too-thin kid if it weren’t for her eyes—that thing everyone says about junkies that sounds like a cliche until you’re looking at them: deep dark hollows, a blank glazed stare, pupils like pinheads. She says she’s nineteen. She looks younger.
She goes through fifty euros a day. Panhandling, stealing, whatever pays. Someone’s seen her regularly on the Kurfürstendamm, where the girls work the street. There’s a train to Paris leaving Zoo Station at 21:34 every night, but Sina doesn’t keep track of time like that. Just the clock in her body, the one telling her when the next dose is coming. She sold her watch for heroin four years ago.
I’m at the Zoo most days. The dark side of Berlin is just meters from the tourists and the Aquarium and the people walking through with somewhere to be. Christiane F. was here in the seventies, and the machinery is still running. Just different faces now. That’s all that changes.
Vimeo redesigned itself. Didn’t need to—I liked the old version fine. But they managed not to wreck it, which is harder than it sounds. Cleaner, a little lighter, everything still where you’d expect to find it. That’s the thing about good redesigns: you notice them a few days in because something feels easier, not because there’s a splash screen telling you what changed.
On gray, wet days I’m completely gone—depressed, dark thoughts, the whole spiral. The world looks grim. Everything feels impossible. Then the sun comes out and something just flips. Suddenly I’m convinced I could take over the world. The sky is blue and infinite. I love every creature on this planet, even the ones that were making me miserable five minutes earlier. Everything becomes beautiful and worth being part of.
It’s completely irrational. Nothing changed except the light. The problems didn’t go anywhere. But apparently whether I feel alive or dead depends entirely on the angle of the sun, and I’ve stopped pretending that’s something I can fix. That’s just how I’m built.
There’s this guy sitting outside the building in a dark suit, hair slicked back, and he starts talking to us as we’re passing. His voice is hard to make out, everything slow and deliberate, and he’s telling us he hasn’t eaten in days. His hands are moving like he’s pulling the words out of the air. I tell him we’re broke, we’re students, I say it without thinking about it. We were heading to McDonald’s. Of course we were.
He keeps talking as we walk—nobody has money, everybody just passes by. I hear him but I don’t turn around.
In line at the counter, something shifts. I catch Mona’s eye and she’s already looking at me like she knows exactly what I’m about to do. There’s this second where I can feel the actual weight of what just happened. So I count out the change in my palm and ask for two cheeseburgers. We didn’t need them. I wasn’t even hungry. But it felt like something, like maybe we were actually going to do the decent thing.
By the time we get back to the building, he’s gone. We stand there with the bag getting cold in our hands, and it occurs to me that the whole thing was pointless anyway. The guilt didn’t fix anything. The cheeseburgers didn’t help him. Nothing did.
Finished The O.C., California just in time — all four seasons before The Simpsons came back. That scene with Ryan and Marissa gets me every time. I don’t know what it is. My eyes go wet and I can’t look away.
This show does something. I come back to it when I’m in those moods, when everything feels like it’s falling apart. The way I’m built, that’s fairly regular. So I’ll be back. The Fab Four will be waiting for the next time I need them.
Jobs had the design obsession, the turtleneck, the mystique. Gates had the pragmatism to put a computer in every home, even if nobody would ever call it beautiful. Two completely different philosophies about what mattered.
One wanted you to feel something. The other wanted to solve a problem. That might be all the difference there is.
I threw it all away. Kept betting, couldn’t stop, kept chasing the next spin. The ball went round and round, hypnotic, and somewhere in there I lost my mind and my money. One moment you’re careful, the next you’re reckless, watching chips disappear like they were never real. Ten euros gone in seconds.
We went dressed up to this casino at Potsdamer Platz—suits, nice shirts, the whole thing. Walked in trying to look cool and immediately felt out of my depth. The place had this zombie quality, people pushing money across the table like it cost nothing. I was completely absorbed in my two-euro chip, and right next to me this old guy stacked hundred-euro notes beside it like we were playing the same game. We both lost. He didn’t flinch, just stood up and left like nothing had happened.
That’s when I knew I’d rather be at Sabse’s drinking cheap vodka, playing spin-the-bottle, losing at mustard beer, hanging out with the gay neighbors upstairs, talking nonsense till dawn. We piled into a car in the early morning and drove through the countryside screaming “California, here we come” out the windows, and when I saw the red lights on the horizon I felt something like peace, something like I was finally home.
Saw some iSmoke branding on the street — someone had the idea to apply Apple’s minimalist playbook to cigarettes. The overlap is almost too obvious: sleek, addictive, unnecessary, purchased by people who don’t actually need them. I’m still loyal to Gauloises, but the joke landed anyway.
The best part of Google being down is the first thirty seconds when you don’t realize it yet. You hit search and nothing happens. Your brain takes a beat to process that something this foundational just stopped working. Then comes this weird little thrill—a massive company with its fingers in everything, and for once it’s useless. A tiny moment where you’re not being tracked, not being fed results, not asking permission to know something.
It only lasts until Google comes back. But in those few minutes there’s this accidental freedom. You can’t check anything. You can’t verify your half-formed thoughts. The internet is suddenly a lot smaller and dumber and somehow that feels okay. Most of us have never actually experienced a day without Google—we’ve been online our whole adult lives inside that particular bubble. An outage is the only reminder that it could theoretically fail.
And of course it doesn’t. Within minutes the service is back and we’re all right where we were, relieved and grateful it’s fixed, already forgetting we ever wanted it to fail.
I got into Sailor Moon when I was a kid, same as everyone. Transformation sequences, bright colors, girls in sailor suits—it works on an eight-year-old. Rewatched it recently though, and the character stuff is actually solid. Usagi doesn’t fix her laziness through some character-growth montage. She just figures out that caring about her friends matters more than avoiding effort, and she shows up. Most kids’ media doesn’t trust that kind of straightforward character work.
The design holds up too. The uniforms, the color work, the whole visual language—it’s earnest and kitschy at once, totally committed, no irony. The show doesn’t apologize for its own premise. A teenage girl is the moon’s warrior, okay, moving on. There’s something clean about that.
I think what got me to come back as an adult is that it’s actually about people who care about each other and keep showing up when it’s hard. The magical-girl stuff is just the wrapper. Maybe that’s enough.
The BVG strike made Friedrichstraße station feel like I Am Legend in reverse. Thousands of people crammed in, herded by police in some bleak choreography. The film’s all about being alone in an empty world, and this was the opposite—everyone here at once, packed into the same suffocating moment. No air. No space. I kept thinking Will Smith’s character had it easy. At least he survived the alternative ending.
Monday the entire city was supposed to shut down—a total transit strike, nothing going anywhere. No U-Bahn, no S-Bahn, no buses, just nothing at all. I had no idea how I’d even get to the office, but there was something darkly funny about it, Berlin just grinding to a halt like that. Work from home was looking pretty attractive suddenly.
And of course Becca had her vacation booked for that exact week, was flying in right as the city decided to implode. When I realized the timing I had to laugh. We’d figure it out somehow, walk everywhere like everyone else, make it work. That’s Berlin for you.
I was only half ready for any of it, to be honest. But ready or not, the chaos was happening anyway.
Sonja dragged me to this indie birthday party in an actual kindergarten, which sounds like a setup for a joke but wasn’t. We loaded up on gin and tonics, flatbread, and this chocolate nut cake that wobbled on the plate. The music couldn’t decide between indie and electro-house, so we just split the room between us—my side and hers. At some point we got ambitious about bartending, which lasted about one drink before it became clear we were just drunk and pointing at bottles.
We borrowed a bottle of Ouzo. Stole it, really. The rest of the night got soft around the edges—nachos at my place, a captain’s club that might’ve been a regular thing or just a table, what I decided was the Spanish mafia in the corner getting stranger the drunker I got. Rain on the walk back that felt like the night’s punctuation. Sonja’s expensive Lacoste caught a chocolate stain somewhere between the nachos and home.
We didn’t care about the shirt. That’s the moment you know it was right—when the disaster is just part of the story, not a mark against it.
Smoothies are genuinely the laziest way to eat better—you dump fruit into a bottle and drink it, suddenly you’ve had all your vegetables without noticing. McCafé’s ones are actually good, which means something coming from a chain coffee place. They don’t water them down or ruin them with weird syrup.
Die Ärzte doing what they do best: a trashy fucking love song about wanting everything from someone except for their terrible friend. It’s German punk at its most gloriously crude, the kind of stupid that somehow lands because they’ve never apologized for being dumb.
The sky over Alexanderplatz is gray, the kind of heavy cloud cover that seems to catch on the TV tower. Perfect weather for what I’m doing here, which I’ve been telling myself for the last month is a personal crusade, though that word feels too grand for what is basically me trying to stop being haunted by a shopping center.
Jenny and I haven’t been together for just over a month. She’s happy with someone new now, which I’m genuinely glad about in the moments when I’m not awake at three in the morning running the same conversations in my head that never needed to happen. I don’t think I’m an addict. Not to drugs, not to weed, not to anything I’ve ever considered a weakness in myself. But if I’m honest, I’m addicted to girls who leave me. I hate losing people who matter. I don’t know how to function when they’re gone.
The Alexa shopping center was our place. I can still see us walking through those big glass doors, laughing about nothing, arms linked, browsing for DVDs or games or just wasting an afternoon. A shadow seems to hang over the whole building now. I haven’t been back since we split. The memory of it was too heavy, so I just didn’t come here. For a month I avoided it like something sacred and terrible. But last week I decided that had to stop. My brain decided it. My heart, battered as it was, agreed.
A month is long enough to mourn someone. Long enough to miss what you had and let yourself feel the sting of them not wanting you back. Long enough to accept that they’ve moved on and you’re not part of that anymore. I’d managed it before with someone else, so I could manage it now. So I went back.
I did it deliberately, methodically, like some kind of ritual. Bookstore—picked up something I’d been meaning to read. Game store—found a couple things for my DS, which I hadn’t touched since the split. Music section. McDonald’s at the end. It sounds stupid as hell, but it worked. Walking through these places again, doing normal things, buying normal things, stripped the poison out of them. They stopped being monuments to something I lost and became just a shopping center again. The weight lifted.
It’s a strange thing, having to let go of someone who once meant everything to you. You have to forget them in stages, in small ways, moving through the spaces you shared until they stop being haunted. But that’s the thing you have to do. That’s the work.
She tells me to close my eyes and I do. A Silver Mt. Zion’s “Blindblindblind” has been playing for what feels like three years, and I let myself sink into her arms. The moment I close my eyes everything rushes in—school, money, love, problems, worries, suffering. But there’s also the blue evening sky over Berlin, stars, the smell of shower gel on her skin.
When I open my eyes it’s getting light outside. Not a solution, I think, getting dressed. Not a solution at all. I leave.
I went to White Trash alone because everyone had made excuses. The weather was shit, wind in my face the whole way, and I showed up looking like I’d been electrocuted. I ordered a Beck’s and then just kept cycling through them, taking each back for the deposit and getting another, burning time until Blood Red Shoes showed up.
There was this kid next to me who looked exactly like Ron Weasley—all chaos and angles. When the band started we were both just jumping around, not even thinking about it. We pushed forward until I could feel the sweat coming off Laura-Mary, which wouldn’t normally be a problem, but the crowd was insane. Everyone behind us trying to shoulder their way closer with their phones out, desperate for some photo. My knees became the only thing between them and the stage. That was my job all night—being a wall.
They’re a good band, though. I really do love them.
I left limping, and there’s this ringing in my ears that won’t stop. I can hear it right now as I type this, this high whistle just sitting there. I’d already said yes to meeting some people at Knaack later, which seemed like a stupid move in this condition. But I’ll probably go anyway. That’s what earplugs are supposed to be for. Or maybe they’re not. Maybe you just live with the ringing.
Watched Sweeney Todd and ended up liking it more than I expected. After Nightmare Before Christmas and Corpse Bride I had some idea what Burton might do with a murderous barber musical, but nothing prepared me for how dark and sick this thing actually is. The singing, the blood, Depp completely unraveling in a basement with a straight razor. Genuinely disturbing.
Most people in that theater hated every second. I could feel the recoil, real visceral disgust. Some walked out halfway through. And that’s exactly what made it work for me — the fact that Burton doesn’t care if you’re comfortable with it. He’s just making exactly what he wants, no compromises, no apology.
It’s pretty clear who this works for and who it doesn’t. The people it clicks with will feel it right away. Everyone else hits that wall of disgust immediately. Not everything needs to be for everyone.
I get out of the U-Bahn and turn right without thinking, walking slowly beside the tracks. Six months in Berlin. Following Ella here was probably the biggest move I’ve made, and everything’s different in a way that still doesn’t quite make sense — confusing even now. New job, new school, new friends, new girls. A lot happens in six months when you actually commit to being somewhere.
But right now, I don’t want to be anywhere else.
Spring’s almost here. I’m looking forward to jogging in the evenings without getting frostbite on my ass. The web design training is moving fast — TV stations, electronics companies, car manufacturers. Most of them need me for something at this point, which is still strange to think about. And I’m getting out of the student dorm soon, moving into my own place like Kathi did. My person from back home is coming to visit, which is nice.
Stagnation is death. I don’t know if that’s really true, but it makes sense to me now. So I’m just walking along the tracks, waiting to see what moves next.
Broken traffic light at my corner this morning. You’d expect people to slow down—look both ways, be cautious, that kind of thing. Instead everyone there (drivers, cyclists, old woman with a crutch) did the exact same thing: crossed it fast, like the light was still working, like red was coming. It’s funny in an awful way.
The light is dead. There’s no red. But we don’t think about that. We just move through the rhythm we’ve been trained into, waiting for the color that isn’t there anymore. I did the same thing. I was in a hurry.
Caught them at White Trash. Laura-Mary Carter on stage doesn’t seem to be performing so much as channeling — like the music’s just moving through her and she’s watching it happen with the rest of us. Their records are decent but live they’ve got something that the studio can’t quite hold. Intimate venue, good sound, the kind of night that makes you remember why you bother leaving the house for shows.
I’m not reading any more think pieces about amateur porn destroying the professional industry. It’s all just people being prudish about something that’s already happened. Nothing interesting there.
This Simpsons episode split into three stories. The first two don’t work—Bart with the Sex Pistols in one, Lisa and Nelson getting fucked up until the doctors quit in the other. But the third one lands. Death, love, chocolate, all of it. That’s the one.
Prinzessinnenbad is this German documentary about a public swimming pool in Kreuzberg. Immigrants, kids, old people, the neighborhood sweating in chlorine and sun. No plot, no arc, no real narrative—just summer days and whatever a community looks like when nobody’s filming.
Watching it, I kept waiting for something to happen, for the film to make a point about something. It never did. Just stayed present in that particular corner of Berlin that feels more real than anything else shot there.
Blond magazine redesigned itself and landed on my favorite color, which feels like the kind of thing that matters if you care about how things look. I’ve been reading it alongside NEON for years—it’s rare to find a magazine that stays thoughtful all the way through. The relaunch issue cost basically nothing, so I grabbed it.
This song gets into you. I don’t know what it is exactly—the way it builds, the way it lands—but I come back to it constantly. It has this grip on me that I can’t shake. Every time it plays I’m just fully there with it, can’t think about anything else. No explanation needed.
I had Mona over and we went to Kosmos, then came home and threw cheap Lidl pasta in the microwave while The O.C. season three played. My head was pounding. There was this Amy Winehouse feeling I couldn’t shake—indifference and dizziness and arrogance all mixed up, that strange state where you feel cool and slightly wrecked at the same time. That mood made me decide the site needed a third column.
I’ve been deep in a trash aesthetic lately. Trash is actually more interesting than refined design, though maybe I just need it now to pull myself back together. The real trick is the gap between trashy and noble—that’s where something actually works.
Melted cheese on fried tortilla, a sweet cocktail on the side, both half price. The cheese browns and crusts, the chips still crisp. The drink tastes like candy. This is the kind of bar snack you don’t overthink—you just eat it, drink it, and feel momentarily clever for catching the deal. It’s enough.
Valentine’s Day is just panic and obligation dressed up as romance. Everyone’s stressed about whether they’re doing it right, if they’re spending enough, if they’re showing up with the proper gesture, as if there’s one correct way to care about someone.
I’m not playing that game. If you want to do something nice for someone, pick literally any other day.
Becca sent me a care package the other day. Just a box with my name on it, but opening it felt like she’d emptied her brain trying to figure out what would actually make me happy.
Mozart balls—the real kind, the ones I haven’t had since I was a kid. Simpsons figures because she knows I have that weird attachment to the show. A container of SpongeBob semolina pudding, which is either the sweetest or most ridiculous thing depending on how you look at it. Everything chosen. No filler.
That’s what gets me about Becca. She remembers the stupid specific stuff you mention once. The foods you liked growing up. The characters you inexplicably care about. She doesn’t make a big deal out of it. The package just shows up and there’s a note saying a good friend is always there for you no matter the distance, and you know she means it because she went to the trouble.
It’s the kind of thing that stops you. You’re unpacking semolina pudding in a SpongeBob container and you realize someone on the other side of the world was thinking about you hard enough to wrap it up and ship it. Most people don’t do that.
I’m the kind of person who lets most things pass by without thinking much about it. Childish sometimes, naive more often, emotionally checked out most of the time. But heartbreak is the one thing I can’t handle at all. I know the rules. My friends have been saying them for weeks. Forget her. Distract yourself. Move on. There are other girls. She wasn’t worth it. I know it’s all true. I believe most of it. But I miss her. The space next to me is empty. And I don’t know what comes next.
Spring arrived in Berlin and everything turned bright and stupid. I walk through the park near my apartment, Kelly Clarkson and The Veronicas pouring into my ears, one breakup song after another. My thoughts won’t quit. I bought a new phone but I’m still carrying the old one in my pocket. Two weeks now, just because of her. Waiting for it to vibrate. Waiting for her to text. At home I barely leave my laptop, refreshing StudiVZ over and over, hoping maybe she’s written something. I’ve hit rock bottom. I still don’t know what to do.
Everything is pointless without her. I hate Berlin now. She was Berlin for me — the reason any of this mattered. When we broke up I wanted to leave immediately, go home, but Becca talked me out of it and she was right, it would be stupid to throw away this chance because of one girl. But heartbreak is the only serious thing in the world right now. It’s the only lethal thing. And I’m waiting to find out if I’ll survive it.
There’s that moment between sleep and waking where you’re trapped in both at once, knowing you need to open your eyes but your body won’t cooperate. The dream logic breaks down just enough that you realize you’re dreaming, but you can’t force yourself out of it. Someone shaking your shoulder, voice cutting through—that’s mercy. Without it, you’d drift back down into the half-sleep, the worse place, where everything feels important and nothing feels real.
I woke up on the U-Bahn. A woman’s voice was telling me I was at Sophie-Charlotte-Platz. I got off without knowing how I’d gotten there. I’d been single for a week, and everyone had the same prescription: drink until it stops hurting. Thomas, Hannah, Kathi all nodded like they knew what they were talking about.
So I showed up to Thomas’s birthday party and basically drank everything. Made out with some blonde girl at the club who was just as demolished as I was. Threw up in my bathroom later, which felt like the appropriate ending to the week. And the weird thing is, it actually worked. I felt better. Not great, but better.
My phone died the same week. Old Siemens thing, five years and four relationships, completely done. So I went and got an LG Shine—the pink one. I like companies that just commit to a color. There’s something honest about that.
The actual formula for getting over someone: you drink, you puke, you buy something stupid, you get a haircut, and you go look for whoever comes next. It’s simple. It works. And here’s the bonus—your stomach’s too wrecked to eat anything, so you lose weight without trying. Heartbreak as a fucking diet plan.
Someone brought the Helvetica documentary to the studio this week and we all crowded around to watch it. It’s this strange thing to sit through when you work in design—watching old men explain why they’re obsessed with a typeface that’s basically everywhere, and then watching it get torn apart by everyone who came after them for being everywhere.
The film doesn’t hide the irony. Helvetica is this perfect, boring, invisible perfection that conquered the world, and depending on who you ask, that’s either the whole achievement or the whole crime. There’s something almost perverse about making a ninety-minute documentary about a font—but the more you listen to the designers talking, the more you get that it’s not really about Helvetica at all. It’s about the moment when modernism stopped being a choice and became the air you breathe.
Younger designers in the film push back hard. They want personality, accident, visible effort. They want you to see the hand that made it. Helvetica is the opposite—it’s supposed to disappear, to let the content speak, to be perfectly neutral. Which sounds great in theory, and maybe it would be if we hadn’t used it for absolutely everything and erased any possibility of anything else.
I can’t decide if the documentary is a defense or an autopsy. Probably both. Either way, it’s worth watching if you think about how things look at all.
Made a WordPress theme called Textback over the winter. Wanted it to feel clean and deliberate, like the season itself—nothing wasted, every element doing actual work. The color and spacing are where the elegance lives. No decoration, just structure.
The navigation is complicated on purpose. Most themes bend over backward to be simple, to get out of the way. This one doesn’t. If you’re going to use it, you’re going to have to think about how you’re moving through it, and that’s the appeal for the kind of person who’d choose it in the first place.
It’s not for everyone. But nothing worth designing is.
Square Enix put together a website for Final Fantasy XII: Revenant Wings, this Nintendo DS game that’s coming in a couple of weeks. Beautiful site — orchestral soundtrack underneath, trailers, downloads, the whole thing. Which makes sense because this is still Final Fantasy, even if it’s on a handheld and smaller in scope.
I’ve been into the series forever, but XII isn’t one I ever played. Timing didn’t work out, or I heard enough about sluggish combat and weird pacing that it didn’t seem worth the investment. But that’s never stopped me from being curious what comes next. The worlds stick around. They keep exploring them.
There’s something appealing about a portable Final Fantasy. You’re not signing up for sixty hours. The DS was already killing it for RPGs — Dragon Quest, Monster Hunter, all of it. A compact FF that fits in your pocket and lets you spend half an hour in that world before moving on to the rest of your day. That’s nice.
I don’t know if Revenant Wings is going to be the one that makes me regret skipping XII or if it’s just a fun distraction. Either way, the website got me thinking about it, which is probably exactly what it was supposed to do.
You build your site to the spec. Valid HTML, clean CSS, following the actual standards. And then Internet Explorer shreds it. This has been the designer’s curse since IE decided to write its own rulebook back with version 5.5. Microsoft got to make up the internet, and the rest of us had to choose: build it right and watch IE butcher it, or abandon standards and hope IE happens to understand what you’re doing.
Microsoft’s answer to decades of this was not to fix Internet Explorer. It was to ask nicely. With IE8, they had a plan—if you wanted your standards-compliant site to actually display correctly in their browser, you just had to slip a little meta tag into your source code. A secret note to Internet Explorer saying “hey, please behave.” Chris Wilson from the IE team explained it this way: so many websites were built specifically around IE’s broken behavior that if Microsoft suddenly started following actual standards, all of those hacked-together sites would collapse. So instead of doing the hard thing, they made standards compliance optional, like it’s some experimental mode you can turn on if you’re feeling adventurous.
The problem is perfect: there’s so much garbage code out there that only works because IE is broken. Fixing IE would break all of it. It’s a problem they created, and their solution is to let it keep poisoning everything, asking designers to explicitly opt into not being broken.
I don’t know what pissed me off more—the original incompetence, the non-apology, or watching them turn standards compliance into a feature. They’re not going to fix this. They know they won’t. Ten years from now someone will still be choosing between right and working, building another generation of broken sites because one company decided standards don’t apply to them.
I wouldn’t sleep with a Windows user. Not because I’m a snob — okay, I’m definitely a snob — but because it tells you something fundamental about who you are, what you notice, what you’ve accepted as normal.
Macs got into my system early. The way type renders on the screen, how windows move when you drag them, the whole invisible architecture of the interface. Someone spent time on those details. Actually spent time. Once you’ve felt that level of intentionality, Windows feels like someone’s been serving you the same thing for decades and you’ve stopped asking if there’s anything better. The machine works. The design never touches you. You’ve made peace with adequacy.
And maybe that’s fine for most people. But I can’t be with someone who doesn’t notice the gap, or notices it and decides it doesn’t matter. That tells you too much about what kind of person they are, what their threshold is for acceptable. Not worse, necessarily. Just incompatible with me. I need someone who notices when something’s been designed with care, who doesn’t confuse functionality with elegance.
That probably makes me insufferable to be around. I’m okay with that.
I’m the kind of person who doubles down when I feel wronged. It’s defensive and stupid and it breaks things, and I’ve spent enough years doing it to know better. But knowing and doing are different problems.
She’s patient with it in a way that makes me resent myself more than she could ever resent me. She just keeps being there instead of rightfully deciding I’m not worth the trouble. That patience should be a wake-up call, and sometimes it is, and sometimes I just use it as license to do the same thing again.
I don’t think the story here is that she’s strong and I need fixing. It’s more that being around someone who sees right through your bullshit and hasn’t left yet makes you want to stop being so much bullshit. Not out of obligation, but out of something like respect for what she’s tolerating.
There’s this dry laugh she does when I’m being ridiculous. It cuts through everything. It’s not unkind, it’s clear. She’s saying without saying that she sees exactly what’s happening and she’s still choosing to be here.
I’ll probably mess this up again in some way I haven’t thought of yet. That’s just who I am. But I wanted to mark down that I see it now, that she’s rare, that I’m lucky. That’s the thing I meant to actually say.
Some market research firm called Mindset Media published findings showing that Mac users are 60% more likely to be open-minded, liberal, and completely convinced of their own superiority. Fox Business reported it. The researchers labeled this “Openness 5”—people who seek new experiences and believe imagination and intellectual curiosity are central to a meaningful life.
Which is exactly what every Apple fan wants to hear, and of course they’re spreading it around. But you already knew this, right? Mac users have always known they’re better. That’s the core belief. A study just gives it scientific language.
And I get it because I’m one of them. There’s something about a Mac that makes you feel like you’ve made a choice that reflects something true about who you are. The design, the simplicity, the price—it all adds up to this feeling that you’re the kind of person who appreciates good things. Whether that’s real or just marketing is beside the point. The feeling is the product.
Everyone else is reading this thinking about their totally functional Windows laptop, and they’re not wrong. But also, there’s no denying it: there’s a certain kind of person a Mac attracts, or maybe creates. Whether that study proved anything is another question entirely.
Came across Sally and Jannis’s blog and immediately got it. Drawing Mario, driving around, eating school food. Sounds dumb until you see how they do it—like they figured out something about just living that everyone else is missing. Hoping this becomes something I’m actually following.
The DS library was thin. SquareEnix had spent years dismantling the Mana series and selling it back in pieces. Brain Training games were pointless. The job sims—lawyer, surgeon, fishing guide—weren’t happening. I needed something to make those endless subway rides feel like less than purgatory.
2008 was supposed to deliver. Tales of Innocence was coming for actual RPG depth. Final Fantasy XII Revenant Wings would continue something that had worked. Dragon Quest IX was a real event. Rune Factory was there if I wanted to pretend farming made sense. Final Fantasy IV was getting remade, which sometimes was all you needed.
Then there was Teenage Zombies for something completely sideways. Ninja Town if tower defense actually mattered. Mizuiro Blood when I was feeling experimental. Space Invaders Extreme for the pure nostalgia. Dragon Tamer Sound Spirit just because it existed.
One of the trailers genuinely did it for me. Not in any way I could sensibly explain. The movement, the colors, something about how it all came together—I couldn’t look away. You know that feeling when something just hits you like that. One of those immediate things.
Art and design are a mess. Someone throws buckets of paint at a wall and that’s design now. Someone starves a dog at a gallery opening and calls it art. Someone pisses their name in the snow for a photo. Maybe that’s art too. No one knows anymore.
Then there’s Dieter Rams. He looked at all that chaos and just… extracted the signal. Ten principles. Not rules, but the things that actually matter when you’re making something worth keeping around.
Good design is honest. Good design is useful. Good design is as little design as possible—which is the hard part. Most people think design means adding stuff. Rams understood it’s about subtraction. Make something so clear and intentional that nothing else can exist alongside it. Durability. Restraint. Beauty that serves function, not the ego. Every principle spirals back to the same idea: respect for whoever uses what you made, and respect for the thing itself.
I’ve been living by those ten statements for years. They’re the measure I hold up to everything I work on. Are you being honest? Is this necessary? Is this respectful? When you’re drowning in options, Rams is the voice that cuts through. It’s strange how ten simple sentences can feel like the only philosophy that matters.
Insanely expensive, but if money fell out of the sky somehow, the MacBook Air is getting bought. That’s it. No other shopping after that.
Thin. That was the whole thing. Impossibly thin, and it actually worked. Every other laptop made you choose: light but slow, or fast but heavy. This one just didn’t.
The design was clean in a way that made everything else look bloated. No unnecessary details, no theater. Just metal and glass and air, in the right proportions.
I never actually bought one. Still think about it sometimes.
Weeks I spent avoiding Keinohrhasen. Til Schweiger. Something about him had stuck as untouchable, even though I’d never actually sat through anything he was in. Tonight Jenny and I needed a movie, and every other option looked worse, so we landed here: reporter chases a story, meets this uptight kindergarten teacher obsessed with the environment, they fight and then don’t, standard romantic comedy beats.
Made me laugh way more than expected. Nora Tschirner’s always been hot, but even Til turned out genuinely likable without effort. The real gift was Nora getting naked about halfway through—my friend sitting next to me looked appropriately horrified, which made everything worth it. Would’ve paid the seven euros and watched this months ago if I’d known that was coming, instead of holding a grudge against an actor I’d never seen.
Most horror films just bore me. Stupid teenagers trapped in some killer’s house, getting chased by psychopaths in their dreams—I don’t feel anything from that. What actually gets to me is the apocalypse stuff. Viruses, the end of everything, vampire-zombies, the whole collapse of civilization. That’s what sticks.
Went to see I Am Legend with Jenny yesterday. Will Smith, his dog. Jenny couldn’t watch it. The infected, the explosions, all of it was too much for her. She had her hands over her face the entire time. Me, I just got angrier and angrier at this asshole in the back making noise. Talking through it, completely ruining the experience. I remember thinking the virus should’ve taken him instead of the people we’re supposed to care about. At least that would’ve made some kind of sense.
It’s a shit thing to think, but you can’t help it. Watching the world collapse on screen, bridges blown so nobody can even escape, everyone either dead or alone trying to survive—you start wondering if it could actually happen. If we’re just sitting here waiting for it.
Saturday night, brain off, so I threw on The O.C. season two—Jenny gave it to me for my birthday a while back and it had been sitting around. I didn’t think it would land the same way, but the opening credits hit and suddenly I was back there, seventeen, sweaty from the lake with chips and a cold beer, about to watch Ryan and Seth spin through their little catastrophes.
Everything moved the way I remembered. Ryan’s back in Newport, Seth’s his usual mess, Marissa’s starting her nosedive, new villains ready in the wings. The thing that got me was the music. I knew every song drifting through the background—not because I’d been listening to them, but because they lived in my head for years. They were on my iPod, got played until I couldn’t hear them anymore, became the sound of being young and thinking a TV show mattered. Maybe I should dig out those soundtracks, throw them back in rotation. Better than what I’ve got going now.
I hate Google. I hate what they do, I hate the monopoly, I hate that they own my searches. I also know there’s no real escape—Yahoo’s just as greedy, Bing is Microsoft’s version of the same evil, Lycos is dead. So I sit at my Mac and throw my most private thoughts into their servers anyway, every single day. The contradiction is complete and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Except maybe Wikia Search. It’s launching soon, and the early alpha is already out there. It’s fast. It’s simple. And the thing that actually matters: it’s open. The search algorithm isn’t some proprietary black box. You can see how it thinks. That’s radical compared to everything else out there.
I don’t know if it’ll survive. I don’t know if it’ll matter. But I like the thought of a world where nobody remembers what “googling” even meant. That feels possible now.
I’m obsessed with a specific shade of fluorescent pink—the kind that’s impossible to photograph or reproduce in any magazine or print. Once you see it in person, you can’t unsee it. It’s crude and beautiful, hitting you on a purely animal level before your brain catches up. You find it in candy and neon signs and skin, in combinations that shouldn’t work but do. Buff Monster said it best: you can’t fuck with this much pink. He’s right. It’s one of those rare colors that works immediately, that makes people feel something before they understand why. Once you start looking, it’s everywhere.
A reader sent me down this rabbit hole back in 2008. Someone leaked a video from a New York penthouse party — drunk people, someone filming with a handheld camera, then the building lurches. Everyone’s screaming. The power cuts. The feed cuts out. That’s all anyone had. Nobody explained what happened. The internet spent weeks staring at that fragment, trying to piece it together.
Then clues started appearing everywhere. A website with party photos. A Japanese beverage company posting cryptic messages. A blog in Nepali. An old toaster company’s website with changed dates. Each piece was part of something nobody had officially announced yet. You could chase these threads for hours and never know what you were waiting for, just that you were waiting for something.
It was all for Cloverfield, a monster movie J.J. Abrams was releasing. He’d gotten the idea in Tokyo, shopping in a toy store with his son, watching kids browse action figures. Instead of the usual trailers and press junket, he scattered the mystery across the internet and watched people scramble to piece it together. No announcements. No explanations. Just fragments that might mean something.
I don’t know if it was marketing genius or if I’d been perfectly played. Maybe both. What worked about it was stupidly simple: before the movie even existed, before I’d seen a real trailer or footage, I was already thinking about it. The mystery was the thing. A monster movie is just another disaster film. But a mystery that makes you dig through the internet at three in the morning, comparing notes with strangers, hunting through a Japanese advertisement for clues? That was different. That’s what changes what you’re waiting for.
When I was a kid I was obsessed with games. Everything I could grab—alone in my room, at friends’ houses, with random kids in the arcade. I was happy. Walking around as Link in Hyrule, eating mystery mushrooms as Mario, dragging that yellow electric mouse around as Ash. The best part was knowing I’d grown up in this weird window when games could fool us into thinking we were actually out there doing something important. Finding magic, saving the world, being someone.
Then it stopped. Games just weren’t fun anymore. What the hell happened to me? No boss could surprise me. No puzzle could move me. No story could touch me. I was getting older. It was devastating. Had I actually lost my imagination? That’s what scared me most as a kid—that growing up would steal it away.
I quit. Nintendo and I said goodbye. It was sad.
A few years later I moved to Berlin and met a girl. Not long after, I bought a DS, mostly to kill time on the U-Bahn. At first nothing happened. Then slowly something shifted. A spark. Then more. Suddenly I was a warrior again, a hero again, and yesterday on my birthday—a farmer. Growing cucumbers, finding a girlfriend in-game while I’d already found one in real life.
Thanks Nintendo. You brought back what I lost. That’s nice.
3 AM, can’t sleep. Bob Marley keeps me company and I’m scrolling, trying to write my way into tiredness. Somehow I end up here — back on your site. The one I found years ago when I was just starting to understand design, watching how you’d build something and learning to see the craft underneath.
For a while the magic wore off. You know how it goes — you start to see how the trick works, and understanding kills the mystery. I thought that was the end of it for me with your work.
But you keep doing it. You keep waking something back up. There was FackingCants that knocked me sideways recently. And then today I found Chikatetsu, and I read what you wrote about it, and there it was again — that sense that someone is building with actual intention, not just making things pretty.
What I wanted to say is that I see it. The stories in your themes, how every one of them means something. You don’t hide that. That’s what separates this from everything else.
I’m heading to bed now. But I wanted to leave that here first.
I gripped Jenny’s hand as we pushed through streets packed with people clutching champagne bottles and firecrackers, dodging whatever shot past our feet. The sky exploded in spinning colors and I suddenly stopped—another police barricade. The crowd was shouting at the officers in green, hurling firecrackers. Behind the flashing lights I could make out the Brandenburg Gate. There had to be another way. We ducked into a side street where an enormous Ferris wheel spun indifferently overhead.
While we wove around drunk kids casually hurling firecrackers at strangers, I thought back to what the day had already thrown at us. The Lidl had been a war zone. The constant explosions sounded like what people must have heard in 1945. Jenny’s fat, scared cats had jumped at every bang. It didn’t feel like New Year’s Eve—it felt like the actual end. People were acting like they believed it. There was something dangerous in the air. I bought overpriced beer from an illegal street vendor. Behind us, sirens wailed. Berlin was in some kind of emergency. We hit another police barricade. No way through—the Gate was packed and locked off.
We ended up at a Christmas market at Potsdamer Platz. Rockets exploded overhead while some kids tried to light the DB logo on fire. Behind us, old drunk couples swayed and sang together. On the ride home Jenny and I played Mario Party, and when we woke up hungover the next morning, the first thing she said was: “Are the shops open today? Oh wait, it’s Christmas.”
Dusty Asian bookstore, an old Japanese guy overcharging me for something I didn’t need, and it snapped everything into focus. I’d been wandering intellectually for a while—picking things up and putting them down, never landing anywhere. But standing in that shop I remembered what actually moves me: web design and Japan. They need to connect somehow. That’s it. Everything else is noise.
My girlfriend gets it. She feels the same pull. And at some point you stop pretending other work matters, stop doing jobs that just pay the bills instead of making you want to think and make things. So here we are in 2008—Bush still somehow president, sex in every direction you care to look, same world as always. New year, different resolve. This time I’m actually combining these two things instead of keeping them separate.
I want to design things that feel Japanese without just copying what Japanese design looks like. There’s something about restraint and negative space and this sense of completion that comes from incompleteness—I can’t quite explain it, but I know it when I see it. Web design is what I know how to do; Japan is what I want to know how to think like.
SpongeBob. That stupid yellow thing on the ocean floor with a pink starfish best friend. Complete nonsense. Has no right to work. Does anyway. That’s the work I’m chasing—things that shouldn’t be good but are.
My namesake’s doing real work on his blog. Respect.
I copied everything my older sister did as a kid. Not just surface stuff—the music, the clothes, the attitude, all of it. You do it because she’d already figured out what mattered. Stupid kid, but it’s funny years later when you catch yourself doing the same thing with other people. Must run in the family or something.
Christoph stopped blogging. It was one of maybe three blogs I actually read—the kind of thing I’d check every morning, the kind that shaped how I thought about things. Ad’s gone, Nicki’s gone, now him too. I’m not trying to be melodramatic about it, but there’s a real emptiness there.
You spend enough time online and you get used to people disappearing. They burn out, move on, find something else to do with their time. But when it’s the actual voices you care about—the people whose thinking actually mattered to you—it lands different. You keep refreshing for a week, expecting something new, and then you stop. The habit dies.
It’s getting quieter. The few of us who stuck around, we’re walking into whatever comes next with less light than we had before. I don’t know what happens from here.
I caught an old episode randomly and it held up better than expected. What surprised me wasn’t the comedy but the design—the color work, the character animation, the way they built a world that makes no sense but feels internally consistent. There’s something almost obsessive about the care they put into a show about a cartoon sponge flipping burgers. The writing gets darker the more you watch it. SpongeBob isn’t actually happy, he’s delusional, and everyone around him is trapped in their own kind of despair. Once you see that it’s hard to unsee. Funny and sad in equal measure, which I guess is the only way something gets to stick around this long.
Jenny says “Schinesisch” when it should be “Chinesisch” and I’m not the one who’s going to correct her. We went to get Chinese food and she ordered it like that, and the place just smiled and didn’t blink. We stuffed ourselves with sweet and sour pork and sukiyaki and made crude jokes the whole time, the kind of stuff that should’ve gotten us thrown out. She laughed anyway.
The staff kept smiling. Always. That’s already how it works. I love her anyway, the way she keeps getting it wrong.
There’s a download available now that supposedly matters. Everything already feels spent somehow. The joke, the place, the mispronunciation. You do something once and it sticks. You do it again because at least you know what’s coming. One day you realize you haven’t changed anything, you’re just repeating yourself. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter anymore.
The Pierces are one of those acts that slipped through the cracks—sisters making synth-pop that hit different when you were stuck on some long drive or trying to decode what you felt about someone.
What they made was intricate and patient, never trying too hard. I missed their show in Berlin because of work, which is how it usually goes, but it reminded me that those records still sit with me in a way a lot of contemporary pop doesn’t.
They understood something about restraint and texture that the industry tends to smooth over. Missing the live version stings a little, but the recordings are enough.
There’s something about standing at the edge of it that makes you feel like you’re watching something alive leave. The water pulls back, and you know it’s coming back—tides, physics, the same old rhythm—but in that moment it feels like something’s being taken from you. I’ve spent enough time at the coast to know the ocean doesn’t go anywhere. It’s always there, always returning, indifferent and constant. Maybe that’s why the question feels important anyway. Maybe what we’re really asking is where we go, or what we lose in the time between waves, or why we keep expecting the ocean to answer for something it’s not responsible for. The water doesn’t care about any of that. It just moves.
Nicki’s gone now. I sat on a hill in the grass, just sitting there in the dark for a while, and then I saw this thing—a star, or something like a star, dark and bright at once, cracking open toward the sky. It lit up the whole horizon for a moment and then it was gone again, fading back into nothing. We’re sitting here together now, him and me, both in the dark, both alone. Waiting to see if it comes back. Waiting to see if he comes back. I don’t know. He had this way of seeing things that made everything look different—not like he was trying to be wise about it, just like he actually saw something the rest of us were missing. Now there’s just the dark and the memory of that light, and the strange stupid hope that maybe you appear again if you just sit still long enough and don’t look away.
The Zune Originals were actually kind of cool. Those limited-edition players came wrapped in custom covers designed by real artists and designers—not just different color options, but actual design work. Some of it was weird, some was genuinely good-looking. The whole thing felt like a small, doomed gesture toward making a media player into something you’d actually want to carry around, an object worth looking at rather than just functional hardware. It didn’t matter that the Zune was already losing to the iPod by that point. There was something respectful about going down swinging with some visual culture involved.
Jenny and I were scouting the scene neighborhoods in the capital. I want to move somewhere like that—the rents are still cheap, at least they were then.
We had an expensive dinner, which felt strange in that context. After, two tourists with a camera phone were photographing a homeless guy in genuinely cool clothes. The cruelty was casual. He had style. They just had phones.
I walked into a market wanting to buy dried salted fish. Forgot completely. Still annoyed about it.
Mac OS is beautiful. Use it and you’re automatically in this club of people who understand elegance and intuition. It’s basically a religion. Then Friday I needed out.
I wanted to prove I could do creative work without being owned by Apple or Adobe. That there was another way, something not built on corporate faith.
Fedora seemed possible. Free like in freedom, they promised. I could feel it pulling at me, this chance at independence. Finally breaking the chain.
Three hours. My graphics card hated it. WiFi was a joke. Back to Mac.
But I haven’t let go of it. I actually fell for Fedora, or at least the idea of it. The possibility of escape. I’m serious about trying again. Whenever I get an external drive. Maybe next month, maybe next year, maybe never. But if Apple ever really betrays me, if they give me a real reason to leave, I’ll remember those three hours when freedom seemed real.
Berlin got buried in snow for a few days and I basically gave up on being a functional person. Spent the whole weekend with Jenny watching DVDs, fucking, and eating—noodles with Maggi, cake, potato gratin, cereal, Turkish bread, ham, back to noodles. The kind of time-blurred day where you stop looking at a clock and wonder if your stomach actually has a physical limit.
If I explode tomorrow, remember me as some rebellious hero with long curly hair. Actually, promise you’ll do that.
What’s worse than a company that only wants money? One that already has too much. Google is that company. They’ve got the kind of wealth that makes governments nervous, they’ve convinced people to organize their entire existence around a search algorithm, and they understand that information is power—the kind of power they’re perfectly positioned to exploit. They’re collecting today and they’ll control tomorrow.
They know where I am. They know what I want, what I’m afraid of, what interests me. They want to be on every phone, every device, present in every moment my thoughts are turning something over. The brightest people alive are locked in buildings trying to figure out how to reach deeper into my head. Google is everywhere and the system is too big to fight directly.
I’ve thought about corrupting it from inside. Sign up with fake names, upload other people’s pictures, speak gibberish, feed the algorithm nothing but contradictions. Create enough noise that the machine chokes on its own data. It probably doesn’t work. The system’s too efficient, too vast, too hungry. But there’s something in the refusal itself, in the deliberate sabotage of useful information. Maybe that’s worth something.
Their slogan used to be “Don’t be evil.” That’s meaningless now. The only thing left is to lie to them constantly. Lie until the system eats itself. I don’t think it changes anything. But I think the attempt has to count for something.
I keep thinking about running away from time. Not in some dramatic I-need-to-escape way, just… skipping ahead past the rough months. Peeking at whether I’ll actually sign that lease, whether I’ve found someone worth keeping. The thing is, you’d need to come back. Same person, same memories, just without the damage from waiting.
The physics don’t help. You can supposedly time-travel by flying into space, going fast enough that time dilates around you, then coming back. But that’s not time travel—that’s just aging slowly while everyone else ages normally. You’d still be here, just offset, half-ghosted. And if you went backward, you’d exist twice, which breaks something fundamental. I don’t want to be in two places. I just want to skip.
What gets me is thinking about who would actually want this, if it worked. The ones desperate to escape bad years? The sick ones waiting for cures? Rich people chasing some fantasy version of the future? And then the criminals—people running from sentences, failure, themselves. That’s when the magic dies and you’re left with a logistics problem. Something to regulate, to give to some and not others.
I read The Time Traveler’s Wife again and got stuck on the wife’s half—what it would actually feel like, day after day. Your partner keeps vanishing. He shows up without warning. He’s there and then he’s gone, and you don’t know if he’s coming back in an hour or a year. Either that destroys you or it wires you into something almost inhuman. The patience. The faith. I think about that. About loving someone that badly.
There’s a human ear growing on a mouse’s back. There are children who exist because of a petri dish. Everything we thought was impossible—god-level stuff—has become casual news. So maybe the only real magic left is not knowing. The future staying sealed and mysterious and genuinely other. The thing we can’t engineer our way out of.
I keep hoping time travel stays impossible. Because if it became possible, we’d use it, and we’d turn it into just another way to run—which is the one thing it was supposed to prevent.
Jenny was grinding through Final Fantasy III while I dove into Phantom Hourglass, which I’d renamed to feature Link Gustav, the worst possible name for a hero. I’d rush through temples with three hearts left, four if I was being careful, and I could feel Jenny tensing up every time I took damage. She never said anything, but you could sense the second-hand panic.
That’s the thing about Zelda, especially one this old—it hits some nerve that makes you want to push it, to see how close to failure you can get. The music, the satisfaction of solving something, the way each room feels earned. Pure nostalgia. Not the soft kind, but the kind that lives in your muscles.
I looked ridiculous probably, headphones on, muttering at the screen, irrationally invested in Gustav’s survival. But that’s what the game does to you.
I ended up in the wrong class. Everything was wrong — the room, the people, the energy. Didn’t belong there. Didn’t want to. And they didn’t want me either. My best friend from the old class was the only thing keeping me from completely losing it. But what actually got me through was seeing Marcel between periods. During lessons I couldn’t focus on anything else. Phone vibrating every ten minutes. I knew he’d written. I had to get back.
Not that my phone bill was going to survive this much longer, and my face was getting stuck in a permanent frown. He’d actually fought for me that first week, tried to get me moved back. Then I blew it — couldn’t abandon my friend, the only person who had my back completely. That’s how we are together. So we started pestering the teachers. Showed up at parent night, told them we were being bullied, that nobody could stand us. It wasn’t entirely a lie — we felt isolated and hated. Turns out we were paranoid. Other students didn’t mind us. Teachers didn’t either. Three of them wanted us in their classes.
I only wanted one.
We did something that was supposedly impossible. The school said the records couldn’t be changed, that moving us back would require too much work. We wore them down anyway. Now we’re back in the original class. Real material, stuff we’d actually missed while we were in that other place where they didn’t have enough teachers. No more pointless assignments. Computers now. He’s five meters away from me the entire time.
Being this close is strange. You have to be on, say better things. It feels like being sixteen again. I stop paying attention to the actual lessons. Five meters and I’m thinking about him instead. This is how it’s supposed to be.
I’m in that run right now where everything’s clicking. Living in a city that pulses, work that actually means something, finally making real money that’s mine. Got a girlfriend who’s smart and hot and just as bent in the head as I am. We get each other’s damage, and that’s what makes it work.
You know it won’t hold. The dark stuff cycles back, the good feeling gets stomped flat, whatever groove we’re riding will eventually stall. But that’s exactly why you have to drink it while it’s there. These moments, these weeks, this stretch of not actively hating your own existence. You don’t get to complain about the rainy season if you skip the sun.
Found my favorite muesli at Lidl the other day. The catering company at work carries it sometimes and I’d been obsessed with the stuff for years. Actually tracked down where they get it, bought a box, and it’s exactly what I wanted. Small thing, but it hit the good-times pile. The kind of stupid detail that sums up feeling okay with where you’re sitting.
Ordered pizza online for the first time. Used to walk down to the place next door, now it just arrives. The strange part is what they’ll combine. Fish stick pizza, obviously. They had this Christmas special: roast sauce, cheese, potato slices, red cabbage, beef, and cheese again. Listed separately. Double cheese. That’s the whole thing.
The piercer’s apartment was in Berlin’s Adlershof, somewhere in a sprawl of buildings I spent half an hour walking through in the cold. Snow falling. I’d fought my parents for weeks to get here—they’d actually signed permission, which felt momentous at fifteen or whatever I was. I was checking the address they’d given me, increasingly convinced it didn’t exist, or that I’d find myself in someone’s living room, the piercer working between kids and cats and kitchen tables.
When the door opened, the woman was exactly what I’d feared. Blonde, overdone makeup, early forties, moved like she’d already decided I wasn’t leaving. She pulled off my jacket before I’d said hello, had me leave my shoes by the door, lit incense. I followed her down the hallway without deciding to, some part of me waiting for the moment to cut and run. But there was no cat. No teenager doing homework. Just this woman and a hallway and me trying not to think about what I’d signed up for.
Her consultation room was a table and chair in the narrow hall. She ran through the risks—infection, keloids, all the things that sound worse when someone’s listing them like a grocery list—while I sat there realizing I hate needles more than I thought I did. Genuinely can’t look at them from across a room. So what was I doing here? She had my permission slip. I had maybe thirty seconds of courage left.
The actual room was off to the side, surprisingly clean, properly set up. My hands were shaking. I asked if she could numb it for like, two days straight. She laughed. “I’m just going to shoot it through.” There was something about her refusal to perform anxiety that made it less scary. No coddling, no drama. She explained that working from an apartment saved money over renting a storefront—a good distraction. “This’ll feel cold.” The numbing came, and then one small pop, and it was finished. Months of buildup bottled down to half a second.
Twenty years and I’m still happy with it. What got me wasn’t the piercer’s technical skill, though she had it. It was the way she cut through the panic by simply not participating in it. Sterile clinics have their place, but there’s a difference between clinical and comfortable, between a place that acknowledges fear and a person who refuses to.
I’m thinking about another one. Not the tragus again. Open to ideas.
I hadn’t seen this many candy-colored Gothic characters bouncing around a cartoon in forever. There was a bat with a speech impediment who’s afraid of flying, Siamese twins who just wanted to eat chips and dip, and this purple thing that shuffled through scenes looking half-dead, never saying anything but flat monotone observations. And the title song was actually great.
This was kids’ TV that didn’t feel like a sedative. Not like Bob the Builder or Dora or whatever corporate thing was designed to numb parents into total silence. Just something weird enough to have a real pulse to it.
I wanted my new apartment—didn’t matter which Berlin neighborhood, Mitte or Prenzlauer Berg or wherever—to feel exactly like this. Like home the moment I walked in.
Even though I board the U-Bahn at different times and always end up in a different car, I see the same people. The tall woman with the light blue jacket reminds me of the giant from Big Fish. A businessman learning vocabulary cards. This girl with an iPod using the dark windows to finish her makeup. I sit down with my headphones and it clicks—this is it. This is home already, without any effort.
It’s been a long time since I ran across my neighborhood for someone. Just a girl, nothing dramatic. But I sprinted the whole way to the Esso station, past Wilmersdorf Arcades, past the kids trying to look hard, past the Turkish woman who looked genuinely concerned I was about to use her doorway as a launching pad. I got there breathing hard and kissed her. It felt good. And I realized I should do that more often—run without calculating it first, move like something actually matters, even if it’s just the most trivial thing.
The starfish on the shelf—a gift from my ex—suddenly felt ridiculous when she laughed at it. I defended the thing like it mattered. Maybe I was drunk, but pretty sure I wasn’t. There was something about the way she moved through my apartment that made me need to prove a stupid toy was worth something, which tells you everything about where my head was.
After a while the space stopped feeling cramped. We just kind of drifted through the evening without talking much, ended up at the video store because what else do you do. Picking something took forever. Neither of us wanted to make the wrong call. I grabbed something she’d probably seen already, didn’t mention it. Figured saying anything would head us somewhere neither of us was ready for.
Back at the place with Mario Barth on the screen—some German comedian, don’t remember his name now—and then it happened. That look. I’d only caught flashes of it before, but suddenly it was right there, unmissable, aimed at me. A nod. Her hand finding mine. And the movie became background noise.
I kissed her neck. She didn’t pull back but she wasn’t meeting me halfway either, like she was doing math in her head about something. “Don’t kiss me,” she said, but not really to me—more like an instruction to herself. Not on the mouth. So that’s how we worked it. Close as possible without crossing that one line. Hands everywhere. Her breath getting faster. That look whenever I moved closer, like she was testing whether I’d stop or keep going. I kept going.
The movie ended. We switched to something else—Cold Angels or whatever. Didn’t matter. We were against the wall and she was responding to everything, her mind clearly fighting with her body about whether this was something she was allowed to want. That song playing—”Colorblind”—that’s the moment I held onto. The rest was texture and heat and the fact that she kept her mouth from me but gave me the rest.
I don’t know what would’ve happened if I’d pushed. If I’d tried to kiss her anyway. I didn’t. She didn’t come back, or if she did it wasn’t to my place. But that look—the wanting and the hesitation both at the same time—that got stuck in me. Still is.
She knocked and I opened the door. There she was, smiling at me, and I loved that look, that moment. I’d spent hours getting the small apartment ready—so little space, so much to sort through. She came in and took her shoes off, moving through the rooms like she was cataloging everything. The photos, the desk, the shelves. I couldn’t stop watching her move.
We were on the bed when she knocked his plush toy—some talking Patrick I’d gotten from Ana before I left—onto the floor. Face down. I picked him up and said, stupidly proud, “He talks.” I pressed his stomach to prove it but nothing happened. The batteries had gone dead, which was probably for the best since I’d been careful not to press him since moving to Berlin. I set him back down.
We’d rented a movie from the video place next door. The opening was funny enough and she leaned into me slowly. I ran my fingertips across her skin, felt her respond. Halfway through, I stopped caring about what was playing. All I wanted was her breath on my neck, her hands on my back, her voice in my ear.
She was fighting herself. You could see it. She kept pulling back because she was with someone else. No kissing, she wouldn’t let me kiss her—I could read those words on her face. So I found other places. I bit her neck, pressed her into the corner, explored the parts of her she would let me reach. She’d lean in and push away, come close and refuse, and I watched her walls come down one piece at a time. I wanted her. Not just that night. That was the difference. I wanted to be with her while we managed this wildfire we’d started, keep it burning but keep it ours.
I’d been on Windows for years, reinstalling XP every few months just to keep it from falling apart. Mac OS X changed everything—you installed it, and it worked. It stayed good. You stopped having to maintain your operating system.
When Leopard came out in 2007, I was genuinely looking forward to it. Not because there was anything wrong with the current version, but because I actually had reason to believe the next one would be better. That’s rare for software. It’s the feeling of anticipating something that’s probably going to deliver.
I don’t remember all the features now, but I remember that relief of just trusting that it would work.
Sara’s still having fun with this. Most people who start blogging burn out or get bored, but she just keeps going, actually enjoying it. There’s something rare about that — someone who blogs because they like it, not because they’re supposed to be building something or performing for an audience.
Thirty-eight years of concrete and barbed wire, the Cold War made visible. And then November 1989 and it’s just rubble. People dancing on the fragments. I think about how permanence dissolves in hours, how something so absolute could just collapse.
I notice it after a while—how the right song changes the way an apple tastes. Or maybe it’s just that I can’t chew in silence anymore, that rhythm has become as necessary as taste. Something about the tempo makes sweetness sharper, makes texture matter more. It’s a small thing, the kind nobody mentions, but once you catch it you can’t stop noticing it.
Every three months the supermarket reorganizes and it’s like they’re designing it specifically to waste your time. You learn where everything is—milk here, eggs there, the quick-cooking stuff you eat at midnight in a specific aisle—and then they move it all. The eggs go where the drinks were. Drinks end up somewhere that makes no sense. You’re walking in circles for twenty minutes looking for something basic, asking staff who are equally lost, leaving with maybe half of what you came for.
Every shop does this. Clothes stores, shoe places, bookstores—they all operate on the same logic: make shopping as difficult as possible. You find something that actually works, that fits right, and either they don’t have your size or swear it’s completely out of stock. Won’t be back. Ever. You ask if they can check the other location. They tell you they’ll call. You know they won’t. You drive over there anyway because what else are you doing, and it’s sitting right there. Two full boxes of the exact shoe they just said was discontinued and gone. Nobody’s bought them. They’re just taking up space.
I worked retail once. Bad job, no question. But somewhere along the way, people stopped trying to help and started just existing at the register until their shift ended. You ask if they can check something. They already know the answer: no. Ask if it might come in sometime. Not really. Want me to call the other store? No point. The dishonesty is so automatic it almost becomes honest—at least you know exactly what you’re getting, which is a flat no delivered with zero effort.
The real pain is when you actually need something specific. School required this one textbook, thing was scarce, probably wouldn’t get reprinted. First bookstore: doesn’t exist. Second bookstore: found it but out of print. Third bookstore: not in stock. Fourth one finally calls back and can order it, so I go pick it up a few days later and the cover’s been destroyed. Looks like someone ordered it years ago, gave up, and it got stuck in some warehouse. Pages are intact but the whole thing’s beat to hell.
After that I just started ordering from catalogs. No pretense there. You flip through, call some number, give them your information, wait three or four months. Size might be wrong. You might hate it. Doesn’t matter. No lies about checking the back or calling another location—you know it’s a long wait and you’re fine with it.
The seasonality is insane though. Winter coats on sale in September. Sunscreen in March when it’s still cold. By July all the summer stuff’s gone and they’re already hanging fall clothes. Nothing arrives when you actually need it. You have to buy for the wrong season or accept that you’ll want something two weeks after they stopped carrying it.
I don’t fight it anymore. Most of the time I just don’t buy whatever it was. Easier.
This song has always been about the moment when you stop pretending. Not the fight, not the dramatic ending, just the quiet realization that you’ve been living in denial for so long that you don’t even remember when the actual foundation cracked. Radiohead does that better than almost anyone — that exhausted acknowledgment that nothing you built was ever going to hold.
Her bed was soft and smelled good. Disney DVDs on the shelf, a windchime motionless from the ceiling, her boyfriend’s photo on the desk. All of it kept us from kissing, so we read sex scenes to each other instead and laughed stupid hard. Burying what had happened that morning when they separated us into different classes.
The reassignment came out of nowhere. Unfair, pointless, unnecessary. I fought to get her back—met with teachers, made my case, pushed hard enough that new students thought I was class president. Almost won. But the condition was strict: only she could return to my class. Not her best friend. Just her.
She declined.
I understood. Didn’t fight it anymore.
We see each other at every break. Hugs soft or stormy, depending. It feels good to be a lovestruck teenager again, helpless and devoted—turns out the silliest feelings are the ones that make you happiest. Her laugh interrupts my thoughts and I love it.
I disappeared for a while. A virus was going around killing blogs, my friend ended up 850 kilometers away in a hospital, and I coded myself into exhaustion trying to redesign this site. At some point I wanted to throw the whole thing—the code, the browser, all of it—in the trash.
Started simple. New background. New header. Then I heard about CSS3 Grid Layout and decided I needed it immediately, which meant redesigning the entire site. Minimal, clean, Times New Roman aesthetic. Perfect on day one. Nothing on day two. And CSS3 wasn’t even officially out yet, so I was basically building fantasies.
Killed that design and built something else. Spent nights on it. Got it working in Safari, Firefox, Opera. Beautiful. Valid. Then I opened it in Internet Explorer and the whole thing fell apart. Checked the damage, sent Microsoft an angry email, tried to sleep, heard the sirens.
Here’s the new site. I know it doesn’t look like much changed. You’re probably right. This is what web design is—most of the work you do disappears. You stay up all night fighting with code and browsers, and in the end nothing looks different. But it did change. Something did. Anyway. Update your feed. Berlin.
Ko Htike called from Yangon and said it sounded like war. Fifty shots, maybe more. Tear gas in the schools. The military had already killed the internet, so his voice on the phone was the last direct line out of the city I could reach.
I started collecting everything that leaked through - calls from people still there, stories from anyone who made it out, Ko Htike checking in whenever he could. I posted what came in, knowing it wasn’t close to the full picture, but knowing that not documenting it felt complicit somehow. Someone had to try.
The thought was always to lobby China, pressure the UN, as if international pressure mattered to a military junta. It’s a nice story - the world pays attention, things shift. But it wasn’t really how it worked. The junta cut the internet because it worked. Controlling information is the whole game.
What got to me was that people didn’t stop. Ko Htike didn’t stop calling. Others kept moving through the streets even knowing what was waiting for them. That refusal - not of the internet shutdown but of the entire premise that the junta could just silence things - that was the actual story. Bigger than any image or any international response.
Eventually the internet came back on. Photos and videos would surface. The world would have its documentation. But sitting in that black period, all you had was fragments of voice and the knowledge that something massive was happening and almost nobody could see it. You did what you could with the gaps. It wasn’t enough. But you did it anyway.
The first piece I needed to write, it should’ve been brilliant. Instead I kept coming back to the U-Bahn.
It’s not somewhere you’d tell someone to go. You never say “I’m hitting the subway this weekend, it’s incredible.” You definitely don’t have those moments where someone looks you in the eye and the whole world opens. It doesn’t smell good—and by good, I mean I don’t think it’s ever smelled good. It’s just a place where everything shows up.
Millions of tracks, cars, people. And always the same voice: “Stand back from the doors.” We miss them anyway half the time.
The panhandlers are the thing. The guy with the dog, the one with the sign, the one rattling off his pitch. What do you do? Smile? Give him money? Give everyone? Look away and act deaf? They want cash, sure. But some of them also want you to see them, to react to what they just said. Or maybe they don’t want that at all, because repeating the same line in a voice that sounds like it’s been used up—that’s maybe when you especially don’t want eye contact. I’ve never found the right response. Money makes people smile, but I can’t pay everyone. I don’t have enough for myself anyway. And yeah, some people have it worse. One eye, one leg, holding onto a dog because it’s keeping them up. That’s genuinely shitty. But then something flips in you. Your fingers start itching. That thing where you look at something small and pitiful and you just lock up. That’s what the U-Bahn does to me.
One afternoon the car was barely full. Just some guys playing Beatles covers, doing their whole cheerful thing. Then a man gets on from one side, a woman from the other, both heading toward the middle, toward us. Felt like a scene. All these separate faces from separate trips, suddenly in one place. The ticket inspectors came through but got stuck back with the musicians—had to get them to stop playing before they’d show their tickets. So they completely missed the guy standing right in front of me.
He has no idea he’s about to get caught. He just lifts his coat and there it is—something small and scared of the cold—and tucks it back when we hit the next stop. Where his pants were, I’ll never know. They were still somehow on him. I was so thrown that all I could think was: I pulled out my ticket for nothing. The inspectors never made it to me. So what was I even paying for?
I still think about it. I want to know what would’ve happened if they’d reached him. Would he have had a ticket? Is getting caught the whole thing? Next time I’ll ask.
That’s my U-Bahn story for now. Waiting for someone to tell me what your face is supposed to do in these situations. What you’re supposed to look like when the train shows you everything.
They only called me Toki anymore. I kept forgetting my real name, or stopped caring about it—probably both. Nintendo’s snoring was breaking my heart, all night long. I got up to grab some water. The moon had the whole room painted in soft blue.
The water here was actually fine. That was something. In the last six months I’d crashed in a bunch of places. A basement room under a tire factory. Some friend’s kid’s bedroom. The half-finished mansion of some J-pop starlet trying to make it big. But this place was decent. You could see the Tokyo Tower from the window, and I’d stare at it from different corners of the city. Every time I looked at it, I’d feel this warmth, this sense of something protecting me. It chased the dark thoughts away.
“Toki, you okay?” Yumi was lying on the couch watching American soap operas. She did that every night. Sleep meant nothing to her, she said, and I believed it. I nodded and tried not to look at her legs—those long legs crossed over the table—or the way her breast was spilling out of her nightshirt. “Stop staring at my sexy legs or you’ll start thinking about Ana again,” she said, winking. Her eyes went right back to the screen as the commercial ended. I took a drink.
We’d have sex sometimes, Yumi and me. But it wasn’t a big deal. She slept with Nintendo too, when I was at work, and he’d try to make something of it, like I should be impressed. But I knew she liked it better with me. Not that it mattered. Since I’ve been here I’ve had this heartbreak sitting in my chest, eating deeper and deeper. I let it. I used to be happy. She was called Ana. It’s hard to forget someone called Ana. Those three letters are everywhere—every variation you can think of. When you see them, you’re back to zero. Every time. She was my best friend. I was cold.
I pulled on the pink Little Foods t-shirt, the one Nintendo wore to work. I looked ridiculous in it. Nobody cared today. Not even Yumi’s cat, which barely spared me a glance before walking to the food bowl, already screeching that it was empty. I had to go shopping. There were some yen notes on the table.
Heading out, I turned my phone on. I’d brought it from Germany. Couldn’t afford anything newer. One unread text. Nobody from Germany ever texted me. Not Ana. Fuko—my boss at the disco—knew my phone couldn’t display Japanese characters, so he just sent times. When I should come in. That was how it worked.
Some schoolgirls smiled at me. Probably the t-shirt. Summer had peaked. I turned down a side street and said hello to the old guy who ran the 24/7. He’d yell out “Twenty-seven!” every time I came in, laughing like it was the funniest thing he’d ever said—his German was incredible, apparently. I’d smile back like it impressed me every time and wander the aisles. The money barely covered a full bag of groceries. We were always broke. The rent on this place was killing us. I worked at a small disco doing whatever needed doing. Nintendo sold fast food. Nobody knew how Yumi made her money, but we had our ideas. Sometimes.
When I got home, Nintendo was sitting in front of the iBook playing World of Warcraft. He used to be the biggest Super Mario fan—the logo was still tattooed on his right shin—until he got into online games and started selling off his entire video game collection to fund the habit. He still had an old gray Game Boy. Yumi played it sometimes.
“Where’s Yumi?” I called out as I came in and dropped the bag on the couch. “Gone,” he said, not looking up, already talking into his headset about whatever was happening on screen. I had heartbreak. But I’d had it before I came here. I thought I could escape it. By coming here. But you can’t run from something that deep inside you. Everything we’d been through together, it had only made us closer. The little blue notebook she gave me for my birthday—I kept it like it was treasure.
I fed the cat, watched it dive into the bowl like it hadn’t eaten in days. Tokyo was different than I’d imagined it. I thought it would be colorful, exciting, breathtaking. It was colorful and exciting and breathtaking. But different. This endless sadness followed me everywhere. Dancing in arcades, fumbling with bleached-blonde dolled-up girls, having breakfast alone with the cat as my only company.
Late at night, usually on weekends, this thought would creep in that I was missing something back in Germany. Missing what she was doing right then. What gross guys were getting to touch her. What sweet little sounds she was making to someone else. I’d run out of tears for it, but that numb feeling stayed, solid and cold.
The last television show that actually mattered to me was The O.C. Four straight years where a weekly episode made existence bearable. Every time the Phantom Planet theme kicked in, whatever was falling apart would just stop. School was a disaster. I was heartbroken. I was generally lost. For an hour it didn’t matter.
Some moments actually broke me. Marissa’s overdose. New Year’s Eve when Ryan ran through that door at the last second. The Cohens’ house burning down. These fictional moments hit harder than things actually happening around me. Marissa looked like someone I’d loved and lost. Sandy Cohen was the father I never had. Summer was sharp and unguarded. Seth and Ryan felt like two halves of myself split down the middle. When the show was on, Newport was real in a way nothing else was.
Sandy taught me without my noticing. You fight for the people you love. You don’t hesitate when you can actually change something. You stand above the chaos but never become cold about it. Charisma matters. The way you show up is everything.
The show ended. I moved on. But I still think about what it meant to need a television series that badly — to pour yourself into a fictional family because your own world felt incomplete. There’s something real in that, something honest. The final episode aired and I watched like a goodbye to something that had actually kept me alive for a while.
The bouncer in all white didn’t look like he wanted us there. That expression that said very clearly: beat it, kids, before I walk you to the next train. I almost whined it at him: “We’re from Aperto.” The moment those words were out, something shifted. His whole face changed, and suddenly he was waving us past like we actually mattered. I grinned at him.
Everything at Bangalu was white. The curtains, the chairs, the staff. A closed party, the kind you don’t just walk into. Our company was celebrating—we’d gotten the ZDF Mediathek project through, and they wanted to mark it properly. Club music somewhere in the walls, the kind that fills the air without demanding attention. Someone was always pressing a drink into your hand. There was food on tables that I never figured out what it was. Huge fish swimming somewhere up on the walls.
Arabella kept sending me for things. Champagne. Dessert. Meatballs. I didn’t mind—being useful made you feel like you actually belonged there. The people above us gave speeches. There’s something about being in a room where things feel important, where you feel a little important just by being there. My boss talked about yoga. Thomas talked about something from school. I said something about meeting with Scholz & Friends the day before. It was a nice evening. Strange and unreal, but nice.
We took the train home. Arabella was quiet, looking at nothing in particular. She said her internship was ending soon, that we should do something sometime. I said yeah, obviously. As I stepped out of the car, I called back: “Add me on ICQ.” I saw her nod before the doors closed and she was gone. That was a week ago. I haven’t heard from her.
I can’t pinpoint when design became the thing I cared about. It was probably somewhere in those early years with comics, that first moment of realizing someone had deliberately made a choice about every line and color on the page. Growing up, I did what everyone else did—watched TV, idolized firemen, went through the standard childhood. But somewhere in there, that design part stuck.
The Internet came along at exactly the right time. It showed me that design was something people actually did with their lives, that you could spend years thinking about how things looked and worked. Before that, I didn’t have words for what I noticed in comics or album covers or packaging. After that, I understood I wasn’t alone in caring about these things.
Looking back now, I see it was always there—in everything I was drawn to, just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up with what I already knew mattered.
There’s this point on the page that sits all wrong, restless. A line running through it breaks the frame, gets softer as it fades, barely holds itself. They loop around each other on A3 paper — one thing, then nothing, imploding into white space. This is what design school teaches. That placing a dot here instead of there matters in ways you have to feel. That every mark carries weight. That the machines we use to think with are as important to understand as the thinking itself.
You learn the theory. Why colors matter, how the same visual moves people differently, which clients will actually stick with you. You learn to be meticulous and a little strange. But the real education is the people in the room. My classmates are genuinely good to be around — Thomas especially, and Jenny, this quiet person who somehow ends up at the center of all the weird experiments. I’m drawn to people who don’t resist when something unexpected pulls them in.
In a few weeks I’m back at the agency doing the real work. Monday I have to present myself to the whole unit, which makes my chest tight in a way I can’t quite explain. Not sure if I should be nervous or if they should be nervous about me. Outside it’s properly bleak — the kind of weather that makes you want to hide. I still need to shop before the stores close. Small practical urgencies that somehow feel more real than anything else right now.
I went to see it on an ordinary afternoon, not expecting much. There’s something about white-only gardens that seems impossible until you’re standing in one and it’s everywhere—the monochrome doesn’t flatten the space, it opens it up. Each plant becomes architecture. Shadows matter. The whole thing looked deliberate in a way that gardens usually don’t, like someone had edited reality instead of just planting things. I spent an hour watching how the light moved through the blooms, how green became irrelevant, and understood what it meant to strip away decoration and get left with form. It made me rethink the whole idea of constraint—that narrowing the palette isn’t loss, it’s focus.
I always read Hannah’s column first. She had this way of making something stupid feel real, or just saying what everyone was thinking but wouldn’t say. That voice doesn’t come around often.
She’s in Munich now, on to whatever comes next. I’m going to miss that.
I’ve been carrying this t-shirt for years. It’s got your picture on the front. I wear it under other clothes mostly, pulled out when nobody’s watching, which is probably the worst reason to keep something like that. But that’s how things stick around — buried, private, heavier than they should be.
These are the streets I’ve walked too many times. The corner where we fought about nothing. The bar where you showed up with someone else and I didn’t flinch fast enough. The bench where I said everything wrong. You’d say I’m a snob about some things and a complete mess about others, and you’d be right. I hold onto things the way other people hold grudges.
I don’t know what I was trying to prove, wearing your face close to my skin like that. Maybe just that something real happened once. That we got through to each other, at least for a while, and that was worth the weight of keeping it around.
I bolt out of the S-Bahn with t.A.T.u. pounding in my ears—they’re coming back, trust me, at least in my head—and check the clock. Almost nine. I have no idea where the Ernst-Litfass School is. Thomas already called, impatient. I tell him I’ll be late and start running.
Where though? Left, right, down stairs, across a bridge. The beat keeps pace with my panicked thoughts. Does anything here look like a school? There are kids around but they’re too young. I ask a guy at the gas station and get nothing but a blank stare. A woman at the snack stand takes pity: “Go through here, kid.” I run past currywurst and Fanta and see it—this massive brownish-orange building. I’m in the cafeteria at ten past nine. It’s absolute chaos. Nobody cares that I’m late. I fill out some forms and realize it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d shown up at ten.
The class is all media designers. Something about it is unsettling. Pretty girls, show-offs, some punks, regular people, that specific smell. I’m suddenly somewhere in my own past, not that long ago. So many of these faces remind me of old friends, people I used to know. I like it. Thomas is tired and in a bad mood. I’m hoping he’s better by the party tonight. If not I’ll get him drunk. Next Wednesday we’re both invited to Scholz & Friends for a conversation, and I’m curious what that’ll be like.
First week’s done and I still can’t quite get my head around being here. It feels like I could walk to the airport right now and leave—go back to everyone I know, everything I left behind. The strange part is how genuinely possible that feels, like escape is always an option. Eniz told me not to forget where I come from, and she’s right, but it’s hard to hold onto that when you’re suddenly at concerts and galleries and random things you didn’t plan on.
The start has been messier than I expected. Things just happen and you end up in them. There was a massive flea market on my street that came out of nowhere, and I found myself walking through it with some people from work. Same day I caught the Bourne film with Cedric and Rebecca—hadn’t seen the earlier ones, was totally lost, but somehow it still worked. Good film. Though afterward I got this weird paranoid impulse to delete this blog and disappear, change my identity so they couldn’t find me. No idea where that came from.
Laura made some crude joke at one point—one of those things that’s hilarious when you’re there and completely pointless when you try to explain it.
Vocational school starts Monday. Haven’t heard much good about it, but I’m trying to stay open. Really just waiting for the BAB application to come through so I have actual money and can finally find a decent apartment. Old building, good bones, somewhere I can take baths again. I joke sometimes about moving in with Nora Tschirner once we’re engaged, but that’s all it is.
Designed my first banner this week—it’s for Vertrauter Feind on AXN. Weird seeing something you made appear online like that. Weird how it’s permanent and real when everything else about this place still feels temporary, like I could just leave any time.
The thing about Saint-Exupéry’s fox that sticks with you is how brutally practical it is about love. You know the passage—”What does it mean to tame?” “It means to establish ties.” The fox sits in the wheat and explains that the prince isn’t special yet, and neither is the fox. They’re interchangeable with all the others. But if the prince comes back at the same hour every day, the fox will start to feel happy in the afternoon, will listen for his footstep, will know him by the sound of his walk. That’s how you make someone matter.
I think about this whenever I care about something I shouldn’t have time for. A person. A project. A place. The fox is telling the prince that meaning isn’t inherent—it’s made by showing up, by consistency, by the small rituals that say “you are the one I’m waiting for.” The prince has a rose back home that he’s spent time on, water he’s poured over it, cover he’s placed over it at night. To everyone else it’s just a flower. To him it’s the only rose in the world.
The hardest part is the ending. The fox knows that taming means loss—that when the prince leaves, the fox will weep. And it does it anyway. Because that’s the whole thing. You don’t get the gold in the wheat without the weight of what you’ll miss. You don’t get a rose without being responsible for it forever. The fox trades its peace for meaning, and it’s a good deal. Most people never figure that out.
Three days at Aperto and I’m not even trying to hide it anymore—I love it here. I know if someone from the agency reads this they’ll think I’m pathetic, but it’s true. A few months ago I was washing dishes and doing pizza runs. Now I’m sitting in the creative department with my own desk, my own space. My co-apprentice Thomas is solid. Arabella, the intern, is cool. We get free breakfast every day—good breakfast, not some corporate joke. The machines we’re working on right now are already an upgrade from anything I’ve had, and we’re getting even better ones soon.
They keep reminding us that the real thing is coming. Real projects. Real deadlines. The actual chaos of working at an agency. I believe them, and I know it’ll be different once we’re in the thick of it. But right now it’s all setup and potential. Vocational school starts next week. There’s a party at ZDF because the agency built their new site. Everything feels like it’s about to happen. We’re ready for it.
Tomorrow I start making money as a designer. Someone’s actually going to pay me for this, which still feels like a con I’m running on the entire creative industry. But here we are.
There’s PAGE magazine — eight euros, the thick, glossy thing every designer in Germany reads. It’s where the work that matters gets documented. And the dream is simple: someday, your name appears in there. Your project. Your name under something you actually made, taken seriously enough to print.
I have a very clear fantasy of what that article says. Brilliant new Killers website, made the internet actually better, moved to a villa in LA with someone completely out of my league. The version of myself where everything I touch works perfectly and everyone notices. The version where success is as straightforward as it sounds.
But I’m also aware that PAGE doesn’t care about fantasy. They care about real work, and real work is slower and less glamorous and doesn’t come with movie-star girlfriends. And honestly, I’ve stopped caring about half the things I thought mattered — Grimme awards, MySpace, whether Apple dominates anything. If that last one happens, something has broken anyway.
Jenny and I are both starting this tomorrow, and we’ve got this stupid confidence that we’re going to shake something up in this field. We probably won’t. We’ll just make work and hope it doesn’t suck. But that confidence is what gets you through the early part, before you learn what you actually don’t know yet.
For now, it’s enough that someone will pay me to try.
IFA was completely packed. Cedric had brought Rebecca along, and I’d brought whoever I was seeing at the time. The whole scene was this beautiful chaos—gorgeous booth staff, middle-aged guys desperately trying to hand you flyers, Asian businessmen who’d basically mastered this dismissive float through the aisles with their hands held up like shields. But you could at least get close to the new tech. Digital photo frames. 3D TVs. The iPhone.
Gaming was on too. I beat Cedric twice at Wii boxing and tennis, which felt like a real achievement. They were broadcasting the German StarCraft and Warcraft 3 finals, and we caught some of that. The announcers were pretty annoying though—too much nerd energy, not enough humor about what was actually happening.
IFA itself was genuinely fun. Strange people, weird atmosphere. I’m pretty sure I saw Mola Adebski somewhere on his phone. And then at the Intel booth there was this notebook I almost won. Almost. Rebecca beat me to it—or at least she did in her head.
I’d just seen Tegan and Sara and wanted to find something that felt like that—queer, restless, alive. The O.C. was ending in Germany anyway, so I was ready for whatever came next. Someone told me about South of Nowhere.
It starts with Spencer, whose family moves her from Ohio to Los Angeles, and within days she’s close with Ashley, this lesbian girl who doesn’t fit anywhere at her new school. The cheerleaders hate them. The basketball players resent them. There’s real stakes to it in a way The O.C. never bothers with.
The first few episodes have this sharp, restless energy. It doesn’t make Los Angeles look beautiful. Race, sexuality, pregnancy—just woven through, no big moral moments. The writing moves forward like it’s got somewhere to be. Thirty minutes and you’re done.
Gabrielle Christian plays Spencer. She looks like a young Amanda Bynes—there’s something in how she holds her face that makes you believe she’s still figuring out who she is. I found myself just watching her.
I wanted German television to air it. There’s something satisfying about finding a show that actually works, that found its audience and refused to apologize for what it is.
Just became an official Berlin resident. Only took a full afternoon at city hall with the strangest collection of humans I’ve ever laid eyes on—though I guess they roam around outside just fine anyway. But I’m warming to this place more every day. I don’t understand why anyone complains about city living. You step outside and there’s Hugendubel for magazines, Karstadt for Puma sneakers, Lidl for microwaveable junk. Okay, technically you could get all that back home. But something about it feels cooler here.
Turns out there’s a massive Gravis two stops down the U-Bahn line. Used to have to drive out to Munich to see any Mac besides my tiny mini actually sitting in front of me. But I noticed something between Munich and Berlin that’s genuinely interesting: the trendy people here wear their iPod headphones with the cord hanging out. Fully visible, threaded through your clothes. In Munich, all you’d see were those white earbuds, barely peeking out. I caught the habit, naturally. Now I do it too. Gets tangled on doorways sometimes, but I’ve made peace with that.
I buy the same three things every week. Wrigley’s from Rossmann, coffee from Lidl, fruit wherever they have decent ones. Nothing special about any of it. I just know what I’m getting—no debate, no thinking. I walk in, grab what I came for, done.
There’s something good about that repetition. Same gum, same coffee, same fruit. After a while it stops feeling like shopping and just becomes normal. The routine is the comfort.
Julia Hummer’s still got me. Berlin entertainer, naturally charming, the kind of person you want to know. But then she shows up in a GEZ campaign—promoting Germany’s public broadcast fee—and it’s just… why? That’s the kind of gig that makes people stop caring.
Still like her, though. Just wish she’d remember she’s better than this.
I love riding the U-Bahn. Nowhere else do so many people look so serious at once—reading, staring, making out, fooling around. You could sort them by type. File them away.
Book readers grip something thick enough to hold onto and avoid eye contact. They slouch, feet turned in, shoulders forward, hair tied back tight, shy, never dressed for attention. Newspaper readers pull out the paper at the start of the ride, lips moving along. Button-ups, slacks, fine leather shoes—or on women, that office thing. But they’re faking it. When the U-Bahn lady announces the next stop, they ball up the paper and wedge it between seat and window. Gone.
Cool guys in baggy jeans, bling everywhere, earbuds in, doing the tactical head-nod to the beat. Eyes fixed on the window, somewhere else. Women stand chewing gum, and if you stare too long they stare back, squint, and battle you with their gaze until one of you gets off.
The gossip women are dangerous—you’ll miss your stop if they pull you in, meanwhile their tiny dog is slobbering at you and you’ve completely lost where you are. I won’t explain all the types. I just noticed how many people find the whole thing uncomfortable.
Simon and I got off at Marienplatz. He had a mission and I trailed behind in a purple scarf from some incense-and-bong shop, still smelling like smoke. Then I saw it in Mango. A leather jacket. Not just a jacket—the jacket. I tried it on and looked in the mirror. Fit was perfect. Looked right. Felt right. You know that moment when a piece of clothing clicks, when you put it on and suddenly you’re someone you want to be. Not vanity, just rightness. I bought it.
After that I was gone. Shoes, jeans, a large purple leather bag—I had to walk back in three times before committing to that bag. Simon was satisfied, I was satisfied, about 350 euros lighter. We were fading so we found food.
A sushi place. Ten ninety for an hour of all-you-can-eat from the conveyor belt. The plates stacked up. Tower after tower. From our table we could see straight out onto the shopping street, and there they all were again—the same U-Bahn people, same movements, different context. The sushi moving and the crowds moving outside, one system feeding the other. Shakespeare got it wrong. It’s not “all the world’s a stage.” It’s that the whole world is a conveyor belt, and everyone on it is just sushi.
An hour later Simon and I were stupidly full, bloated like the overstuffed U-Bahn people we’d become, dragging ourselves back to the apartment. Pizza in front of the TV. That was the day.
I spent a lot of time on SuicideGirls in those early years. Founded in 2001 by Missy, the site managed this impossible thing—held together sex and art and genuine alternative thinking without feeling like a contradiction. You could lose hours there. The models were intelligent, tattooed, in actual bands. The photographers weren’t just shooting nudity; they were artists. The whole place felt like you’d found something that wasn’t supposed to exist yet somehow did.
Then it got big. Radio shows. Television. Books. The moment alternative culture becomes profitable, it stops being alternative. That’s just how it works. But the real damage wasn’t the mainstream success—it was what they did once they had power.
There was a photographer named Philip Warner who worked as Lithium Picnic. He shot for SuicideGirls, and when he started building his own reputation and taking other clients, they sued him. $100,000. His crime was photographing a model named Apnea for her independent site. He had to shut everything down. Sold his equipment. Now he survives on donations. It was cruel and pointless and it revealed exactly who these people were.
More stories followed. A female photographer sued over contracts that barely qualified as legal. Their photos were being sold to porn sites without consent. A model in 2003 came forward claiming management repeatedly pressured her to undress beyond what was agreed. Each story worse than the last.
What got to me was how litigious they became. Once Missy had money and power, every response was legal threats. Suing former collaborators. Suing models trying to leave. Suing photographers documenting what was happening. The entire apparatus of corporate control got deployed to defend a brand that was only cool because it didn’t care about being respectable.
The models themselves were real people. The community that formed was genuine. But the people at the center chose lawyers over any principle that might have made them worth defending. I look at SuicideGirls now and I don’t recognize it. There’s the memory of what it was, which I’m fond of. And then there’s knowing what people were willing to do once money arrived. That’s hard to reconcile.
Berlin is the best place in the world to waste your life. I read that in some guide once—maybe Vice—and it stuck. The city’s one long drunk parade of immigrants and lazy bastards and dogs that never stop shitting. Everyone here is either pretending to study or actually just giving up, and there’s no real distinction. The only people wearing suits are homeless men, and even they’re doing it ironically.
It’s the one German city where being lazy isn’t a failure—it’s what people do. Germans come here specifically to not work, to sit in bars at three in the afternoon and pretend that’s a personality. The whole place runs on the principle that you don’t have to have your life figured out. You can be 32 and living like you’re 23. No job, no plan, it somehow works.
I’m not sure if that’s sustainable or good, but it’s honest. You walk around and see people who decided to stop trying and just exist. Not in some enlightened way—actually exist. Drink coffee, walk dogs, sit, show up late. The absence of ambition becomes its own kind of presence.
The thing that got me was the guide framing it as actual advice. Don’t wear a suit. Be broke. Have a dog. As if that’s what the city sells. Maybe it does.
Becca drove back home this afternoon and I had this massive headache, thought my ears were actually going to explode on the subway. Should probably see a doctor about it. Will do once the aspirin wears off. It was a good week with her, and now that she’s gone, it’s eerily quiet again, that almost haunted feeling.
We did a lot though. Went to this lesbian bar, met Cedric’s girlfriend who turned out to be delightful and definitely not shy about anything. Wandered through KaDeWe staring at foods I’d never even seen before, couldn’t identify half of what was there. The kind of hyperspecific luxury food you only see in a place like that.
Becca came to town. That’s how it starts — my ex-girlfriend rolls back in and suddenly we’re acting like we never stopped. Before the Tegan and Sara show at Columbia Club we’re on the U-Bahn already buzzed on Lambrusco and whatever that weird Beck’s Green Lemon beer was, the kind of stupid pre-game drinking where you can’t believe you’re both laughing this hard at nothing.
The concert itself is a blur now, which tells you something about the state I was in. Smoke-free venue, which meant nothing except the smell of beer and sweat and perfume and something vaguely like a döner stand. The crowd was exactly what you’d expect — some genuine chaos in terms of who was who, couples pressed against each other like they were the only two people there, lipstick smeared, the Quinn twins up there doing their thing with guitars, and that moment when Sara said thank you and it was somehow the sweetest fucking thing you’d ever heard. Red stage lights. A lot of very big cups of terrible beer.
The next morning I deserved the head I had. Seriously deserved it. Which is why Marten and Nicki found out I wasn’t making our thing — and I feel bad about that, genuinely, because I’d been looking forward to seeing them. But Berlin’s not going anywhere. Next time will be better. It always is.
When you’re moving to a new city and furnishing an apartment alone, Ikea becomes this special kind of hell. You go in with a list, you follow the arrows on the floor, and for a while it makes sense. Then suddenly you’re lost in a warehouse you’ve walked a hundred times before, and nothing is where you wrote it down, and you’re staring at an empty shelf or the wrong color or some entirely different piece of furniture. Maybe this is easy for everyone else. Maybe I’m just built wrong for Ikea. Either way, leaving the store I felt like I’d failed some basic test of adulting.
But it wasn’t really about furniture. It was the overwhelming fact of moving, the undercurrent of sensory overload that doesn’t stop. New city, new apartment, new room that’s technically yours but feels borrowed. Unpack the boxes and the scale of what’s unfamiliar just hits you. Everything requires negotiation with yourself.
The room turned out okay though. White walls, some red accents, and this couch-bed situation that became the first thing I actually liked instead of just tolerated. That mattered—having one piece of the space that felt right. Gesine and Clara moved in with me. Finding roommates should be simple and it wasn’t. Ten people came by that Thursday, each one perfectly pleasant, and I liked most of them immediately. Which meant the rejections hurt more. You call and say it didn’t work out and you mean it, but it still sits wrong. Gesine and Clara just fit something though, some frequency I can’t name. It’ll be fine.
Unpacking makes you ask questions you weren’t asking before. What am I actually looking for? Who do I want to become? Will I meet anyone who makes sense? You don’t have answers but the questions stick around anyway.
One-night stands kept coming up in conversation. Everyone I talked to had tried them and hated them, wouldn’t do it again, found them meaningless. But people keep doing it. I asked why and got vague reasons—curiosity, momentum, being young and bored. No one had a story about it being transcendent or even particularly good. I’m not interested in it. I understand the appeal for other people, and that’s fine, but it doesn’t pull at me. What actually interests me is the other version—where there’s something already there, where the person matters before anything happens, where time and knowing makes it different. That takes patience. That requires showing up as yourself first. I’m probably old-fashioned about it. But when something actually happens, if it does, I want it to be with someone I know, not a stranger I’ll never see again.
The park is right outside the apartment. School starts soon and I’ll meet people beyond the apartment-hunting filter. Munich is still half-foreign, still requires you to figure out how to move through it. I’m not in a hurry. The uncertainty is annoying but it’s also what keeps you open. You can’t have rigid expectations when you’re too overwhelmed to form them.
Tarantino’s got his fixations. Pretty feet. Women with a specific kind of beauty. Bodies arranged just so. And conversations that keep circling back to fucking with no narrative reason, just the impulse leaking out. Death Proof is two hours of girls talking about sex and chasms and sugar-free Red Bull. Without his name on it, I would have walked out asking for my money back.
The plot doesn’t exist. It’s just average women having the kind of conversations that go nowhere, and that emptiness should kill the whole thing. But he’s put it together so deliberately that the thinness becomes the point. The music is right, the style is locked in, there are editing smash cuts and continuity errors that read as intentional. The cars feel right. Everything is shameless and shameless works.
His films become cult before anyone sees them. Death Proof is the proof—a movie that would be nothing on its own becomes something just because of how he’s arranged it, because he’s so openly lusting after what’s on screen, because he can make style and bad taste feel necessary.
Still waiting on Kill Bill 3. But the promise is getting old.
I’m sitting in my new life now. Sun outside, kids trying to do cat sounds, Tom Cruise filming downtown. We got here Thursday morning, and the second I opened the door to my tiny dorm room, I wanted to leave immediately. But every hour here makes it clearer: Berlin is better. Just is.
I’m in Charlottenburg with a U-Bahn station a block away and a cheap Greek place on the corner. My room is the size of a closet. Internet barely connects, the television doesn’t work, and you can hear your neighbor’s cough through the wall. But I like it here.
Last night Cedric and Pia took me out. We ended up at a club where Bushido was performing, walked past some sex workers, and I couldn’t look away from any of it. But the moment that stuck was the cheesecake. Warm, with whipped cream and strawberry syrup, at three in the morning in a sixties diner. Cedric and Pia called it out immediately as the obvious stoner meal and started telling me disturbing stories about cannibals and ritual cat killings, but that moment—the plate warm, the cream cold, the syrup still moving—that was the real thing. The other one was five in the morning on an empty U-Bahn, just weird people shuffling in and out. I kept my iPod in my pocket that ride.
I’m comfortable here already. Every corner has something. Strange people, pretty women, I’m learning the U-Bahn routes. I’ll take today easy. Monday I need salt, pepper, a poster. Should register as an official Berlin resident. But if the television reception kills something I actually want to watch, that’s when I’ll know it’s gone too far.
I’d been avoiding it for weeks, the simple fact of me leaving. I didn’t think about it directly, didn’t let myself picture it. Not until yesterday morning. I opened my eyes—not even eight o’clock yet—and suddenly felt it, this brush of the future in my chest. The boxes were still there, on the floor. My life packed into cardboard. That’s when it got real.
The sun was too bright or my eyes weren’t adjusted. I could only see the outline of Ana’s mouth. She wouldn’t really understand for another few weeks that I was actually gone. She’d cry on the train home, probably. Before I left, she gave me this small Patrick Star toy that talks when you press a button—says something about being best friends. I remember the lake, that constant splashing, and holding her wet body against mine for the last time, kissing her on the cheek. I knew I wouldn’t hold her like that again.
There were messages. Lisa wrote: “I read your blog. I almost cried. Your thoughts are beautiful.” People were paying attention, it turned out. At three in the morning, Becca and Eniz were on the floor across from me. We’d already put the Skip-Bo cards away. They’d stayed with me until the moment I had to leave. The last people I hugged in Buchloe before getting in the car.
Eniz left a note: “We all know and believe in you. Don’t forget us. You are and will remain our brother.” The kind of thing that hits you differently when you’re about to drive away and maybe never live in this town again.
I was too tired to panic when I got in the car. The exhaustion helped somehow—made it feel less immediate, like I could just move through it without the full weight of it landing. Becca texted: “It’s raining here. Buchloe is sad you’re leaving now.”
It’s three in the morning Thursday and I’m leaving Buchloe. Most of the packing is done—CDs, DVDs, books, clothes. I’m not taking much since the student housing in Berlin comes furnished. I’ve been trying to make a list of everything I need to buy once I’m there. Brush, salt shaker, pens. A microwave, which I’ve never owned. That alone feels surreal.
Becca. These past years, you were the one I counted on most, even when you were fighting battles inside yourself I could only guess at. I love you and it was an honor rebelling against the narrow walls they wanted to keep us behind. I’ll miss lying in bed with you while the world moved outside, but we already know how this works—we’ll cook, we’ll whine about our lives on the phone, we’ll do indecent things on camera. When the time comes we’ll finally settle on that island in the South Pacific, just the two of us and the monkey butler.
Ana is different. You’ve been this constant tearing at me—loving you and needing to let you go, but not wanting to lose the best friend you became for a while. Looking back from the lake last summer, those beautiful nights, all the way to this summer when I just couldn’t do it anymore… I’ve basically destroyed everything. But I understand why now. Because with you I was finally just myself. And you were just you. The thing is, I couldn’t handle how your sweetness wrecked me, the way you live like you’re not afraid of dying, the passion you bring to small stupid things. I failed you.
You said love is like fire—you can’t get close without burning, but you keep reaching anyway. That’s exactly how it feels around you. Like a stupid moth throwing myself against a light until I shatter. That’s one reason I have to leave.
I admire you, Ana. Nobody gets inside my head the way you do. I spent so much time wanting to tell you what you mean to me, how you changed me. But whenever I tried it came out as pathetic sentimental garbage, nothing like what I actually felt. All I wanted was to be something special to you. You’re already extraordinary. I hope you get whatever comes next. You’ll figure it out.
Buchloe, I’ve got a love-hate thing with plenty of places, and you’re at the top. I’ll miss knowing you like the inside of my pocket. The Alpenstraßenberg where Ali got his face destroyed so completely he could kiss his own feet. The Zugspitz playground where Eniz and I spent years just sitting around. That development in the west where I had to sprint just to fuck some blonde with big tits. The gravel pit we’d jump off in summer, the bar where the crew threw parties constantly, and the endless station street I’d trudge at dawn after we’d been playing Phantasy Star Online all night.
The rest of you chaotic bastards—I’ll miss you too, even though you put up with me when I was clearly losing it. Even though one moment I wanted to throw my arms around all of you and the next I wanted you out the door. Even though I’d ignore my phone for days when I was feeling like shit. Or maybe I’ll miss you because you hated me. Because I walk around like a fairy and you decided that mattered. Because you’re with one of my exes who still wants me on the side. Because I called you a fat slob and meant it. Whatever happened between us, I wouldn’t be who I am without you.
I need stuff for Berlin. Brushes, spoons, pens—basically everything. Having my own microwave for the first time feels insane. The capital should get ready. It’s time. Even my aunt thinks so.
Summernight was a project I could never get right. I built it—this WordPress theme—and it became this unfinished thing I kept picking at. Not in the good way where you’re refining something. In the way where you’re just making it worse, adding complexity when it needed subtraction, and eventually you get so sick of looking at it that you have to walk away.
For years I just left it there, buried deep enough that I didn’t have to think about it anymore.
Recently though, something shifted. I started thinking about all the half-completed work scattered around, all the abandoned projects, and it felt cowardly to just let them disappear. So I’m putting Summernight out there. Not because it’s good. But because it exists, and maybe someone will find something useful in how broken it is.
The honest truth: it’s raw. There are no design files, no PSDs. I coded it directly into existence, made decisions I regret, left the mistakes in place. If you’re comfortable digging into WordPress code and installing the plugins it needs—PageBar, Readers_Post, Get Custom Field Values—and actually understanding what’s happening under the hood, maybe you’ll get something out of it. If you’re not, don’t bother.
I’m not going to pretend I’m proud of it now, or that releasing it means I’ve finally made peace with it. But there’s something honest about putting out work that didn’t work, that’s still not working, and just admitting that. Better than letting it rot.
Le Gary vanished without explanation and came back with the most dubious story. Kidnapped, he claimed, by two Brazilian law students. Two weeks in captivity with Paula and Sara—their relationship drama, nacho recipes, endless gossip about some Brazilian soap opera. He said he nearly threw up. But being a gentleman, he kept quiet and eventually escaped one night hidden in a transvestite’s purse at the club.
Despite his supposedly enormous handicap—being held by two hot twenty-somethings, I guess—the bastard came back with actual news from Rio. He’s obsessed with the new iMac, saw it at Steve Jobs’ barbecue weeks before anyone else. Naturally he pocketed the keyboard. Lost it somewhere on the way. Or traded it for coke. Who knows.
I’ve been into Berlin’s fashion scene lately, those obsessive people you can sort by neighborhood. There’s this open-source film project floating around about love, friendship, and bullshit. Worth watching. The design magazines keep doing their trend forecasting—in, out, stays. Don’t trust it, but it’s decent for ideas.
Le Gary’s heading to Tokyo today. Hope he doesn’t get caught again by possessive girls trying to use him as a massage toy. But he always turns up. Last thing he said was “Thanks for the honey, bitchy bunny,” or maybe it was “money.” Can’t tell if I’m mishearing him or he just speaks in code.
A postcard on my plate at breakfast—sand in the corners, bent from the journey. One of those coast shots with a few sentences on the back. Weather’s great. Beach is beautiful. Food’s fine. The usual postcard script.
Why do we do this? Why does it feel mandatory the second you’re on vacation? People find out you’re away and suddenly you owe them a card. Mom, Dad, neighbors watching the plants, the aunt, coworkers who knew about your trip. You keep a mental list.
The math is bad. Fifteen cards at maybe seventy-five cents each, stamps another fifty-five cents times fifteen. That’s twenty bucks. Not catastrophic, but enough for a real dinner, a bottle of wine, something you’d actually want. Instead it goes to cardboard that nobody will look at twice.
And the process is ridiculous. First or last day of vacation, you’re hunting postcards like they matter. You flip through the racks—sunset shots, landmarks, generic beach scenes, nothing that captures anything real. You pick a few, recalculate who needs what, find a pen that works. The sun’s brutal. You’re already sitting in the sand wondering if you forgot someone, if the ink will survive your sweat.
Then you write the same thing seventeen times. Weather’s good. Water’s nice. Having a great time. Pure bullshit, but nobody writes the truth. The hotel was mediocre, the water was cold, everything’s crowded and expensive. So you send the lie instead. By card number ten you can’t remember who you already told about the sunset.
The cards arrive destroyed. Sand in every fold. Water stains from the beach bag. Your handwriting smudged and faded. They get put on a shelf for a week and then thrown away. Nobody keeps postcards. They’re just cards.
And yet getting actual mail still feels like something—something that isn’t a bill or spam. A postcard means someone thought of you somewhere else. The fact that it’s a lie, that it arrives falling apart, that it costs money and effort—somehow that doesn’t matter. The gesture registers even if the card doesn’t last.
Don’t know why I keep doing it. But probably will next time anyway.
She’s not even my type. That’s the lie I tell myself when I think about writing something about this girl who takes my breath, scrambles my brain, drives me half insane. I could write a novel about Ana. Thousands of poems. Millions of words. Every one of them bleeding out from somewhere deep. But it would be garbage. Pure self-deception. Because she doesn’t love me back. And even though I know that—maybe because I know that—I want every second I can get near her. I’m an idiot.
We were a lot of things. Secret lovers. Friends. A couple. Both of us lying about being over it. One week together again and we can’t stand to be apart. Driving across Bavaria. Late-night Monkey Island 4. Tangled up on the couch in front of the TV. Just like it was. Which is the whole problem.
I’m an idiot for doing this again. For never being able to hold a grudge against her. For the way I die a little when she mentions some guy. For how she has no idea she’s the only one who can actually hurt me. And she does. Just not on purpose. That would be easier.
I hate myself for being this weak. For never saying a word when she’s in the room. For not being able to let her go. Even though she’s not my type—I keep lying about that. The blonde hair on her neck. The little red marks on her cheeks. The way her breasts look. I would’ve given anything to be closer. Always closer. But the closer I got, the more her scent wrapped around me, the more I died inside. I knew it the whole time. Didn’t stop. Nothing else mattered.
Love can be good. This was just destruction. I’m moving to Berlin trying to leave all of this behind. Trying to be clean of it. I wanted to have my head straight before I left. It didn’t work. I won’t write about her. Won’t waste another word on this thing I didn’t even fight. Can’t stand to listen to myself complain about it.
I should write something tough now. Something like: “Fuck her, get drunk, get laid, let something break.” Or: “I’m young and horny and I’m alive—hide your daughters.” Or just: “Where’s the bar, let’s get absolutely wasted with the boys.” But that makes the doctor happy, or some girl’s father, or my friends. Not me. Even though I want it to. I’m just a romantic. When it matters. But who cares. She’s not my type anyway. That girl.
Horse and giraffe masks. My New Zoo spray-painting their name on a white sheet at some small festival in Biessenhofen. I’d never heard of them before, and for a moment I thought, what is this going to be. Then they started and I got it.
Danny B on vocals, Robert on guitar, Wolfram on drums, Christian on bass. Four guys sounding like Keith Richards beating Paul McCartney to the rhythm of “Roxanne” while the Kinks watch. That’s how they described their sound, and it’s actually accurate. They tore through “Mr Officer,” “Sometimes,” “Aida”—playing at full throttle for maybe thirty people in the crowd. Most bands wouldn’t bother. These guys did.
The Make My Day Festival itself was fine. Small, not crowded, the kind of event where you can wander around and not feel like you’re missing anything. Decent food, eco-clothing stands, two stages, a bonfire. I came for the evening light and whatever was happening on stage.
I got caught dancing badly and the singer called me out on it. Danny. Instead of letting it die he just started talking, and we ended up watching the rest of the festival together. He had one of those laughs that makes you want to laugh back. His voice live was strong and warm, the kind of voice that carries.
Fools Garden played later. “Lemon Tree” and the entire crowd rushed forward like that was the only song worth their time. I understand—it’s a song people hold onto. But there’s something depressing about being defined by one track. All those other songs, all that effort, and you’re still just the one-hit-wonder band playing at a local festival. I’d hate that.
The fireworks happened during their set. The kind of thing everyone wants to share with someone, and I was standing alone watching the sky light up. Not because I was miserable, but because those moments make the solitude obvious. Beautiful thing, no one to feel it with. It passes. You move on. That’s how it goes.
Gary was supposed to be in Munich Monday. He wasn’t—somewhere in Rio by then, or maybe he wasn’t anywhere at all. Either way, Ana and I had the next couple days to ourselves. We spent them at Hugendubel bookstore, basically just sitting there for hours.
She was digging through nutrition and psychology books. I grabbed whatever looked interesting from everywhere—fiction, essays, design, whatever was there.
The first one I picked up was also the only one I actually bought. Paul Arden’s “It’s not about who you are, but who you want to be.” He’s this former advertising genius, and the title is exactly the kind of self-help garbage that made me embarrassed at the register, standing between the guy with the coffee table Amazon book and the Karl the Great fanatic, holding this thing. But he’s genuinely good. He didn’t tell me anything new, but he said the things you need to remember if you work creatively. Things like “Find your inspiration in unusual places” and “Change your tools—it might free up your thinking.” My favorite: “Anyone who insists they’re right is stuck in the past, stubborn, boring, self-satisfied. Don’t waste time with those people.” And: “If you never make mistakes, you’re probably not doing much.” Worth it for that alone. I love this guy.
I shift my position—my back was already killing me—and pull the next book. “Look at This City: New Stories from Barbaric Berlin.” Perfect, Berlin stories. I’m flipping through and completely let down. The stories I expected—daily life, regular stuff from the capital—are just one complaint after another. One guy’s afraid of cyclists. Another’s afraid of kids. The next one’s afraid of a beggar. I put it down before I start thinking every Berliner except Bushido is a coward.
Maybe the mythology book will land better. “Popular Myths About Berlin.” But I’m not in the references deep enough. Don’t know who Bolle is, don’t know the other local names. The stuff about the hidden U-Bahn stations was interesting though. And the whole history of the curfew wars between East and West.
Day two. I’m on my side now. Ana’s deep in a book about why modern food is making people sick. I’m back in my pile—books about why the next economic collapse is coming, why the 68ers are still sexually frustrated, how to fix a stupid ice cream commercial. Information I didn’t need, but you never know. The book about the art of ruthless manipulation I’m saving for another time. Or I’ll just chicken out and never go near the erotica section next to the café. Who knows.
Arden has this line I should probably tattoo somewhere so I don’t forget it, even though I already know it: “If you can’t solve a problem, it’s because you’re following the rules.”
I needed out of the house, period, or someone was going to get hurt. So there I was Friday night at a stranger’s birthday party somewhere in the sticks, and it should’ve been perfect. Good music, attractive people, free alcohol all night. But somewhere between the drinking and laughing I felt it coming. The fear. Berlin. The move. The leaving.
Not sudden. It crept in quiet and slow, the way those things do. The terror of disappearing. Not of dying—death itself doesn’t scare me. It’s the part after, the finality of not being able to play anymore. That frozen moment where you’re locked out. And leaving here, in some way, starts that freeze. Everything I have, everyone who knows me, it ends.
I hate it when I have too much time to think. The old ghosts leak in, sadnesses I thought I was done with, and suddenly you’re missing things you should be over. My iTunes didn’t have enough genuinely sad songs to disappear into. Only two things cut through: the Simpsons movie, which kept the dark out for a couple hours, and a postcard from Nicki up in Rügen. Sweet that she thought of me. And whatever she’s planning—freeing the girls, bringing some life back—I hope that bleeds into me a little. Especially on Sundays. That’s when it hits hardest. Sundays are the day I’m weakest against it.
Freddi wanted to check out my dashboard setup. Good idea, I thought. Then I open it up showing him all these perfect little widgets I’ve collected, and Larry shows up—Gary’s friend, the one who’s always hanging around. Grabs the dashboard icon and bites it before I can even screenshot the thing. Just like that. My Flappie widget, the daily Buddhist wisdom, the little green-eating reminders. All of it, gone.
This happens to me every few months like clockwork. Suddenly I’m convinced that a weather widget is better than looking out the window, that I need an animated clock instead of just glancing up, that my life genuinely requires a blue Wikipedia widget so I don’t have to type “wiki” into Google. I’ll use it for maybe a day, feeling smart about the whole setup, and then reality sets in. I never actually touch F12 anymore. My Mac mini’s getting slower. Every Flash site makes me feel sick. By the second day the thing’s off and I’m pretending it was never there.
I’m not really a dashboard person. Some people upgraded to Tiger just for that. Not me. Flappie stays dead. Maybe Nicki, Nicole, or Wichi can convince me otherwise. I’m not holding my breath.
Found the first t.A.T.u. album while clearing my apartment. Just grabbed it on impulse and loaded it into iTunes, and the opening track opened a door back to somewhere I’d completely forgotten. My early twenties, my Discman, that whole era collapsing in on itself like a badly folded shirt.
There was someone I was dating then, Kazakh, and a whole friend group that basically revolved around t.A.T.u., which sounds ridiculous now but felt like everything at the time. “200 Km/H in the Wrong Lane” was everywhere in my life. I could argue about the band like anyone else can, but there’s no getting around what they meant to me then. I watched Julia and Lena completely tank at Eurovision—actually painful to watch—and I still cared enough to buy the DVD mostly for the behind-the-scenes footage. When “Dangerous and Moving” came out, I remember feeling something like pride, like I’d made the right choice believing in them.
They were my favorite band in that way you have favorites when you’re young and everything feels permanent, weighty. I had the “Fuck War” t-shirt, same as theirs. Wore it like it meant something, like owning the same piece of fabric connected me to them somehow, made me part of something larger. Insufferable about it, completely.
Still have a soft spot for t.A.T.u. somewhere, wedged between all the indie rock and alternative I’ve accumulated, but the album sounds different when I play it now. It doesn’t carry the same weight. Hearing it again just reminds me I used to be capable of caring that much about anything, and I miss that version of myself.
I’ve got a lot of clothes. Not enough to be a problem in theory, but enough that getting dressed every morning involves this moment of paralysis where nothing feels right. Too many black shirts. Too many jeans in shades I don’t really distinguish between. Five pairs of shoes in colors that are basically the same. The rest are optimistic purchases — pieces I thought I’d wear, bought with some intention I can no longer remember.
The thing that happens is you stop wearing most of it. You find three things that fit and feel right and you wear those to death. Softening them, making them part of your actual life. Everything else just waits. Hangs there. I have clothes I genuinely like that I’ve never actually worn. It’s like having inventory you never touch.
A couple months back I was getting ready for something that felt like it needed an actual outfit. I pulled down a shirt I’d bought a while back. Good color, decent construction, the kind of piece that reads as intentional. I put it on and looked in the mirror and immediately felt wrong. Not because it was bad — because it announced itself. It said I had gotten dressed. It felt like performance.
I changed back into the jeans and the black shirt that’s practically a uniform by now. Same jacket. Something in me settled when I was back in the default. There’s something honest about it. You stop being aware of what you’re wearing and just exist in it.
The closet’s still overstuffed. One of these days I’ll deal with it, probably give things away or something. But right now I wear the same things and the rest just accumulates, waiting for someone to want them.
I finally found a place in Berlin. A student dorm apartment in Charlottenburg, Suarezstraße—bathroom, kitchen, my own space, free wifi. These small things matter more than they should. I’m moving in mid-August. The plan is to spend a few months there and then actually hunt for something permanent in the eastern part of the city, one of those old buildings that’s been properly restored. No more crashing with Cedric, though I owe him. A lot.
The appeal of student housing is something I’ve never been able to fully explain to myself. I’ve always been drawn to it. There’s a particular atmosphere in those places—late nights, people moving through hallways, a kind of communal energy that emerges if you have the right crowd. More often it’s just depressing, honestly. But when it works, it works. The strange part is I’ve always wanted to experience it without actually being a student, without the tuition and the pretense. So here I am, living that specific contradiction.
Moving to Berlin in August. There’s something appealing about showing up to a new place with no real expectations, just seeing what happens. Maybe the dorm life will actually be as good as I’ve imagined. Maybe I’ll hate it and move to East Berlin and that’ll be that. I doubt it though. You can usually tell pretty quick if something’s going to work out or not.
There’s a particular feeling to finding a scene you didn’t know existed—basement venues, underground clubs, places that don’t advertise, where you learn about the next gig from someone who overheard someone else talking. I spent a night in New York chasing that feeling, moving between rooms that smelled like stale beer and cigarette smoke and the specific electricity of people who actually cared about the music playing. The artists were mostly names I’d never heard, recommendations passed person to person, music existing in those spaces rather than on playlists or streaming services. Each room led to the next, each set to another set, and suddenly you’re three hours deep in something you didn’t plan.
The weird part of nights like that is how little survives the morning. I left with a list of artists and venues and names of people who knew where the next thing was happening, but those specifics go stale fast. You can find the music, sure, but you won’t find that exact room at that exact hour with that exact configuration of people and sound. Those nights exist only in the moment, which is probably the whole appeal—they don’t survive inspection or explanation, so there’s nothing to do but be there when it’s happening.
I deleted my name last night. Not officially—bureaucracy can wait—but I gave myself an actual pseudonym instead of pretending the birth name means something. Mar Ci. Mar is the patient one, the wise one, the part that actually finishes things. Ci is the saboteur, the self-destructor, the party animal who’s also lazy, the version that burns shit down just to feel something.
I’ve always known these two are in there fighting. I just spent years pretending they weren’t, performing like some unified person with a consistent trajectory and stable values. Naming them separately makes the lie too obvious to maintain, which is either honest or pathological. Probably both.
The logical next step is moving to Asia. I say it joking but I’m not entirely sure I’m joking.
Blond talks about turning Berlin into a village, which is a weird way to describe a city of nearly four million. Twenty-two years in Pankow, she’s lived the slow version of Berlin, and now that she’s moved to Friedrichshain and actually exploring the Mitte, everything feels new. She’s got opinions about people who let music channels think for them—no sympathy there. You have to actually know what you like.
There’s something true in how she describes herself: talkative but antisocial, someone who prefers staying home even though it contradicts everything people assume about her. During her hermit phases she doesn’t answer calls, postpones everything. But then the moment she says she never goes out, a party phase starts like clockwork. Everything flips.
She tries to look melancholic in public and fails immediately—people just talk to her. She’s been in Berlin long enough to know that whatever you claim about yourself will probably reverse, and there’s something almost comforting in that. No use fighting it. In a city that constantly contradicts you, where your stated self keeps turning into its opposite, she found a soulmate. Someone who gets the instability and doesn’t flinch.
Six in the morning. The alarm killed whatever I was dreaming about. Up to walk Amy, the dog, because it had to be done. I hate early mornings—there’s something specifically evil about them. Threw on a tracksuit still half asleep and drove to the woods. Already hot. Already bright. Munich summer was starting.
By six-forty I was back home, showered, fed, heading into the city with my family to look at an apartment. Sendlingen was already baking in the heat. We circled for parking forever. No spots, naturally, despite ten thousand no-parking signs. Parked three blocks over.
The apartment was nice. Three rooms, kitchen, a real bathtub. Could work as a shared place if I could find the right people. My mom was still looking at the closets when someone rang the bell. Two women about my age, wanting to see it too. One had dark hair, sharp features, the kind of person who clearly doesn’t need a second glance. She didn’t even look at me.
There’s something about Sendlingen where if you spend long enough there, attractive women just keep appearing. I spent maybe five minutes walking back and forth across one street, and I saw several worth noticing. Do the math on that—a whole day of it, back and forth, and you’d see a lifetime of them. Obviously that’s not how it works, but in that heat, in that crowd, anything felt possible.
We drove home by noon. Friends were waiting to go to the lake—Dietringen.
Absolute zoo. Packed with old people and their parasols, the usual summer migration, but woven through all that age was actual beauty. Two attractive women and a guy lying out right in front of us. Then others kept drifting over, creating this rotating parade of strangers. I had to look twice. This many good-looking people in one spot felt almost hostile.
We jumped in the water to cool off. From the lake we started rating the crowd. Got hung up on one woman—insanely fit, completely tan, the kind of body that looked Photoshopped. Good beach day. We left at six.
My landlord called when I got home. I got the apartment. I remember grinning like an idiot.
In bed later, my phone rang. An old friend. We talked for an hour about life, love, what we’d done since school, where we were headed. Decided together that we were too weird, too particular, too much ourselves to actually pull off a relationship. Felt profound at midnight.
Some days nothing happens—you watch TV, sleep, wait for evening. Some days you pack a lifetime into the hours. Today was the second kind.
I was always good at television. Knew when to sit, how to make it last, trusted the gray box to fill whatever needed filling for a few hours. German TV used to be decent at that job. There were shows that meant something, programs that felt intentional. Then MTV bought VIVA, fired everyone, turned the music shows into ringtone ads, and that’s when I understood it was actually over.
That was 2004 or 2005, can’t remember exactly. What I remember is when the networks figured out the math: court shows are cheap, call-in competitions cost nothing, reality television practically runs itself. Once they understood that, why would they program anything else?
The channels started looking the same. Judge shows and game shows and home makeovers and dating competitions and quizzes and clip compilations, all designed to fill time without asking anything from anyone. Even the good stuff got buried under so much garbage that finding it became work. Eventually I stopped trying. It was easier to leave it on as background noise than to hunt for something worth watching.
What got to me wasn’t that it was bad. Bad television is fine. It was that everything was the same kind of bad — the same formula across forty channels, the same strategy of appealing to people half-asleep on the couch, the same bottom line: this works. And it does work. Millions of people watching. Networks winning. The fact that there’s nothing actually good left is just not their problem anymore.
At some point the television was still there, still on, but I wasn’t really watching anymore. It became like street noise or light pollution — constant, invisible, something you stop noticing. The worst part isn’t that it got bad. It’s that it got bad and nobody minded enough to actually change anything.
Banana milkshakes at the lake with Irina yesterday, who’s barely an adult now—that still feels strange to say. We played Durak, some Russian card game where I’m perpetually useless, and I got demolished every single hand. By evening we were too wrung out to do anything but collapse in front of whatever was on the TV.
It’s still brutal heat today. The kind where you’re drenched just from existing. I’ve essentially moved to the roof terrace, slowly turning into a rotisserie. O.C., California is the only thing that’ll get me back inside.
We ended up at this hookah lounge in Landsberg where the music was chill and everything felt stuck in time. The shisha was apple and mint, and I watched someone named The do impossible things with smoke—rings, shapes, impressions. You know the type of person who’s bored enough to master something completely useless. Lisa and Fex were into the music, basically dancing while sitting down. Silvi spent the whole night leaning over whispering mean shit about people, pointing out who was gay or ugly, exhausting to be around until you remembered you were eighteen and that’s what eighteen-year-olds did. She had nice breasts though, which is probably not the point but it’s what I remember. Kathi wouldn’t shut up about being in the newspaper once, couldn’t remember the reason, and I never cared enough to ask. You just nod and move on.
We wanted to go to this club called the Sonderbar, which at least had a funny name, but some of us were underage so they wouldn’t let us in. Walked through Landsberg in the dark afterward, which made everything feel more important than it was. Ran into Andi from my old class—he’d lost weight and immediately tried to get Silvi’s number, which explained everything about how guys think. Kathi and Silvi jumped over my shoulders at some point and acted wrecked afterward. It was stupid. It was a good night. The kind that disappears from your head by the next morning but you’re glad you lived anyway.
The last twenty-four hours are just a collection of objects and names and places I grabbed because they stuck with me. A bottle of Bacardi, something that tastes like fruit and pure regret, a pastry nobody should eat that late at night, the people I was around, the rooms we landed in. André’s apartment in Landsberg, this red light district we kept wandering through, TV shows on disc, a swimming pool, a pink vibrator left behind somewhere. Party pizza. The whole thing is still sitting in my head like I’m still actually there.
The night was genuinely out of control. I was running on black coffee and whatever clear-but-colored alcohol I could reach, some chemistry experiment that made perfect sense for about five hours and then stopped making any sense at all. Drove across the city in clothes I shouldn’t have been wearing because someone played a card in UNO and it felt like that card held the answer to something. Black Eyed Peas at full volume. I texted someone a birthday greeting and only later realized I’d already texted them yesterday, which tells me I wasn’t really present for most of that night. When I finally crashed on a couch for a few minutes, I dreamed about underground tunnels with architecture that didn’t follow any rules, very Harry Potter, except the people in it were real and I had sex with someone named Anna even though she has a boyfriend, but your brain doesn’t care about details like that when you’re asleep. André’s heading to California. That was how we said goodbye.
Now I’m home from work and still wired from some Caramel Macchiato that tastes awful and makes you feel alive in all the wrong ways. I could fall asleep standing up right now, but I’m not missing Camp Lazlo — this stupid cartoon about a monkey who goes to summer camp. I actually love it. The way everything about it just works. Happy birthday soon, you ridiculous person. Eighteen years old now. That’s something.
In elementary school, my best friend and I did everything together. We’d sit around making plans for the future like we had any idea what we were doing, seven years old and convinced we were going somewhere. Then my family moved six hundred kilometers away and that was it. We wrote letters for a while, called sometimes, visited when we could manage it. But you grow up, school changes, you become a teenager and the wound of it just fades. And then years later I ran into her and it was like all that distance and all that time had collapsed. We fell right back into the same conversation, the same way of being together.
That was one kind of friendship. The other kind found me in a new city. These were people who actually gave a shit. The kind who’d pick you up at three in the morning if you called, who’d show up for the stupid parties and the drunk nights, who’d listen to the same stories and complaints and somehow not get sick of you. The kind where you can fight and it doesn’t matter because you’ll make up. Where you can actually say what you think. That’s the rare thing.
But friendships are fragile. Easier to break than you’d think. I had one that cracked because I forgot her birthday. Not my finest moment. I’m just not a birthday person, and I didn’t mean anything by it, but you can’t always come back from that. She moved away, we never talked it through, and now there’s just silence. Maybe I’ll run into her someday like I did the other one. Maybe not.
It gets harder the older you get. School ends, people scatter to different cities for university or for work, and suddenly you’re doing all this work just to keep friendships alive. The phone calls get fewer. You don’t know as many people when you go out. When you do see each other, you’ve both changed a little, and it takes time to remember how to be around each other. Misunderstandings happen faster. You forget things. Stupid little things that shouldn’t matter but somehow do.
But then something ends—you finish what you were doing, you come home—and they’re still there. The thing is, I never appreciated it enough. I treated them like they were automatic, like they’d always be around. But the people who actually show up, who don’t disappear just because I’m inconvenient or I’ve changed or it’s been a while—they’re not a given. They’re the thing worth working for.
Words don’t always tell you the truth. Diet cola doesn’t make you thin, a book doesn’t clean your apartment, and a band festival isn’t necessarily either of those things—or any good.
We drove out to this monastery called St. Ottilien for what amounted to a bunch of drunk eighth graders who’d borrowed some guitars and a microphone. They played the same “fuck you all” song on repeat in a barn for what felt like hours. The twelve-year-olds with the yellow wristbands—the ones who weren’t supposed to be there in the first place—probably had the best night of their lives because of it.
We posted up at what everyone called the dangerous curve, basically sitting there watching kids with maybe two beers in them behave like they’d found a vodka pipeline. There were monks there too, the kind confident enough to wear their hoods thrown back like it was nothing. It was a whole strange scene.
Blurred Minds came on late with this guy Kareem Weth singing, and they actually knew how to play. They saved the whole night from being a complete waste. Everything else before that was just noise and bad decisions, the kind of thing you’d only remember because you were there with the right people at the right moment.
I’m starting my apprenticeship in media design in Berlin soon, and I need to actually find a place to live there. Doesn’t matter what it is—one-bedroom apartment, student dorm room, a spot in a WG. Under 400 euros a month, somewhere in Mitte or the surrounding area, ideally Prenzlauer Berg or Friedrichshain. Just not Wedding.
If you know anything—a place opening up, someone looking for a roommate—hit me up. I’d owe you one. Just, if it’s with that guy I know from here, the answer’s no.
Getting older doesn’t come all at once. It hits in waves—a word, a gesture, a sudden feeling. It’s shitty.
At Silvi’s seventeenth birthday, packed into someone’s apartment with Rihanna on loop and someone’s dad pushing sausages on everyone, I watched my friend work the room. He was charming, cocky, just pushy enough. And it was working. That’s how it used to work for me.
That’s when I felt it. I’m too old for this.
Not just the party. All of it. The girls, the approach, the whole mechanism. And it was both sad and freeing because I’d loved it. A couple years back I could show up anywhere, see someone I wanted, and something would happen. I could rely on that. Now it doesn’t work. Either I’ve become someone people don’t want to find at a party, or I just don’t need it the same way anymore.
I think I’m done with casual. I want something real, something worth building. Teenagers aren’t ready for that—thank God. Something in me is closing off right now, moving to a different place. This feels like the best time in my life to start something. Berlin helps with that feeling. Everything still feels possible.
But I’m lying to myself and I know it. There’s no clean switch from fooling around to something serious. Maybe that’s backwards—maybe something real only grows out of messing around, seeing what sticks. I don’t know. I’m stuck between believing my life is starting and watching it get smaller.
Friday morning, a week after Berlin. Half asleep when the phone rings. I’d planned to sleep in before Silvi’s party. Slowly I hit the red button. Hello? My grandmother. Wants to know how I am, whether she should drop by for something, if I’ve cleaned my room. Good, no, thanks. Hung up. Back to dozing.
A couple minutes later, the phone again. Not her. This time it’s Berlin. The real call. Instantly awake. To cut to it: I got the job. Yes, I’m moving to Berlin, yes, I’m going to be a professional web designer, yes. Aperto. Starting the apprenticeship in September. I especially want to thank Ella and Tim for how much they looked after me. They made this happen. It sounds terrible to say, but it’s true. Anyone curious about Aperto can look it up.
That’s that for me and Buchloe. My hometown. Glad to be leaving. Nothing’s keeping me here. A lot of people start new lives in September. Becks just got into a relationship and is heading to Augsburg instead of Freiburg for psychology. Mental. Ana and the other girls will feel the final year of school hard, but they’ll make it. I know they will. Even though Nastja had tears in her eyes. And Hannah says once I’m in Berlin, she’s going to put together the best fashion show ever. I’m looking forward to that.
I’m not worried about the rest of them. My mom has everything here—her friends, the family, the job. And I can visit. Mille’s tearing it up in the fighting gyms and traveling Eastern Europe with his Annette. Eniz will make his first million before I do. Has some kind of sports betting system that works. And Ali is the last person I’d worry about. He’s got the brains and the charm to walk out of anything as a winner, and if he doesn’t, he learns from it.
But I’m still here. Hasn’t sunk in yet that I’m leaving. That this ends in September. I’ll miss it, I think. That’s how it goes. Tonight we’re burning down Silvi’s party. In the good way. And I probably won’t feel it until I’m drunk on a couch somewhere, either crying or laughing about the whole thing. We’ll see.
I’m in my room, Damien Rice playing, and I realize I haven’t touched a real book in what feels like forever. Or I have, but only ones I had to read — for class, for credentials. Now there’s a stack of design books on my nightstand and I’m working through them like they’re instruction manuals for becoming the person I’m trying to be.
I’ve wanted to make things for a long time. Actually make them, not just think about it. In school when they made you pick a direction, I knew what I wanted. But I also knew enough to be scared, so I picked something that looked safer on paper. Applied somewhere else when I didn’t get in the first time. Met good people on that detour. Spent a year studying something practical that felt like growing up and making the sensible choice. It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t the thing.
Now I’m actually about to do the thing, and I’m terrified in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Not the normal pre-big-change anxiety, but something weirder — this constant voice saying I got lucky in an interview, that they’ll figure out I’m not as trained as the people who actually prepared, that I’ve been fooling myself this whole time.
The reading is partly genuine and partly panic. I keep thinking if I read enough, absorb enough, prepare enough, the feeling of not belonging will go away. It hasn’t yet. The fear’s still there.
But they did let me in. They talked to me for hours and said yes. That has to mean something.
I don’t know if this is what it feels like for everyone before something that actually matters, or if I’m just good at finding reasons to panic. The rain’s coming down. The books are waiting. I’ve got months before this starts and I’m already trying to compress years into reading I can do at night.
Ines posted something new after two years of nothing. You notice when someone you’ve been reading disappears long enough that you’ve stopped expecting them to come back.
She had actual design skills, not the generic WordPress template stuff everyone was doing. Deliberate choices, clean work, the kind of thing that tells you someone’s thinking about form before they ever load a CMS. Her taste was specific too — Libertines, Power Rangers, the mix that seemed random until you understood the logic running underneath. She didn’t perform any of it online, just lived the stuff, took trains to gigs when the shows mattered to her.
Two years is forever in internet time. Most people who vanish stay vanished. You stop looking after a while because the absence becomes its own kind of presence — a blank where something used to be.
But sometimes someone like Ines comes back, and you realize you’ve been waiting for it even when you’d stopped actively waiting. That voice has a texture you don’t get from most places.
Don’t know what pulled her back online. Could be something small, could be something major. Either way, it’s good to hear from her.
Friday morning, a TUI flight to Tegel. The flight attendant is cute in that budget-airline way—yellow uniform, perfect hair—but you can tell she absolutely doesn’t want to be miming the safety demonstration. The captain comes on cheerful in German and English, saying something about the weather. The attendant’s speech turns into white noise: “pfffft… pfffft…” The guy next to me keeps sneaking photos into the cockpit when he thinks no one’s looking, which is weird enough to actually make me nervous. I’ve got Dashboard Confessional in my ears. “Stolen.” Good start.
I’m in Berlin because some big German web design studio wants to talk to me. I got lost immediately—I’m terrible with cities. The bus drivers are grumpy, the streets go on forever, and everyone’s either designing something, sipping coffee, or carrying a newspaper like they’re about to read the serious parts. Some tiny guy gave me directions to the U-Bahn and sent me completely the wrong way. Or maybe I just can’t navigate. Berlin is huge. Impossibly huge.
The studio is in a courtyard on Chausseestraße, which everyone calls Germany’s Silicon Valley. Open warehouse space, high ceilings, people on Macs, moving around on exposed metal stairs, talking casually. Sun pouring in. I loved it immediately—this is what Lisa Simpson must have felt arriving at college for the first time. The interview went fine, I think. I’ll know more next week.
I walked through East Berlin the rest of the day. Alexanderplatz, the Wall, Checkpoint Charlie. I never found the Brandenburg Gate. The directions I got from locals were useless. But I started to notice the colored traffic light men at the intersections—they mark the old border between East and West—and once I saw that, I could actually tell where I was. Berlin has these distinct neighborhoods. One street is all döner kebab, the next is pure Thai food, then you turn a corner into someplace residential you didn’t expect. Got thirsty at Alexanderplatz, ran out of cash, and some blonde girl in a BZ newspaper outfit—sunburned décolletage, real Berlin attitude—got me to sign up for a subscription. I canceled it by email the next morning. Coward move, but I did it.
My iPod died right before the flight home. The new flight attendant was in a great mood—kept grinning at the captain, even during the safety demonstration. The captain was joking in German and English, and he landed the plane so hard I think he was still thinking about her. The passengers thought it was funny.
Berlin vibrates. It’s electric. But you can’t do it justice in one day. The city needs to be discovered piece by piece. Maybe soon, Berlin. Maybe soon.
Plastiscines hit me like a secret nobody else knew about. Russian punk band, all noise and refusal — they played like nothing mattered except the sound. I’d come back to them years later wondering why some bands age better than others, and it was always the ones that never tried to make you like them.
Went to see Hostel 2 with a friend, then we headed to this party at Luna for some FOS/BOS Abi thing that turned out to be pretty dead because of Southside pulling everyone away. Didn’t really matter much though—when the two of us are out somewhere together we tend to make our own thing anyway.
We’re walking around the place and I notice this guy. Tall, built, longer brown hair, eyes that actually make you look twice. There’s something on his neck—a scar or a brand or something—and it just works, makes him more interesting somehow. The whole night we keep coming back to the same question: how do you actually approach someone like that? What’s the move? What do you even say?
By two in the morning I’m ready to leave. These guys are always so far up their own ass, and there’s no way we’re getting anywhere with him anyway. My friend shuts that down quick though—says if we leave I’m just going to spend the entire drive home complaining about not trying, so there’s nothing for it but to stay.
He walks past us and she just hits him with this confident “Hey, stop for a second.” No warning, no discussion with me first. He stops, looking confused, and she starts pitching this party we’re supposedly throwing in August, talking it up like it’s going to be the event of the year. He’s still just staring. I jump in trying to save it, trying to loosen the whole thing up. It doesn’t work. Then he says something I’ve never had anyone say to my face before: just pretend he’s a good friend of mine and I won’t be so nervous, won’t stammer and second-guess myself the whole time.
I don’t have a response to that. This guy just broke me down in the middle of a bar. Arrogant doesn’t even start to cover it. So I tell him he must really think a lot of himself. I don’t think anyone’s ever told him that before. He looks at me like I just materialized out of nowhere. Then he asks about the party again and I’m already done with this, so I tell him we should probably just forget the whole thing about the party.
That was supposed to be the beginning of some other direction—some kind of redirect. But he doesn’t like it. Just turns around and walks away without a word. Leaves us standing there.
I get it. I broke every rule about approaching someone. Did it completely backwards. And after what he said, I was already checked out anyway. But it just confirmed what I’ve been pretty sure about for a while: beautiful people are almost always assholes, and they’re definitely not interested in people like me.
We head to the car. I’m driving, and my little Elvis is parked right by the entrance. Immediately some drunk girl is banging on the window wanting a ride home. Then his friend shows up asking if I’ll drive him out to Buchloe for ten euros. Come on. I tell them both no, pretty clearly. We drive off and somewhere between leaving and getting closer to Stotten, the whole thing hits us funny and we’re both cracking up at what felt like an absolute disaster maybe thirty minutes before.
Some people just have a gift for this stuff. Walking up to someone, making it work. I’m clearly not one of them. Never have been.
Someone wants me to torture my Mac mini. Open every program simultaneously, photograph the death throes. I’d been curious anyway about what these things can actually handle, so why not. Turns out the old G4 took it without much complaint—actually surprised me. I thought it would just give up, but no.
Now I’m wondering which Mac should get those honors. Lea, Michi, Michael: bring your machines. Let’s see what they’re made of. Make them smoke.
She was everywhere in the mid-2000s if you were paying attention to electronic music and that specific moment when electro-pop felt like the future. The voice, thin and synth-processed, that deadpan delivery over those bouncing synthesizers—it shouldn’t have worked but it did. “Sex and Candy” and everything around it felt like a world I wanted to be inside of. There was something about the aesthetic of early MySpace electro that made you feel like you were in on something before it got swallowed by everything else. Her music sounds thin now, maybe, but that was the point. The thinness was the appeal. She knew who she was and she made exactly the music she wanted to make, which is rare enough.
The desert island films question forces honesty. You pick what you’d actually rewatch over and over, not what makes you sound smart. My list: Lost in Translation, Battle Royale, Amélie, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Spirited Away. Some I’ve watched a hundred times.
They don’t wear out. There’s something in the rhythm or the image that survives repetition. You can’t fake it. You end up with a list that actually means something.
Phone rings midday. Norri asking if I want to go swimming. Obviously. We pick a time and I’m rushing—shower first to deal with leg hair that’s somehow gotten out of control overnight, then sunscreen, the highest SPF I can find. Ever since a trip to Mallorca years back I get this heat rash that burns and itches like hell. Doesn’t matter. Trunks on and I’m out the door.
Norri shows up and the new puppy, eleven weeks old, is so thrilled he pees himself. Whatever. Dog locked inside and we’re heading to Forggensee, the best swimming spot around. Weekday afternoon means it’s quiet. Mostly older people with skin either deep brown or sunburned pink, young couples with small kids wading around with buckets and shovels.
The three of us—me, Geli, Moni—show up with these massive red inflatable loungers we’d gotten on that Mallorca trip. The move is simple: lie out there, paddle into the water, watch the whole beach from a distance. Watch the kids by the boathouse styled like they’re in a music video, probably smoking their first cigarettes. Watch the woman maybe thirty just letting the sun cook her skin with no regard. Watch the young couple, can’t be more than fifteen, alone in the water kissing like they’re trying to prove something.
After enough of that we need ice cream. Chocolate for me. By late afternoon people our age start showing up, but we had the best spot, had gotten there first, could see everything. Standing there eating ice cream, we’re rating whoever walks by—which sounds harsh but it’s what you do when you’re watching. Nothing particularly interesting came through. Nothing worth a second look. I was there with chocolate ice cream in my hand, sun warm on my skin, friends beside me doing the same dumb watching, and nothing special about any of it. It doesn’t get better than that.
There’s not much to it, really. I make websites. Design them, code them, make them beautiful. Everything else is noise. I could tell you about the Adobe products I know inside out—Photoshop, Dreamweaver, Fireworks—or how I move equally well on Mac and Windows, though the Mac is where I actually live. I could talk about HTML, PHP, CSS, all of it. But the truth is simpler: you give me a brief and I make something good from it. That’s the job. That’s always been the job.
School was a disaster. Genuinely useless. I was the kid at the computer while everyone else was pretending to care about whatever they were supposed to care about. That’s not false modesty—I actually couldn’t do the things they wanted me to do. Math, the classics, whatever. But the second I had access to design tools, the second I could open Photoshop and actually *make* something, everything else disappeared. Years of sitting in front of a screen, learning by doing, figuring out how to turn an idea into pixels into a working website. That’s my education. That’s all I needed.
I’m good at what I do. I know this about myself the way you know if you can play an instrument—there’s no false confidence in it, just clarity. I can speak English fine, German better. I’m not difficult to work with. The money stuff, the business administration angle, the corporate machinery—that bores me and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But give me a design problem and I’ll solve it.
Geography doesn’t matter to me. Munich, Berlin, Melbourne, anywhere. I’m the kind of person who picks up and goes. You want someone who can drop into a new city and make gorgeous websites while adapting to whatever environment you throw at him? I’m that person. Cosmopolitan, a little alternative, willing to go anywhere the work is.
That’s what I have to offer. Not some polished pitch or a brand or a network. Just: I’m good at this, I love this, I’ll work for you if the work makes sense. The rest is just logistics.
The air outside was just as thick as the air on the train. I climbed down slowly and made a face as the sun hit me in the eyes. A couple of older people, unpleasant types, stared at me like I’d just revealed my true self straight from hell. Their stupid little ugly dachshund barked at me. I barked back, just as ugly.
I hadn’t been at this godforsaken train station in over two months, not since I decided to cut contact with my best friend. The stupid cunt I’d gotten myself tangled up in. The longer I didn’t hear from her, the better I felt. But slowly I started to miss her.
Ana hadn’t changed much. Her blonde hair was a bit shorter, but she hadn’t lost weight—which was fine, actually. That’s what I’d heard anyway. She rode alongside me on her bike. The fucking sun burned into my shoulders. We understood each other like we’d been half-naked in bed together just yesterday.
I keep photos of a lot of girls I have a history with. Relationships, one-night stands, pathetic spontaneous fooling around. These experiences are scattered across different parts of my life, but keeping them makes me feel like acquaintances live in my bedroom—the ones who understand best the pain and joy and electricity of those closer moments. They know how to get my attention. They know me the way I actually am. I love the faces of these girls.
For days I avoided looking at the photos of Ana even though they hung right in front of my face. They mocked me. But I didn’t want to take them down. Not out of cowardice or laziness, not because I couldn’t let go. It was the images in my head that occupied me more. The sad, depressive music playing under my dark thoughts just wouldn’t leave. How she died in my dreams. How other guys touched her. How my ex-girlfriend had to pick me up because I had tears in my eyes over her stupid bullshit. That I was a bad person, she’d said. But my head learned. Eventually it started putting static in my head whenever a thought like that came on the horizon, like a soap opera cutting out at the crucial moment. On a rainy afternoon I took the photos off the wall. Then Rock im Park happened and Ana became more of a nagging thought than a real person.
And that’s still all she was when we bought multivitamin juice at Lidl that day. When we watched “40 Days and 40 Nights” in bed without any background music. When we sat on a bench in the heat watching the glittering stream. Even when she told me she’d slept with another guy, my blood didn’t boil, my thoughts didn’t run wild, my pants didn’t burst. Ana wasn’t the Ana I’d been so wistful and depressed about anymore. She was mostly back to what she’d been for me last summer when we’d roasted ourselves at the gravel pit. A good friend, my good friend. I still haven’t hung her photos back up. Out of precaution. In case someone forgets to hit the static button at the wrong moment.
Deleting a blog is easier than you’d think. Just click, confirm delete, and years of writing are gone. I’m not going to act like I’m devastated. What bothered me was watching it become something I didn’t recognize. Started as a place to write whatever came to mind. No reason, no plan, just needed to get it down somewhere. Then it shifted. Numbers mattered. Comments, traffic, rankings. Every post was feeding a machine instead of being something I actually wanted to say.
So I killed it. No goodbye post, no explanation, just deleted the whole thing.
My fingers are still jumpy on the keyboard, brown and restless, trying to explain something that doesn’t really need explaining. Other bloggers will think I’m completely insane for throwing away years of accumulated traffic and ranking. They’re right to. But if you’re the kind of person who actually keeps writing honestly, who knows that those numbers are what destroyed the actual work, you know exactly why I did it. It was liberation.
I’m the kind of person who gets bored with everything. Games, fucking, writing, projects. I get obsessed, go all in, and then one day it feels pointless. I’m done. Completely done. Move on to something else. People think that’s crazy. Maybe it is. But the real writers, the ones who haven’t let metrics poison what they actually care about, those people understand. They get why you have to kill something when it stops being yours.
This blog is mine now. Just mine. One reader. No stats to chase, no algorithm to appease, no pressure except not wanting to phone it in. I can restart whenever I need to. I can be wrong, stupid, change direction completely without it being a strategic mistake. The clouds outside look incredible right now. Thick and full of contrast, dense enough that you can’t see through them but can still see them from miles away. That’s what I want from writing now.
I’ll probably do this again. Five times, ten times, before I stop. But right now this is fresh.
I found pro-ana forums one afternoon while researching eating disorders. Just curiosity—the kind of corner the internet opens up when you follow enough links. Pro-ana: communities built entirely around anorexia nervosa as a lifestyle, a goal, almost a calling.
What got me wasn’t the sadness—the internet has plenty of that. It was the intentionality. Tiered forums you have to audition to access. Coded language your family won’t understand. Practical guides: how to survive on almost nothing, which exercises leave no visible marks, what to tell doctors, how to hide it all. And everywhere this letter from “Ana” herself, written like the eating disorder is a partner, something that chose you specifically.
I posted once—genuinely stupid—asking why they did this, saying they didn’t look sick, suggesting they needed help. Got demolished immediately. Every response was contempt. No conversation was possible, just instant rejection. I felt like an intruder interrupting someone’s faith.
What I can’t shake: it’s all calculated. These aren’t accidental communities that happen to reinforce the worst thoughts. They’re systems *designed* for it. Someone put real work into retention, community enforcement, user experience. Applied design thinking to self-destruction.
Think about Victoria Beckham and size zero, the fashion industry’s decades of pushing emaciation. That’s already a system designed to harm. But the internet weaponized it. Made it networked. Turned isolation into belonging.
I’m not going to close with something about recognizing warning signs or helping someone you know who’s struggling. That’s true but useless. What stays with me is just the fact of it: it’s there, reachable in minutes, and people build their lives inside it.
I’ve been running into porn references constantly lately. Not in a fun way — just everywhere, and it’s gotten weird enough that I keep thinking about it.
My brother’s friend made a short film about customers buying porn in video rental stores, categorizing them by type. The nervous one shuffling through like a criminal — probably should just order online where it’s cheaper. The guy who creeps past all the regular sections before bolting to the restricted aisle when he thinks no one’s looking. The businessman with zero shame, just grabbing it like milk. It’s actually funny. I watched it twice.
Last week I’m at a café in Marktoberdorf with a friend, nice weather, we’re sitting outside, and a bus passes. We wave at the older guys inside like we’re twelve. They wave back, cool enough, until they get off at the next stop and walk past us with this look. They were French. Hours later my sister shows me photos on her camera — blurry shots of a TV screen. Turns out the Frenchmen grabbed her camera thinking it was theirs and took pictures of what they were watching. On a bus. She figured out it was them from the license plate. The idea of accidentally swapping cameras and finding that is genuinely one of the funniest things I can imagine.
Then there’s this documentary that aired called “The Masturbated Elephant.” The title confused me enough to watch. It’s actually about conservation — they collect semen from an elephant named Jackson through prostate massage for breeding purposes. Standard wildlife footage, but somebody decided the title should lead with the masturbation. The whole film’s about species preservation, not the biomechanics of it, but apparently that’s what the marketing wanted to emphasize.
You can’t really watch evening television without running into this kind of content anymore. It’s mostly women, which is its own thing. There’s something absurdly direct about how much explicit material just bleeds into regular programming now, treated like it’s not worth hiding. The Frenchmen casually filming themselves on a bus, the documentary’s weirdly aggressive honesty, the whole thing has this deadpan comedy that makes you wonder what conversations happened in offices to make these exact moments exist.
My Mac menu bar is a personality test that fits in half an inch of screen space. Mine’s nearly empty—Bluetooth, volume, clock, Spotlight. Then I look at other people’s Macs and there’s this wall of icons, everything from abandoned utilities to backup software they installed years ago and forgot about.
You can tell who cleaned theirs out and who just let it accumulate. It shouldn’t matter, right? A few pixels at the top of your screen. But it does say something. It says whether you think about visual friction, whether you can tolerate clutter, whether you’re actually minimalist or just performing it.
My menu bar is a lie about who I am. I’m not minimalist about anything else—I just can’t stand looking at a clusterfuck every time I glance up from the keyboard.
Jack Sparrow stumbles out of a cannon in the opening scene and I’m already gone, sold on whatever comes next. By the third film I’d tied myself to this trilogy in a way I didn’t expect after the first one. Not Star Wars for me, not Lord of the Rings — those are other people’s myths. This one was mine.
Went to the premiere with André, Lisa, and Becca, and I couldn’t shut up the whole way through. The plot tangles itself. Too many schemes, too many hands on the same cursed heart and ship and crown. Who’s working with who? Who cares. Depp doesn’t need it to make sense — he carries everything on pure performance, that walk, that voice, the look of someone completely lost and totally fine with it. Keira Knightley shows up looking like the reason to watch. Orlando Bloom is just there, which is honest.
You have to have seen the first two films or the mythology doesn’t land. The dog with the key. The heart in its box. The ship alive in the frame. These aren’t throwaway details — they’re load-bearing. The film earns its length through obsession, the way a song improves each time you hear it.
Walking out I felt what I felt the first time: like I’d watched something on a different frequency. Not better necessarily. Different. Personal. The kind of film you return to because it solved something you didn’t know needed solving. Stick around for the credits — there’s a moment that lands just right.
That multitasking thing everyone talks about—it’s everywhere. You can’t avoid it. Every article, every productivity podcast, every self-help thing is selling you on the idea that you can do multiple things at once and do them well. Just keep juggling. Stay focused. Maximize. The fantasy is that your brain can split itself into pieces and handle work emails, a conversation, making dinner, whatever, all at the same time with equal attention.
I’ve never been able to do it. I can’t bake without fucking it up the second the phone rings or the oven timer goes off. I lose count of the sugar, dump in too much flour, and suddenly I’ve ruined whatever I was trying to make. My friends have tasted the evidence. I’ve tried watching TV while working on something that actually requires thinking and it’s pointless. The second there’s something interesting happening on screen, my brain just checks out. I’m not working anymore, I’m just staring at the words like they’re not in English.
People have all these theories about it. Brain hemispheres. Gender stuff. Whatever. None of it explains why I’m shit at certain things. Why I can’t judge distance when I’m passing someone on the road, or why parallel parking is a nightmare, or why I can’t actually think straight if there’s a conversation happening within earshot. I’m just not good at those things. Some people are. Some aren’t.
Everyone wants to tell you that you can be great at everything if you just try harder or focus more or use the right system. That’s the dream being sold. But the reality is you’re just built a certain way. I’m better at some things. Worse at others. Accepting that instead of constantly feeling like you’re failing at some imaginary standard of human competence seems like the saner option.
Maybe I’m just lazy. Maybe I’m weak. Probably I’m just honest about what I can actually do in my head. The multitasking thing is a lie we tell ourselves because the alternative—that we can only really do one thing well at a time—feels like a failure. It’s not. It’s just how people work.
Found Songbird in a forum thread about iTunes alternatives and immediately thought: I could leave. Not that I was unhappy with Mac OS X, but there it was—an open-source media player designed to not extract money from me. And then the whole cascade: if I could switch that, why not the whole system? Ubuntu instead of this, goodbye to Apple, goodbye to the calculated ecosystem designed to make me feel good about paying.
I’ve got this voice inside me that wants out. Wants open source, wants Linux, wants nothing to do with corporations making billions on elegant interfaces and good design. Hates that I love Apple. Hates it. So I’m one download away from Ubuntu, one decision from nuking the whole setup, and I’m thinking about it differently now—actually thinking about doing it.
Then I look at what I’d lose. Safari tabs. Mail. Adium. All these small, beautiful things that just work. And the other voice gets loud: Do you actually want to spend hours fixing kernel bullshit just to prove something? Because switching would mean that for me. I’d be lying if I said I wanted Linux because it’s better at what I do. I don’t want it because the software’s superior. I want it because it’s freer. Except—is it? Isn’t Linux just as beholden to the same corporate powers? Ubuntu’s owned by Canonical. The distributions that matter are backed by the same money as Windows and Mac. So the rebellion collapses. The whole thing feels hollow.
I know I’m not going to switch. Not today, maybe not ever. And that bothers me more than actually using Apple bothers me. The cognitive dissonance is the thing that won’t quit. I want to believe in open source revolution, want to believe there’s an OS that isn’t compromised, but I also just want to work on something beautiful and functional. Apple owns that territory.
So I’m staying. With Mac OS X. The beautiful, expensive, corporate thing. At least I turned off the iTunes Store—that’s my gesture, my small rebellion that doesn’t cost me anything real. I even joined ATTAC, this anti-globalization group that doesn’t seem to know what it wants any better than I do. But there’s something honest about that too. Admitting you’re conflicted, that you can’t pull the trigger, that you’re complicit and you know it.
My blood elf runs through Deathwing’s Lair most weeks while I wait for StarCraft 2 to load. Just casual zombie-smacking, nothing that requires real gold. But somewhere along the way the in-game economy developed its own shadow market, complete with commercial dealers. GameGoods is basically the main operation: they sponsor communities, run ads everywhere, sell gold and character levels like a legitimate business. Two euros per hundred gold, instant in-game delivery, and they claim they’ve never had trouble with GMs. Maybe it all happens at night when the admins are actually asleep.
I’ve never bought gold myself. Part of it’s just how I play—I like the grind. But there’s also something that feels off about it, even though I can see why people do it and Blizzard basically accepts it as long as you’re not flagrant about it. What’s weird is how normalized it all is. You look at any gold-trading forum and it’s just commerce: prices, inventory, customer service promises. It’s not hidden or shameful, just business happening inside the game.
Everyone knows it violates the rules. Nobody really enforces it though. If you want to skip the grind and you’ve got spare cash, you buy gold. If you don’t, you play normally. There’s not much moral high ground either way. It’s just another way to engage with the game, and people have always paid for convenience.
Just got back from my family thing, drunk and high. That’s the actual ideal state for a family celebration, I think. My aunt kept shoving drinks at me — Sekt, Radler, all this weird multivitamin juice — and meanwhile my younger cousin and I had snuck away with a hookah full of apple tobacco and a deck of Skip-Bo cards, with Blur on in the background. That’s really all a family gathering needs: some chaos, some games, a little buzz.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, I’d picked up on some drama in the blogging world about RSS feeds. People were actually fighting about it, which seemed kind of absurd to me. I don’t have much of an opinion on RSS or Atom, to be honest. They’re just tools for reading blog posts in different ways. That’s it. If a video doesn’t load through your feed reader, that’s not the author’s fault — it’s just a limitation of the technology right now.
I don’t know why people get so worked up about technical standards. They’ll catch up eventually. Someone will figure out how to support everything — podcasts, videos, whatever weird formats people dream up. You just have to wait. The internet moves slower than everyone thinks it does, even when we’re all losing our minds about it.
Friday I started this Pirates of the Caribbean puzzle with Becca. South Park and Late Knights playing in the background—both stupid shows but they have their moments. We barely made a dent, just sat there for hours picking at pieces that wouldn’t fit.
Saturday was nothing. MySpace, whatever was on ProSieben, my ass going numb in the chair. I’ve been working on this website design that actually looks pretty good, but I have no idea what it’s supposed to be about. Just picked an aesthetic direction and went with it. Now I’ve got this clean template and nothing to put in it. Like having a perfect melody stuck in your head but no words for it. The frustration doesn’t leave.
Going to grill today. Probably just potato salad and bread rolls since my stomach’s weird about most things. Found out Aydee’s vegetarian too. There’s something about that.
I had Wednesday off and decided to make it my personal refresh day. Shaved, cleaned the apartment, then completely nuked my Mac—deleted everything without backing anything up and reinstalled OS X from scratch. First time I’d ever done that. It felt genuinely thrilling in a way I didn’t expect.
When it came back online it was fast again. Like opening it for the first time. Picked up a Logitech mouse with a scroll wheel, installed just the applications I actually used, and got rid of everything else. Safari was enough. The speed was shocking after spending so long in digital clutter.
iTunes went next. Deleted the whole library. All those songs I wasn’t listening to anymore felt like deadweight. I’d find new music eventually, but there was no point dragging the old stuff with me. A blank slate felt right.
There’s something good about resetting like that—standing in front of nothing and deciding what comes next. No legacy burden, no previous decisions to undo. Just space. Once you start accumulating things again you never quite get that feeling back.
The click ring snapped the second I opened it. One of the side buttons immediately went dead. And I couldn’t get the damn thing back together. This is what happens when you try to fix an Apple Mighty Mouse.
I’d been avoiding this for a year. The scroll ball had failed months earlier, right after I got my Mac mini. They sent a replacement, everything seemed fine. Then the same thing happened. After the second failure, I just stopped trying. Spent months basically not scrolling because every cleaning method I could find — the official Apple one, the Tesa tape trick, even considering actual surgery on it — either didn’t work or felt like it might detonate something else. You get used to it somehow. Which is absurd when you paid for a mouse that scrolls.
Today I decided to do a full system reinstall, and I thought, why not actually fix this properly. So I opened it. The whole design is so sealed, so hostile to repair, that just looking inside breaks something.
Throwing away Apple hardware feels like betrayal, even when Apple is the one who betrayed you first. I’ve been into this ecosystem for years. The Mighty Mouse looked good sitting there next to my Apple keyboard, and they belonged together. But a product that breaks when you try to maintain it, that can’t be serviced, that just gradually stops working with no recourse — that’s not thoughtful design. That’s contempt.
Next mouse will be a Logitech. I’ll trust Apple with another one when they actually make something that works. Might be a while.
I’m not the only one who got burned by this thing.
Shuffle was supposed to feel liberating—that whole pitch about life being random. Your whole library, everything you’d accumulated over the years, just playing back in whatever order some algorithm decided. There’s something appealing about surrendering that control.
Until you’re dealing with heartbreak and Paris Hilton somehow comes on. (Paris Hilton is never the right answer, but the principle stands.) You’re trying to pump yourself up for something and Travis plays instead—your entire mood gets murdered. You need Billy Talent’s “Surrender,” something stupid and explosive and energizing, not introspective guitar. Shuffle doesn’t give a shit about context. It just plays.
Found this tool called Moody. You train it a little, teach it your emotional states, and it generates a palette of colors for different moods. Pick one and iTunes knows exactly what songs belong. Want to wallow in self-pity for six hours? There’s a color for that. Want something aggressive enough to rattle your neighbors? Pick another. I honestly don’t know how I managed before finding this.
Everyone got mad about a blog selling links, and the logic was simple: ads are bad, blogs with ads are bad, done. But I don’t think that holds up.
I hate intrusive advertising. Those banners that explode across your screen, the cheap Google ads, the stuff that punishes you into clicking. It’s sloppy. It makes me leave sites. But hating that isn’t the same as saying nobody should earn money from their own website.
The thing nobody wants to talk about is money. Not everyone can afford to run a blog as a hobby. Someone with a shit job, or no job, counting every penny—their internet connection costs money, their domain costs money, their hosting costs money. Why should they choose between keeping their site alive and being broke? The argument always comes back to “hosting is cheap now,” which is only true if you have money to spare.
What bothers me is the way advertising got written off as inherently crass, inherently wrong. But it doesn’t have to be. A well-designed banner, something that actually means something to the people reading, something relevant to them—that’s not selling out. That’s just trying to stay online.
I’m thinking about doing it myself. Thoughtful ads for things that might interest whoever comes here. Nothing that’ll make me ashamed. It won’t make me rich. But why should that matter?
I won a stick somehow by correctly identifying a film from a screenshot in some internet game. Utterly pointless prize for recognizing something you’d forgotten you even knew.
The film in question had caused real controversy in America when it came out. Boycotts from parents’ groups, censorship, the whole moral panic thing. In Germany it apparently didn’t register the same way, though some predecessor supposedly shaped the culture there instead.
Here’s what’s interesting about film censorship: banning something only makes it legendary. The inoffensive stuff that passes every review board without comment gets forgotten in a year. The films people actually tried to suppress are the ones people remember decades later — the ones that supposedly corrupted an entire generation and somehow actually did something.
I’m obsessed with these Apple commercials and genuinely don’t understand why they’re not shown everywhere. They’d be the only thing anyone talks about. There’s something about how Apple makes ads that just works — the wit, the craft, the specific kind of yearning they capture. The ones that get regional releases and never make it to your country are always the best ones. That’s how it works, apparently.
I didn’t really pay attention when it first happened, but reading the full story later made me understand how much of a thing it actually was.
A blogger published the encryption code for HD-DVDs. One post, one string of characters. And it spread everywhere — Digg, forums, blogs, over and over. Every time someone removed it, three more people posted it again. It became this weird loop of upload, takedown, reupload, takedown, except the reupload always happened faster.
The code itself wasn’t even special. It was already cracked. The encryption was already broken. But the moment someone just published it plainly, like any other information, the whole dynamic changed. Because you can’t unpublish a number. You can delete a post, but the number still exists. You can send lawyers after the blog, and the number exists in fifty other places. It’s just mathematics sitting there waiting to be copied.
I kept thinking about the companies involved — all that legal force, all those resources, completely helpless against replication. You can’t issue a takedown on an idea. You can try. They did try. But the infrastructure doesn’t work that way. Copy a number, send it to someone, they copy it, send it somewhere else. No permission needed, no verification, just spread.
The thing’s already faded now, the Digg wars are over, the code’s out there somewhere or it isn’t. But for a few days there was this moment where the whole thing just felt transparent in a way it usually doesn’t. Like you could see exactly how little the formal structures actually matter when people stop respecting them.
I released Rio as a WordPress theme because people kept asking about the design I was using. It’s nothing complicated—just minimal and clean, the kind that doesn’t get in the way. I let hot pink come in sharp against all that restraint. No sidebar nonsense. It’s built on XV but I stripped it down to only what actually matters. The Gravatars plugin makes the avatars render right. That’s the whole thing.
Nicole asked what magazines I keep stacked in the bathroom, and honestly, she caught me. I’m obsessed. Paper in warm water does something a screen never will.
I buy two types: tech and culture. Used to hunt down Mac magazines—MacUp, Macwelt—but I stopped years ago. Everything moves to blogs too fast. Now I just grab PAGE for design and web stuff, and Computer Arts because the work teaches you things. Design magazines are different. They’re not about what happened, they’re about how to think.
The real thing is the lifestyle magazines: NEON, blond, IQ Style, Muteen. They catch what’s happening right now in a way nothing else does. Good music tips, photography, stories you’d miss elsewhere. One of them I barely get, and that’s fine—reading something that resists you is its own thing.
Magazines aren’t going anywhere as long as I’m not drowning my laptop. There’s a weight to paper. Warm water, no notifications, pages that need your attention. It’s not nostalgia. It just works better.
The weather’s still pretending it’s spring, but summer’s already waiting. Those nights when the sun finally drops and everyone moves outside—to the lake, to the grill, to someone’s backyard where the beer gets warm and the morning sneaks up before you notice. The whole season hanging in the humid air like a promise nobody asked for.
I spent most of May taking this place apart and rebuilding it. The new version is darker but louder with color, bigger photos, some features I’d been sitting on for too long. I called it Summernights. It’s the kind of work that eats your evening whole—cold pizza on the keyboard, noodles congealing on a plate, three hours arguing with yourself over one button that maybe two people will see. But you know it won’t matter, and you do it anyway because the thing needs to be right.
It feels right now. Cool and slightly unhinged. Summer’s waiting. Let it come.
You spend months on a blog. Late nights on design, posts you actually care about, registering with every search engine that will listen. You refresh the stats and they tick upward. People are reading. Then you check the comments and there’s nothing.
So you do what any tired person would do. You log out, log back in under a different name, and write something. Anything. Something to start a conversation, to prove the mechanism works, to make it feel like you’re not completely alone in here. It’s dishonest. But who’s going to know?
Here’s what I actually think about: How many bloggers are sitting in their comment sections right now, pretending to be readers? How many of these conversations are just one person talking to themselves under different names? And does it even matter? Maybe the engagement is fake. Maybe it’s all synthetic. But at least the blog isn’t sitting empty, and that small lie feels better than admitting nobody came.
I might be doing it right now. I might have been doing it the whole time. I might never do it at all. The game was always the same—who am I? Maybe that’s the real question. Not whether I’m cheating, but whether it changes anything.
The heat never lets up. You’re at the quarry with whoever showed up, iPod on repeat, taking photos on a camera that was already obsolete the day you bought the phone. Early 2000s and that passed for a summer. Proof you were somewhere doing something, which was enough.
Your music taste was garbage. U2, Akon, whatever leaked into heavy rotation. You’d argue about playlists like you’d actually discovered something instead of stealing it from a file-sharing site. None of you had taste—you just had opinions about taste, which is different.
The quarry was perfect for this: stripping down, jumping in, lying on hot concrete while hours passed. The kind of nothing that only works when you’re young enough to believe time is infinite. Just music loud enough to fill the silence, people you’d known forever in the casual way of bodies that share a small place, the weight of boredom that felt like freedom because there was nowhere else you had to be.
It’s all one afternoon now, compressed into a memory of sweat and chlorine and that specific smallness. You can’t get back to it, but every summer you think about it anyway.
May night. There were riots and chaos happening — property destruction, the usual insanity. We’d had plans, wanted to get out and be part of it, but the more we tried to organize anything the more everything fell apart. This is just who we are: spontaneous or nothing. So the big party caravan through Landsberg we’d been talking up turned into a night of drinking, shisha, and South Park at my place instead.
MTV saved the evening. Some episode taught us things: red-haired people have no souls, for one. You shouldn’t throw throwing stars at small blonde kids. And you’re definitely not invisible on stage no matter how hard you believe you are, clothes on or off.
I tried instant noodles for the first time that night. Just grabbed a pack without thinking. They’re good — better than expected. The kind of thing that sticks with you enough that you remember it after.
I was getting real traffic by then. People from other countries reading what I wrote. It went to my head the way it does when you’re young and suddenly visible. I thought it meant something.
I found her on a site called Abby Winters. Just some girl they’d photographed in Melbourne. I looked her up like an idiot and found everything — her birthday, her age, what she was studying. That whole obsessive archaeology you do when you’ve seen someone’s body and convinced yourself you need to know them.
And then I couldn’t stop thinking about her. The kind of fixation that happens when you’ve seen someone’s photos but don’t actually know anything real about them. You look at an image and build an entire person around it. You feel intimate with a stranger, when really all you have is a moment in a room, a camera, light.
What gets me now is that I actually believed my traffic meant something. That having an audience gave me the power to reach across anything. I was completely delusional about it. She had no idea who I was. Still doesn’t.
While some ambitious bloggers were driving traffic somewhere yesterday, I was flat out in the sun with CSS blasting — ’Music Is My Hot, Hot Sex’ is still ridiculous. Then I went swimming and froze my ass off in water that should not have been that cold.
We ended up at this overpriced Mexican place that somehow felt like being on vacation. I ate way too many fried noodles with vegetables and salad. The waitress was sweet.
Tonight is Mainacht — that German spring thing, May Eve. The night when you’re allowed to just lose it, and everyone expects you to. There’s something funny about a culture with chaos built into the calendar like that. Berlin’s a war zone by now.
I’m at the lake with my shirt off, letting my belly tan, when I find out two different blogs have written about this place. Just mentioned it, praised it even. I’m not sure what I did to deserve it. Maybe they were bored. Maybe there’s nothing else worth writing about lately.
It’s strange, getting noticed out of nowhere. One said it was “worth seeing.” The other went on about the simplicity and style, how it all fits together. You don’t expect that kind of thing when you’re just doing your own thing. Suddenly you’re reading praise about yourself and wondering if you’ve actually built something real or just imagined you did.
Then Christoph shows up with his problem. The aesthetic’s too much, he says. Too many breasts, basically, too deliberately designed to catch a certain kind of eye. He’s not entirely wrong. I built this place to be crude, horny, unashamed. But when someone calls it out directly, you start to wonder if you should soften it up, get proper, download a respectable WordPress theme and try being an adult.
The whole thing’s funny when I think about it. Two people praising it, one criticizing it, and all of them seeing exactly what I was doing. My commenters too—they drag my posts sideways into conversations I never planned for, and half the time it’s hilarious. You get seen, you get the good and the bad, and somehow both matter.
I dunk my head in cold water to get the red out of my face. The real question that won’t leave me alone: so do I get on TV now?
Spent last night at André’s for one of those retro campfire gatherings. Vodka that wasn’t great, shisha, the usual. Somehow we ended up at a couple of cemeteries after midnight—not planned, just the kind of weird thing that happens when you’re outside late and looking for something to do.
Couldn’t stay long though. I was heading out to the gravel pit lake with the crew, which was originally Hoizge’s idea. By then the evening was already spent.
I’m at Norma with Becca. She’s frozen in front of the cookies, completely unable to decide what to commit to, and I’m walking the aisles in a kind of trance—past Thai mushroom sauces, Polish car radios, whatever they’ve decided the international section needs today. Then I see it. Organic basil. Green, full, genuinely substantial. Ninety-nine cents. I’m adopting this plant.
There’s something about finding the right thing at the right price. About five years ago I felt it with instant noodles. Ä Kim Chi, the Acecook brand, vegetable flavor. I don’t remember exactly when they became a thing—maybe around when everyone decided sodium was acceptable again—but suddenly they were just everywhere. Not student food. Real people with real jobs were buying them. I was one of them, kept buying them through some solid stretch of my life.
I was probably addicted to the moment more than the noodles themselves. That specific feeling of standing in a discount store and finding something that just clicks. Want hits price hits availability, and you don’t have to talk yourself into anything. The basil’s on my windowsill now. Every time I look at it I’m thinking about those noodles, about Norma as this place where random alignment happens, where Becca’s still deciding and I’m walking out with something I didn’t know I needed.
There’s always an Ernie and a Bert. The Ernie dances blind through life, doesn’t look left or right, doesn’t think about damage — just moves. The Bert cleans up afterward, worries constantly, manages things, thinks about tomorrow while the Ernie’s off doing whatever.
You see it everywhere. In friendships, romantic relationships. One person lives in the moment, flirts, doesn’t really respect the other person’s feelings. The other sits there jealous and anxious, already half-surrendered to the role.
But you’re not locked in. I’m an Ernie with Becca, totally unbothered. With Ana I’m the Bert, worried and managing. Then with Mille I flip back to Ernie. With Eniz I’m the Bert again. The role depends on who’s across from you.
Both versions have their weight. Being the Ernie means someone else carries something. Being the Bert means you’re always thinking ahead, watching, waiting — which is its own exhaustion.
I don’t know if knowing this changes anything. You can see the pattern and still be stuck in it. Knowing you’re the Bert doesn’t make the worry stop. Knowing you’re the Ernie doesn’t make it less complicated for the other person. It just gives you a name for what you were already feeling.
Somehow I’ve pissed off China, or at least the part that controls what gets through the Great Firewall. Which shouldn’t have happened—I’m not exactly a dissident. I like their food, I help tourists find their way, I even wrote a school paper about internet control in Beijing. But here we are, probably blocked.
There’s a website called greatfirewallofchina.org that lets you test whether yours made it through. The whole thing exists to prove that one country has decided most of the world shouldn’t see what you’re saying. They block the porn, they’ve strangled Google, they monitor chat rooms and games. If you can see this from inside China, you either know someone or someone messed up.
I assume it’s this post. Or maybe just existing on the open internet without permission. There’s something almost noble about it—accidentally accomplishing something by simply not shutting up. I wonder if anyone there is reading this anyway, finding their way around the censorship, looking at home like you watch an ex on Instagram. Close enough to see but too far to touch.
I’m scrolling through tracks on my iPod when a Britney Spears song comes up and I skip it. Not because the guy next to me on the train would judge me—though he might—but because I’m terrified it’s being scrobbled somewhere, feeding into some invisible profile of me that exists on Last.fm, a permanent record of every musical failure I’ve ever pretended to like.
This is what Web 2.0 paranoia feels like. Every photo you upload, every link you share, every song you half-listen to at midnight—it’s all being collected, indexed, connected. There’s no privacy left, just varying degrees of exposure. Sometimes when I’m thinking through something I want to remember, I actually find myself reaching for the browser cache button, as if my own thoughts might escape into the internet if I don’t pin them down first.
Last week I had a nightmare. I was checking Technorati to see who’d linked to me, and there it was: my name at the top of some “WTF?” list. I clicked through and saw my Flickr account had been hacked. Nude photos of me, of people I know, scattered across the web. The kind of nightmare that wakes you up sweating, the kind where everyone you know has seen something you never meant to show them. My friends in the dream were furious. Then I woke up.
The dream stuck with me because part of me knows it could happen. We put so much of ourselves online, and we have almost no control over what happens to it. At some point someone’s going to get careless, or unlucky. Maybe the smart move is to delete everything now while we still can, kill every account, stop feeding the machine before it turns on us.
But that’s not going to happen. I’m still blogging. I’m still uploading photos to Flickr, still scrobbling every album, still leaving this trail of myself all over the internet. I guess I’m just an exhibitionist—too vain or too lonely to keep anything private. The exposure is the point. I want to be seen, and I’m willing to take the risk.
So go ahead and check what I’m listening to. See if Britney Spears ever shows up on my Last.fm. And don’t bother trying to hack my Flickr for the nudes—there aren’t any. Probably.
Sash was my first WordPress theme, named after someone I cared about. Two columns, grunge aesthetic, no special features—just the bare structure of what a blog needs. If you wanted to build something more, you did it yourself.
I liked working that way. Constraints force honesty. With two columns and white space, you can’t hide behind ornament or clever design tricks. The form either works or it doesn’t.
The theme had its flaws. If the sidebar grew longer than the main column, the decorative line wouldn’t reach the footer. I never fixed it. Part stubbornness, part acceptance that a personal tool doesn’t need to be bulletproof. It required PageBar as a plugin, and the header image came with a PSD file, though you probably had to substitute your own fonts unless you had the specific ones installed.
Looking back, that’s exactly what I wanted to make at that moment—something honest and rough around the edges. Not for beginners. Which was the whole point.
Earth Day happens in a hundred and fifty countries. Mostly it’s people remembering they’re supposed to care, changing their pictures, talking about it for a day. We’re built for gestures like that.
But humans actually do wreck everything. Rainforests gone. Species extinct. We’re redesigning life itself now because we can. There’s a reason people call us a virus.
The slow part is that it’s actually shifting. Not fast. But Greenpeace and organizations like that have bent some things back. Even ordinary people talk about carbon now. The awareness is spreading like a stain, seeping through places where it wasn’t before.
What sits with me is the gap between understanding the problem and actually changing course. I watch people wake up to it and I already know it won’t be enough. Not fast enough. Won’t touch enough people. We’ll maybe get to a place where we live with the planet instead of through it, but that’s a thin hope and it sits in me quietly, not confident, not loud.
I think about the next generation and I want to believe they’ll live in a world where we stopped murdering everything. That we figured out coexistence. But wanting something and it happening are different planets, and I’m not sure we’re on a trajectory to get there. So I sit with the ambivalence. The knowledge that something is shifting and also that most shifts happen too late.
Friday night and the world’s wide open. I had three options, and I was already halfway through justifying my first choice—the Melo with André and Lisa. Seen the Microsoft-Apple thing anyway. Going to parties with Ana never ended well, just never.
But Ana was having a shit week. Really shit. So when she asked, I said yes.
The party was in some resort town disco. Tiny place, asshole bouncers, the kind of people so proud of themselves for dancing to hip-hop remixes in a room the size of my apartment. I could see it all before we even got there—the people bailing, the crowd, everything wrong. My alarm bells were screaming. I ignored them.
Just followed her around. Got clingy and jealous the way I always do, like some unwanted tag-along to her evening. The whole night was exactly as bad as I knew it would be. When it was finally over, everyone was asleep—my ride home had given up on me. So I walked. Had my iPod at least. Didn’t help.
Next time I’ll listen to myself. Next time I won’t go anywhere with her. I only need to remember the suicidal thoughts. That’s enough to stop me.
Drunk girls taking their clothes off for internet photos was already a thing, but somewhere around the mid-2000s someone thought it needed spray-paint graffiti. BubbleGirls. Strip a girl, paint her, post the pictures. Like it was a new artistic medium instead of just what it was.
And it actually happened. Shriiimp became the main community—galleries of painted nudes organized like it was a legitimate art movement. There was Tilt, an artist posting his own stuff like he’d discovered something important. What’s strange is how seriously everyone took it. Put something online, organize it enough, get enough people looking, and it starts to feel real. Like you’re participating in something.
I remember being genuinely curious about the logistics. How do you spray-paint a person and have it actually look intentional? What does that feel like? But mostly what I remember is how quickly it disappeared. One day it felt like it was spreading, and then it just wasn’t. The internet moved on. Shriiimp was gone, Tilt vanished, and we all found something else to look at.
The thing that sticks is the speed of it. How something can feel significant while it’s happening and then become completely forgotten the moment it’s no longer happening. Like all those photos of painted girls just… ceased to matter. Which I guess is the internet’s kindest version of memory loss.
There’s this phase where nothing moves. The days are all the same—sun up, sun down, nothing changed. Then something breaks and suddenly everything accelerates. You’re drowning in moments, good ones and terrible ones, and you realize you’ve been standing still the whole time.
April did that. A friend’s mother died of cancer, and they buried her today. It’s the kind of moment that makes you stop pretending things stay the same.
Becca decided she needed out. She’s moving to Freiburg, somewhere better. We were close, but I was never really there for it—always somewhere else in my head, thinking about things I don’t even remember anymore. She deserved better. I think about the nights we’d cook together, the walks, how easy it was to just be around her. I’m going to miss that. But she’s right to go, and I’m proud of her, even though it means she’s leaving and I’m staying.
There’s something clarifying about watching someone else move forward while you’re stationary. Not bitter, just clear: you’re not stuck, you’re choosing not to move. You see someone gather the courage to change something broken, and your excuses suddenly sound thin.
So I’m done sitting around. Actually going to work on my studies now, actually push on the thing I keep deferring. I’m tired of being the person who talks about change while staying exactly where I am. Watching Becca have the courage to move makes it hard to pretend that’s anything other than my own choice.
Ana quit school, and it stirred things up here. The question that wouldn’t die was how much of your own life you actually get to decide when everyone has expectations about what you should do. I was sick with a cold when we drove to Memmingen—still am, really, cough hanging on—but we went to the career information center anyway so she could see what her options were.
She spent hours in there reading through job listings, watching physiotherapy career videos, pulling information about different paths. I did the same thing, trying to understand what different careers actually meant. Spent the rest of the time hacking their Google search page, which worked. So if you ever get trapped in a career center without real internet, I can help.
Then Ira and Daja met us and we went to Munich to make the most of those regional train tickets. While they were shopping, Ana and I sat in Hugendubel for three hours straight. She was going through books on nutrition and psychology—one of them was about someone who lived on sunlight for five years—and I grabbed the new Mac magazine, Steve Jobs’ biography, and a book about Mac culture. There’s a chapter about the iPod’s creation that stuck with me.
What happens with Ana now, whether she goes back to school or not, nobody really knows. With her it could be anything. But we made a deal. If I actually focus on my distance learning degree instead of letting it slide, she’ll finish hers. Fair trade. We agreed to it. I kept her awake last night with coughing and the next morning she was back in class, or at least she said she would be. Which with her is always something you watch and wait on.
Spring in Bavaria, school’s back in session, and my best friend dropped out. Not a dramatic scene—just called the gymnasium that morning and said she was done. Twelve years in, straight-A student, months away from her Abitur, and she simply walked away.
I kept turning it over in my head when she told me. What makes someone abandon a path that’s working, that’s safe, that everyone expects you to finish? Fear disguised as freedom? Genuine curiosity about what else is out there? Or just the weight of doing everything right finally cracking something inside. Probably all three.
The hard part was figuring out how to actually feel about it. I wanted to be the person who cheered her on for having the courage to leave. But I was also the person thinking about how much it takes to rebuild when you’ve torched everything. And there’s a third thing—watching someone you love do something you’ve only thought about doing. That stings a little. Not quite envy, but something in that direction.
I was sick that day, stuck at home alone when she told me, which maybe shaped how I took it. There was no celebrating together, no sense that this was some grand adventure. Just the knowledge that someone I cared about had made a choice I was still too cautious to make myself, and that meant something I didn’t want to examine too closely.
I never asked her if she regretted it. Maybe that’s the coward’s way out—not wanting to know the answer because it would tell me something about my own compromises. She burned down a plan she’d built for years and walked into nothing, and I stayed exactly where I was, doing what I was supposed to do. Sometimes I wonder which one of us was braver.
Internet’s back. Better internet this time—went from that dead DSL 2000 to a proper 6000er line with unlimited calls. Took longer than they said it would, something about strikes, but I’m not complaining. My plan was to just plant myself in front of the screen once it was hooked up. Didn’t quite work out that way.
Ended up on a bike ride with Ana and her mother instead. Had this half-alive campfire situation at André’s place. Then there was Melo—some kind of venue or festival—where we went to actually lose it. The music was legitimately good. Lot of Muse, Beatsteaks, Queens of the Stone Age. My kind of thing. This band called The Giotto played, and their singer had this completely vacant expression the entire time that kept making me think of Amanda Bynes. No idea why. Just did.
Spent the rest of the weekend doing what I’d been avoiding for months: actually cleaning my Mac. I have this idiot habit of downloading stuff and tossing it into weirdly named folders scattered all over the drive. Would’ve lost half of it forever without Spotlight. Cleared out useless programs, every porn file I’d ever saved, old setup files I didn’t even recognize—all gone into the digital void. Got my photos sorted into iPhoto, which is where they’re supposed to stay. Updated the Dashboard, killed widgets that annoyed me, brought in ones that don’t make me want to throw the computer out the window.
Problem is I spent the whole chaotic weekend eating nothing but instant noodles, spinach potato wedges, and these spelt burgers drowning in ketchup. Your body keeps track of that. Woke up completely sick—the kind where you can’t breathe and you’re convinced you’re going to choke in your sleep. So here’s Sunday: TV and internet and nothing else. The diet of consequence.
There was a moment in the early 2010s when alternative culture felt like it was taking over the internet. Not in a commercialized way—genuinely alternative. SuicideGirls was huge then, this platform for people who didn’t fit the mainstream look. Sash was my favorite. She had this unguarded blog where she’d post whatever crossed her mind, make jokes, share photos. Beautiful photos, yeah, but there was something about the whole thing that felt honest in a way most internet stuff wasn’t.
She was from California, did the MySpace circuit like everyone else then. Got offers for shoots and modeling work, the kind of thing that usually means nothing. But she decided to just do it herself. Partnered with a photographer named Cymagen and they built SashSuicide.com. Just her and her work, no gatekeepers between her and whoever wanted to look.
I remember thinking that was the real shift happening. SuicideGirls had been this incredible thing, actual curation, but eventually everyone figures out they can have their own site. Cut out the middleman. It felt radical at the time—owning your own image literally and figuratively.
The thing about her was this mix of severity and thoughtfulness. The leather, the tattoos, the sexuality laid bare, but she was vegetarian, thoughtful about how she moved through the world. These contradictions are what made her seem like a person instead of a product or a category.
I don’t think about her much anymore. The internet left that moment behind. Everything got safer, more sortable, more algorithmic. SuicideGirls still exists but it’s not what it was. That window when alternative culture felt like it was actually winning, when you could stumble onto strangeness and beauty in your browser without trying—that’s closed now. Sash was part of that brief time when weird didn’t need permission.
Apple pushed Leopard back to October instead of spring because the iPhone needed the developers. That’s the story, anyway. Everyone online is upset—they were counting on it to finally make Windows Vista look ridiculous.
I’m frustrated for a different reason. I’d been planning to use Leopard as an excuse to gut my Mac mini completely, fresh install, clear out all the accumulated junk. Now that’s delayed until October, which is just disappointing.
The bigger thing is that Apple dropped “Computer” from their company name, and you can feel that shift. The iPhone is the golden child now. Mac users used to be Apple’s whole thing, and that’s changing. They’re showing off some Leopard features in June to keep people happy while they wait, but it’s not the same.
Maybe this is a very late April Fools joke and nothing matters anyway.
Sia’s “Breathe Me” is one of those songs that hits you in a specific, dark place. I don’t put it on casually. Regina Spektor’s “Samson” does something different—it just breaks me open, there’s something about how her voice lands on certain notes that I can’t defend against. The Killers’ “Read My Mind” is the opposite extreme, pure joy. Ai Otsuka’s “Smily” can snap me out of basically any funk. Arctic Monkeys’ “The View from the Afternoon” won’t let you stay still—your body just moves.
Some songs feel incomplete, like they should be longer. Cartman’s “Kyle’s Mom’s a Bitch” from South Park is the obvious one; I used to loop it for hours, which says something about my taste at that age. Then there are songs that actually matter: Juli’s “Wir Beide,” that moment in Radiohead where they bring in Björk for “I’ve Seen It All.” Songs that don’t wear out no matter how much you listen: t.A.T.u.’s “All the Things She Said” lived on my portable player for way too long.
I genuinely love SPITZ’s “Hotaru,” Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles,” Avril Lavigne’s “I’m With You.” That last one embarrasses some people but not me. There’s the reverse: my cousin downloaded something I can’t even remember the name of, and I never bothered to delete it. Silbermond’s “Durch die Nacht” means something specific that I’m not going to fully explain. Craig Armstrong’s “This Love” with Elizabeth Fraser is a soundtrack thing—something I only put on when I’m already pretty far down. Saw Mike Park live doing “North Hangook Falling,” guy can actually sing even if the merch quality was insulting.
Younha has a song in Korean, Lindsay Lohan’s “Edge of Seventeen,” Damien Rice’s “9 Crimes” which is genuinely dangerous to listen to while driving anywhere near a tree. My favorite band is the brilliant green and “Rainy Days Never Stays” is probably the closest I have to a band anthem. The Pokémon theme is burned into my neurons forever. Berger’s “Heiligenschein” I identify with in a way I won’t get into.
There’s Ton Steine Scherben’s “Halt Dich An Deiner Liebe Fest”—if I were going to serenade someone it’d be that. Bloc Party’s “So Here We Are” is pure kissing-in-the-dark energy, the kind of song that makes you lock eyes and wait for credits. Bell X1’s “Eve, the Apple of My Eye” is cuddling energy. The Fray’s “Vienna” brings back every heartbreak at once. Stereo Total’s “Liebe zu Dritt” is exactly what the title says.
A class trip to Prague I remember partly because of Peha’s “Za Tebou.” Tokio Hotel’s “Spring nicht” is one I like even though I probably shouldn’t admit it. I want something instantly energizing in the morning and the Veronicas’ “4ever” does that. Azure Ray’s “Sleep” is literally perfect for falling asleep. Christina Milian’s “Say I” is the drive song. Phantom Planet’s “California” meant The O.C. was about to start, and that show could salvage almost any situation just by existing.
P!nk’s “Dear Mr. President” was the last music video that actually impressed me. Bloc Party’s “Blue Light” doesn’t get old. Then Scissor Sisters’ “I Don’t Feel Like Dancing” which my friend loves and I can’t fucking stand. Something by DJ Ötzi that drives me genuinely insane. Muse’s “Supermassive Black Hole” I learned to love because someone else did first. Yeah, Tokio Hotel again—I like a specific song even though the band doesn’t do much for me anymore. Right now it’s Amerie’s “One Thing.” Last thing I downloaded was Justin Timberlake’s “What Goes Around Comes Around” but it’s already getting old. Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun”—they’re done but that song doesn’t age.
The whole exercise is pointless and somehow necessary at the same time. It doesn’t tell you anything you don’t already know about yourself, but it makes you sit with your own taste for a while, remember when songs mattered and why. That’s worth something.
I was never one of those fitness-obsessed types, the kind who burns a thousand calories before allowing themselves to eat a sad bowl of diet salad. In school PE I was a complete failure on the rare occasions I actually showed up. Never played competitive football like everyone else did. The “sports are murder” philosophy was basically my identity.
But here’s the thing: right now, elbow-deep in a bag of discount chips, I’m noticing the bag is half full. From yesterday. That’s not normal. Lately I’ve been eating better—and I mean actually choosing to. Sliced oranges and apples in a bowl. Pineapple that tastes like pure vitamin and acid burn. And it feels good. Someone who spent years on meat, melted cheese, and mayo-covered fries can feel the difference when vegetables enter the equation.
And I’m moving more too. Not intentionally, just circumstantially. The car’s been stuck in the shop for months, so getting anywhere—to a friend’s place, to buy groceries—means a long walk or bike ride with earbuds in. Pedaling through some genuinely gorgeous weather counts as exercise if you do it every day.
I’m not worried about turning into one of those insufferable fitness evangelists, the type who won’t shut up about their clean eating or their morning runs. Don’t want to get so health-conscious I’m naked in the garden lecturing about vitamins. But being slightly less of a slug seems like a reasonable goal. Or so I tell myself while reaching back into the chips.
Things are actually looking up though. Even Telekom’s decided to like me again—new DSL is supposed to arrive this Thursday. They already sent me a splitter (now I have two), and the login credentials should show up in a few days. I’m weirdly excited about it, which is probably sad. Less excited about what my mobile hotspot bill is going to be.
A fan asked some of us to share desk photos—the places where we sit and slowly lose our minds. Rebecca and I had just torn my apartment apart on impulse anyway, needed a change, needed everything to look different. Fresh paint, new furniture layout, nothing complicated. Just enough to make the space feel like mine again instead of something I’d memorized down to every crack.
Being vegetarian is harder than it sounds, especially when you work in a hospital kitchen. There’s always something—full meals, light meals, vegetarian options—and normally I can count on enough leftovers. But then the menu reads “Kaiserschmarn” for the vegetarian choice, which is this sweet Bavarian thing that makes everyone lose their minds. Suddenly the whole hospital wants the vegetarian meal, and what’s left for me? Rice. Potatoes. A roll from breakfast. Hurray.
At least I’m not alone. My friend Manu, also vegetarian, invited me over Saturday for a BBQ at this empty house that looked straight out of an American horror film—no second floor but an unsettling basement, a swimming pool, all these dark hallways where couples were scattered around making out in the corners. The kind of place that makes you want to leave and stay at the same time.
Meanwhile, Telekom activated my phone line Monday morning. Someone there must read this blog. It didn’t help my internet situation though—apparently I need a new number now, plus the setup fee that comes with it. T-Online has no clue what T-Com is doing, so I faxed them to transfer the DSL. One to fourteen days processing, depending on which employee decides to actually process it. No guarantees.
But it’s spring now, even if the weather keeps acting like it isn’t sure. I cleared all the winter depression out of my iPod, loaded it with something different. You sit in the sun for five minutes after months of gray and you start believing things might actually improve. That’s where I’m at, even if my new playlist isn’t quite as cheerful as I convinced myself it would be. Then again, neither is the weather.
Deutsche Telekom’s managed to avoid restoring my phone line for two months while billing me for DSL I can’t use. The absurdity is complete. My internet is a hotel hotspot across the street at twelve cents a minute. You’d think this couldn’t be real, but here it is.
Plenty’s shifted in the last few weeks. Ana and I tried being more than best friends—lasted a month before we figured out we were just grinding on each other’s nerves. Kind of relieving, honestly. Sometimes you have to try something to know it doesn’t work. We’re solid again now, and maybe that’s actually better.
I’m not doing pizza delivery anymore. Hospital work now, which pays better and steadies things while I finish school. Also went vegetarian, which I’m sure sounds like it comes with a manifesto, but it’s genuinely just opened up cooking I’d been skipping over. There’s something nice about rediscovering half the menu.
This is a bare-bones post because internet by the minute gets expensive fast. But I do miss this. Being offline has its quiet rewards—forces you to think about other things. But there’s a hollow to it too. No ICQ, no connection to anyone. Just quiet and separation.
I’m planning to actually blog more once I get proper internet back. The offline stretch has been useful, but I’m ready to be plugged in again.
I don’t usually watch MTV shows. Not the one where the guy customizes cars, not the renovation guys, not whatever’s trendy this week. Someone cheating with their ex, someone else’s mother, an influencer selling foot detox—it all blurs together. The Real World was somehow more interesting. Everything now just feels like they’re grasping.
Then 8th & Ocean showed up. Ten aspiring models, the usual troubles: relationships aren’t working, skin isn’t cooperating, and modeling is supposedly the hardest business in the world (at least according to everyone on the show). Nothing revolutionary. But the production is sharp. Good music, clean cuts, satisfying sound design. It looks impeccable.
Maybe that’s why I watch. Or maybe I just miss The O.C., California. Honestly, that’s probably it.
While everyone else was apparently smashing store windows and losing their minds over World of Warcraft: The Burning Crusade, I somehow missed the entire thing. Didn’t even know it was out until I was holding it.
Tuesday morning I dragged Eniz out of bed and drove to Kaufbeuren to grab a copy. He was barely conscious the whole way—probably thought it was a dream. I figured the place would be picked clean by then, but there it was, just sitting there.
Spent all night installing patches, sweating that I’d get my character name before it got claimed. I’d planned to roll on a different realm, but the only place still holding “Nami” open was a PvP server. So I went with it. Expected the whole thing to be a disaster: massive queues, bloated starting zones, constant lag. But it was smooth. Nothing broke.
Created a blood elf paladin and just wandered the starting zone. The design is actually beautiful—warm bright colors, these playful buildings everywhere. Even the character animation is good; blood elves move with this fluid weirdness that shouldn’t work but does. Quests felt like actual content, not padding. The capital city Silvermoon was basically empty at first, but you could already picture it packed.
Didn’t have the money for the deluxe edition, so I spent my earned currency on a little dragon companion. Completely frivolous but it felt good. Joined a guild called the Straw Hat Pirates because the name made me laugh.
Now that I’ve cleared everything around Silvermoon, Nami’s heading south into the corrupted zones where everything’s diseased and hostile. Time to actually start playing.
I spent the weekend with Ana doing basically nothing. We went shopping, she got her hair done while I sat in the salon reading, we walked around, ate chocolate, watched SuperStar. Then André had a birthday party at the Landsberger Juze yesterday and somehow I’m sick now.
I’d actually helped him pick the music—good stuff, Muse, The Killers, The Subways, Bloc Party, +44, Sum 41, The Strokes. The DJ ignored all of it and played 90s techno the entire night. Can’t complain, I suppose, since I was driving and couldn’t drink anyway. So I spent the night looking cool with a bottle of mineral water.
The party itself was fine. Bene got wasted and started going off about women’s liberation, which is funny because he hates women. I made Ana a series of increasingly terrible cocktails. Silvi showed up, this girl I hadn’t seen in ages—she’s always busy with something. André was trying to photograph every hillside in sight. Nothing crazy happened but it was decent. We’re doing a proper lake party this summer with a bonfire, I’m serious about that.
Sitting in the salon waiting for Ana, I found an article about whether men and women can actually be friends. The argument was basically: these friendships exist, but there’s always sexual tension underneath, and if you ever sleep together, you destroy it. It got me thinking. Can you really just be friends with someone you’re attracted to? Does sex automatically kill the friendship?
Ana and I were sprawled on her couch when the commercial came on. Durex. Some new lubricant with a warming effect, the narrator going on about how their love would get hotter. I was eating cold fish nuggets and not really paying attention when Ana cracked an eye open and just laughed. I got it immediately—they were selling lube on regular television like it was dish soap.
The whole thing hit different because I remember when this stuff had to hide. Otto catalog, page 4050, if you knew to look. You had to want it badly enough to dig through a thousand pages of furniture ads to find condoms. But here it was in primetime, sandwiched between other commercials, entirely unashamed about what it was.
Better than those bleak public health campaigns the state used to run, the ones that made sex feel like a disease you had to protect yourself from. This was just direct: people have sex, this makes it feel better, here’s where to buy it. I appreciated that kind of honesty.
Some of the other spots in the campaign had a condom superhero making women happy, which is stupid in exactly the right way. Not trying to be cool or aspirational, just leaning into the slight absurdity of the whole thing. That’s what actually works.
Apple barely had to advertise. Every other tech company was dumping money into campaigns, and Apple just pinned a countdown on their homepage. Macworld was coming, and anyone paying attention was already weeks deep in speculation.
The rumor mill was predictable. Grainy photos of alleged prototypes would surface online—usually obviously fake—but people analyzed them anyway. New OS versions, iPhone whispers, something called iTV. Every possibility dissected, debated, picked apart for weeks leading up to the event.
What’s interesting is that Apple barely had to feed any of it. The fans did the work. There was something cult-like about how people treated the keynote, waiting for the “one more thing” moment when Jobs would announce something that reframed everything. Apple had engineered a system where they didn’t need marketing—the devotion was self-sustaining.
Those Macworld seasons had a particular energy. The speculation, the leaks, the livestream refresh. It felt like a cultural moment, not just a sales pitch. Apple made you feel like you were discovering something rather than being sold to, which is maybe why people cared so much about it. A lot of that specific kind of tech religion has moved on now, different platforms and different hype cycles. But you could feel it then—something that people actually wanted to be part of.
Five years to the day, VIVA PLUS launched and I hated it immediately. I was a VIVA Zwei kid—that was the real channel, stuff that actually mattered. Then they replaced everything with this thing.
The whole channel was a disaster from frame one. Scroll bars the size of a fist eating half the screen. “News” about The Sims throwing parties and Mary J. Blige having period problems, hosted by people who thought giggling at their own jokes for hours was a career. It was dumb in that specific way that makes you angry at yourself for even caring.
After MTV took over, the death spiral just got faster. SMS voting, ringtone ads, phone quizzes, all the desperate garbage of a channel in freefall. So when VIVA PLUS got replaced by Comedy Central on January 15th, I didn’t feel robbed. Nothing there was worth mourning.
The only thing that actually made me laugh in their preview schedule was this: “March into Four Rooms with Tine Hitler,” nightly from 7:33 to 7:45. That’s funny. That’s got teeth.
If you’re looking for what comes next, I don’t have answers for you. GotV if you’re in Austria, MTV when it’s decent at night, Würfelzucker if you’re into that scene. I’m done thinking about this.
I turned 23 today. I don’t look or feel particularly 23, whatever that’s supposed to mean. The age seems arbitrary — too old to be young, too young to have anything figured out. One of those in-between numbers that doesn’t register as anything special until someone points out you’ve been alive for twenty-three years and then suddenly it lands.
I thought about what I’d say about a year older, a year further into this thing. Nothing comes to mind that feels true. You don’t wake up different. You don’t suddenly understand things you didn’t yesterday. You just keep going, older by accident.
Actually, that’s not quite right. I can feel the difference in the accumulation. More memories stacked up. More patterns. More things I know won’t work because I’ve watched them fail before — in my own life, in other people’s, in things I’ve read or watched. Whether that counts as wisdom or just fatigue, I’m not sure.
Anyway. Here I am. Twenty-three. Might as well sit with it for a while.
FOX cancelled The O.C. Ratings dropped and that’s all there was to it. Josh Schwartz made some graceful comment about how for a certain audience at a certain time it meant something, and he’s right. For a while there, Newport Beach felt like the only real place on earth.
The show had this ability to make four teenagers’ personal disasters feel urgent and important, not because they actually were but because the show knew exactly how to make you care. You cared whether Ryan and Marissa would end up together. You cared about Summer and Cohen. You bought the whole melodrama of it - the parties, the fighting, the way every minor betrayal felt apocalyptic. It was completely ridiculous and completely effective.
Then they killed Marissa Cooper and the show never recovered from it. I think everyone watching felt that shift immediately. The whole thing only worked if those four were in orbit around each other, and without her it just collapsed. The show kept running but it was already dead, just didn’t know it yet. I finished watching but I was going through the motions. The magic was gone.
There’s something I appreciated about what it did, though - the way it could make you feel like you were part of some world, some moment, even when you knew it was total fiction. The Tijuana trip, the brawls at parties. The mythology of California it built around everything. I learned something from it, some lesson about how television can trick you into caring about made-up people and places and you don’t feel stupid about it because it’s done well enough.
Now it’s over. California, here we come - that line’s a joke now since nobody’s coming anywhere. But that’s fine. I got what I needed from it. It had its moment and then it was done, and there’s no point keeping something alive past when it matters.
I was driving around with pizzas yesterday when it hit me—I’m basically Squidward. That permanently miserable squid from SpongeBob. Same grumpy disposition, same refusal to eat anything at my actual job, same aching desire to be anywhere but where I am. The comparison felt uncomfortably accurate.
Lately my life is the kind of nothing that somehow takes up all your time. Wake up, make breakfast, study, watch One Piece, chat with people, work, collapse into bed. The routine’s so flat it feels almost intentional, like I’m testing how little variation a person can actually tolerate. Days blur. You’re living but barely present for it. The kind of month where you look back and realize you have nothing to show for it except the absence of any alternative.
Then Ana and I ended up at McDonald’s around midnight. Stupid, pointless, and somehow the best part of my week. It’s nothing—it’s just sitting around eating fries and talking—but these little ruptures in the routine matter more than they should. An hour of that and suddenly the whole grinding cycle feels slightly less suffocating. It doesn’t change anything, doesn’t fix whatever’s making me feel Squidward-adjacent. But it reminds you that living isn’t just the routine itself.
I’m not sure when I started being this person. Probably happened gradually, the way most things do. No dramatic fall, just a slow accumulation of gray days until one day you realize you’ve been feeling empty for months without noticing. But then there’s midnight McDonald’s, or a moment that makes you laugh, and for a second you think maybe it’s not all bad. Or at least not all the time.
It’s New Year’s Eve and I’m supposed to do what people do—look back, find the meaning, polish it into something readable. Skip it. 2006 was shit. Setbacks, depression, the kind of year where you’re just surviving until it ends. I’m not going to dress it up.
Yesterday Ana and I went shopping for better groceries. I’m fundamentally lazy—my idea of staying active is walking around with my iPod—and I’ve let myself get soft over the last few years. Nothing catastrophic, just enough that I wanted to change something. So that’s the plan: eat better, stop eating garbage.
The new World of Warcraft expansion drops in January. I’m stupidly excited about that. Then in a few months Apple’s finally releasing Leopard, the new OS. I’m curious what they’ve done with it. Windows Vista looks like it’s already given up.
I took a job delivering pizzas in the evenings to make money for my Abitur exams, which means I actually have to focus on school now instead of just showing up. And Hamburg keeps appearing in my head. I don’t know if I’m headed there, but the city feels like it’s already pulling me.
2006 was the year I fell apart a little. Everything was quiet and still and broken. But when a year breaks you, you learn things, and some friendships got stronger because of it. So thanks for that, I guess, 2006. Let’s see what 2007 does.
I couldn’t sleep. Ana had been over, and I was already drained after the Munich airport. Then I spent the afternoon helping André and his father build a garage, the evening delivering pizzas, and by the time I got into bed, sleep wasn’t happening. The TV was all I had.
I saw it first on a news crawl: Hussein was dead. They’d hanged him. Within minutes, every channel cut their programming, all of them showing the same thing over and over.
The execution video was out almost immediately, everything but the final drop. On Technorati he was climbing the trending list right alongside Paris Hilton and used car dealers. People wanted to see it.
I kept thinking about what went through his head in those last minutes. Walking to the gallows, masked figures speaking at him, did he think about the people he’d killed? His family? Did he know the whole world was watching? He wouldn’t have told the truth if they’d asked anyway.
Whether it was justified, whether the trial was fair—that’s something each person has to decide for themselves. I don’t have an answer. But I know I’ll never watch those South Park episodes the same way.
I’d meant to write something poetic about Munich but it never came together. Just wandering through Hugendubel for hours, one of those bookstores that swallows your afternoon, and then I found myself standing in a perfume shop breathing in everything they had. Not what I’d planned, but it didn’t matter.
What actually worked out was finally getting the website back to German. I’ve been wanting to do that for a while, and I managed to work some of that attempted poetry into it. Not sure if it reads the way I wanted, but at least it’s done. The links section still needs work. That’s next year’s problem.
Christmas came and went without the usual disaster. No one got crushed by the tree, nobody ate themselves sick on cookies, nobody had to perform that specific tragic German act of trying to somehow assemble a broken refrigerator and a broken back into functioning adulthood. Small win.
I’m hoping James Brown’s still rocking somewhere. And this cold can leave.
The good Christmases are the ones where you get to annoy your nieces and nephews without guilt, steal the last cookies off the plate, maybe reconcile with someone you fell out of touch with. It’s the one time everyone’s supposed to pretend forgiveness is real, so you might as well use it.
I’m in Munich with Ana right now. It’s cold and there’s mulled wine and this particular quiet that only exists when you’re far enough from home. The kind of moment where you remember why people bother with all this—the obligation, the noise, the commercialism. There’s something in it.
December 22 is World Orgasm Day. I’m not making that up—there’s an actual initiative behind it based on the theory that if everyone on the planet came at the same time, we’d all be so relaxed we’d stop threatening each other with nuclear weapons. Or at least think about it less for a day. It’s utopian and stupid in equal measure, which is exactly why I respect it.
Whatever works gets the job done—girlfriend, blow-up doll, stuffed animal, your hand, a sheep, it’s all valid. The method doesn’t matter. The point is the outcome: release, a moment of peace, your nervous system finally quieting down about geopolitics and whether the world is ending.
During the holidays especially, when everything is stress and forced cheer and family obligations, the idea of a mandated collective break to just let go feels almost radical. Not that it would work. People aren’t going to suddenly cooperate because they’re horny, and getting off isn’t a cure for what makes us cruel. But the impulse behind it—the belief that we all need to just come and breathe for a minute—that feels right to me.
The year’s almost gone. I’ve been through whatever I’ve been through—new people, lost people, plans that worked and plans that didn’t. Everyone I know has some version of the same story. But the one thing that didn’t change, the one thread through all of it, was music. I couldn’t imagine this year without it.
I spent most nights that mattered lying awake with my iPod, mind spinning while the thing played whatever would fit the mood. Some nights it was overwrought J-pop ballads that let me feel like my emotional wreckage at least had production value. Other nights it was punk—the kind that screams because screaming is the only language left. Sometimes both, flipping between them every few songs because sadness needs to become anger and then sadness again. The shuffle kept going and I kept listening.
There’s a list somewhere of ten songs from 2006 that meant something. Songs I wore out, songs that got played in that specific hour of the morning when sleep won’t come and thinking is all you’ve got. Not the best songs ever made. Just the ones that were there.
I’ll probably forget most of what happened this year. But I remember the playlists. I remember lying there in the dark, and the music playing, and somehow that being enough.
Microsoft was having a rough time around 2007. Jim Allchin, who ran Vista development, admitted in an interview that he’d buy a Mac if he didn’t work at the company. The company was stealing UI elements from competitors and pasting them onto their own websites. Bill Gates kept hearing from bloggers about how many of them used Macs. Everything pointed to trouble ahead.
So Microsoft did what Microsoft does: they came up with something so aggressively weird that you had to look. With HP, they created Mr. IT—a character, a mascot, a man with blonde hair and a perpetually friendly demeanor who wandered through offices in business casual, flirting with receptionists and having way too much fun with the copy machine. I didn’t want to know what came next in those spots. The whole thing was like watching someone throw a party to convince you they’re cool right before they realize nobody’s coming.
And somehow it worked, or at least it worked on me. I hated Microsoft then the way you hate someone you can’t quite quit. They were corporate, tone-deaf, always three steps behind where the industry actually was. Vista was a disaster. Every decision they made looked like it was designed by a committee that had never seen a computer before. But they had this weird confidence. They could spend millions on a campaign that was objectively ridiculous and somehow make you remember it, make you think about it.
I still hate them. But they got me. They always get me. There’s something weirdly beautiful about that kind of failure disguised as ambition.
Yeah, the rumor’s true: I got named Time Magazine’s Person of the Year in 2006. Not exactly a shock. I ran against some decent names—Ahmadinejad, Al Gore, Condoleezza Rice—but the people want what the people want.
I owe thanks to an overdose of Red Bull Sugarfree, Ana, Horst living in my head, Thunder Eater and Ankorman, Becca, my producer, Arirang, and basically everyone else who hasn’t gotten sick of me.
So I’m ascending into the realm of the unforgotten now. If you didn’t make Person of the Year this year, don’t feel bad—not your fault. There’s always next year. I’ve got an exclusive CNN interview about it somewhere. Wikipedia’s already got me immortalized.
PS: Someone got so mad about the selection that they deleted the whole Wikipedia page. It came back though.
It’s been too hot all week, and then Sunday comes with rain. Makes you want to vote on new week names instead of world wonders, just to break things up.
I’ve been with Ana constantly since Wednesday. She brought over these aggressively cute childhood photos and we’ve been grinding through this game we’re obsessed with. There’s something about company with no stakes that just works.
Friday I went shopping in Augsburg with the female half of my family. The drive was like a henhouse — everyone talking over each other — but genuinely funny chaos. Walking back from the shopping center downtown, I spotted Latin graffiti. Someone being clever. I picked up pants and a jacket, then later hit this USSR-themed fast food place, Baguettski. Wanted the “Super-Olga” but ended up with this massive tuna sandwich and a drink for three ninety-nine. Student ID finally came in handy.
Becca stopped by yesterday. In the evening I made good on a promise to Irina and we walked through Turkheim, grabbed pizza at a place called Bains. Good pizza — thick, generously loaded. The rest of the night I was half-awake while Ana somehow sleepwalked through my apartment like a confused zombie, and there was this absolute freak show on TV I couldn’t look away from.
Today’s a rain day. Chemistry homework and Dickels’ Christmas story for class. Humbug doesn’t even cover it.
The Burning Crusade trailer came out and it was genuinely great. Not the hype kind, actually great. The servers had been in freefall for months, the battlefields were completely broken since that last patch, everything felt like it was collapsing. The trailer was the reminder that there was still something under all that mess worth the time.
I’d quit playing seriously half a year before, but friends wouldn’t let it go: start fresh on a new realm, guild up, Horde this time, actually commit. The Blood Elves were the hook. They move with this dangerous grace, beautiful in a way that feels deliberate — designed to make you want to be one. Silvermoon, the new capital, would be an absolute nightmare at launch, but those hordes of tourists clear out. The serious players push through the chaos.
WoW works as a substitute when there’s nothing else going on. The acceptable way to spend your time on something that doesn’t matter. You know it’s not great, but you go anyway because something about it holds. I actually believed this expansion would bring real people back, not just the ones who show up for five minutes.
If Horde wasn’t your thing, there were the Draenei — weird blue creatures, I don’t know, whatever.
Late January, I was back in there with everyone, loading into Azeroth.
I stayed up until one-thirty playing games with Ana. The next morning I went through my inbox and realized it was beyond saving—three years of pure spam. Viagra, donations, concerned inquiries about skin conditions I don’t have. The filters gave up long ago. The spam’s too smart now.
So I’m switching to something fresh. The public address stays the same, but everything personal is moving to a new one. If you want it, ask me directly. The old one dies in a week or so.
Friday night was supposed to be just me and Ana. Saturday, the Christmas shopping trip to Munich. Then Tobi’s class reunion party at the beer tent. Rebecca was making cookies Sunday morning to cure the hangover, and some blockbuster would close it out. The whole thing was supposed to be great.
Then reality showed up, gray and cold, like it always does.
Ana was too wrecked from studying by Friday. I’m starting to understand that school is her best friend, not me. Tobi got swallowed by his move and canceled the party. Rebecca spent Saturday killing turkeys for Christmas, which isn’t exactly a vibe that carries into the evening, and the TV schedule that night was miserable. The whole plan collapsed into nothing.
What I actually did was less impressive. Sarah and Laura took me to the Christmas market in Bad Wörishofen. No hot chestnuts, but plenty of Sarah’s exes showing up. My cousin arrived with her MP3 player, determined to torture me with every song on it. Bianca stopped by for a bit. A few guys and I played Super Smash Bros. I watched a couple of documentaries about the world ending and Berlin going bankrupt. Just another weekend.
And then I saw snow, which somehow became the actual high point of the whole thing.
Took a photo of my desk the other day—one of those chain things where everyone documents their workspace. Mine’s unusually tidy in the shot, which is funny because that’s not how it normally is.
The magazines stack up: Computer Arts, PAGE, blonde. All design stuff, the kind you actually flip through. Behind them, my phone, a Beck’s Green Lemon, Wrigley’s Extra Professional gum. The desk lamp has an O.C. postcard clipped to it. Framed photo of Ana and me next to it. iPod nano in black. These paper figures I made years back—Thunder Eater and Ankorman—sitting where they belong. Xerox monitor. Mac mini. White keyboard, white mouse.
Looking at it, I can date the whole setup to a specific year. The gum, the magazines, the iPod, the mini—it all points to the mid-2000s. It’s accidentally a time capsule.
The Wii hit shelves across Europe this morning. Everyone’s trying to find stock and I’m stuck broke watching from the sidelines, which is annoying because my friends are all diving in.
Wii Sports will probably be the gateway drug—nothing fancy, just motion controls and moving your body. An extra controller makes all the difference. The real game we’re waiting for is Smash Bros. Brawl. We’ve been hyped about this since the N64 version. Playing as Mario or Link or a genuinely hot Samus, wrecking people—that’s the whole thing. Good music, good friends, a couple beers. That’s the weekend.
Zelda’s finally coming too, which is something. Nintendo kept pushing it back until I basically stopped believing it would ever come out.
I’ll probably grab a console in a few weeks once this launch madness settles. Until then, you PS3 and Xbox people can enjoy what you’ve got.
WordPress has always been the tool I trust for putting things on the internet. It’s yours in a way that other platforms never are.
The thing about WordPress is that everything depends on the theme. It’s not just window dressing—it’s the actual structure of how your ideas get presented. Pick wrong and you’re fighting it constantly. Pick right and you barely think about it.
I spent a lot of time looking at WordPress themes in the early days. I was young enough to care about every detail, to think that the perfect theme could make everything feel right. I even built one myself—Sash—because I wanted something that didn’t assume it knew what you needed. Just space, just layout, nothing else. It was too bare for most people, probably still is.
But I learned what I was looking for in a theme from trying all those others. The ones that mattered were never the most feature-packed. They were the ones that understood restraint. Clean typography. Room to breathe. A structure you could actually modify without getting lost in nested settings and PHP you didn’t understand.
Some designers got it. You could tell by looking. Not just because their theme looked nice, but because you could feel the thinking behind it—the decisions about what to include and what to leave out. That clarity matters more than any feature list.
Most people never care about any of this. They find a theme that’s close enough and stop looking. That’s fine. But if you actually want your website to feel like it’s yours, you need a designer who understands the difference between giving people everything and giving them what actually matters.
I haven’t thought about WordPress themes in years. But there was something about that search—about wanting the tool to disappear so your ideas could shine through—that still feels important.
I got buried in homework this morning and needed to surface. Becca’s coming over Wednesday to bake cookies—actual baking, the kind that fills a kitchen with real warmth—and she stopped by yesterday to check what I actually had on hand. Not much. That made me think we might as well try to actually feel like it’s Christmas while we’re at it.
So I downloaded a pile of Christmas songs. Chris Rea, The Darkness, Jose Feliciano. Becca insisted on some German song about Christmas baking, and I threw in South Park Christmas songs to keep things from getting too earnest.
The weird thing is there’s no snow. No winter at all. We’re trying to feel festive when everything looks like March. But we’ll figure it out. There’s still time before the whole shopping madness cranks up.
I tested the new ICQ 6 preview on a Windows machine and have to admit it actually looks good. Not meaningful good, just prettier. Flashier. Greener, somehow, than anything should reasonably be, and the design philosophy seems to be targeting people who won’t notice that they have maybe three people in their contact list. But yeah—it’s clearly an upgrade from the last version, which was starting to feel ancient.
As someone who uses Adium on Mac, I’m watching this from a remove, but I get the appeal for Windows people. The whole thing is Flash animations and color—they’ve really packed it in there—and it’s clearly aimed at people who like their software loud and visible and full of advertising. New emoticons, new sounds, all these little details that feel like progress when you’re looking at fresh pixels. It’s not subtle, but it works for what it is.
It’s in English closed beta right now. Eventually it’ll be everywhere, and then the branded versions start: ProSieben in red, Sat.1 in hot pink, whatever network comes next. It’s the same software in different colors, but everyone treats each new color like a genuine release. Which is fine, actually. That’s how it goes.
I had a dream where “Samson” by Regina Spektor was playing in the background, and I can’t remember anything else about it except that the song was there. Next day I found this cover on YouTube, and between the dream and that version, the song just got under my skin. It moved me more than I expected.
Becca and I went out to Kaufbeuren that weekend to wander around and shop. Nothing special, just walked the streets and grabbed sandwiches. Saturday was supposed to be a night out but nothing came together, so André and Lisa came by instead and we played GameCube and watched MTV garbage.
Sunday I studied economics with Nastja in the garden — GDP, warehouse calculations, whatever they want you to memorize. At her place we got into some dumb argument with Iri, and then I tried to help her with Latin homework but kept almost falling asleep over these genuinely weird Latin poems.
This week’s gray and quiet but I’ve got enough to do anyway. Math, cleaning, the usual. Nothing exciting but that’s fine.
December 1st. World AIDS Day. I remember MTV making these awareness campaigns about it, back when MTV actually cared about something beyond ratings. That’s pretty much the only decent thing the channel ever did.
I don’t know anyone with AIDS. It’s abstract for me—something from school, something you see in those awareness campaigns. But the danger is real. It’s present in every casual choice.
You’re at a party and someone’s attractive and things happen. You’re drunk, or horny, or both, and you’re thinking about right now, not about the next ten years. Sometimes you pause and do the smart thing. Sometimes you don’t.
The thing is, I don’t really think about it. Not until December 1st shows up again. For a few minutes I’m aware that AIDS exists, that it’s untreatable, that the choices I’ve made could have ended very differently. Then it fades. Then the next December rolls around and I’m reminded again that I’ve been lucky.
The English was a wall. Every thought had to cross it before I could write it down — get filtered, get made acceptable to an imaginary audience that didn’t actually exist. I opened the editor less and less. Eventually I stopped opening it at all.
The friction was too high. Translation isn’t just swapping words, it’s swapping yourself. You think in English, you edit in English, you perform in English. You’re never just thinking anymore.
So I switched back to German. Not because it’s better or purer or any of that — just because it’s what I think in. When the language doesn’t get in the way, the words come. You write what you actually thought instead of what you think the thinking should sound like.
The past few days I’ve just been living. Hung out with Eniz and his girlfriend, went to Lidl twice for no reason except we felt like it. Dajalein came by in the morning. I took Julia out for lunch at the Chinese place. Ana and Daja showed up in the afternoon. That night I watched Dragon Ball GT with Mille. No plans, no points being made. Just hours passing with people I actually like.
That’s what happens when you stop translating yourself: you remember there’s something else to do besides managing how you look. You hang out with people without narrating it. You watch what you want to watch. You think in your own language and don’t have to apologize for how it sounds.
I brought back the old entries too. Not some grand restoration project, just the acknowledgment that they were there and shouldn’t disappear. Some of it’s broken now — pictures are gone, things don’t work the way they did — but that’s not really the point. Life breaks things. You live with the mess.
Winter came and the sun left. Now I’m home with pizza and TV and math homework, which is fine because that’s exactly what winter is for — sitting somewhere warm while the rest of the world stays dark. Civilization has its uses.
Becca’s in Hamburg for some party weekend. Ana’s off doing whatever she does. I’m here. And the math I’m supposed to be learning is something I genuinely hate, not like a joke about homework but actually hate it, this pure uncomplicated hatred of numbers and equations. I don’t know why anyone expects them to make sense.
I walked around earlier thinking about people and changes, all the small things that somehow matter. Found a song I actually like somewhere in what I listen to. Too personal or too strange or something to talk about though, so I’m keeping it to myself. Some things are better as just your own thing.
The math’s still happening. The beginning of it isn’t impossible, so I guess I’ll look at the numbers until they stop being nonsense. Or I’ll get tired and stop. One of those two things.
It’s dark, the sun’s packed up and it’s getting colder. I don’t mind it though. I’m home, watching According to Jim, eating pizza, working through math homework. This is what civilization is for.
Becca’s in Hamburg having some party days. Ana’s learning, flirting over ICQ, doing whatever she does. The universal depression that hangs around in cold months seems to have loosened a little.
I took a walk today to think about my life, the people I know, how things have shifted in the last few months. I found a new favorite song on my iPod buried in there. It’s too personal to talk about—too close to something I’m not ready to touch.
I hate math. Genuinely hate it. But I’m starting anyway and the beginning seems almost manageable. Let’s see what happens.
Sunday was one of those days that passes without anything happening. I finished reading about Napoleon at some point in the afternoon, then spent time in Undercity—a game, or maybe just a place to be for a while. Watched School of Rock. Had brief chats on ICQ with people I barely knew. The kind of Sunday where you look back and can’t quite remember it.
I was sleeping over at a friend’s, and his roommate kept howling—actual loud noises that wouldn’t let me drift off. Lying awake with that kind of white noise buzzing around your skull, your brain starts doing weird loops. I got stuck on this one: what would I need to do before everything stops?
Five things. First: invent a word that sticks, that people actually use without knowing where it came from. Second: have whatever experience it is that’s only ever going to happen exactly once, to exactly me, with exactly the right people. Third: own a TV channel. No filters, no managers, just whatever you want to say. Fourth: find a burger that’s genuinely perfect—every component working, the whole thing memorable. Fifth: have a daughter. Pick a name that matters. Watch her become someone.
I don’t think about these as bucket-list stuff, more like the five things that would make the time feel less accidental. Most of them won’t happen. But lying there in the dark, fixing on them one by one, they felt possible in a way they don’t in daylight.
Quiet Sunday. Finished the Napoleon biography, wandered through Undercity with Sune—my sweet undead princess—chatted on ICQ, watched School of Rock. Unremarkable. Just a smooth afternoon.
I thought back to a night at a friend’s place the week before. Irina’s howling kept me awake, and in the darkness I started making a list. Not of dreams or ambitions—just five things I actually wanted to do before the clock runs out. Invent a word. Sleep with some Siamese twins. Have my own television channel. Eat a piece of this burger. Have a daughter named Nami.
I watched Marie Antoinette with Ana. I love Lost in Translation, so I thought maybe Coppola would do it again. She didn’t. The whole first half is Marie losing her virginity and then it just circles the same feeling over and over—there’s nothing to grab onto. Ana was asleep halfway through and I sat there trying not to check the time.
That night I crashed at Ana’s place. Irina—someone’s roommate, I’m not sure—kept making these weirdly cute sounds that woke me up all night. But it was fine. In the morning we looked at pictures of Ana when she was young. Nothing remarkable about them, just the ordinary stuff that means something when you’re looking at it with someone. She walked me to the train station after.
Watched Marie Antoinette at Ana’s place, hoping it would be close to Lost in Translation since Coppola made that one perfect. You think maybe lightning strikes twice. Doesn’t. The first half is all Antoinette discovering sex in beautiful clothes, and it loops back on itself endlessly. Ana was asleep after an hour. I sat through to the end anyway, kept waiting for the actual film to start. It never came.
The music was genuinely good in spots. That’s the last good thing I have to say. Everything else felt like someone else’s fever dream with no point underneath, beautiful the way an empty room is beautiful. Maybe I’m missing something obvious about it, or maybe there’s just nothing to get.
Ana made the trip worth it. In the morning we looked through her childhood pictures and there was something true about seeing someone else’s history that way. Her roommate Irina had this unsettling sweetness, would make these small sounds at night that woke me up. Not unpleasant, just the presence of another person breathing in the dark. She drove me to the station after.
Still got Napoleon to finish the French Revolution thing. Might as well.
Somewhere in the first hour of Casino Royale, I stopped waiting for it to be bad. I went in skeptical—Bond movies weren’t my thing, and I’d never heard of Daniel Craig—but the film just took hold.
Craig has this control to him, this absolute stillness. He’s not doing the winking Bond routine. He’s just there, precise and capable, and the film moves without wasting time. It just pulls you along.
For eight euros and an evening with friends, that was more than I expected. I walked out satisfied.
What stays with me is the Aston Martin. They destroy this beautiful car in the film—just wreck it for a scene. There’s something reckless about that, something wild about totaling something perfect. Almost the hottest thing in the entire movie.
I had no real investment in James Bond. The franchise seemed like something I’d get around to or skip entirely—I hadn’t kept up with the movies, didn’t know the mythology, wasn’t losing sleep over either.
But I went to Casino Royale with some friends, no particular expectations. Daniel Craig was just a name attached to it—casting news that doesn’t mean much until you actually watch the film.
And then I watched it. I was wrong.
Craig has something. That specific quality where a good actor makes formal wear feel accidental rather than costume. The story moves. The whole thing has weight in a way I wasn’t prepared for. No irony, no in-jokes—just raw competence and presence.
What surprised me was how the film actually gives Vesper Lynd something to do. She’s genuinely attractive, genuinely complex, and the film doesn’t treat those as contradictory. She matters when things happen to her. Real stakes underneath the genre formula.
The Aston Martin got me most. That car is beautiful, and when they destroyed it for real—crashed it to pieces for the film—I remember genuinely wincing. I cared more about that car staying intact than was probably reasonable for a spy movie about murder and espionage. It felt like the most honest reaction I had.
It’s worth watching if you’ve never cared about Bond. I hadn’t, and I’m not about to become a superfan, but this film works. Good enough to make you understand why people are invested in this stuff.
Had juice and chips for breakfast - bag was full of hair, genuinely more hair than snack. Ate them anyway.
Tried to read about the French Revolution, John Locke, the whole separation of powers thing. Got through one chapter before my head just scattered. MySpace suddenly felt important, an episode of Spin City I’d seen a hundred times seemed critical. I kept thinking about this frog Ana and I caught months ago, why I never kept it, whether that was a mistake. You know that thing where the second you sit down to actually focus, everything else becomes urgent.
Joined 9rules that week - the big web design community. Most of the interesting work on the internet has some connection to that place. Seemed like the right move, being around people actually making things.
Black is small, dark, the kind of kid who moves through spaces like he owns them because in some way he actually does. White is taller, slower, genuinely dumb in a way that somehow works. They share a city, Treasure Town, which is the only place either of them has ever belonged to.
In Taiyo Matsumoto’s manga, which started running in Weekly Big Comic Spirits in ’93, they’re everything. The comic moves fast and rough, the kind of drawing that feels like it’s still moving even on the page. The city is about to be erased—a corporation called Kiddy Kastle wants to tear it down and build something clean and profitable in its place. Black and White have to fight it, which means they end up against yakuza, religious fanatics, actual people with money and violence behind them. But the story doesn’t become political. It’s just two kids trying to keep the one thing they have.
Matsumoto draws in a way that makes you feel motion and texture and panic in the same frame. You feel the weight of bodies, the concrete, the tight-space terror of running down narrow streets with someone trying to kill you. There’s a physical reality to it, a weight that feels earned. When Studio 4°C adapted it into a film in 2006, they understood that. Studio 4°C doesn’t make clean, slick anime. They make things that feel hand-built and deliberate, sometimes rough on purpose, because that’s what the story needs.
Tekkon Kinkreet reminds me why visual language matters. It’s not trying to be beautiful. It’s trying to be true. The characters move like real people move. The city feels like a place you could walk around in. The violence, when it comes, has weight because everything else does too. That’s the thing about good design, good art—it doesn’t announce itself. It just works.
What I keep thinking about is the basic story: two people with nothing trying to save one place. You see that narrative everywhere now, in the news, in cities, in people’s lives. But in Tekkon Kinkreet it’s not abstract. It’s not a political argument. It’s just what happens when you belong to a place and someone tries to take it away. Black and White don’t have a philosophy. They just live there.
Breakfast that day was a multivitamin juice and cheese and onion chips left in a bag for too long. Mostly hair. Ate them anyway.
I was supposed to be reading about the French Revolution and the separation of powers—Locke, all that foundational stuff—but it wouldn’t stick. My head kept jumping to other things: MySpace hadn’t been updated in weeks, there was another Spin City repeat on, some half-memory of a frog Ana and I had caught that felt unfinished. I got through one chapter and quit. Tomorrow was another day.
But around that same time I found 9rules. It was this web design community, probably the biggest one at that moment. Hundreds of actual sites and portfolios, people talking about design like it was the only thing that mattered. For me, it was. I’d been making things completely alone, totally convinced I was either years behind or invisible. This place made it obvious there were all these people at the exact same starting point, building things, getting seen. I joined the same day I found it.
I remember obsessively refreshing that site those first weeks, waiting for my portfolio to show up in the galleries. It never did. But I wasn’t alone in my room making things anymore, and that was the whole thing.
Black and White own Treasure Town the way you own something you’ve survived in. Black is all angles and darkness, punk energy barely contained. White is drifting and half-asleep, a kind of innocence that makes no sense. Taiyo Matsumoto drew them in the manga with this incredible control — every panel feels both intimate and impossibly wide.
What gets me is how little plot there is until suddenly there’s everything. A corporation wants to demolish Treasure Town and rebuild it clean and profitable and dead. It’s the kind of thing that happens everywhere. For Black and White, it’s a reason to fight, even though they know what this is: the slow erasure of every place that ever mattered. They move through the city tangled up with yakuza and fanatics and the weight of the place, and they don’t have much but they have each other.
The manga came out in the early 90s, and it’s brutal in the way things are brutal when you don’t look away. Studio 4°C animated it, and that studio never makes pretty things — they make things that burn. This material is theirs: rage and loyalty and two kids with nothing but each other and the streets they know by heart.
I keep thinking about why this sticks with me. It’s not trying to teach you about defiance or the romance of resistance. It’s not a parable. It’s just: these two kids, this place they love, and the moment when you have to decide if you’re going to let it die. Not a metaphor. Just what happens when something you’re part of is being taken away.
Irina dragged me all over town—cold, dark, pointless until we’re eating spaghetti with sausages on her plasma TV watching “According to Jim.” You walk, you suffer, you get fed. Basic transaction.
I’ve been grinding through German exercises and French Revolution dates. High school graduation bearing down. Not naturally my thing, but Ana’s become this complete study monster and she actually wants to help me with Spanish and maths. School does that sometimes, brings people together. Becca’s different now—less tension, more just accepting we’re going separate ways. That’s fine. Better than whatever was happening before.
Last night I helped Ana with Latin, which never stops being weird. Fixed Internet Explorer on her computer too so my website actually renders right. Small tech wins hit different—you fix a thing, you made something work, there’s this little dopamine thing that happens.
By the time Ana walked me halfway to the station it was past ten. The platform at that hour has this specific energy. Strange people, all of them off in some small way. You’re grateful you’re not actually getting on a train with them.
Back to studying the French Revolution now. There’s something about dead history that makes the present manageable. Tomorrow more of the same. Everything’s better than it was.
I plowed through a whole German exercise book, which felt like progress. Then came French history—the Revolution, exams closing in. Ana became my study partner, the kind of person who actually loves this stuff, and she started helping me with maths and Spanish without being asked. With Becca things had shifted. We both knew what we’d been building wasn’t going to work, but instead of letting it get messy we just opened up a little, decided to be real with each other instead.
I went to Irina’s one night—she walked me around Turkheim for an hour in the cold and dark, which sounds pointless until you realize she’s just showing you around because she wants to. She made spaghetti with sausages and we watched something dumb on their enormous plasma TV. Around ten o’clock Ana walked me halfway to the train station, and I remember the platform at that hour being full of strange people, the kind you only encounter when you’re the only one awake.
I dug up a design I’d coded and abandoned about a year ago. Brought it back last week. Still works. Made it WordPress compatible. Here it is.
The site restart is really about something else. I’m serious about university now—want to study webdesign—and I’m planning to end up in California or Japan when the opportunity opens. You don’t start learning languages properly for no reason. English and Spanish, the real kind, the living-in-it kind. You absorb more when you’re not studying, when you’re just writing and thinking in a language that isn’t yours.
Putting this blog in English fits into that. Write in a language and you internalize it faster than any classroom. The words stick differently. And there’s something about getting your actual thoughts into English instead of keeping them locked in German. They reach further. Germany was never going to have room for what I want to do.
I know some people will drop this from their bookmarks. That’s fine. I’m not writing for an audience that needs everything in their native language anymore. I write for myself now, in the language I’m learning, and if someone else reads it, they do.
The guestbook’s back up even though it’s half-broken still. I’ll fix it. The design is the one from before—I never stopped liking it, just set it down. Sometimes what you come back to was already right.
I restarted the blog. Not that I bought a Wii or anything actually dramatic, but I needed to make a cut. My website is the mirror of my life, and mine was getting out of sync. Getting older. Feeling different. The way I used to live wasn’t going to work anymore if I wanted to make something of myself.
I’m studying now, preparing for university. Webdesign. The dream is California or Japan when the time comes—somewhere far enough that it feels real rather than just a dream. I picked English and Spanish as my languages, which is why you’re reading this in English now. There’s something about writing in another language that changes you. You learn vocabulary by actually using it, by thinking and writing inside that language instead of translating. And you reach further—I’d never have found half the websites I actually love if the people writing them had stayed in their native languages.
I know some people have already deleted this from their bookmarks. I get it. But Germany was too small for what I wanted to say. I wanted to push these strange thoughts further into the world, even though my English isn’t perfect yet. The design I’m using now—I called it “brilliant” when I coded it—was online about a year ago. I found it again last week and I still loved it, so I brought it back and made it work with Wordpress. There’s a new guestbook. It’s got some errors I’m fixing. But it’s open. Everything’s a little broken and getting better, which felt true.
The weekend’s over and I made it through. Went to Flo’s birthday party for like twenty minutes yesterday and realized it wasn’t going to happen, so I bailed and spent the night driving around the city with Eniz and Ali instead. We ended up at the old playground on Zugspitzstraße, where we basically lived as kids, and just sat there talking about how everything used to feel simpler.
Most of today was better. Played Super Smash Bros. Melee until my hands hurt, with Eniz and Ali and their friends Isi and Romi and Mille. Tried some new classes in World of Warcraft, ate pizza, the usual. I’m just hoping this week is actually done now.
Been rewriting some of the stuff I’ve been trying to live by, because none of it’s working anymore. There was that thing about never giving more than you get back, which I thought was smart but actually just made me paranoid and kept me dependent on other people. So I changed it to something stupider and truer: just be honest about what you feel and don’t perform something else. Same with that thing about happiness coming to people who smile. You can’t smile all the time. Sometimes you’re furious or you just don’t care, and pretending otherwise is exhausting. The actual rule: feel what you feel and own it.
The bigger thing I’ve been working out is that you can’t hedge forever. You pick something and go with it, or you stay in the same place. And you can’t swallow how you feel to keep everyone else comfortable. So you just stay true to whatever that is and see what happens. Maybe that’s obvious but I’m only just getting it.
Took the bus to Turkheim instead of biking through the dark like an idiot. Lost three-fifty euros, but Irina picked me up at the other end so it felt fair. We watched some rerun at her place — or maybe it was the series starting over, hard to tell — and when Daja got there we switched to Wild Wild West. Will Smith in a steampunk Western, which is exactly as strange as it sounds. Not a masterpiece, but that’s not the point when you’re hanging out with people.
Ana showed up later still recovering from Bonn, made herself some weird cinnamon milk with honey in the microwave, and we just talked in her kitchen. Then around nine Bia picked me up for my place to watch something on DVD, though we didn’t make it all the way through. The day had that wandering quality where nothing quite connects, but that’s fine. Afternoons like this are enough.
Mandy and Bibi threw something together at the Juze, and it was one of those nights that doesn’t need much planning to work — just the right people in a room that doesn’t care what you spill on it. I remember the usual mix of whoever showed up, someone’s questionable DJ attempt, the way those youth centers always have that particular smell of stale beer and teenage ambition. There’s something about those venues that makes everything feel bigger than it should, even if it’s just a handful of people making noise on a Friday.
Smart enough this time to take the bus instead of biking out to Turkheim in the dark. Irina picked me up anyway. We watched a German sitcom and then Wild Wild West with Will Smith, which is as dumb as you’d expect.
Ana came back looking exhausted and made this weird cinnamon milk with honey in the microwave. We sat in her kitchen talking, which doesn’t sound like much but was the whole point of the evening.
At nine Bia grabbed me and we went back to mine. We watched half of something on DVD and that’s where it stayed.
I keep thinking about how eighteen is supposed to feel like something. Like you wake up that morning and you’re different. You probably aren’t. It’s just another day, except now you can sign things.
What actually matters is what you’ve already done. Real things. Actual accomplishments. Don’t spend energy regretting what you haven’t done yet. You’ve got a family that cares about you—genuinely—and that’s a real advantage in life. Just go forward with actual confidence that things might work out.
There’s a Zen teacher, Dogen Eihei, who said something that I keep thinking about. He said everything that happens to you is your life. Not the version you planned for, not the parts that worked out the way you wanted. All of it. Day and night, whatever comes at you, that’s the whole thing. And the point isn’t to reshape your life to fit the circumstances—you take the circumstances and you build something whole out of them. You use your actual life force to make it all fit together. You put things where they’re supposed to go.
Even when it gets dark, when the sky looks wrong and nothing seems right, there are people thinking about you. People who’ll show up for you no matter what. I’m one of them.
This week was suffocating. Just constant weight — fighting with Ana, the Abitur still hanging over me, stuck in this routine of sleeping late, sitting online all day, then being too exhausted from doing nothing to do anything. It wasn’t working.
Yesterday I snapped out of it. Needed to get out of the house. Spent the day actually doing things, and that evening I biked out to Turkheim to see Ana. It’s only a couple villages over, and my left iPod headphone was broken, but I didn’t care. The point was fixing whatever was going on between us.
And it worked. We walked around, went shopping, ate real food. Watched TV, listened to Muse. Nothing special, but it felt like something released. The whole weight from the previous week just lifted. She’s on some class trip to Bonn now, but at least things feel different between us.
I finally tackled the Abitur thing too. Went to the employment agency today to get it rolling. I want to do it — I do. The money part is still unclear. I don’t mind working part-time to cover it. We’ll see.
Happy birthday to someone who’s just turned eighteen. I want you to know that whatever you’re reaching for, you’re going to get there, but you have to go easy on yourself in the meantime. You’ve already done more than you think you have. Be proud of that.
You’ve got a good family around you. That matters more than you’ll understand until later. And there are people beyond that—people who aren’t going anywhere, who think about you and show up no matter what. When the sky goes dark and stays dark for a while, you’re going to want to remember those people are there.
Dōgen said something that’s stuck with me: your life isn’t something separate from what’s happening to you right now. It’s all the same thing. So when something hard comes at you, you don’t try to force it into what you wanted. You adapt. You make it part of who you’re becoming. You adjust yourself to the moment and keep moving.
That’s what being eighteen means, I think. You’re starting to realize your life is actually yours now. Not a rehearsal. So take it seriously, but not too seriously. Make it yours. And remember the people who are with you—you’re going to need them, and they need to know you’re thinking about them too.
This week fell apart. I was stuck at home, useless, glued to ICQ, and by evening too drained from doing nothing to care about anything. Ana and I were fighting constantly — the easy summer thing had evaporated — and the whole Abi situation was still dragging. This couldn’t keep going.
Yesterday morning I decided to move. Got out of the house, which was the point. I took care of whatever needed care, then bundled up and cycled out to Turkheim to see Ana, even though my left iPod headphone was broken. I figured maybe I could actually fix whatever was between us.
It was a good night. We walked around, bought stuff, ate something decent. Sat.1 had a sitcom on, then one of those knowledge shows. Muse was playing. Nothing special about any of it, but it was the first evening in days where I actually felt like I could breathe.
After that I had to deal with the Abi stuff, so I went to the employment agency today to actually move on it. The money part’s still unclear — I could work a 400-euro job if I had to — but we’ll see what happens.
One good evening doesn’t erase a whole collapsed week. But something shifted. Hoping this weekend’s better than the last one.
The mood swings have gotten ridiculous. One moment I’m in love with the whole world—everyone in it, the chaos, all of it—and I want to transfer this euphoria directly into whoever’s standing next to me. A few minutes later I’m convinced everyone around me is lying, that it’s all pointless, and the only rational response is to move to Canada and start over. Then I’m in iTunes like a man obsessed, playing Placebo on repeat until my ears blur, skipping Muse with an almost angry spite.
This has been going on for months. When I’m stable, everything works—work clicks, problems become solvable, the world stays coherent. But I’ve lost that center. I’m weightless now, just floating, and every small shift in the wind sends me spinning somewhere new.
I think there are two reasons. One: I broke something in my head years ago and it never healed. Two: I need someone—a specific person—to feel grounded again. Someone whose presence is enough to make me real, to make everything hold still for a while.
What gets to me is knowing, in some distant part of my brain, that all the best creative work comes from exactly this kind of collapse. From personal wreckage, from things falling apart completely. The material is there, the nourishment, if you can stomach looking for it. But when I’m actually drowning in it, I don’t think about that. I’m just unmoored and disoriented. And there are feelings I don’t have language for, or permission to have, or whatever I’m lacking. They just sit somewhere inside me, unnamed and untouchable.
I’ve been cycling through these wild mood swings lately. One moment I’m completely in love with the world and everything in it, ready to spread good vibes around like I’m on some gospel mission, and the next I feel completely betrayed by everyone around me and all I want is to disappear to Canada and never look back. In between I’m clicking through iTunes like a man possessed, playing the same Placebo songs until they’re completely worn out, and deliberately skipping anything by Muse just out of spite.
It’s been months like this. You can’t make real progress when your personal life is unstable. When things are solid at home, everything else falls into place, but right now I’m just weightless, drifting—like every breeze could push me somewhere new. I’ve got two theories about what’s happening. Either I watched way too much Will & Grace back in the day, or I just need someone to actually be there. And the problem is that when you’re this far down, you can’t see what might actually matter—that maybe something real is growing out of all this struggle, that maybe you need to be broken to understand anything. But that’s useless thinking when you’re underwater. For some feelings, I don’t have the right to claim them anymore.
We were at Julian’s party, and it was fine until the predictable thing happened. Girl drank too much, ended up in a corner basically unconscious, and one of those guys with no other moves decided it was his opening. Hands on her, her just sitting there not really registering anything.
I mentioned it to my best friend today and she didn’t see the issue. Seriously. Girl won’t remember, won’t know it happened, so what’s the harm? I tried the decency angle, the honor angle, the basic respect angle—all these concepts that apparently only I’m still holding onto—and she just wasn’t buying it.
Then she went for the mirror argument. What if a girl was groping a drunk guy instead? Wouldn’t he be fine with that? Wouldn’t he probably be into it, waking up knowing some attractive girl had her hands on him while he was passed out?
That’s where I saw the disconnect. In her mind they’re the same action, just swapped. Two equivalent scenarios we can debate like it’s a neutral question. She’s not even seeing that power is different when you’re the one who’s completely gone. That consent is not some symmetrical thing. You can’t flip it around and get the same equation.
We didn’t resolve it. We just kind of sat with the realization that someone you’ve known forever thinks about this stuff in a completely different way—not a fun different, not a taste thing, but a fundamental “I don’t know who you are” kind of different.
I took André to see Borat after we’d been shopping in Kaufbeuren. We got into this almost empty theater—the other room had some dwarf adventure comedy with Otto signing autographs, and that’s where everyone actually was. Borat was crude and funny. The hotel bed wrestling scene got the whole theater laughing. Except for this older couple who either had the wrong movie or were expecting actual Kazakh documentary—they didn’t laugh once. I was shocked no one just walked out.
I was still getting over being sick. I’d finally gotten my World of Warcraft: Burning Crusade beta key in the mail—Blizzard had fumbled the shipping somehow—but I was planning to sell it anyway. Needed the money for school more than I needed early access. There was a party at Julian’s that night but I was too sick to go.
Then I watched the new OC episode and it was genuinely brutal. They didn’t even say Marissa’s name. Ryan threw out everything he had of her, and this new girl Taylor took her place in the opening credits like she’d always been there. No goodbye, no acknowledgment. Just gone. That’s the feeling you get when a show you actually cared about kills something, and you’re stuck watching what comes after.
I waited a week for that Burning Crusade beta key like I was twelve again. The kind of stupid anticipation where you check your email every hour, refresh forums, convince yourself you’ve earned this somehow. Then it showed up in my inbox and I couldn’t use it.
This was 2006, and The Burning Crusade was the expansion everyone was talking about. Blood elves, Draenei, new zones, the Outlands — it was supposed to be huge. Getting into the beta felt like winning something. For about an hour I actually felt like I had won something.
But I needed money. Not eventually, but actually needed it now. There was a distance-learning program I was trying to fund, and a beta key wasn’t going to cut it. So I auctioned it off. Put it up on eBay, wrote some encouraging shit about how much fun the buyer would have, and watched someone else claim the week I wasn’t going to get.
It’s funny what sticks with you. Not the expansion — I played it when it launched anyway, like everyone else. But that specific letdown, getting something you want and knowing immediately that you can’t have it. That feeling’s sharper than the thing itself.
I caught Borat with André at the cinema. When they were naked on the bed wrestling, the entire theater lost it. Just these two older guys sat there completely silent. I thought they’d get up and leave, but they never did.
That week I watched The O.C. and Marissa was just gone. Not gone as in traveling—gone as in erased. Ryan threw away every memory of her, and the show never even said her name again. They just slotted Taylor in and kept moving. Something about that broke the whole thing for me. The show doesn’t work the same way anymore. Hard to explain to someone who doesn’t watch it, but once you see something missing, you can’t un-see it.
Got sick right around then. Winter came early, killed my throat. I’d finally got my World of Warcraft beta key after Blizzard’s mailing disaster, but I had no energy to play. Sold it instead—needed the money more anyway.
Everything felt off. I was supposed to go to Julian’s party but I was too sick to care. Had the new South Park waiting but couldn’t even get interested. Sometimes when seasons change, they take things with them.
I spent a week waiting for my Burning Crusade beta key. Refreshing my email, checking the forums, that whole anticipatory loop you get into before something you want actually shows up. When it finally arrived, I should have been thrilled. Instead I went straight to eBay and listed it.
Tuition doesn’t wait. You get what you wanted and it turns out you can’t actually have it. The expansion looked incredible—the flying, the new zones, Blood Elves. Someone else got to play it instead of me.
The snow came, which means I’m immediately thinking about the Muppet Christmas Carol—the one where Kermit is Scrooge. It’s my dumbest comfort object. Last year when it first snowed we’d just gotten back from Prague, which feels impossible now. A whole year. Now the snow is here again and December is actually happening.
There’s something about that first real snowfall that makes you hunt through everything for Christmas movies. You know exactly where they are. You know you’ve watched them a hundred times. You pull them out anyway. Same ritual every year.
Snow is only good if you’re not waiting at a bus stop at six in the morning—which, naturally, is what I do. But from inside with the heat on and something familiar playing, it’s perfect. That’s the whole thing.
Marissa Cooper died at the end of season three and I cried like an absolute mess. Not in a composed way — the real thing, tears and everything, staring at the screen thinking this is a dumb reason to feel this destroyed. But the show had built something real out of that ridiculous Newport Beach universe, and watching her character get written out felt like watching a world collapse.
The fourth season premieres tonight and everything is supposed to be different now. That’s the whole point. Her death was supposed to mean something, supposed to crack open their lives and force them in new directions. The trailer shows exactly what that looks like — everyone scattered, everyone changed. The show is brave enough not to try to fix it or smooth it over.
Television usually has this instinct to reset, to patch the wound and move on. The O.C. isn’t doing that. It’s sitting in the mess Marissa left behind and actually exploring what that mess does to people. That’s harder than it sounds. Most shows don’t have the spine for it.
I love this series. I know that’s not how you’re supposed to watch television anymore, with all the irony and detachment people carry into entertainment. But The O.C. doesn’t let you do that. It’s too earnest, too committed to its own melodrama. You either dismiss it or you let it break your heart, and I’ve chosen the latter.
Marissa Cooper died at the end of season three, or at least that’s what they told us. It was one of those TV deaths that’s designed to feel both pointless and devastating at the same time—the kind where you’re not entirely sure what the show just did to itself. I watched it happen and felt genuinely gutted, which is embarrassing to admit about a teen drama but also true.
Season four premieres tonight, and everything’s different now. The whole show had to recalibrate around her absence. Her friends moved on, her family fractured, everyone’s plan got reshuffled. There’s a long trailer Fox put out that basically telegraphs all the changes coming. You can watch it if you want the full picture, or you can wait until tonight and see it play out.
I’ll probably have it downloaded by morning, the way everyone does. No mystery there—that’s how we watch things now.
The thing about The O.C. is that it doesn’t ask for much more than your surrender. The whole show is California and drama and characters you somehow care about despite yourself. It’s glossy and ridiculous and occasionally genuinely moving, which should not work but does. Killing off your most important character is either the bravest or the dumbest move this show could make, and I’m not sure which yet.
I was feeling lost. The whole-life kind of lost where nothing makes sense and you can’t see any way forward. I’d quit this work-study thing at a nursing home because the residents stopped being easy to scare, I guess. Whatever the reason, I just couldn’t keep doing it. So I was sitting around thinking about what comes next, what I was supposed to be doing with myself.
André and Ana were both working on their Abitur. And then comes university, which has to be better than sitting at home unemployed, right? So I did what you do and Googled “Abitur nachholen,” clicked the first ad. ILS, distance learning. Could that be the answer?
Was this my last real shot at giving my life some kind of direction? Getting the diploma without the classroom slog, maybe with teachers who could actually teach me French instead of that one asshole? Maybe André would stop writing comments about how great it is that I’m doing nothing and just help me out.
It would cost 117 euros a month for thirty months. Unemployment assistance if I qualified. Whether the employment agency would chip in or I should just get my lazy ass to work—at least knowing what it was for—I didn’t know. But I wanted to try.
I looked at the reviews and everyone who’d done ILS said good things. So I ordered the free handbook to see what I’d be getting into. Is it worth it? Will I finish it? No idea. But at least I have a direction now. That’s the important part.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Sitcoms were running in the background on some network channel, the kind of garbage you watch when your brain won’t shut off and you’re just scrolling through everything. But I kept getting pulled back to this photographer — Clayton James Cubitt. And I’m adding him to the list of photographers I actually care about.
He’s the kind of alternative that loops back around to being exactly what you’d expect from someone doing this kind of work. Crude, sexual, willing to put his actual life in the frame. One of his diary entries from a shoot starts with something like, “She was eighteen, I was twenty-nine. It would’ve been hotter if I was thirty.” Not apologizing for it, just stating the fact like it matters. And in a way, it does — the specificity, the honesty about desire and age and the exact moment things happened.
He shoots breasts, trees, his friends, his family. Same camera, same openness, no pretense about separating the intimate from the mundane. That’s what actually makes a photographer interesting — not the technical skill, though he has that, but the willingness to let you see something real. The mess and the desire and the bodies you’re not supposed to photograph all existing in the same frame.
It’s punk as fuck, which is probably why I can’t stop thinking about it.
Blue doesn’t wear on you the way other colors do. You can look at it for hours and it stays calm. Everything else — dark, busy, minimal, whatever — gets loud or boring or heavy after a while.
I post my desktop now and then, usually when the mood hits. You stare at that screen half the day if you work like I do, so it matters what you’re looking at.
I’ve tried switching away plenty of times and it never sticks. Always back to blue. Must just be how I’m built.
Woke up at 7:30 with a club night to organize in two and a half hours. Naturally everything landed on me. Phone and messenger open, calling André about ten times before he picked up. Irina and Ana texting for information already. Threw a pizza in the oven.
Couldn’t reach Lisa. André called back asking if Lisa was even going. Called Lisa, told her to grab Irina and Daja if she was heading. Maybe there was space, maybe Tina was coming, she wasn’t sure. Texted Ana—she said wait. Then Andrea called: Tina was definitely in. André called again wanting to know when we’d pick him up. I didn’t know. Pizza nearly caught fire. I’m running around the apartment in boxer shorts.
Half-burnt pizza in one hand, Lisa on the phone in the other. 10:30, she said. Texted Irina the plan, told André to be ready. Realized I still had conditioner in my hair.
Lisa’s car had no CD player. My face cream was gone, so I grabbed whatever was there. Felt it immediately sliding off my skin like my face was rejecting it. Ran to André’s bathroom, washed it off, slapped on the Nivea.
Finally held a cold beer. Would’ve been better with the rum André keeps hidden in his kitchen, but I took what I got. Lisa spent half an hour circling for a decent parking spot. When we finally found everyone, the night could start.
Was it worth the chaos? Sort of. I’ve had better club nights. But this one worked. Found my old classmate Hobi. Messed around with Bianca. Got to know Daja properly—she’s the kind of chaos person that actually makes these things fun. Probably wouldn’t have happened without her.
Not amazing. Just solid. The kind of night that only works if you’re willing to let it almost completely fall apart. Though if Blizzard had actually sent that beta key like they’ve been promising, I probably would’ve blown the whole thing off and stayed home gaming anyway.
I used to check MTV.com for the American charts — TRL, MTV2, whatever was actually climbing that week. The site was cluttered even back then, but it worked. You could find what you came for.
Then they redesigned it into oblivion.
Flash everywhere. Auto-playing ads you couldn’t kill. Buttons that hung forever. Pages that either didn’t load or didn’t exist. The whole thing was this bloated, broken monument to corporate incompetence. MTV had spent so much energy trying to be flashy — literally, in the worst possible way — that they’d made the site useless.
I understand the logic that led there. Bigger, louder, more visual noise means more engagement, right? But broadband doesn’t fix bad design. The Polish MTV site is just as heavy. There are web designers who get it, though — the ones who understand that removing things can be smarter than adding them. You can make something lean and fast that people actually want to use.
MTV used to be worth visiting. Now it’s just weight and Flash for its own sake. I stopped going back.
Three weeks in a DEKRA training program hunting for internship placements. Started with maybe fifteen people. Eight actually showed up. By the end, it was four of us. Andi, who lived in the Antenne Bayern chat getting fake-married to bots, Sven driving his death trap up the B12 with no sense for overtaking, Alex who looked like he was printed straight from a farming catalog, and me. A strange little crew.
Frau Mayer gets credit for dragging us through that with nothing but stubbornness. Vinzenz Murr’s butcher shop too, though his sandwiches always had something off about them — the schnitzel noodles, the liver sausage with mustard, always some buried wrong note. And the V-Markt runs kept us moving, iced tea and cheap sausages, that whole thing.
I learned actual things, somehow. How to run pointless commands in the Antenne Bayern chat. That computers will genuinely refuse to load a two-euro World of Warcraft demo. How to collect MySpace friends without trying. Probably something about applications too, though that part’s fuzzy now.
Next Monday starts another internship. Nursing home. Scaring elderly people eight hours a day. Could be worse.
Got the email. Burning Crusade beta access for World of Warcraft, and after all the delays it actually feels like this expansion might exist. Blizzard handing out keys to test Outland, and somehow I got one.
It’s insane to care this much about a video game beta. Server gets wiped, nothing persists, nothing matters in any real sense. But there’s that moment anyway — being selected, being early, being one of the few people who gets to see something before the rest of the world. It’s not important and I know it’s not important, but it hits anyway.
Plans are dumb simple: waste an hour naming a character, roll a Night Elf Warrior, go north into everything new. New zones, new dungeons, new raids. All the content that doesn’t exist in the live game yet. Ali’s actually going to lose his mind when I tell him I’m already there running around while he’s still stuck grinding vanilla.
Being first to somewhere, even somewhere that’s not real and doesn’t matter — it gets to you. The anticipation beats the actual content. The exclusivity beats the gameplay. You wait for launch like everyone else, but for a few weeks you know what’s coming. That’s the thing that matters, I think.
I’m the guy my friends come to for shit. André needs help with women. Ana’s got butterflies. Kathi’s prepping for whatever disaster she’s about to date. I’ve got a line for everything, some half-smart observation that lands just right when they need it.
But here’s the thing—none of it’s original. It all comes from living long enough to notice how everything works and how little any of it matters. You see a pattern enough times, you stop being surprised by it.
The real wisdom, though, the stuff that sticks: it’s just accepting that you’re fucked either way. As a man, nothing you do is right. You try too hard, you’re needy. You hold back, you’re distant. You’re honest about what you want, you’re a prick. You’re considerate, you’re weak. Women end up disappointed in every generation because they keep expecting men to somehow solve this, and men keep expecting women to be grateful for the attempt. It’s absurd. It’s completely fucked. And once you see it, once you really understand that the game was rigged from the start, you can actually relax about it.
Allison Harvard hit MySpace young, 18, and built something fast—photographs, artwork, a following. Sharp images. She had a look. Thin. Skeletal. And that’s all anyone could see. Every piece of work got swallowed by the diagnosis everyone wanted to make.
She kept getting emails, comments, people performing concern or judgment or both dressed up as care. The narrative wrote itself before she could control it. She pushed back—said she liked eating and she liked hungering too, which is maybe the most honest thing someone in that position could say. Not a confession, not a defense. Just a refusal to perform the redemption everyone wanted to see.
There’s something about MySpace that mattered, how you could build an audience before the machinery knew how to turn you into content and break you. Most of those moments evaporated. The ones that stayed were the ones where someone refused to explain themselves, refused to prove they were the opposite of what you assumed, refused the whole conversation about what their body meant.
Years later you think about the gap between what someone was actually making and what people could see. The body is always part of the image. It shouldn’t be the only thing. But it keeps becoming that.
Got a new lip ring a couple weeks ago. Not like it fixes anything, but there’s something about doing it anyway that matters.
Some weeks I could write ten posts a day. Other weeks I’ve got nothing because I’m running on empty. I used to dump my apocalypse-depression stuff here, but I’m past that now. No point.
I’m in some job prep course, and I don’t know what I’m doing for work. Years of resisting this whole system and how it uses people, and it’s still in me. Maybe the job I want doesn’t even exist. Maybe I should do something in social work or media design. Maybe I should just wait for whatever’s been moving me around to move me again. The indecision isn’t helping.
I’ve always kind of slipped into things. This time it feels like whatever’s guiding me is tired, or maybe never stopped and I just can’t feel it. Probably both.
Watching something tonight, letting it all blur. That’s enough.
German television in the early 2000s still thought it owned the future. GIGA, this flashy tech channel, had been pushing esports for years — competitive gaming, the thing that was already pulling millions in Korea and the US. They had the broadcast infrastructure, the corporate sponsorship, the credibility. They were supposed to lead Germany into digital sports. Then the internet showed up with a better idea.
Gamesports was just a website. It streamed gaming videos around the clock, no censorship, no time slots, no paywalls. It was free and on-demand. GIGA had GIGA II, a premium cable channel where youth protection rules meant they could only broadcast esports late at night. You had to pay for it. You had to wait for their schedule. Most people just went to Gamesports instead.
So GIGA sued. The official charge was that Gamesports violated youth protection laws by streaming uncensored gameplay. The real reason was obvious: they were hemorrhaging subscribers. When you can get the same content free and on-demand, nobody pays for the TV version, especially not for something like esports, where the culture was built on access and speed, not production value.
The esports community — which wasn’t really a unified thing yet, just people playing and watching online games — sided completely with Gamesports. GIGA went from being the cool tech channel to being exactly what the internet was supposed to kill: gatekeepers charging for something the internet wanted to give away free.
This became the template. Corporate entity sues upstart over some violation with enough legal cover to sound reasonable. Internet backs the upstart. Corporation loses the culture war. Whatever survives is what was free, accessible, and community-controlled. GIGA probably won their lawsuit. Nobody remembers. They lost what actually mattered.
Ali gets hard for exactly two things: hot girls and World of Warcraft. When the Burning Crusade beta dropped, he couldn’t shut up about it. New races, new zones, the whole expansion spinning up.
I never really got into WoW like everyone else did. Honestly scared I’d end up like one of those people—you know, the basement-dwelling type that South Park perfectly captured when they realized the whole thing stops being a game and becomes your actual life. It’s a world. It’s an existence. It’s the difference between being somebody and being nobody.
But then something about this expansion kept pulling at me. Blood Elves. Running raids with Ali and the crew. Getting stronger with people who actually cared about the same stupid stuff. I told myself it was beneath me, that I was smarter than that, and I almost believed it. Almost.
That’s the thing with these games though—they exist whether you’re in them or not. Your friends are in there right now, this second, grinding for reputation, chasing loot, becoming legends. The Burning Crusade was coming in a month. It was a whole new world opening up, and everyone was already thinking about when it would land. It was a door. Permission to want something you’d already walked away from.
I wasn’t sure if I actually wanted back in or if I was just tired of saying no. Probably both.
German radio started playing German music at some point without anyone making it dramatic. Years back musicians wanted a quota like France had, radio said no, that good music would get on naturally. Apparently they were right. Juli, Silbermond, Aggro Berlin basically opened that door and everything else followed.
Killerpilze did their thing. Liza Li made noise. Senta-Sofia Delliponti keeps showing up in rotation.
Star Search years back, now sixteen, signed to Universal. “Scheissegal” is the song that’s everywhere — teenage girl punk aimed straight at teenage girls who find Tokio Hotel too much and Bushido too much. Calculated, glossy, sweet. The lyrics are what you’d expect: straightforward, not complicated, just catchy enough to stick.
But it works because she’s executing it. Not cynical, not lazy. She knows exactly what she’s making and she’s making it well. That’s actually not nothing.
Nothing beats a Friday night at home with people you actually like, getting drunk on Beck’s Green Lemon, blasting Billy Talent and The Killers so loud someone eventually yells at you to turn it down. Running Super Smash Bros Melee tournaments, spilling beer on controllers, that feeling where nothing else in the world matters.
I thought those nights were done. The summers at Zugspitzspielplatz, the games at the old place, everything felt finished. That’s the deal when you grow up—people scatter, you move on, and you accept that those times are gone.
Then you’re in that room again and Sarah still has that mouth on her, still says things that shouldn’t work but somehow do. Ali still beats you at every game, half the time barely looking at the screen. Kalli’s still that weird guy, the one saying the thing everyone’s thinking but nobody else actually says. They look different—different bodies, different lives—but underneath they’re exactly the same people.
If they’re the same, then I’m the same. Which means these nights aren’t actually gone.
I’d made peace with being hated by my exes. Ana and I had a name for it—the ex-girlfriend curse. You date someone, it ends badly or messily or just wrong, and suddenly you’re enemies. Or at least strangers who used to matter. Every relationship I’d been in followed this path. The reasons were always legitimate. I understood all of them.
For years that’s exactly how it went. Every girl I’d broken up with, every split that turned cold—they’d look through me at parties, give me that frozen stare on the street. I wasn’t going to fight it. It was just how things worked.
Then Becca somehow stayed in the picture after we ended. Which was already unusual. But this week something shifted completely. One by one the others started reaching out. Names I hadn’t heard from in years. Real conversations, not careful or distant, but like we actually wanted to talk to each other. We could joke around. Actually be warm with each other. There was real affection there.
I don’t want to jinx this, but the curse might be broken.
The mystery is why. All those years of resentment, all that contempt that hardened into something permanent—and then it just dissolved. Something shifted and I have no way of knowing what. That’s what bothers me.
As for Kathi and Geli, I’m not expecting much. Some patterns run too deep. But honestly, at this point I’ve stopped trying to understand how any of this works.
There’s a rule in web design: let people choose their browser. Opera, Firefox, Safari—good options, all of them. Then there’s Internet Explorer, Microsoft’s monument to making designers question their career choices.
I tested the whole thing in every browser I could find. Perfect everywhere else. But IE had some rendering glitch that shoved the sidebars down below the content. Not just IE6—I could’ve written that off as ancient history. But the latest IE7 release candidate did it too.
I spent the whole afternoon trying to make it work. CSS hacks, conditional comments, every trick I knew. Nothing. The browser just wouldn’t cooperate. And the kicker was 90% of people online were still using IE. Ninety percent. So I couldn’t ignore it.
Two options: keep fighting something you can’t win, or accept that most of your visitors are going to see a broken site. I wasn’t going to force anyone to switch browsers—that wasn’t my call. But IE users got the fractured version.
The weird part was that some people seemed fine with it. They’d come back, navigate around the busted layout like it was intentional. Maybe they thought it was some kind of alternative design choice. Maybe it was.
There’s a difference between people who drift through relationships taking whatever comes along, and people like Irina who actually know what they’re looking for. Most of us fall somewhere in between — we have some idea, half-formed, that gets clarified only when we meet someone and realize they’re either it or they’re not. I’ve always admired people who are clear about it, though I’m suspicious of anyone who claims they know exactly. Clarity about what you need in someone else is different from the fantasy of the perfect person. The real thing is rarer — someone who’s thought about what matters and can actually recognize it when it shows up, even when it shows up messier or stranger than expected.
I watched this one multiple times. It’s the World of Warcraft episode where grinding just slowly consumes the characters—the animation darkens, the humor drains, leaving something closer to apocalyptic than comedy. The transition is so gradual it doesn’t feel like a transition until you realize the episode has already tipped into bleakness. And once you see that, you can’t unsee it.
Friday night the sky was perfect—black clouds against deep blue, a fat round moon hanging over the youth center in Irsingen where Bianca and Mandy were having their birthday. André, Kevin and I had been playing Super Smash Bros. Melee first (I won), then we drove out to Bad Worishofen to pick up Lisalein. The whole drive was Rammstein, “Moskau” especially—the kind of song that gets stuck in your head and you know you’ll hate it later but right now it’s perfect.
We got there a bit late. Cool people always show up last. Half the room was already wasted. Three euros at the door, a dark-haired woman stamped my hand with something vaguely stylish, and I went straight to the bar. I wasn’t about to let Ana win the race to get the drunkest. Turns out a couple other people had already beaten us to it.
The music was shit. I can’t remember what exactly they were playing, but I can still hear Backstreet Boys, which tells you everything. I sat on the couch with a stolen bottle of sangria, watching Cindy dance. It was a good night. Ana had hers too—maximum.
Smash Bros. Melee, Simpsons Road Rage, Sonic Adventure 2 Battle—Friday was gaming and beer. I was good at Melee that night, better than usual against Ali. The Simpsons game annoyed me though. Eniz was supposed to show and didn’t, which tracks.
Saturday moved slower. Ali and André bailed to Melly and Lisa’s, leaving me and John and Kalli watching them play WoW while I either watched TV or played GameCube. We drank what beer was left and ordered Chinese food.
That evening I had three tickets to see Mike Park at the Hirsch. André and Ana, fresh back from a school trip, came along. I hadn’t been to the Hirsch in about three years. That was when we spent every weekend at Anja’s place, drinking, messing around with Nane, camping in the woods with Robert and Sophie. Those feel like a different era now.
Rank opened the show, then Mike Park came out with Hiro, his tech guy, and they went for it. The crowd got louder than Mike probably wanted—he mentioned it later—but he played everything. By the time he closed with “From Korea” he’d won people over. Merch, autographs, photos afterward. It was a good night. Mike Park can come back whenever.
Asian Man Records, Mike’s label, is where I find new stuff now. Free downloads constantly. Rock, ballads, reggae—whatever the roster is putting out. That’s how you stumble onto something good.
I don’t know how to describe this feeling besides luck. Somehow I won two tickets to see Mike Park at the Hirsch on Saturday, and I wasn’t even trying. I’d resigned myself to maybe catching him another time, maybe not. But then there they were.
Mike Park’s been doing this forever in the ska and punk world. I’m not going to act like either of those genres are going through some renaissance moment—but there’s something solid about a musician who’s stayed in the room, kept playing for people who actually want to hear him. No reinvention, no apology. Just shows up.
Getting free tickets beats having to scrape together money I wasn’t sure I had. That’s the obvious win. But it’s also the stranger luck of wanting something and then immediately being able to have it. The timing. The coincidence. You don’t get those moments often.
Nothing much happening at the moment. Waiting for South Park. Got a haircut today—finally took the mop off. That was the highlight, honestly.
Rediscovered Sims 2. There’s something compulsive about it, especially when the project is raising the biggest slut in all of Veronaville. The voyeuristic pleasure of watching her wreck herself appeals to me more than I probably want to admit. Perfect setup.
My desktop is currently some obscene shade of neon something. It’ll probably last another week before I can’t stand looking at it.
MTV’s got some fashion thing on, which is a hard pass. Switched to the gaming channel instead. At least that’s tolerable to watch.
I watched Universal’s lawyers arrive in the early 2000s with their cease-and-desist letters, telling a story that almost made sense. Kids were stealing music online. Burning CDs for friends. Uploading videos with songs in the background. The artists were suffering. The industry was collapsing. They had to act. And for a moment, you could see it from their perspective—Napster had shaken something loose, and the record labels were genuinely panicking.
So they went to war. Sued Napster out of existence. Sued the websites, sued the teenagers, sued anyone who touched their catalog. They didn’t lose. What amazed me was what happened after the initial victories—how unlimited their thinking became. MTV had spent decades building itself on free music videos, but that was promotional blessing from on high. When fans did the same thing, suddenly it was theft. The logic was simple: Universal made music, therefore Universal owned music, therefore only Universal got to decide how it reached people.
YouTube filled with takedown notices. iTunes launched with songs at nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. Then streaming arrived and Universal’s lawyers found another lock—access without ownership, fractions of a cent per play. Every platform had to capitulate.
But here’s what I couldn’t square with any of it: they were fighting against the only thing that actually made people love music. Mix tapes. Someone playing you a song that changed what you thought was possible. Fans posting covers. The casual sharing that turned unknown bands into obsessions. To Universal, all that sharing was just money they could have extracted. They couldn’t see that a song mattered because it moved freely, surprised you, traveled from person to person on nothing but enthusiasm.
By 2010 or so, it was over. The internet capitulated. Spotify launched and we switched to renting. You didn’t own music anymore—you licensed the right to hear it under terms Universal set. The lawsuits stopped. We’d already agreed.
Their victory is complete and hollow. They saved music by turning it into a service, and now it moves like a service—optimized, tracked, packaged, extracted. The chaos and generosity that made people want to share songs is gone. They got what they wanted and proved that what they really wanted to protect wasn’t music at all. It was their right to control the terms by which music reached other people.
MTV and VIVA came free through European satellite one week — I never figured out if it was a mistake or someone’s weird experiment. You grabbed whatever you could record before it all shut down again. The part that stuck with me was how the same content was playing everywhere. Same video rotation, same format, same slow drift toward reality shows. Getting it for free somehow made that repetition more obvious, like you could suddenly see how little was actually different between any of it.
December 8th. The Wii hits Europe and I can see it: all-nighters with Smash Bros, Zelda for disappearing, Mario in that perfect simple form. The kind of nights where we’re raw and unfiltered about everything.
Money’s the problem. Two fifty and I don’t have a job. Everything I want requires money that doesn’t exist yet, which is basically the entire structure of my life right now.
When autumn starts creeping in and the air gets that bite to it, I always have the same impulse: disappear into bed, plug in headphones, and commit to assembling a season soundtrack. The kind of playlist you build in your head for weeks but never quite finish, always adjusting, always wondering if you’re getting the mood right before winter actually shows up.
There’s something about assigning a sound to every season shift. The idea that you’re preparing, that you know exactly what October and November require. Even if most days I just hit shuffle on the same stuff I’ve been listening to for months.
Couldn’t stand that white design for long. Looked clean maybe, but it felt wrong—like I was being someone I wasn’t supposed to be. So I flipped back to black. Back into the mud. Feels right again.
Had a pretty lazy day. Talked to Becca for a while, Ana was over briefly, then Steffi and I drove out for some errands and hit the video rental place. We came home with Freddy Krueger 3 and this thing called Hannibal Holocaust. Tedious for most of it, but there’s a point where it just becomes genuinely repulsive in a way you can’t really describe. One of those movies that sticks with you for the wrong reasons.
Tomorrow I’m making the drive to Kaufbeuren to finally pick up that DVD burner from the tech store—been sitting there for over a year now. But I need to figure out if it’s worth the trip to see Mike Parkan at the Hirsch next weekend, so I’ve been going through his songs.
iTunes dropped a new version and I found this station, Idobi Radio, that just runs good music all day. Alternative, modern rock, whatever. I had it going almost the whole time and it was just one solid song after another. Makes me wonder if I’m too easy to please or if I actually know what I’m doing when it comes to music.
It was my first day of school in 2001, but I don’t remember going to school. I remember sitting in front of a TV with everyone else, watching the same footage over and over. The towers burning. Planes hitting. People jumping. Nobody changed the channel because nobody knew what else to do.
What I remember most is the weirdness of the whole media machinery just stopping. Shopping channels went dark. MTV stopped playing videos. Every network aired the same images because there wasn’t anything else that mattered. The infrastructure of entertainment had broken down.
I don’t know if we actually had school that day or if we went home. Time got strange. We just kept sitting there, watching the building burn, watching people try to escape, watching the world reorganize itself in real time. It was the only thing on every screen.
Looking back, what sticks isn’t the trauma itself but the peculiar closeness of it — everyone in the country frozen in the same moment, watching the same screen, all of us trying to understand what we were seeing together.
Betty turned eighteen that night, and we lit fireworks in the dark with everyone gathered around. I remember the way the light would flash across faces for a split second before the sky went black again—that moment just before the sound reached you. Everyone was loud and happy in that uncomplicated way you only get at a certain age, when getting older still feels like something happening to someone else. We stayed out until the bottle was empty and the last sparks faded into the garden.
Saturday morning comes early when Friday had been too good. The sky’s that bright blue you get at dawn, O.C. reruns on German TV, and in the back of my mind I already know the weekend’s finished. I got to bed early so I’m up now. Saturday’s boring me already, which is fine because Friday was good enough to talk about instead.
We had our first real class reunion, almost everyone showed up, and what hit me was realizing I still actually like these people. Not in some obligatory way—we genuinely stay in touch. Some of us party together, others I message on ICQ and SMS, this loose network that formed in school and just never dissolved. We met at Plärrer in Kaufbeuren and wandered into the Pic, but didn’t stay long. Most of us ended up at PM instead.
Before that, André’s sister Ilka and her very drunk friend caught us and asked for a ride back from a festival in Kaufering. That drive became a thing. We pulled over on some field and Melly threw up, which might have been her first time, and Bumsis offered the ancient hangover trick with a grass blade that she completely ignored.
PM was where the night actually lived. That bourbon that tasted like coconut—Ilka noticed it too—and Billy Talent turned up loud. I saw Verena and I saw Koksi differently than I had before. We drank and talked too much and danced or jumped or swayed or whatever you call that motion when you’re drunk. Friday was good.
Saturday killed it. I spent the day in front of ICQ waiting for Rebecca to come online, staring at my phone. We were supposed to meet but it’s not happening. The curse of exes setting in again.
But tonight there’s beer and foosball with Tobi, and I need that right now.
Living in Europe in the mid-2000s and being into games meant accepting you were always months behind. Japan got the new console first, America got it weeks later, and Europe was somewhere at the back of the line. The pattern had repeated enough times that frustration had curdled into resignation. Just how things worked.
The PlayStation 3 was no different. November in Japan and America. Spring 2007 for Europe. Sony blamed PAL component shortages. I didn’t know if that was real, but it hardly mattered.
I was getting the Wii anyway. Nintendo was announcing its launch date September 15th, and that felt more interesting. So the PS3 delay wasn’t exactly crushing news.
There was a moment in 2006 when Natascha Kampusch’s face was everywhere. She’d just escaped an eight-year imprisonment in a basement dungeon in Austria, and her first interview went out on television to what felt like the entire world watching at once. She was young, coherent, composed in a way that seemed to surprise everyone who saw it.
I remember the peculiar relief in how people talked about her—the repeated mentions of her intelligence, her apparent strength, as if surviving with your mind intact was the important part. The media needed her to be fine. Not dealing with anything, not traumatized in ways that would require uncomfortable thinking, just fine. It made the whole thing feel solvable, which was probably comforting to watch from a distance.
What stuck with me was the gap between her and the story that got made from her. She was living whatever she was actually living, and the world was busy deciding what her composure meant. Every interview became evidence, every word parsed for proof of either recovery or damage. She’d been trapped in a basement and now she was trapped in a narrative, and the second one might have been harder to escape because at least the first one had walls you could see.
I don’t know what happened to her after that, whether she managed to disappear from the cameras or if they followed her for years. I hope she did disappear. I hope she got to be a person again instead of a story, got to have thoughts and feelings that didn’t have to mean anything to anyone but herself.
The season four promo photos came out and Mischa Barton wasn’t in the cast list. I’d held onto this dumb hope that maybe the Marissa death was some elaborate fake-out, that she’d somehow resurface. But the photos made it official: she was gone.
The show was reshaping itself. New cast, younger characters, more focus on Kaitlin and the next generation of Newport. The O.C. had always been good at evolution and bringing in new faces, but this felt different. Marissa had been the gravitational center for three seasons, and they were just dumping her.
The season premiered in November in the States, and we wouldn’t see it until spring. I remember being genuinely curious about whether the show could work without her, whether this was a smart evolution or the beginning of the end.
Information is power, they say. Spies, detectives, journalists—whole industries built on excavating the one thing everyone’s supposedly chasing: the truth. Who took what, who pulled the trigger, who lied to who. As if truth is something singular and waiting, just hidden somewhere.
But it’s not. Truth has infinite faces, and lies have more. Lies have existed since people realized that silence could be safer than confession. That’s the oldest human trade—knowing when to shut up.
Everyone has something buried. Corruption, spite, small cruelties. These aren’t really networks at all, just mutual agreements to stay quiet. And they hold as long as everyone keeps their part. But then someone breaks the deal. One person speaks. And the careful structure falls apart for everyone connected to it.
Right now, somewhere, the truth is being said. Someone’s tearing through that protective quiet. And I keep thinking about whether that’s courage or just inevitable—whether we all know this silence is temporary, that eventually someone will speak for us.
Almost everyone who blogs writes about blogging eventually. And yeah, today’s that day.
It used to feel weird to write about yourself and put it on the internet. The press kept warning everyone: don’t share too much, don’t post compromising photos, keep your secrets. I remember reading those warnings. I didn’t listen. Neither did anyone else.
Before blogs, if you wanted to publish something, you needed permission from a magazine or a newspaper or a publisher. A gatekeeper. Now you just… write it and it’s there. Everyone’s doing it. Students, famous people, random folks with thoughts—all of it mixed together, all of it equally visible to whoever wants to look.
The newspapers called blogs “the bathroom walls of the internet,” like that was an insult. But that’s not what they are. They’re something else. They’re proof that people want to speak, want to be heard, want someone to know they exist. They’re a thousand different perspectives on the same stupid things that happen every day.
What’s beautiful about it is that nobody can tell you what matters. You decide what you write. You decide what you read. You decide what’s worth your attention. For once, the filter isn’t some editor in an office trying to figure out what sells. It’s you.
The world didn’t change because of blogs, I don’t think. But something shifted. More voices, more noise, more chaos—sure. But also: less gatekeeping. More permission to just exist and say what you think.
I still write. I still read what other people write. And I think that part of it—that casual democracy where anyone can publish themselves—is worth keeping around.
Spent Saturday drinking and watching movies at André’s. Me, Ana, Lisa, André, some friends, and a couple of girls who showed up—which definitely helped the vibe. We made it through Eurotrip, which I’d somehow never seen, then Date Movie, which wasn’t funny then or now, then The Fog, which at least had something going for it. Lots of Beck’s Green Lemon. It was fun.
Heading to Munich tomorrow with Bianca and Ana. Hope it’s as good as last time, but I know how this goes: they vanish into Orsay, Pimkie, H&M, and I’m left standing around. Might be different this time. Probably not.
Ben showed up at my door out of nowhere, months since I’d seen him last. He’d apparently set a whole pub crawl in motion through conversations I didn’t even know about. People started trickling in and we headed to the first bar, the Balu.
Ana, my best friend, was already several drinks in before the night really started. I made a halfhearted attempt to slow her down but mostly just went with it. A lot of old faces packed in, mixed with newer ones, and it had that quality of how things felt years ago when everyone was still in the same orbit.
After midnight we moved to the Chap, where I ended up running into my ex’s little brother and his friend. Just one of those nights where you drink and flirt and sing loud and it all somehow works. Nothing else matters but the fact that it’s happening.
Tonight’s doing it again at André’s—another video night with drinks and a loose party. I’m finally watching Eurotrip, which I’ve managed to never get around to. Olé.
We drove up to Munich way too early one morning—me, Ana, no reading material, no music, just the two of us and about three hours of highway. The blond people around us were interesting enough to not resent the commute. The sky kept threatening to go dark but never quite did.
By afternoon we’d already volunteered for some Powerrade focus group and walked away with a bag of gummy bears. The city was celebrating something—Karstadt’s 125th birthday—so we scored two bottles of decent sparkling wine, which we sat down with in front of the Frauenkirche because why not. That’s the kind of idle behavior you get away with when you’re just passing through a place.
We ate pizza somewhere forgettable. At GRAVIS, we browsed the way you browse stores you don’t actually care about. Hugendubel gave us two hours of picking up and putting down books with stupid titles: “Why Do Men Have Nipples?” “Can Molecules Exist in Two Places at Once?” That’s what you do when you have time and nowhere better to be.
Dinner was an overpriced salad from some German chain that tasted like sadness. By evening we were in a theater watching Pirates of the Caribbean 2, which is the kind of movie that makes you hyper-aware of time passing. Somewhere between the second and third act I stopped caring what was happening.
We went home and got quietly drunk and watched Lost in Translation, which is the only movie that actually matters, and I remember thinking Munich was fine but I didn’t need to come back. Though knowing me, we will.
I was really into the bounty hunter thing after watching Domino. There’s something cool about the idea of just going out and catching criminals on your own, no bureaucracy, no one breathing down your neck. So last night when Ana bailed and I was lying around with nothing to do, I had to choose between Dog the Bounty Hunter on TV and some documentary about RVs. The choice seemed obvious.
Two episodes in and I got why it works. The problem is the actual criminals they’re chasing are just some scrambled teenagers who give up the second things get real. But the show knows how to hide that—quick cuts, pumping country rock, all of it working overtime to make mundane reality feel dangerous.
What threw me was Bush’s face in every other shot. Some patriotic thing in the background, over and over. It killed the mood. Though I guess if you’re out there hunting in God’s name, you’re probably not too bothered by that kind of imagery.
The more I stop caring about something, the better it works. I’ve been watching this pattern play out the last few weeks, and it’s relentless.
When I’m desperate for people around me, I’m alone. When I want to be left alone with my website, with my head, suddenly everyone wants my attention. My entire life I’ve coasted on luck, but the second I actually cared about my future, worried about grades, thought ahead—that’s when I crashed it. Sex works the same way. When I didn’t want it, offers came constantly. When I needed physical closeness, when I actually felt that pull, nothing happened. Complete silence.
Becca was the clearest example. Things were good when I didn’t care much. We just existed together, weightless, and it held. Then I invested. Put my whole heart in. Made it matter. She left. Caring was the thing that killed it.
So stop caring. Then it works somehow. Probably not with anyone you actually want, but it works. Even the dumb neighbor becomes plausible. Liam Lynch nailed it: “Whatever.”
The ^^ emoticon had a life. Lived in anime forums and instant messengers, became the smiley for people who thought they were in on the same joke. I used it too, helped spread it.
Stop using it.
Once a symbol gets too clearly coded to one era and one aesthetic, it dies. Becomes a costume. A very visible costume. When you use it, you’re not communicating — you’re announcing. Everyone knows what you’re trying to say about yourself.
It doesn’t work anymore. The moment’s passed. Let it sit in the forums where it started, where it actually means something.
Watched Domino the other night with Becca—the Tony Scott film from 2005, Keira Knightley playing Domino Harvey. I love movies that are essentially extended trailers, and this thing is pure MTV. It’s shooting and cutting like it has somewhere to be, like it can’t sit still for a second. Everything looks like an ad campaign, all saturated color and aggressive editing and no patience for letting a shot breathe. Scott just lets it run wild.
The story’s loosely based on Harvey’s life as a bounty hunter, but that’s almost beside the point. Knightley’s got this lean, dangerous quality that works perfectly—she moves through the film like she’s one step ahead of it. The cast around her is solid and clearly game for whatever visual insanity Scott’s cooking up. And visually it’s just relentless. Gorgeous, excessive, verging on hostile in how much visual information it’s throwing at you. Most films would apologize for that kind of excess. This one doesn’t.
I’m amazed it disappeared so completely. It came out, made no money, didn’t build a cult. I think because it doesn’t have an obvious audience. Too stylish to be a straightforward action movie, too excess to be taken seriously, too committed to being what it is to be ironic about it. There’s no box for a film like that to fit into.
But maybe that’s the best thing a film can do—just commit to its own vision completely and let the chips fall. Domino didn’t get the audience it should have, but it got made exactly the way Scott wanted to make it. That’s something.
I’ve always been obsessed with “The O.C.”, and now apparently I’m also obsessed with what they eat for breakfast. Bagels. The Cohen family goes through these every morning like clockwork, and I guess watching that finally wore me down. So I went to the supermarket and bought some.
Found a few varieties—plain, sesame, raisins. I tried two: one loaded with thick cream cheese, the other with Géramont and salami, which sounds weird but actually worked. They were good. Nothing complicated, just a solid breakfast item.
New episode airs tonight, so if anything, this bagel obsession is probably only going to get worse from here.
I took the curtains down. Went back to how I used to have it. There’s something about bare windows that makes everything feel less cramped.
When I’m sitting at my desk and glance up, I see the actual sky instead of curtain fabric. Clouds moving through, stars on clear nights, the moon hanging there. It’s genuinely good for thinking, or at least thinking feels less suffocating.
The window needs a proper cleaning and there’s a plant somewhere in here that’s been dying of thirst. Figure I’ll get to those things eventually.
We were exploring the side roads near Buchloe at night when Ana and I found them — two small frogs near John’s place. We caught them without thinking, just grabbed them from the grass. The moment I held them, I felt like a kid again, that pure uncomplicated thing you get when something unexpected and alive is in your hands. They were cute, genuinely cute, in that serious way frogs have.
We brought them home and named them Ernie and Bert. But then I looked it up — turns out you can’t keep native frogs. It’s illegal, something about the ecosystem. So we released them back into the grass, which was the right call even though I wasn’t ready to let them go.
I still want frogs someday. Real ones in a terrarium, set up right. There’s something I like about watching them, the way they just sit there until suddenly they don’t. But it has to be done properly. Not like Ernie and Bert.
There’s this moment where you stop buying it—not love itself, but the version they sell you, the one that fixes things or makes you whole. You realize it’s just need and timing and fear. That realization came on a random Wednesday. The world hadn’t changed. I had.
I’m completely destroyed. Haven’t slept since yesterday afternoon. We’ve been watching The O.C. since four o’clock—André, Lisa, and me—just chaining episodes together, drinking, eating, existing in Newport Beach for fifteen hours straight. The weather outside is actually decent, which makes it worse somehow. We could be outside doing something. Instead we’re inside watching a show about rich teenagers ruining their lives.
I dragged André into this. He showed up skeptical, thought it was just empty melodrama. That’s always how it starts—someone convinced they’re above it until the show actually hooks them. By episode seven or eight he stopped making jokes about scripts and acting. Once Marissa’s death trip to Tecumana happened, once Oliver turned out to be a complete asshole, once Seth’s situation with Summer became genuinely pathetic, André just gave up fighting. The show does something to you. It has this intrigue, this ache of wanting things you can’t have, this way of making you believe that a seventeen-year-old’s problems are genuinely devastating. The O.C. becomes real. It lives in your chest now.
I’m wrecked. Sixteen hours with no sleep. Everything looks too vivid and strange. My spelling’s still perfect though, which is sort of hilarious because I can barely focus.
Vincent Gallo once tried to sell his sperm on eBay for a million dollars. This wasn’t metaphor or art-world provocation hidden in theory — it was him, listing it, with explicit racial preferences stated right there. The kind of thing you hear once and never forget, partly because it’s grotesque, partly because only Gallo would actually follow through on what most people have the sense to keep private.
He’s a singer, filmmaker, visual artist. He’s also willing to be completely inappropriate in public, to state desires that belong in thought and not speech, to blur the line between artistic statement and personal vendetta so thoroughly that you lose track of which side he’s even on anymore. Maybe there isn’t a difference. Maybe that’s the whole point.
The absurdity is that it was real. Not legend. Not myth. A real thing Gallo did, a real offer he made. And everyone remembers it. And the memory sticks because he was so unapologetic about it. No irony shield, no plausible deniability, just Gallo being exactly as offensive as he actually is, with a price tag attached.
The Pirate Party started in Sweden and spread because the internet had changed faster than the law could follow. By the time Germany formed its chapter, it was already in half of Europe, Russia, and the US. The platform was straightforward: restore basic digital rights, dismantle mass surveillance, soften or abolish copyright restrictions. If you’d ever been caught in the machinery of intellectual property law — a cease-and-desist letter, a throttled connection — the party’s position made immediate sense. They were naming what everyone already knew.
The organization had obvious problems. It was idealistic and loosely structured, full of people good at diagnosing the problem but less equipped to solve it. Still, it hit something real. There was a generational fracture over what ownership and copying even meant in a digital world. The law had been written for a different internet. Either it would adapt or become unenforceable. The Pirate Party at least had the clarity to say which way things were heading.
The party itself probably didn’t matter much in the end. Third parties rarely do. But the fact that it existed — that enough people felt strongly enough about this to form an actual political body — that said something about the moment. It was a statement that something fundamental had shifted, that what was actually possible on the internet had moved beyond what any government was willing to acknowledge.
I keep thinking about that Prague trip. Hotels destroyed, clubs at 3 AM, the kind of drinking where you lose track of time and stop caring. We were old enough to know what we were doing, young enough that nobody really stopped us.
Someone filmed the whole thing. Four hours of it. The footage is shaky and blown out, which feels right—it’s not trying to make anything look good, just documenting what happened. The biggest disco in Central Europe looks the same as everywhere else when you’re on your second loop and the night hasn’t ended.
The strange thing about having video is it becomes more real than memory. I can’t argue with what’s on tape. The party, the destruction, the pure stupidity—that’s how it was. Video fixes it in a way my own brain won’t. Memory keeps trying to reshape things into something with a point. The tape just says: this happened, this is what it looked like.
What actually sticks isn’t the grand moments. It’s the small ones. A hallway at 4 AM. Someone’s face when they realized something was broken. The particular clarity of being completely gone but still aware of how gone you are. You can’t get that back. You can watch it but you can’t recreate it once you’re older and consequences matter.
Microsoft was running this campaign called “Click. You’re clean.” Their solution to malware on Windows. The marketing image showed someone at their computer, everything clean and professional. It was a PowerBook.
Not Microsoft’s. Apple’s. The kind of mistake that the blogs catch before the marketing team does. They swapped it out fast—a mother and her kid instead. Safer. Less risky.
I’ve come back to that moment more than a few times. What it says about how companies work when nobody’s really watching. Someone picked that photo. It got approved. And then a single detail—one wrong device—cracked the entire facade open. An accident. The only true thing they ever advertised.
She’s the last one. Started with three, and now it’s just Koko—small, with these unusual, beautiful colors that don’t quite fit any standard cat palette. She’s become a complete cuddle junkie, always needing to be held, kneading at my chest while purring. Which makes it strange that her left eye is probably going to fail.
There’s medication that’s supposed to prevent it, but Koko’s not stupid. I slip the pills into her food and she finds them every time, leaves them on the plate. She knows what’s going on. The ointment doesn’t work. There aren’t any injections. It’s just a matter of luck now, and we both know how that story ends.
She doesn’t seem bothered by any of it though. Still shows up for her cuddles, still acts like nothing’s wrong. That’s the brave part.
I’d been working inside constraints I didn’t choose. The site was strangling me—image dimensions that cut off arbitrarily, categories I didn’t need, metrics I never checked, pages that loaded reluctantly. I adapted. I learned to work inside walls. But that’s not creating; that’s just adapting.
Then there was this theme called Breathe, designed by ifelse. Clean, minimal, and almost immediately functional without hacking. I braced for the usual three months of tearing it apart and rebuilding it. Instead, some color tweaks, some icon changes, and it was done. That’s how I know design is good: when I can’t improve it without making it worse.
What shifted: images at full size don’t blow up the layout. Videos work without engineering. There’s actual space around things. I can think about composition instead of navigating around technical walls. Everything loads fast. The navigation is simple. The tool disappears.
It sounds dramatic for what’s basically a site refresh. But when the obstacles vanish—when I can execute without three workarounds—the whole practice shifts. The thinking changes. I stop managing constraints and start making.
Betty’s eighteenth was a week ago, but certain nights stay with you. Julian was sprawling across everything, half on top of me for most of it. Patrick underneath, talking in his sleep like he was composing an entire novel for someone only he could hear. Ana to my right, having taken down a serious amount of whatever was flowing.
The party itself was fine. The music mostly worked. Drinks did what they were supposed to do. Half the people there were strangers—I didn’t know them going in and didn’t really connect with them either. Betty’s parents were genuinely nice about everything. They had liver sausage with potato salad, which was solid. I’m already thinking about next year, hoping they’ll have actual beds in the winter garden by then.
I switched to iChat because I’m staring at the screen half the day anyway—might as well use something beautiful. Apple designed this with actual restraint: no games, no ads, no features you didn’t ask for. Just a window where you and someone else talk.
There’s something almost perverse about a messenger that doesn’t try to extract something from you. Every other app is built to hook you, to harvest your attention, to sell you back to yourself. iChat just works. That simplicity is the whole design—no flourishes, no ego, just elegant emptiness.
You don’t think about the interface while you’re using it. The app disappears and you’re talking to someone. That’s the only thing that matters.
I watched Rugrats for years — Chuckie, Tommy, all of them navigating a world that was comically, terrifyingly oversized because they were so small. Everything was strange. A living room was an epic landscape. Angelica was a monster we genuinely hated.
Then came All Grown Up, and they were teenagers. The world was just… normal-sized now. Proportional. I remember being thrown by how much it didn’t work. The whole thing depended on that baby perspective — how it made the mundane surreal. Without it, you’re just watching cartoon teenagers, which is fine, but it’s not the same show anymore.
I think I wanted them to stay small. Not because I was nostalgic exactly, but because that specific distortion — the way a house felt like a continent — was the thing that made Rugrats itself. Watch something when you’re young enough and it shapes how you see the world. You grow and it grows with you in theory, but sometimes the growth just breaks what made it work in the first place.
I’ve reached the point where I can’t take Microsoft seriously anymore. Years of bloated software, lies wrapped in marketing-speak, and the absolute confidence that we’re all too dependent to leave. After I switched to Apple, I finally had room to actually do something about it. Out went Office. Out went Virtual PC. And as of today, out goes MSN Messenger.
I can now officially say I’m 100% Microsoft-free. That feels good to say, even if it’s not completely honest.
The problem is I’m still not entirely escaped the corporate leash. AOL and ICQ are their own flavor of manipulative bullshit, but nearly all my actual friends live in that ecosystem, so what am I going to do? Tell them to switch just so I can feel morally pure? Half-free is better than stuck, I guess.
Fair warning: I can’t receive offline messages on ICQ anymore, at least not the way I’m set up. So if you reach out and I’m not online, it disappears. Text me. Email me. Or catch me when I’m around.
“Popstars” is back, and the first half of the premiere is painful to watch. Not just the failed auditions—it’s the whole thing. Compared to “Deutschland sucht den Superstar,” which at least has some style, this is the gutter version.
Detlef D! Soost has the charm of a drain cleaner. He won’t shut up, won’t let anyone else finish, and takes himself with a seriousness that’s going to give him a heart attack. Nina Hagen is genuinely unhinged, which I respect, but listening to her tell people their voice is good enough for a choir felt cruel. Only moment worth watching was her fighting for some seventeen-year-old from Frankfurt. Dieter Falk probably has the most sense up there, but you’d never know it from the screen.
Germany needs more singers like this? No. Hope it disappears as fast as “Teenstar” did.
She’s been at summer camp in Greece since Thursday for two weeks—sun, beach, sea, all of it. Karaoke contests, animation, fashion shows. The thing is, the camp posts photos and videos online every day, so I can actually see what she’s doing down there.
In the latest batch someone’s lost their head. Completely gone. I don’t think anyone running the place has noticed yet, but now I’m genuinely wondering what’s happening at this camp.
Tuesday, August 8th, 2006. One of those days that shouldn’t exist — no point to it, no point for anyone. I spent the whole thing on my Mac, jumping in and out of the Giga Forum and watching The Simpsons four times in a row. Ana got so bored she wanted to find a friend just to do sports with. Irina was going to inline skate, but stayed home the whole day instead. My cousin disappeared into her PC playing solitaire for hours. So thanks for that, world — a completely pointless, headache-inducing Tuesday. At least South Park was coming on.
Waffles and a Beck’s Green Lemon on the desk while Apple’s servers exploded. Five PM keynote time, the usual ritual—Steve Jobs walking out and everyone in every chat room acting like kids on Christmas morning. This was going to be it. New iPod. New iPhone. Something that would justify all the breathless waiting.
The live ticker fed updates by the minute. Apple Stores offline an hour before he even started speaking. Sites buckled almost immediately under the surge of people refreshing for any scrap of information. For an hour I watched the minutiae accumulate: specs, announcements, features that felt less exciting with each passing update.
The Mac Pro was the big hardware reveal. Fastest Mac ever made. Also six thousand dollars, which meant it existed for about five people. OS X Leopard got the spotlight instead—Time Machine for backups, Spaces for virtual desktops, the kind of solid features you appreciated rather than loved. Microsoft would have these in Vista by next month anyway.
No new iPod. No iPhone. No surprise “one more thing” waiting at the end. That moment that usually salvaged these events, that made you forget the hour of professional hardware talk and forget Jobs’ reality distortion field had worn thin. It just… ended.
I watched the full thing later when the stream stabilized. Leopard looked competent. The Mac Pro was impressive if you had money to burn. But the letdown had already set in. You knew what you were hoping for, and somewhere around minute thirty you knew it wasn’t coming.
The Simpsons is the fallback. When everything else fails—when the new shows tank, when clever concepts don’t land—you schedule The Simpsons again. It always works. ProSieben tried for years to make original programming stick, gave up, and now it airs twice a day. There’s probably a decade of my life accounted for in whatever was on TV at any given moment, and The Simpsons was there for most of it.
The show’s been around long enough that it just lives in your head. You don’t need to pay attention. Every few minutes something lands—a joke, a reference, that particular way Homer says something. It’s comfort viewing. The newer seasons are uneven, sure, but the old ones never stopped being funny. So you keep going back.
The network made the obvious call, and it’s probably the smartest thing they’ve done. Not because the show is perfect, but because it just works. Some things don’t need improvement. They just need to exist.
Coming in, people had conflicting opinions on whether the second Pirates film beat the first. I didn’t need to think about it—it clearly did. ’Dead Man’s Chest’ is bloated and overstuffed and way too long, but somehow you don’t feel any of it. The film just keeps moving. Action, humor, story all tumbling together. The fights are weird and inventive. Keira Knightley looks incredible in period wear. Johnny Depp is doing something with that character that makes him impossible to look away from.
I sat through the credits because I had to know what happened to the dog. Sounds silly except the film actually commits to it. It knows you’re thinking about the dog and it pays off the joke. That kind of care—even for something small—is what makes a film linger.
It became one of my instant favorites. The kind of film where everything works despite having no real reason to. Already looking forward to the third one.
Sometime around 2006, RTL and Viacom decided that German satellite TV would be encrypted from then on. New receiver, monthly subscription, installation fees—the whole apparatus of corporate extraction. I was genuinely furious, not because I watched much, but because it was so baldly greedy. No innovation, no improvement, just the decision to charge for something people already had. When I found out ProSieben and the others would follow, it didn’t even feel like news. It felt inevitable.
I wanted to believe people would push back. That greed this obvious would collapse. But they just paid the fees, and the fees became normal, and somewhere along the way the public broadcast space just ceased to exist. Every platform learned the same lesson: find what people want, lock it behind a subscription, raise the price twice a year. Now everything works that way. We don’t even remember it being different.
Betty’s come out the other side of whatever those years were, and now there’s someone new and a different energy about her, the kind you can actually see shifting. We’ve had some genuinely strange times together since Fritz came into the picture, and when I think about her my brain just loops back to all the idiotic things I said that she immediately forgot, those cold nights standing outside the gym during Carnival, the video marathons at her place when everyone called her Big Mouth for reasons that made perfect sense at three in the morning. That stuff sticks with you.
Tomorrow she’s throwing what’s definitely going to be one of those parties—loud, messy, the kind of night people reference forever afterward. I’m looking forward to actually seeing her, seeing what’s different now. Her photo came through scrambled somehow, doesn’t really matter, I’ll see her tomorrow anyway.
MTV Europe used to mean something. Real money and energy behind fighting AIDS stigma, actual opposition to the mainstream, genuine stakes. Now it’s just ringtone ads and paywalls and firing anyone worth watching.
They cancelled Sarah Kuttner’s show, and it’s made me properly angry.
I didn’t catch every episode — honestly some of them were strange, a bit dull. But what made it important was that it existed to talk back. MTV had something on air that would tell MTV itself to fuck off, genuinely, on live television. Even if you weren’t watching that particular week, knowing it was there counted.
Sarah had a gift for just being herself without performing it. Not manufactured likeable. That’s gotten rarer on MTV, or anywhere really.
She’ll be fine. Too good not to land somewhere. But I’m hoping whatever she does next is entirely hers — no network calling shots, no gatekeepers. That’s the only place anything real happens anymore.
Lydia’s never gotten taller, is the thing. It was one of those running jokes—would she actually stay that small? Among friends, between drinks, the kind of thing you wonder about someone. And the answer, now that she’s eighteen, is yes. She’s exactly the size she was going to be, and apparently everyone’s okay with that now.
But the height was never really the point. What makes Lydia actually interesting is that she knows what she wants and she takes it. That confidence about desire—that’s rare. Most people spend their whole lives apologizing for wanting things.
She’s got someone now, and they’re tearing around together. I don’t know all the details, but there’s talk of Brazil eventually, some veranda life in the sun. It’s a good ending for someone like her. The girl everyone used to stare at for the wrong reasons is just going to go off and live her life somewhere warm, and she doesn’t much care what anyone thinks about it.
The heat was unrelenting. One of those apocalyptic days where it doesn’t matter what time you wake up—it’s already burning everything down. Becca and I drove out to the Lamerdinger Baggerweiher, this local gravel pit lake that someone at the gymnasium’s school paper had somehow thought deserved a rating: ’Ice cream trucks, ducks and fish, no shade.’ I don’t remember seeing any ducks or fish, but there were plenty of bodies stretched out in the sun and one older guy who’d clearly made peace with his body a long time ago.
The water was cold enough to keep us occupied for maybe an hour before we gave up and drove back. We ate fatty oven cheese straight from the pan, which somehow didn’t feel as heavy as it should have despite the heat. By evening, Becca, Ana, Martin, Marina, her friend Basti, and I were at the Chap. Little Straub showed up wanting a turn at whatever game the rest of us were playing. It was pretty fun, even if 12 marks for a cocktail still seemed like too much.
Becca and I got back together. We’d been doing that thing—you know, break up for a while, try other people, realize after a stretch that you were actually fine where you were. Sometimes you need to leave something to figure out it was good. So we’re back to it.
Tonight we’re heading to the Chinese place. Maybe the lake after if the weather holds. There’s something about those evenings where nothing’s particularly remarkable but everything just feels exactly right. You stopped fighting whatever and went back to what was working. I’d let a lot of things slide. Tomorrow I’m trying to pick up some regular habits again. Get some rhythm back.
We were supposed to go to an open-air concert, but plans are fragile things. Ana and I ended up at my place instead, watching some game show on RTL, then a disaster program, and then we just played the new Muse album on repeat for hours. Nothing glamorous. Just two people burning a night that was supposed to be somewhere else.
I can feel it now, the moment when it’s time to get over Becca. That’s what I’m noticing. I watched that James Blunt video, “Goodbye my Lover,” the one I never gave a shit about before, and it completely destroyed me. She looks like Mischa Barton, which makes everything worse. He’s singing right at my face in that video and I’m just sitting there with it, knowing it changes nothing. She’s not coming back. That’s just how it is.
Everyone says you’re supposed to go find the beautiful parts of life again, and they’re probably right, but knowing something and feeling it are two different things. I’ll get there. For now I’m just sitting with the disappointment, her face in my head, the strange peace of a night that went sideways. It’ll be fine.
The heat hit different today—the kind of hot where you suddenly understand why lakes exist. I picked up Ana and Irina but they still weren’t ready, something about needing to shave, hitting Edeka for a new phone card, deciding between skirts and pants or whatever. The whole thing ate an hour while I’m melting in their living room playing with cats and staring at this massive flat-screen, just wondering what their electricity bill looks like.
Eniz had been out front waiting forever. We almost grabbed Ali but he’d already peeled off with his girlfriends to some other pool. Eniz needed to stop at Edeka for sunflower oil—and I mean actual cooking oil, not sunscreen. He swears it tans better. Maybe it does, maybe he’s just breading himself like a chicken and too stubborn to admit it. The smell later was genuinely foul.
Ettringer Baggerweiher finally. Spent half an hour hunting for a real spot, gave up, parked with everyone else. Straight into the water. The whole swim was a fight—slimy algae, vicious horseflies with a vendetta, tree debris floating everywhere. Cold ice after, good people, Eniz absolutely reeking of sunflower oil. That was it.
Iri’s seventeen now. She’s responsible for the single most downloaded photo in this site’s history—not content, just her. That fact tells you everything: beautiful in a very specific way, completely aware of it, and finding the whole situation funny. Happy birthday to someone who knows exactly what she does to people. Keep being relentless.
Rebecca broke up with me. I knew it was coming, but knowing and it actually happening are two different things. Some people will be happy about this—they wanted it to end. But it was her move, and she’s right to make it. I wasn’t always the friend I should’ve been, and she’s seventeen and wants to see what else there is. I’ve been here before, done this with other people, so I know how to live with it now.
But I’ll still think about her. Not constantly, just in moments. A song, something she used to watch. She’ll just be there for a second, in the back of my head.
She was a good friend. Almost perfect, actually. Maybe too perfect for who I was. I hope she finds what she’s looking for.
Becca and I drove to Munich during the World Cup. The city was packed—flags hanging from buildings, horns everywhere, a kind of noise and energy I’d never felt before. We bought team shirts and moved through the crowds, caught the heat and the chaos of it.
What stays with me is the sound—the constant horns, the bars spilling onto the streets, the sense that the whole place was paying attention to the same thing at once. For those few weeks, you could feel part of something massive just by being there.
Found this thing where people submit ideas the old way—handwritten on paper, in an envelope. No digital polish, no algorithmic optimization, just you and a piece of paper. There’s something good about that friction. You can’t fire off half-formed thoughts or iterate endlessly before sending. You commit or you don’t.
After two decades of blogging, watching platforms become increasingly hostile to genuine thought, there’s a real pleasure in seeing people return to paper. It feels like a small rebellion. Less performance, more intention.
Needed the bathroom, figured I’d load up Animal Crossing on my DS for a minute. But the second the load screen clears, there’s Don Resetti—this furious little mole apparently speaking on behalf of Nintendo itself. He thanks me for buying the game, then goes completely off on me because I didn’t save the last time I played. Just turned it off and left.
Five minutes of screaming while my battery’s at 2%. When he finally stops, he warns me that if he has to show up again, things are going to get worse.
Nothing had ever hit me like that. A video game character genuinely pissed off at your save habits, threatening you in your own cozy village. This tiny mole in a game about catching fish and decorating your house is there to make sure you know you fucked up. The audacity.
Spent the day with Becca in Munich yesterday. One of those rare days where everything just clicks—blue sky, no wind, that particular kind of peace you don’t really think about until it’s gone. We headed out on the U-Bahn to check out her new school, looked it over properly. No one minded that we were poking around. Back into the city after that. Pizza Hut for lunch, then Gravis to look at MacBooks, some ridiculous raspberry-tea-whatever from Starbucks that tasted cloyingly sweet—they were out of lemon-mango. We hit Saturn because she’s thinking about getting a laptop, so I wandered through the notebooks, glanced at the CDs and DVDs. Then we stepped back outside and the sky had just gone. Dark blue to dark gray in maybe five minutes. This unsettling wind tearing through the shopping street, rain on your skin before your brain even registers it’s raining. We ducked into Hugendubel, and that’s where I finally grabbed the book I’d been wanting: “Power and Rebel” by Matias Faldbakken, this Norwegian writer.
The premise sounds straightforward. Two men in this crumbling society—one’s a corporate consultant, uptight, ambitious in all the ways that damages you. The other’s called Rebel, and he hates everything, including himself, purely cynical. They’re living in this culture obsessed with youth and logos and bodies and sex, the whole apparatus of corporate desire. They’re after some idea of what individual freedom even means in the 21st century. I’m only a handful of pages in but it’s already dark. Teenage girls are part of it. Mein Kampf gets quoted. The book came out here in punk-style editions, black and white, but the original has this old German typeface that looks uncomfortably close to Third Reich design. Fair warning: read the first three pages. If you’re not completely disgusted by then, you’ll probably want to keep going.
We made it home mostly dry, though the Munich train station was grim with the sky completely black and the thunder sounding like air raids.
André and I ran into each other last night with nothing in particular planned. So we grabbed a case of Beck’s Green Lemon and chips and decided to just lock in with South Park. Sixteen episodes. Straight through. In English.
The show was absolutely relentless. Paris Hilton with a pineapple in places that shouldn’t be possible. Mr. Slave following up with his own unspeakable additions. Butters out here committing mass murder entirely by accident. The kids declaring war on the Chinese mafia for fun. Stan getting coerced into sex with a llama because he won’t vote. Al Gore just wants everyone dead. Butters becomes a woman. Eric goes through this whole bit where he thinks he’s dead and then starts shitting out fake jewelry. Chef gets impaled and torn apart for trying to seduce children. The entire town turns gay because time-traveling unemployed people exist. Every single plot thread just escalated further into complete derangement. I was laughing so hard at some points I could barely function.
By hour five my right arm was absolutely destroyed. Not from what you’re thinking. From holding a beer bottle steady for five straight hours. We got through the entire case.
I spent an afternoon reworking my dashboard. Hit F12 and the whole thing unfolds: calendar, clock, weather that never gets the forecast right, CNN ticker, TV streaming panel, an orange calculator, Wikipedia widget, web radio, and a turtle named Bordi who does nothing.
The weather widget failed at its one job. The CNN ticker actually works—constant stream of small disasters delivered straight to my screen. The calculator I use maybe once a month. Bordi just sits there. I kept him anyway.
There’s something about laying out information like that, making it all visible and neat. You arrange it and step back and it feels like you’ve built something, like maybe understanding clicks when you have enough data in one place. It’s the collector’s impulse applied to widgets.
Of course it’s completely unnecessary. No one needs half this stuff. I liked how it looked though—windows onto weather, news, music, knowledge. The whole dashboard felt like proof that I could be prepared, that everything I might need was there and visible.
Then the internet goes down and it’s all decoration. Which is honestly what most preparation is anyway.
Mario was created in 1981 by Shigeru Miyamoto as a simple sprite — a figure that moves and jumps. There’s no story. No explanation for anything. Just the immediate problem of crossing the screen.
I played Mario games growing up. I don’t remember which ones specifically, just the feeling of it — the controller, the timing, the way your brain learns the pattern. The games don’t explain themselves. You figure it out by playing.
The strange thing about Mario now is that he exists outside of games. You see him referenced everywhere. Most people have never played a Mario game and still know exactly who he is. He’s become this cultural constant, the way Mickey Mouse is.
That’s odd because he’s barely a character. He doesn’t want anything, he doesn’t have a personality, he doesn’t develop. He’s just a mechanism — jump, move, navigate. But that’s probably why he’s lasted. He doesn’t require depth or story or meaning. He just works.
I was thinking about this the other day, how something so simple could become so permanent. Not because it’s precious or protected, but because it actually functions. Because it doesn’t try to be more than what it is. Mario isn’t trying to be art. He’s just a good game. And that was enough.
I made a list of ten songs that stuck with me, burned themselves into my head at some point and never left. Not because they’re the best or because everyone’s supposed to care — just songs that at the right moment meant something specific to how I think and feel.
t.A.T.u., “All The Things She Said.” Phantom Planet, “California.” Avril Lavigne, “I’m With You.” Silbermond, “Durch die Nacht” — a German band that somehow ended up here. Sum 41, “Fat Lip.” The brilliant green, “Rainy Days Never Stay.” Johnny Cash’s version of “Hurt,” which is so definitive it erases everything else. Imogen Heap, “Hide And Seek.” Green Day, “Time Of Your Life.” Evanescence, “My Immortal.”
There’s something about how most of these songs slow down. They understand that the important stuff happens when you stop moving and actually sit with something. The ones that don’t slow down still have that quality — something genuine being said instead of performed. A lot of them are ballads. The best rock songs usually are.
I have no idea if anyone else would build this list the same way, and that’s sort of the point. These were just the ones there when I needed them to be.
Someone sent me a link to Last.fm and I’ve been using it for a while now. It’s a small web radio player that learns what I like by actually paying attention to what I listen to. I start it with an artist or band, it plays something, and I either skip it or save it as a favorite. That’s the whole system. No complicated profiles, no playlists full of filler — just play, react, move on.
What surprises me is how fast it learns. After a couple hours the suggestions stop being random. After a week my own taste starts coming back at me — songs that feel inevitable, like of course that’s the next one. The player just watches what I keep and shapes itself around the pattern.
Most music services are trying to trick you somehow. They want your data, or they’re pushing whatever they got a deal on, or they’re turning you into a brand. Last.fm seems to want none of that. It’s just a player that watches what you’re playing and gets better at guessing what you want next. Anonymous. Free. No upsell.
I still don’t trust recommendation algorithms in general. There’s something creepy about being predicted, about your taste being read before you consciously know it. But this one doesn’t have that angle. It’s more like someone who actually paid attention to what I was listening to and made a suggestion based on that. The difference is subtle but it changes everything.
When I need music and don’t know what to put on, that’s where I go now.
You get in a taxi in the pouring rain. The driver asks you questions—where are you from, what’s your favorite food—and by the time you’re standing outside your new house, you’re already invested in the place as real. Then Tom Nook shows up. He’s the guy who sold you this house, and you owe him twenty thousand bells. He offers you a job. You take it. He fires you almost immediately.
So you figure it out on your own. You catch fish, sell bugs, run errands. Your neighbors are animals—a pretty openly gay bear, a grumpy rhino, others who say specific, oddly personal things about their day. They want to visit you. They give you gifts. A professor wants you to collect fossils. Everything is small and low-pressure, nothing trying to be important.
But the clock is what matters. The game knows what time it is. Things happen at specific times and dates. Leave for a week and the town changes—new residents, new shops, new items in the dump. And if you go online, you can visit other people’s towns, trade with them, find messages in bottles washed up on strangers’ beaches. Everyone’s playing in real time, in parallel, a strange quiet multiplayer.
I’ve always liked games that don’t push you. They let you sit with them without trying to optimize your time or make you feel behind. And this one is small enough to take anywhere. That’s where the real hook is—the fact that you can play in the bathroom, on a train, between other things. It becomes part of your day instead of something you schedule. Which is maybe why it works so well: you’re not committing to it, you’re just existing in it.
In the late 90s, when I’d walk into a computer lab or office and see nothing but Dell boxes running Windows, there was this pure, clean hatred that just flowed through me. I knew it was pointless—I wasn’t going to change anyone’s mind by getting angry about it—but the pointlessness made it worse somehow. Everyone around me thought this was just what computers were. A pale blue screen, wait for it to load, buy the antivirus, get infected anyway. They had no idea what they were missing.
The thing about Windows then was that it wasn’t even good. It was buggy, it was slow, it was designed by people who clearly didn’t care if you could actually do anything creative with it. But Microsoft had gotten lucky—caught Apple when they were weak, locked down enough hardware manufacturers, made something that was just good enough and cheap enough that it became the standard. And once something becomes the standard, that’s it. You’re not selling quality anymore; you’re selling inevitability.
What got to me most was watching designers I respected use it without complaint. I’d watch them work around crashes and stability issues like they were just part of the job. Windows didn’t make it easier to make beautiful things; if anything, it got in the way. The whole system felt like it was designed to push you toward a specific way of thinking, a specific way of working. But everyone was too embedded in it to see it as a choice.
I get that I sound like a zealot when I talk like this, and maybe I was. But there’s something to resenting a monopoly, especially one that keeps people from exploring alternatives. The people using Windows weren’t stupid—they were just trapped in a cycle where nothing else was available at work, at school, in the store.
I’m not angry about it anymore. It’s been long enough that it almost feels quaint, the ferocity of those arguments. But I still think about that moment when you’d show someone a Mac or use Linux and watch it click for them—the way a system could actually get out of your way. That feeling stuck with me more than the anger ever did.
Japan played Brazil at the 2006 World Cup and I remember thinking they might actually do something. They had moments of real competence, weren’t outclassed or anything. But the other results went wrong—Croatia beat Australia or Australia beat Croatia or whatever, the point is the fixtures didn’t align. Sometimes you play well and still lose to math.
I was disappointed, but not devastated. Club football gets in your bones. International tournaments are different—you care for a month, then you’re done. Someone was rooting for South Korea, so I shifted over. You find something else to want and keep watching.
Twenty years later I don’t recall much except that Japan looked decent against Brazil and didn’t advance. I switched allegiances because of someone else’s investment. But that particular sting—watching a team you care about play well and still get knocked out by circumstance—that stays with you in a dumb, persistent way.
I went to Kaufbeuren today and broke a promise to myself. I’d said I wasn’t buying a Nintendo DS Lite. But it was sitting there in black, alone, and something just gave. I had to have it.
I grabbed Animal Crossing: Wild World too. Everyone says it’s incredible. GIGA’s been pushing it, half the internet won’t shut up about it. Guess I’m about to find out why.
Becca and I have been looking at vacation rentals. We’re doing Bibione this year, just the two of us. That’ll be something.
So there I am, the world falling apart outside, taking care of my new little thing.
The Wii controller was the moment when everyone admitted they’d run out of ideas. Nintendo made this little white remote that actually did something different—you’d swing it around for tennis, aim like a gun, whatever the game needed—and suddenly Sony and Microsoft realized they’d been stuck making the same controllers for a decade, just refining them into slightly nicer shapes.
Sony announced the PS3 controller was getting motion sensing. Peter Moore at Microsoft said basically the same thing for Xbox 360. Neither company had actually thought about what motion control meant for their own systems, their own games. They just saw what Nintendo did and decided that was the thing to do now. It was the clearest possible admission that they didn’t have anything original to say.
I don’t know. There’s something deflating about watching massive corporations get caught that flat-footed, realizing they had nothing while a competitor figured something out. They could’ve gone anywhere, pushed into their own weird territory, but instead everyone just started copying. It made the whole industry feel smaller.
Amanda Bynes isn’t the most successful actress, but she’s one of the few from that era I actually want to watch. There’s something about her—timing, warmth, some ineffable thing—that makes even the worst material feel worth it. *What a Girl Wants* is an advertisement for teen pop-star fantasy that shouldn’t work, but she carried it with this effortless ease that made you believe in the whole thing anyway.
The sitcom is what really got me though. *Hallo Holly* had this unusual reach, getting picked up across different countries in a way those kinds of shows almost never do. She had this gift for making comedy feel lived-in, like these were actual friends with actual problems instead of characters hitting marks. Most young comedians lose that as they get older, start performing instead of just existing. She had it.
I don’t have some larger point about Amanda Bynes. I just think she’s good at what she does, and when I run into her stuff, I watch it. That’s the whole thing.
I’ve been obsessing about operating systems. Windows, Linux, Mac OS X. They feel like more than software — like something that matters. The line is that only one will survive. But which? And which would I actually want to?
What does the user of the future look like? A Windows drone, locked in and oblivious? A true believer in the Apple religion, convinced paying more means thinking better? Or someone in Linux, talking freedom while they debug drivers at 3 AM?
The idea of one corporation controlling everything terrifies me. Microsoft, Apple, whoever. Doesn’t matter which one. That nightmare is the same.
But Linux is different. It’s actually free, not as a sales pitch but structurally. No single entity owns it. It’s distributed — pieces that work together, each replaceable, nothing essential. That’s where its real strength lives.
I think about this in sci-fi terms. Einstein’s line about the fourth world war fought with sticks and stones. And here’s what I believe: when the world turns to desert, when water costs everything, when civilization exists only in fragments, whatever still functions will be running Linux. The only system that survives will be one no one owns.
When the grid fails and cities get swallowed, something built on that principle will still run. No permission needed, no one to answer to. That’s the only infrastructure I’d trust to actually survive.
I loaded Vista Beta 2 yesterday and installed it on my mom’s computer during the Brazil match. After fifteen years with Windows—good stretches and bad ones—I figured I could give the thing a fair shot. But it’s not a revolution. It’s just XP in a better suit.
Nothing’s actually different. The boot screen looks exactly as slow, minus the XP logo. The login screen got prettier, marginally, and you wait for the desktop to load only to think: okay, and then what? The taskbar is black. That’s the big change they’re selling us. The Start button got remodeled to look like the Vista logo. The user picture sits there, ready to be changed. Neither of those things is revolutionary. The Windows Explorer is bloated now. Open any program—even Microsoft’s own stuff—and the screen goes black asking if you’re really sure you want to open this. Yes. And it asks again. It doesn’t remember the first time.
Hardware detection is a complete disaster. It grabbed my mom’s programs and settings from XP with no problem, which is nice, but then it couldn’t find the sound card. Couldn’t find the network card either. I scraped together drivers and tried to force them in, and Vista just refused. It wouldn’t even try. It sat there and said no.
What gets me is thinking about the millions of Windows users who are about to deal with this thing. All the clicking, all the confirmation dialogs asking the same thing over and over, all the drivers that won’t install. It’s coming for them. And I’ll be home with my Mac, watching it play out. There’s a woman in the official Vista ads who’s laughing in every shot. She probably knows something.
There’s this pattern where I’ll start watching a new series and just not get it at first. Nothing lands. Then weeks later something clicks and I realize I’ve been completely wrong about the whole thing, and suddenly I can’t stop watching. Happened with The O.C., happened with Invader Zim. Took me a few episodes of the latter before its actual frequency became clear, but once it locked in I was completely gone on it.
The setup is straightforward enough: an alien named Zim arrives on Earth with actual orders to infiltrate and destroy the planet, except he’s comically bad at invasion in this weirdly lovable way. He gets an apartment, forges documents to enroll in school, picks up a malfunctioning robot sidekick called GIR who’s broken in all the right ways. Every episode he cooks up some new master plan for world conquest and it crumbles almost immediately, usually because Dib, this kid in his class, is the only human who’s figured out what Zim actually is and has decided to make stopping him his entire purpose.
What really grabbed me was the visual design. Invader Zim has this genuinely dark, futuristic, kind of apocalyptic look that doesn’t belong on Nickelodeon. You’re watching a comedy that’s set in a world that already looks like it’s halfway done with itself. The color palette is bleak. The architecture is oppressive. There’s nothing in the visual language trying to sell toys or keep kids bouncing off the walls. It’s just genuinely eerie, and that plays against the stupid humor of the plot in a way that makes everything hit harder. The tension between goofy scheme and genuinely unsettling world is the whole appeal.
The show never connected with a massive audience, which turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to it. It never had to smooth down its weird edges or compromise itself for ratings. It just stayed strange, committed to its own sensibility, too odd for the mainstream but completely unbothered about it. That’s the show that kept me watching.
Japan had it won. Up 1-0 in the eightieth minute against Australia—should’ve been routine, but then it all fell apart. Three goals in the next ten minutes. Three. It was like watching one squad decide to stop playing while the other one stayed awake and noticed.
Everyone needed someone to blame. The Japanese media went after the referee—African guy, made some bad calls, easy scapegoat. Fans wanted Zico out. You need a head on a pike when something like that happens, something that explains it. But the real explanation was just that Japan stopped and Australia kept shooting until it didn’t matter anymore.
I waited a few days before writing this. If I’d done it right after, it would’ve been nothing but profanity and rage. Time helps. The referee probably was bad. Zico probably isn’t the guy. But mostly it was just one side giving up for ten minutes while another side was sharp enough to take advantage. Nothing complicated about it. Just stupid.
I watched enough sitcoms on Nick Comedy to fill a few years of evenings—”King of Queens,” “Friends,” but mostly “Mad About You” in German dubbing, which came on at hours when nobody else was watching. The channel filled that space after MTV2POP vanished, a mix of solid stuff and throwaway filler, the kind of programming that doesn’t seem to matter until it’s gone. There was something about Helen Hunt and Paul Reiser speaking German at midnight that felt right at the time, the same way late-night TV feels necessary when you’re the only one awake.
Nick Comedy shuts down tomorrow. The channel becomes all SpongeBob and Rocko, which is what any kids’ network would do. And VIVA PLUS is folding into Comedy Central—the whole schedule getting tighter, consolidating, squeezing out the odd corners where old shows could hide.
I keep wondering if the series will surface somewhere else. The show itself isn’t gone, the actors are fine, but a television show is also the time slot it lives in, the channel it broadcasts from. When that dies, part of the show dies with it.
Becca’s got three kittens and somehow one of them has become ours. Not officially yet, but the plan is that when we move out, Koko comes with us. She’s the one who figured everything out first—eating, the box, the whole logistics of being a kitten. The other two are still kind of bumbling, and Koko’s just already sorted. There’s something you respect about that right from the start.
She’s sweet in a way that doesn’t feel like an act. She lets you hold her. She remembers you. Cats do this thing where they’re always calculating something about you, and with Koko it’s obvious. When we’re over at Becca’s, I watch her watch us, just taking stock. It’s hard to explain but it means something.
The future arrangement is pretty clear: she comes with us. Not borrowed affection or some arrangement that works for now. Just actually ours. I think about that sometimes when I’m visiting—not about missing her someday, but about knowing we won’t have to.
There’s also Apple, though I’m still figuring out where that fits into things.
The gimmick was honest: hold a remote, move it like you mean it, and your character moves with you. I saw the Rayman trailer and thought this is stupid and wonderful, this is how games should feel. Not sitting there watching a screen but actually in the room, moving your arm, swinging at things, jumping around like you’ve lost your mind.
Motion controls never really worked, of course. Too imprecise, too tiring, too easy to get wrong. But underneath the whole thing was a genuine impulse — wanting to close the distance between your body and what happens on screen. Nintendo fumbled it. But they were reaching for something true.
Beautiful morning and I’m still ill. The whole weekend I barely slept, felt like a wet sack. Couldn’t make it to Becca’s cousin’s confirmation. Just sat around Sunday with nothing to do, so I kept rewatching the Wii trailer.
Nintendo was saying it brings gamers and non-gamers together, which seemed genuinely funny to me at the time. Like okay, once we have this little white box, suddenly everyone’s playing games together? I wanted it. Wanted it bad enough to keep clicking that video over and over.
Walked to the doctor this morning and it was good to be outside, moving around in actual sunlight. You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway. Something shifts when you’re walking outside on a perfect day.
Marissa Cooper’s death. That moment on The O.C. when everything just… stopped. I was young enough to actually care about her as a character, old enough to recognize the show as teen melodrama, which only made it worse somehow. The music swelling in the background was Imogen Heap covering “Hallelujah” — not the Leonard Cohen version everyone knows, but the Jeff Buckley devastation, the one that sounds like someone’s entire world is caving in on itself. Which is what was happening on screen.
The O.C. had this weird skill for pairing indie music with teen soap heartbreak, and it worked because neither side was winking at the audience. They weren’t being ironic about the emotion. Imogen Heap’s voice, that particular angular precision of it, fit the show’s DNA perfectly — the clean production of The O.C., that glossy Newport Beach aesthetic, needed something intelligent under it or the whole thing would’ve felt empty. Music that was actually good, from actual musicians who weren’t there for the paycheck, that mattered.
It wasn’t the first time Imogen Heap had soundtracked a death on the show. They’d done something in season 2 when Trey was shot, but this felt different. Finality. The character actually stayed dead. And the song choice — a cover of something already heavy, already done by someone else who’d poured their guts into it — added another layer of weight. The performance had to live in the shadow of Buckley’s version, which is almost impossible, and yet there it was, doing something different with the same material.
I think about that moment sometimes when I hear Imogen Heap, which isn’t often anymore. That specific intersection of indie music and mainstream teen television worked because neither side compromised. The band didn’t dial it down for TV money. The show didn’t patronize its own emotions. They just met there in the middle and made something that actually hurt to watch.
Everyone kept telling me to go to California. The O.C., the Chili Peppers, E3 in Los Angeles, celebrity gossip shows, my classmate André — everything pointed the same direction. At some point you stop arguing with it.
I didn’t actually want California for any reason I could name. No dream, no plan, just this ambient cultural pressure that said California was the place. The songs about it, the TV shows set there, the magazines, the parties in the Hills, the whole apparatus of pop culture treating it like the obvious destination.
When you’re young and everything around you is pointing at the same place, you feel the pull even if you’re not sure why. The mythology does the work. California becomes what you’re supposed to want because enough people have decided to want it already.
That’s it, really. Not the place itself — the idea of the place. The agreement that California matters. Once enough reference points align, once the signal gets loud enough, you don’t need a real reason anymore. You want to go because the culture wants you to want to go.
I never did go, but I lived in the shadow of that pull for years. That’s what California was — an inevitability in the culture, somewhere you looked toward even if you weren’t looking for anything specific. Just the place everyone agreed to look at.
I remember the original Smash Bros. feeling like a cheat code—minimal learning curve, maximum chaos, everyone suddenly good. Brawl’s the bigger version now, fatter roster, more stages, motion controls that feel tacked on. The question is whether bigger actually means better, and I don’t have an answer yet.
But the core is still intact: throw everyone on screen, let the button-mashing happen, and it works. That part doesn’t evolve—it just persists.
For people without the GameCube copy, this is the version to get. For those of us who were there, I’m not convinced it changes the equation. Still, I’ll probably play it. That’s the cycle.
There’s a quality to early-2000s teen TV that doesn’t fade. The O.C. ended ages ago, but Mischa Barton still holds something. That look—bored, wealthy, untouchable. She was the thing you wanted and couldn’t have, which I guess is the whole point of casting someone like that. It doesn’t matter that the show’s been off the air for decades. Certain faces stick.
I made a European fan portal for her. Nothing fancy—just an excuse to gather all the scattered pictures and news and whatever else I could find, create a space where someone like me could go and keep track. The site picked up visitors pretty quickly—people looking for the same thing, I suppose. But that wasn’t really why I did it. You build these things because you’re interested in something that nobody else seems interested in anymore, and you want to preserve it a little. Or maybe you just want a reason to keep thinking about it.
It’s strange, the obsession with a person you’ll never meet. Stranger still in the internet age, where you can follow anyone instantly, where celebrity is just content flow like everything else. But there’s something about building a dedicated space for someone, a shrine, that older fan culture had. It’s different than a follow or a retweet. It’s time. It’s effort. It’s saying: this matters to me, even if it doesn’t matter to anyone else.
The site exists. Mischa probably has no idea. That’s fine. For me it’s just a way of staying connected to a specific moment in my own life, when I was younger and certain faces mattered in a way they don’t anymore. Or maybe they still do, just differently.
The E3 was the event you waited for. Every year there’d be this one moment when the industry gathered and announced what mattered next. I remember the year of the PS3 and the Wii — two very different answers to what gaming would be. The Wii was the confusing one. Nobody understood it at first. Motion controls, less power, the whole thing looked like Nintendo had surrendered the hardware race. Then you’d see someone actually hold the controller and move it, and it was still confusing but different.
The PS3 looked like the future in the way things used to look like the future — curved, expensive, overwhelming. Everything that mattered would end up there. The Wii turned out to have its own answer entirely.
The convention doesn’t exist like that anymore. Companies announce things when it suits them, events stream to nobody in particular, news arrives constant instead of concentrated. Maybe it’s better. Maybe it’s smarter. But there was something about E3 as a moment you could point to. This is when they told us what comes next. You felt the weight of it.
I don’t miss the PR or the hype — that was always there. But I miss the shape. The timing. The sense that something important was being announced right now, in that place, and you were there watching it happen.
Next week, The O.C. ends in America. Germany gets the finale in June on Saturday afternoons—a strange time for a show that mattered, a quiet way of saying goodbye. Austria gets it earlier. Maybe they’re kinder to their doomed shows.
The finale is apparently brutal. Everyone gets a moment before it’s over. Seth’s in trouble with the cops. Ryan’s mom shows up. Marissa gets a marriage proposal that might change everything. Summer falls apart because Seth’s leaving, and she knows she’s losing him. Sandy makes some kind of decision that breaks Kirsten. Then they graduate high school and the show just ends, replacing them with Kaitlin and her friends in season four. Except Fox hasn’t greenlit season four yet, and the ratings were already weak.
So that’s it. Ryan, Marissa, Seth, Summer—the whole reason anyone watched—are done. Three seasons, and then the show decides it’s better to start over with characters nobody cares about than to let itself breathe. The ratings couldn’t hold up. The story had nowhere left to go. Josh Schwartz saw the ending coming and planned for this.
I’m sad about it in the way you get sad about things you’ve spent time with. Three years of watching these people destroy their own lives and somehow make it matter. The show was always kind of stupid, but it knew how to make you care anyway. Now it’s going away, and whatever replaces it won’t be the same. Moving it to Saturday afternoon—when most people are outside in summer, when it’s easy to skip—feels like proof that everyone’s already given up.
But maybe that’s right. Maybe the mercy is knowing when to end instead of dragging everything out until nobody remembers why they loved it. I’ll watch it when it gets to Germany. I’ll be sad. And I’ll accept that this version of The O.C.—the one that mattered—ends the way it should.
Spent all of Saturday on a report for social studies class about Chinese internet censorship. Falun Gong, Yahoo, Shi Tao—the usual suspects in that particular story, caught between what their government wanted them to say and what they actually thought. Useful homework, I guess. Meanwhile my friends were doing better things: Koksi was throwing a party, Andreas was doing birthday pizza somewhere in Landsberg, and his sister Ilka was supposedly worth meeting. Never met her. The weekend had that feeling of stacking one bad choice on top of another and deciding it was already ruined.
By late evening I caved. A week without World of Warcraft is longer than it sounds, and there was a four-hour dungeon run sitting in my queue. Got a nice blue item out of it, the kind of loot that feels meaningful when you’re holding it and meaningless the moment you log off. Hours spent. Time that could’ve been anywhere else, spent on something that will be invisible by next week.
Keynote’s still open on the desktop. The report is still five pages short. Going back to it now, back to internet censorship and the choices people make when they can’t choose anything. Probably the whole point of homework, come to think of it.
School was good today. Everyone was in a decent mood. We did some improvisation in class, and after, a group of us sat by the lake during break and talked about life, god, the usual things you talk about when you think you understand something. The afternoon was like most afternoons, nothing remarkable, but I went to the barber and booked another appointment—something about getting a short cut appeals to me right now, something I can just wash and forget about.
After that, I walked with Mille to the ice-cream place and we sat outside the bank watching people pass by, which is more interesting than it sounds. There’s always something to notice. Evening was the gym with Ana—or supposed to be the gym. I mostly just cycled and talked instead of doing anything useful, which felt better anyway.
When I got home, Becca was sitting on the windowsill. She’d been spontaneous and come over, waited around an hour for me to show up. Had to leave just as I walked in. There’s a minor sadness to that, the timing of it. We’re doing a game night tomorrow with good food and wine, so it’s not like anything’s really wrong. Still, I would’ve been happy to see her.
Got into BoA around the time she was becoming hard to ignore across Asia—this Korean singer breaking through in Japan and China when K-pop wasn’t yet the inevitable global force it’s since become. Kwon BoA, born 1986. I just know her as BoA.
Her songs have this surgical quality. “Duvet,” “Nobody but You,” “Next Step”—all built with the same polished, antiseptic production. No mess, no regional markers, just essentials stripped clean. Music engineered to work in Seoul or Tokyo or Shanghai, indifferent to which.
But her videos are about precision and movement. Choreography so geometric and exact it stops being dance and becomes pure design—her body hitting angles, face still while everything spins. The sterile songs make sense now. They’re not lazy. They’re building materials.
She’s the prototype for borderless pop. Every clean edge, every measured step—that’s what it looks like when you engineer something to live anywhere and nowhere at once.
When Nintendo announced the Wii—they’d been calling it the Revolution, which sounded like what you’d name a console at a tech conference to impress people—the actual name landed different. Wii, like “we.” It was a tiny thing, but it said something about what Nintendo was actually trying to do. This wasn’t a product designed to deepen the existing audience. This was designed to expand it entirely.
The motion controls were how they did it. I remember thinking they were gimmicky when first announced. Every gaming outlet treated them like a novelty. But Nintendo understood something fundamental: the barrier to entry for video games wasn’t gameplay complexity. It was intelligibility. A standard controller looked intimidating if you’d never held one. A Wii remote looked intuitive. You flicked it like a tennis racket, and your person on screen flicked a tennis racket. No translation necessary.
I was skeptical anyway. The whole industry at that point was locked in this arms race of power and graphics. Every generation was supposed to look better, move faster, go deeper. The natural assumption was that Nintendo would do the same, just with their own spin. Instead they looked at a completely different problem: why were so many people not gaming at all?
The answer was radical because it was simple. Stop trying to impress the people already in the room. Invite everyone else in. Make the games easy to understand from the outside. Make the controller impossible to misinterpret. Make it okay that you weren’t good at it, because everyone was learning at the same time.
Looking back now, the risk of that decision feels enormous. You’re betting everything on a completely different philosophy. You’re abandoning the people who love what you made before. Most companies never take that kind of risk. Most companies would’ve just made a faster PlayStation. But Nintendo looked at the room and decided to build a bigger door.
MTV Germany announced they’d air Popetown, this old BBC cartoon about a pope who just screws around with greedy cardinals, and the entire country had a moment. The show had been made years ago and never aired—just sat on a shelf somewhere. But the announcement alone was enough. The CDU filed a police report. The church demanded it be pulled. Every major network ran stories about it like it was an actual political emergency.
The show itself is harmless—nothing in it that actually threatens anyone’s faith. A silly pope, corrupt officials, cartoon irreverence. But the church wanted it gone, so MTV compromised. They’d air just one episode during a live discussion in Berlin, with church spokespeople and critics and everyone else who needed to weigh in on a cartoon.
What actually happened was the opposite of what the church wanted. The people fighting the show handed MTV Germany free advertising. Suddenly everyone was paying attention. The controversy became the entire point. Whether Popetown was funny stopped mattering—the thing that made it unmissable was someone trying to stop it.
Nintendo said the Revolution would come with every old game you wanted, free to download. NES, SNES, N64—just waiting there. It felt like the future had actually arrived.
When the Wii showed up (renamed by then), the Virtual Console was there, but free had become a price tag. Each game cost money. The library was incomplete. You could only play what Nintendo decided to sell you. I definitely spent way too much on it anyway, chasing what they’d promised.
That service is gone now. Games got delisted. What you bought isn’t really yours—just a temporary license that expired whenever Nintendo wanted it to.
I must have spent hundreds of dollars downloading games I already owned on cartridges just to have them digitally. The logic didn’t really make sense—I just needed to have them available, even if I wasn’t going to play them.
But what stays with me is that moment when the announcement came and it seemed possible. Before compromise had to happen. Before they figured out how to monetize the past.
I caught Herr Lehmann the other night and it’s the kind of film that reminds you why German cinema used to matter—not because it’s trying hard, but because it doesn’t seem to care if anyone’s watching. There’s a joke early on about a Beck’s beer ad that made me laugh out loud, which is basically the whole vibe: sardonic, specific, the kind of humor that assumes you’re paying attention.
Christian Ulmen plays Lehmann, a journalist drifting through 1980s Berlin like a man who’s already seen the ending. The film just watches him move through the city—his apartment, bars, the newspaper office, conversations that go nowhere and everywhere at once. The Berlin in this feels real in a way most cinema Berlin doesn’t, all divided and precarious and full of people pretending they’re building something.
What gets me is that it’s funny in the way things are funny when someone’s actually observed them. Not joke construction, just the accuracy of how people talk to each other, how they fail at connection, the small indifferences that make up a life. Ulmen’s got that tired, sardonic thing down perfectly—the guy who wants out but also can’t leave.
There’s something circular about it that stays with you. Lehmann at the beginning and Lehmann at the end are basically the same person, and you realize that’s the point. Not depressing exactly, but honest in a way that feels rarer than it should be.
Shiina Ringo makes music that refuses to be simple. The drums come in wrong. The strings sound like they’re out of tune. Her voice sits somewhere between singing and speaking, flat and exact. Nothing about it sounds like someone trying to please you. It sounds like someone following an idea, trusting that the right people will understand.
She’s been doing this since the late ’90s, mostly in Japan, mostly unconcerned with whether the rest of the world was listening. The Tokyo Jihen, the band she formed, made some genuinely strange records before breaking up in 2012. Since then she’s gone solo, and if anything, the music’s gotten weirder and more precise at the same time.
There’s something in that refusal to simplify. Most pop music is trying to be likable. This is trying to be true. True to whatever she’s hearing, true to whatever the song wants to be, even if that means it’ll be strange for a lot of people. You have to trust it, and you have to pay attention.
That takes something from you. Not in a pretentious way, just honestly. But if you’re the kind of person who likes music that thinks about itself, music that doesn’t apologize for being weird, then yeah. This is it.
The light’s hanging around longer. That’s the first thing you notice — the evenings stretch, the sky turns this specific shade of blue, and suddenly you’re not checking the weather before you leave the house anymore. Winter’s finished. People are back outside doing nothing in particular, and it’s the best part of the year for that reason.
I’m after the summer of ’99, when heat meant freedom — shirtless soccer until dark, moving without thinking, that kind of rush. 2003 was different, just relentless heat, brutal, but there was something right about it too. And those rains in the middle of summer, hot and sudden, washing everything down in five minutes.
None of that’s coming back. I’ll get normal summer: mild June, decent July, August throwing surprises. That’s fine, probably. But I’m asking for the good stuff anyway.
I boycotted Yahoo in the mid-2000s. The reason was specific: Yahoo had identified a Chinese blogger named Jiang Lijun to the police, and he got four years in prison for writing pro-democracy posts. Reporters Without Borders got hold of the case. It was concrete—a name, a sentence, a company’s complicity.
Microsoft was doing the same thing at scale, filtering the internet for the Chinese government, blocking posts with “freedom” and “democracy,” selling them the tools to do it. So I stopped using Microsoft products. I couldn’t afford to boycott Google (I needed search), but Yahoo and Microsoft felt like places I could actually refuse.
Whether it mattered is the obvious question. It didn’t. Both companies kept operating. The thing about boycotts is you can’t opt out of these systems entirely—you just choose which ones you’ll decline. At the time it felt like clarity. Now it looks more like theater. I was right that it was wrong, but I overestimated the power of my refusal.
Philips patented a technology to prevent channel-switching during commercials. The broadcaster sends a signal, your TV locks, you’re stuck.
I remember reading this and just laughing — the laugh you get when something’s so perfectly dystopian it loops back to being funny. What’s next, a TV that won’t turn off? But underneath the joke is something colder: someone at Philips decided this was worth protecting as intellectual property. Not ’will anyone buy this,’ but ’this deserves a patent.’ The casual confidence that controlling a few seconds of someone’s life, forcing them to sit through an ad they can’t skip, is just another problem to engineer away.
It never shipped. But the thinking behind it is everywhere now — every dark-pattern interface, every infinite scroll, every notification designed to pull you back. We didn’t need Philips to trap us. We’re very good at building the cages ourselves.
I was waiting for a battleground queue and got bored, so I loaded World of Warcraft and did some quests to kill time. Nothing serious—save a maiden, defeat her corrupted brother, the usual. After that I was still restless, so I decided to explore. Just wander into the unmapped edges.
Swam west along the coast to see if you could actually reach Silithus that way. After a long stretch of water I spotted flags on the beach and what looked like a windmill. Went in closer and found it completely abandoned. Just an empty outpost with old boats drifting in the shallows. No one anywhere.
Found a cave carved into the cliffs, shaped like a troll’s face. Went inside expecting to find something—anything—but it was dead silent. Empty corridors, no creatures, no NPCs, nothing. Possibly the first person to ever walk through it. Probably not, but it felt that way. In that moment, that cave was just mine.
Today was weird so I’m talking about yesterday instead. Becca and I made schnitzel with tomato spätzle for lunch and it was good—genuinely good. Then I’m watching this Moses film on TV and it’s pretty brutal. The guy’s basically a mass murderer. I’m convinced he just had a brain tumor and was hearing voices his whole life.
Later Mille and I drove to Kaufbeuren to shop. Got some new clothes, grabbed my first pair of Chucks.
The night that mattered was at P.M. with Mille and Ana. Vodka-Bull in these big pitchers for five euros. Spent most of it learning or relearning the freestyle—there’s apparently a second version of the dance but I’m not interested in that.
Ran into Enzo and Gino, couldn’t believe how tall Gino had gotten. A bunch of my exes were there too, doing whatever.
I’ve been using Macs for so long I don’t really think about it anymore. Open the laptop, work happens. The trackpad is intuitive enough that I’m not constantly fighting muscle memory. Fonts render clean. Applications just work together without me having to mediate.
There was probably a stupid song about this at some point. Doesn’t matter. The real reason people stick with Macs isn’t some deep love for the brand — it’s that the tool stops being a tool and becomes invisible. You’re not troubleshooting; you’re not negotiating with your system. You’re just making the thing you wanted to make.
I’ve tried to switch before. Cheaper machines exist. Better specs exist. None of it matters when the first thing you do on any other computer is wish you had the trackpad back, or get frustrated that a font renders wrong, or waste twenty minutes fixing something that shouldn’t need fixing. So I stayed.
I’ve been listening to Orange Range lately — a J-Rock band from Okinawa who’ve been with Sony since 2003. Five guys: Naoto, Ryo, Yamato, Yoh, Hiroki. They make this loose mix of rock, pop, and hip-hop that just lands. No trying too hard, no staying in one lane. Solid hooks and enough attitude that it never feels safe.
That’s the appeal. They’re not precious about genre boundaries. It’s not the heaviest J-Rock or the catchiest pop, just somewhere useful in between with enough edge that you hear something new each listen. One of those bands where you stop paying attention and then find a melody stuck in your head an hour later.
\”Hana\” from the film Ima, Ai ni Yukimas is the entry point — warm and loose, the kind of song that seems simple until you realize how carefully it’s built. There’s another track I wanted to remember the name of, but my notes got scrambled. What I do remember is the video was genuinely great, which sometimes tells you everything about how a band sees their own work.
I’m early into them, still in that phase where new songs are surprises. Not deep enough to make predictions, but into it right now. That’s usually where the best stuff reveals itself.
I made something and called it art. A frame I’d picked up in Munich, something from a magazine printed and mounted behind the glass. It turned out bigger than expected — almost a meter wide, seventy centimeters tall — the kind of size where you have to actually find a place to put it.
I photographed it quickly, before it fell off whatever I’d propped it against. That’s always the race. You’re scrambling to document it before gravity wins. But it held, and the frame made it look like something intentional, like I’d chosen this specific magazine page to display rather than just assembling what was lying around.
That’s what frames do. They’re a kind of lie — they turn anything behind glass into a choice, a decision, a thing someone wanted to show. I made other pieces after that, but this is the one I remember, the magazine page that the frame somehow made look like it had always meant to be there.
Six million people were playing World of Warcraft and Blizzard had to stop selling it. They pulled it from shelves, halted distribution to retailers, did everything they could to keep the servers from collapsing completely. I’d never heard of a game doing that before — turning people away because you made something too popular.
The login queues were astronomical. You’d fire up the client and get a number, sometimes in the thousands, and just sit there waiting. Literally nothing to do but watch that number count down while the world loaded in the background. There was something weirdly prestigious about it, like all of us were getting away with something illegal. Too big for the infrastructure to handle and somehow that made it feel real.
Blizzard threw money at the problem. New European data center, more servers, trying to keep the whole thing from imploding under its own weight. Every day more people wanted to play and every day they were scrambling to make room.
The company finally opened the gates again once they had enough space, but there was something perfect about that moment when World of Warcraft was so huge it was literally breaking. Not broken in a technical sense — broken like a success that moved too fast for anyone to predict.
Most games dream of that problem. Most games never get anywhere close.
Took a Simpsons personality quiz and got Bart. The description: “Very misunderstood, most people just dismiss you as trouble. Little do they know you’re wise and well accomplished beyond your years.” Felt like the quiz was reading my mail.
There’s something specific about being pegged as the troublemaker when you’re actually thinking. Bart’s the kid everyone sees as chaos and prank calls and skateboarding away from school, and they stop looking right there. They never land on the part where he’s genuinely smarter than the adults, where he actually gives a shit when it matters. He just doesn’t perform sincerity the way they need him to.
I’ve been underestimated by enough people who saw the surface action and decided that was the whole story. They see the disruption and assume there’s nothing underneath it. Bart doesn’t care. He knows what he’s capable of. He’s not going to perform for people who’ve already made up their minds.
The quiz said I’d be remembered for starring in my own TV show and saving the town from a comet. Generous. But the philosophy stuck: “I don’t know why I did it, I don’t know why I enjoyed it, and I don’t know why I’ll do it again.” That’s the honest answer. That’s what you say when you’ve stopped justifying your instincts to people who won’t get it anyway.
Getting Bart wasn’t a surprise. It was more like confirmation.
When Apple released Boot Camp in 2006, it felt like heresy. Here was a tool that let you run Windows natively on a Mac — not in some clunky emulator, but dual-boot, full speed. The premise was almost funny: buy a beautiful, expensive Mac, then load it up with the thing it was supposed to make you stop using.
The rationale was obvious though. You had people who needed Windows for work — accounting software, proprietary tools, legacy systems nobody had bothered to port. They wanted the design and the stability of OS X, but they couldn’t fully leave Windows behind. So Apple built them a bridge. Free software, Intel Macs only, no strings attached. You needed your Windows XP disc, a bit of patience, and you could have both worlds running on the same machine.
There was something almost optimistic about it. The theory was that once you spent time in OS X, really lived in it day to day, you’d realize you didn’t need Windows as much as you thought. The design would convert you. The reliability would win you over. You’d boot into Windows one morning for some task and find it so aggressively mediocre — the dated interface, the constant friction, the antivirus paranoia — that you’d realize what you’d been missing. Maybe next time you could find another way.
It barely worked that way in practice. Most people who set up Boot Camp just used Windows when they had to and forgot about the Mac half. But that wasn’t really the point anyway. The point was that Apple was confident enough in what they’d built that they were willing to let you have both. No compromise, no ultimatum about choosing. Just: here’s the tool.
Looking back now, Boot Camp feels like a relic of a time when OS X was still trying to prove something. These days you have VMs that are fast enough, cross-platform tools that actually work, Macs that are so capable that Windows becomes irrelevant for most people. But for a moment in the mid-2000s, it was the perfect move — pragmatic, generous, and quietly arrogant in exactly the right way.
Meggi used to be the one who kept things light. Witty, charming, made everyone around her laugh without trying. Then Prague happened, and she came back different. Now every small noise gets a hissing “Psssst” and the mood just dies. School was eating her alive.
André had decided he was the savior of justice or something. He’d kill anything remotely good that didn’t come from him. Loud at his own jokes, but the second someone wanted to actually listen in class, suddenly it was a problem. And there’s plenty more where that came from—the whole class is a minefield of pettiness and resentment.
I know I don’t take school as seriously as maybe I should. It’s never been as important to me as it is for others. I’m the type who resists the system, doesn’t fit the mold, hates the predetermined paths people lay out for you. Whatever. I had no solution for any of this, and I’m not going to find one in whatever weeks are left.
But this tense, dying-days energy is starting to get to me. The whole class is starting to get to me. We came back from Prague buzzing—I thought I’d actually be happy there—and now everyone’s drained, ready to snap. Aggression and spite just hanging in the air like smog. Actually, smog would be better than this.
And now the weather’s decided to join in, adding its own miserable flavor to everything. Just constantly irritating at this point.
I was all set to quest when the server died mid-countdown and booted everyone. Now I’m refreshing status pages and forums, waiting to see if it’s coming back up tonight or if I’ve got the evening free.
There’s something strange about that moment—you weren’t even playing yet, so why does getting kicked out feel worse than just not having time to log in?
There’s this rule I have about new shows—the third episode is the one that matters. By then you know who all the characters are, you understand what the show’s trying to do, you’ve had two chances for it to grab you. If it doesn’t work by episode three, it’s probably not going to work at all. I stick to that.
Hospital shows were never my thing. I watched people lose their minds over ER, but I couldn’t see it. Scrubs somehow got in my head—that one worked—but mostly medical dramas felt like going through motions. When Grey’s Anatomy came around, I didn’t go in expecting much.
Three episodes and it’s got me. The characters feel real, the writing is sharp. There’s comedy in there, though nothing will top Scrubs—I don’t think anything will. But the show knows when to pull back on the jokes and just sit with these quiet moments where someone understands something about themselves. The music does a lot of work in those scenes.
It’s good. Legitimately good. I’ll keep watching it.
Hung over from last night, head pounding, and now it’s warm and muggy outside — the kind of weather that makes a hangover worse. Can’t shake it.
GIGA’s closing on Monday. It’s this German tech and gaming channel I’ve been half-paying attention to forever, and somehow knowing it’s just disappearing felt heavier than I expected. So yesterday, when I couldn’t stop thinking about it and the hangover was making everything feel shitty anyway, I drove down to Munich with Becca, Mille, and his girlfriend Annette. Spent too much money trying not to think about it.
I did the usual thing — grabbed The Sims, some Ai Otsuka albums because her music gets to me, a magazine on character design in Illustrator. Way too expensive. I’ll probably only use half of it, but the parts I do use might help me finally make something I’ve been thinking about. Sometimes that’s enough.
Rain the whole drive back. Still going now. There’s something honest about a day where the weather just matches what you’re feeling, even if it all sucks.
Giga’s shutting down today. The longest internet party the world ever had, and now it’s done. I found it back when the internet was still young enough that a German show about technology and pop culture could just exist—no filter, no calculation, speaking straight to the people who were actually paying attention. Most things don’t feel that way.
You don’t realize it while it’s happening. You catch an episode, you move on, it stays somewhere in your brain as a thing that exists. Then suddenly it’s gone and you understand what you had—a show that never talked down, never tried to sell you anything but what was actually interesting. That’s rarer than it should be.
Lena Gercke won Germany’s Next Top Model and it felt like the right call. I’d been watching that season and she was my favorite — there was something easier about her than the rest of the contestants, less of that desperate reaching for it. When Heidi announced her name, I actually felt good about it, not in some invested-in-reality-TV way, but like I genuinely wanted this one person to get the thing she was going for. I never really tracked where she went after, but that moment was enough.
A woman was killed by her husband in Buchloe last week. She was 33, Turkish, and now the town’s gone silent about it—the papers won’t touch it, like refusing to report it might somehow contain the damage. Her family’s at war underneath. All anyone wants is for it to settle without getting worse.
You can’t un-know that something like that happened in your hometown. You walk past the same houses, the same streets, and somewhere here a man murdered his wife. Everything’s exactly the same as it was a week ago, except nothing is.
Friday was Ana’s birthday at some place in Turkheim called Americano. We all showed up with decent intentions, and then we left after two hours because it was boring. Got pretty drunk in that window, though, which I didn’t expect. The whole thing made me realize I haven’t spent time with most of these people in a while, and I wasn’t sure if I minded. Mille brought his girlfriend Anette, and she’s actually cool — funny and low-key in a way that made the night feel less like a chore. Even Becca liked her.
Saturday felt off. I can’t explain why. Stayed at Becca’s and felt better when I woke up, which is all that matters. Sunday I did nothing but sit in front of screens and teach Becca how to fish and mine in World of Warcraft. She was terrible at it, which somehow made it perfect.
School started again Monday. We painted posters in English class, which was fine. My business class featured Apple and iPod as examples, which was the only interesting part. I showed off a little for Katha in the hallway afterward, proved I could unhook a bra with one hand. It felt like a win at the time.
A new show called Lotta in Love premiered on German television and got cancelled by the internet within two days. There’d been this enormous advertising campaign, all the expectations, and then the schedule dropped and people saw it was replacing The Simpsons, and that was it.
The backlash was weirdly immediate. Thousands started calling for it to be pulled. ProSieben had set up an official forum for fans, but it just got drowned in people hating on the thing—so the actual fans stopped showing up. It was destroyed before the second episode even aired.
I felt for Janine Reinhardt, the actress carrying this thing. She didn’t choose to replace The Simpsons. That’s a brutal position: your show premieres and the internet’s already decided you’re the problem, before anyone’s even really watched it. This is television now—democratic right up until the moment the mob votes to kill you.
The last video game I actually finished was Majora’s Mask on the N64. After that, nothing. I kept thinking someday I’d get back into gaming, but years passed and nothing stuck. I assumed it meant I’d just grown out of it, the way you grow out of things.
Then I read that someone at Nintendo had a different theory: that a lot of us didn’t stop loving games, we just got tired of the same game being released over and over with different graphics. The formulas became too predictable, and your brain just shuts down.
I’d been blaming myself for losing interest. Turns out it was the industry that had gotten bored first.
Nintendo’s betting that something genuinely new might wake people like me back up. Maybe it will.
Nintendo was going to offer Mega Drive games on the Revolution. Sonic, Shining Force—the whole archive. Right there on Nintendo hardware.
Years earlier this would have been unthinkable. You had to choose between Nintendo and Sega. The rivalry was real. You picked one and lived with it. Now they were just putting the games on the same machine.
It wasn’t a betrayal or anything. Just pragmatism. Once you stop caring which box contains the software, the choice doesn’t mean much anymore. That’s the thing I remember thinking about—how small the difference had become.
One detail from early 2000s German politics has stayed with me: the moment the SPD basically gave up and called in the Power Rangers.
Things were collapsing for them by then. Schröder was out, Merkel was rising from the CDU, and the current was all going one direction. Even the small cultural fights were going against them — animal rights activists losing it over some red-stocking cow in an ad. The momentum had shifted, and everyone knew it.
So someone at the party decided the answer was superheroes. The Guardians of Space, the Conquerors of Lord Z, the whole Saturday morning cartoon infrastructure — that was their move. I don’t know if it was sincere or a desperate joke or some attempt at irony, but the choice itself says everything about where they were. Not quite surrender, but the point where you’ve exhausted your actual plans and decided to lean into the absurdity instead.
What gets me is how perfectly it captures what happens when reality has already jumped the shark. Politics had become ridiculous enough that calling in fictional teenagers in spandex seemed like a reasonable strategic move. If the normal playbook won’t work, why not try the cartoon version? It won’t help, obviously. But there’s something almost honest about hitting a wall and just saying yeah, we’re out of ideas.
You forget about moments like this. A few years later, it’s all Merkel and financial crisis and the long reshaping of European politics. But this one — a major party officially out of options, reaching for the only thing left that made sense — that stays weird.
Ana turns eighteen today. I’ve worked with her through this place for a while, and she’s one of those people you don’t secretly dislike. She’s genuinely interested — in people, in what they think, in everything going on around her. Not performing, not trying to impress. You can have fun with her, but you can also have conversations that actually matter. I hope she stays exactly like this. And maybe tell your sister to lighten up once in a while, but I won’t hold my breath. Happy birthday.
There’s this guy living in Hyrule, some character tucked away in a house with four windows and a table. That’s all he needs. When Link walks in — when the hero finally shows up looking for answers — the man just looks at him and says, “I am Error.”
That’s the whole thing. Everything else is just noise.
I used to think it was a broken translation, one of those glitches from the early days of Nintendo bringing games to America. Some phrase that got mangled crossing languages. But I think I had it backwards. What do you say when you’re staring at something fundamentally wrong? A mistake that shouldn’t exist, a glitch at the core of everything? You name it. “I am Error.” And maybe that says everything there is to say.
There’s something honest about just accepting that. No excuse, no explanation, no spin. I don’t fit here. I’m what went wrong. Just the fact, plain and final. And somehow, hearing it in that small house, the hero knows exactly what he needs to know.
Bad school day I’m not going to get into. Becca, her sister, and their friend took me to see this Matthew McConaughey rom-com. You know exactly where it’s going before the opening credits—every turn already visible, every joke predictable. But that’s the thing about those films: you don’t always want to be surprised. Sometimes you just want the same story again, updated with different faces. It was funny enough and required nothing of me, which was exactly the escape I needed.
We went to McDonald’s after with Patricia and her friend. Nothing remarkable, but it was the right kind of evening.
Ana was explaining how she treats her gym routine like a video game now—each exercise another level, get strong enough and move on. It’s simple but it actually works. Instead of suffering through reps, you’re progressing. Leveling up. Makes the whole thing feel less like punishment and more like a game you’re already winning at.
I got home today and my mom told me she’d won two World Cup tickets on some game show. The kind of thing you never expect to actually happen to you.
We don’t know which match, or if we’re even keeping them—might just sell them. But there’s something about that kind of random luck. You never expect to win anything, and then suddenly you do. If Japan makes a run, I’m definitely trying to convince her to actually go.
I found out GIGA was ending — March 31st, the parent company was pulling the plug — the way I find out about most things: late, almost by accident. There was something deflating about it, even though I’d already watched the thing slowly stop being what made it worth watching in the first place.
I hadn’t been there for all seven years, just caught it somewhere in the middle. But what I saw worked. The Berlin and Cologne crews had a balance to them, different enough to actually complement each other instead of just competing. You could feel it in how the show moved.
It was good afternoon television. The kind you put on without thinking about it, the kind that makes time pass less painfully without feeling like you’ve wasted it. Those aren’t common. When they’re gone, you notice.
But it had been fading already. The esports stuff kept expanding. The people who actually cared started leaving. The two teams seemed more interested in winning some internal argument than in making anything worth watching. It was that slow decline, the kind nobody wants to admit is happening until suddenly it’s over.
So when they ended it, I felt caught between relief and something like regret. At least the thing was finally over instead of just circling down. But it had stopped being what I liked about it a long time before NBC made the call. They were just making it official.
Spring hit and with it the first girls in short tops. Good reminder of why you bother surviving winter.
I blew the morning on World of Warcraft, then caught a couple episodes of The OC season 3 in English. That show had a grip on me back then—all these questions about Marissa and Julie and whether Sandy and Kirsten’s marriage would hold.
Me and Mille went to see Boogeyman, which was transparently trash but not unwatchable. Except the ending killed it. Even the alternate cut they spliced in didn’t help.
We had plans to meet other people, but no one was home, so we drove to Iri and Ana instead. The three of us hit the gym later—first time in almost a month for me. Afterward I stood around in the dark at Lidl with Ana, waiting for her father. One of those small moments that becomes the detail you remember about a day.
Shakira and Wyclef Jean’s “Hips don’t lie” had been stuck in my head all day.
So the first holiday weekend was over. Saturday afternoon we had this solid meal at Becca’s mum’s place—I was completely stuffed. We played Singstar 80s for a while, and at some point I just snapped and walked out. My partner stayed over Saturday night, and we had cheese and watched some German talent show.
Sunday was just me hanging around. By evening I was back in World of Warcraft, playing way too late because I’m determined to finally hit level 60. Betty and Mandy came by yesterday too. Not sure what the next few days are going to bring.
We all sat through Woyzeck at the Volkstheater last night, and I nearly fell asleep about halfway through. The actors were technically fine, but nothing about it landed for me or Rebecca. Dinner before the show—Augustiner Keller or wherever—wasn’t any better. One of those evenings where everything is supposed to be good but just feels flat.
There was tension somewhere, people wound tight about something, and there wasn’t much room for any actual fun. Sometimes you do the cultural things because you’re supposed to, and the execution just doesn’t meet the promise.
But tonight’s better already. Staying at Rebecca’s place because her mom’s cooking something tomorrow afternoon. That alone is worth the wait. I’ve got time to finally push my level in World of Warcraft if I can focus, and I’m still chasing redemption from getting demolished at SingStar last time.
Could’ve stayed in bed today. Probably should’ve. But tomorrow feels worth it.
Handed in the exam almost entirely blank today. Five minutes in and I was done. Seven years fighting this subject and I finally hit a wall I couldn’t pretend to climb anymore. Just walked out and went home.
Happy birthday to Eniz, wherever you are. Meeting Becca at KF-City tomorrow, which is at least something.
iTunes crossed a billion downloads sometime in the mid-2000s—I don’t actually remember when, but I remember the milestone feeling real. Not because of some contest, but because it meant something about how we bought music had fundamentally shifted, and this number made it impossible to deny.
I spent money on iTunes in those years. Fifty cents here, a dollar there, buying songs individually instead of albums. There was something compelling about it—the ease of it, the ability to hear something on TV, pull up iTunes, and own it thirty seconds later. No record store. No waiting for delivery. Just click and download, and you had it.
What a billion downloads really signaled was that physical media had quietly stopped mattering. Not because anyone had planned it that way, but because once the alternative existed and worked well, most people just switched. The infrastructure was there. The interface was clean. The experience was actually better. So a billion people bought a billion songs, and that was the end of the old world.
When a new product launches, the whole world seems to know about it by Tuesday. The marketing is relentless. You see it at the store, online, on your phone. But when something gets discontinued, nobody tells you anything. You just walk in one day looking for it and it’s gone.
I’m thinking about Qoo, that little mascot drink that was everywhere in Asia for a while. You know the one—cute anime character that yelled its own name. I had it a few times. The drink itself was basically sugar water, but there was something about the mascot that made it feel significant, like you were part of something. Then one day I couldn’t find it anywhere. No goodbye, no final sale, no acknowledgment that it ever existed. It just stopped.
Same with Opsai. Another drink that promised wellness or calmness or whatever it was supposed to do. You bought it because the bottle looked convincing. You drank it hoping. And then it wasn’t in the stores anymore, and you realized it probably never worked on anyone.
These things don’t get a farewell. There’s no press release for death, no moment where you collectively mourn the loss of a product. The shelf just gradually empties and gets filled with something else, and by the time you notice something’s missing, the replacement has been there for months without you even realizing it.
What’s strange is you never know if you actually liked them or if the marketing just did its work. And before you can figure it out, the thing’s discontinued and you can’t even talk to anyone else who noticed it was gone. It just disappears from the world like it was never real to begin with.
Spent today in the city with Mille and out at Eniz in Turkheim, then came home to keep grinding on this Prague film at record speed. I didn’t think the project would get this big, but it has, so I’ve been deleting entire programs and whole folders just to carve out space for iMovie. My desktop is now just gray question marks everywhere — all these orphaned files wondering where their programs went. Soon as this is done I’m going to reinstall Tiger clean and actually maintain this thing.
xFactor finally spat out the first episode of X-Files season three. I burned it to DVD and watched it immediately, but now I have to wait for the rest to compress. I need to know what happens next.
At least Aperture finally arrived, so I can play with that while everything renders in the background. This could take a while. I should probably just let it run and sleep.
There’s a company that’s more than a company — something like a religion for the people who gave their childhood to it. Not Apple. Nintendo.
What Nintendo had was a soul. I spent nights as a kid getting nowhere in Super Mario, dying on the same platform, trying one more time to save Princess Toadstool. I was Link for weeks tracking through Hyrule toward Ganon. These games felt like they knew what they were doing — not showing off, just clear about their purpose. The memory lands with warmth, not generic nostalgia but something tied to being younger, to afternoon hours that meant something different.
I remember 2006 when Nintendo announced the Revolution. They weren’t saying much — no screenshots, just promises of a controller that would do something unprecedented. The whole thing felt defiant, like Nintendo was betting on knowing what games were supposed to actually be. The GameCube had stumbled, and this felt like an answer that had nothing to do with power or graphics or market sense.
It became the Wii. For a moment everything shifted. Motion controls felt revolutionary. Games felt like they belonged to everyone again. The console aged out, the tricks got tired, but the gamble meant something — it meant Nintendo was still willing to trust what it knew about games instead of chasing what everyone else was doing.
I don’t think about the Wii much anymore. It’s historical. But I think about that clarity, that unwillingness to make games feel like anything other than what they are. That’s what stuck with me about Nintendo. Not innovation or market dominance. Just knowing something about games that other people didn’t quite get.
I’m completely sick. The full package — congestion, cough, voice destroyed, probably running a fever but I was too lazy to actually check. So I’m half-dead in bed watching Pearl Harbor, which is what you do when you’re this wiped out. At least I know how it ends: Japan loses.
My girlfriend’s in Freiburg at her family’s place, but she’s back tomorrow. That’s when the bed days start — though to be honest, nothing much changes for me in that category anyway. Still, it’s better with her here.
Right now I’m just watching TV, sentimental piano music keeping me company. When you’re sick like this, everything gets softer. You’re not really present enough to care about much beyond the pillow.
Santa still makes his rounds, sliding down chimneys with gifts that nobody asked for but somehow needed. I leave out cookies and milk by the fireplace like I always do—part ritual, part habit, part faith in the whole strange tradition.
What gets me is people who aren’t leaving anything out. No fireplace, no table, no house where the holidays work the way they’re supposed to. And I think that’s the actual point. Around the holidays you become aware of what you have. You see the gap because it’s suddenly visible in a way it usually isn’t.
So: Merry Christmas. Hope it’s gentle on you, whatever way you spend it.
So the school Christmas party had karaoke, coffee and tea stands, some speed dating thing, way too much food. Only problem was they didn’t stock any sodas—no Coke, no Fanta—so I was parched the whole time. After that, Katha and I went into the city to hunt for gifts, ran into Meggi on the way back and she drove home with us. Then I went over to my girlfriend’s place for a bit, then to Steffi and Patrick’s to borrow some DVDs—got “Sahara” and “Harry Potter IV.”
Time to head out though. She’s downstairs watching something and I’m just lingering here for no good reason.
Apple rings aren’t as good as apple chips, but whatever. Last real school day today and somehow I aced an economics test that had the class split down the middle—half of them got it, half didn’t. Tomorrow’s the Christmas party and we’re selling pizza, which means I’m definitely eating half of what we make because I’m already hungry. Got one in the oven right now.
I’ve been switching between Fettes Brot and Home Alone, just the season talking. So I did this thing for about five minutes where I replaced some of the nicer text on the site with an iTunes ad—looked absolutely rough. Took it back down immediately. Can’t stop thinking about it though. Part of me likes keeping the place clean, just my stuff, nothing trying to sell anything. But part of me knows that’s stupid, turning down money for what amounts to looking cool. Probably just overthinking it.
My IT presentation’s on Apple. Easy choice. Back to eating pizza and cutting the Prague video. Later.
Went to Munich with my mom yesterday to grab some clothes and pick up a Mighty Mouse I’d ordered. The cold there is something else—the kind that makes your face hurt. Got myself a proper scarf and gloves because you’re not surviving that without them. We ate at a steakhouse and I just went at it like I hadn’t seen food in months. Genuinely starving.
Caught up on The O.C. today, which was perfect timing because I’d missed the last episode on a school trip and had no idea Trey had come that close to Marissa. The stuff with Summer and those comic nerds is actually funny. But Sandy and Kirsten—that’s the part that gets to me now. Reminds me too much of something real, something with Rebecca that I’d rather not think about too much. That whole situation still stings.
The website was down for the rebuild when a snowstorm hit and knocked the satellite dish completely off, so I was stuck with ProSieben and SF1 as my only television options. Don’t ask me why I was watching either one.
I caught part of some competition show on Swiss TV where cantons were competing against each other and I understood maybe half of it because everyone’s screaming in their own dialect. Every single canton has its own way of saying good evening. I genuinely don’t know why. You’d think someone would eventually just say fine, we’re all speaking standard German from now on, but apparently that’s not how Switzerland works. It’s like the whole country committed to being as fragmented as possible on principle.
School’s been okay but everyone else already has their winter break and we don’t get out until Friday afternoon, which sucks. I still haven’t bought a single Christmas present, which means I’ll panic and do the entire thing on December 23rd like I do every year.
Ran into an old friend the other day who’s between jobs and waiting to hear back from universities. He’s got a solid GPA, everything looks decent on paper, but somehow none of it adds up to anything obvious. I’d probably be studying business informatics by now if I’d been more diligent in school, and honestly when I think about four years of spreadsheets and databases I feel genuinely lucky I was too lazy to end up there. Dodged a bullet.
Got comments working on the site. Should probably actually use them.
I gutted the site and launched version 7.0. Nothing massive changed, but I stripped out most of what was there—removed rubric experiments that never worked, deleted features nobody needed, added a comment system that doesn’t break. Cleaner palette, fewer sections, the whole thing tighter.
Web design teaches you something simple: you spend months building new things, and then you realize most of it’s just noise. So you delete it. You cut back to what actually functions. What functions is usually what you had to begin with, only now you understand it better.
Simplicity doesn’t happen by accident. It takes removing things to know what matters, and most things don’t. That’s the lesson you learn after redesigning the same site seven times.
The brilliant green is in the palette somewhere now, pulled from a band I was listening to when I started this. Details like that stick around because they made sense at the moment and survived the cuts. That’s the threshold—if it survives deletion, maybe it belongs.
The design doesn’t need to prove anything. It’s just a place to write. That’s enough.
John was around yesterday. We walked for a while and talked about the usual human despair. He’s got these green contact lenses that are kind of disturbing. Found out Kalli wants nothing to do with me anymore—one of those things you find out and then just move on from. School was half-good. Spent the evening with Becca in Kaufbeuren. Now I’m waiting for the last episode of The O.C. tonight at 21:15. The world’s brutal but at least there’s this.
The OC ended and I hated that it did. Not the show — I love the show, the finale especially. I hated that it was over. I knew this day was coming, sure, but knowing and watching are different things. The finale went all in. They killed people you thought were untouchable. Kirsten and Sandy still tangled up. Ryan and Marissa uncertain. The Coopers in pieces. The show just stops there with nothing resolved, nothing answered, everything hanging.
I love this series. I know I’ll rewatch the whole run when the reruns start in January. I already know that about myself. I’m counting down to fall, to season three. There’s something about how The OC leaves you. It doesn’t resolve anything. It just cuts off and you’re sitting with all these people whose lives you’ve been inside, knowing nothing about what comes next. That’s what it does.
School was stupid and fun that day—we caused enough trouble that it didn’t feel like I was just moving through the system. Went to the city with Katha after, both of us looking for things neither of us found, got some good chicken wings anyway. Then home for a minute and back out with Mille for döner. One of those afternoons that just dissolves into the next thing.
I was supposed to be studying math. I watched Simpsons instead. The OC finale was happening tomorrow night and I was being paranoid about somehow missing it, even though missing something on TV doesn’t really happen unless you’re an idiot. Wasn’t going to check what happens online either—didn’t want to spoil it. Just had to wait.
Made a podcast. After enough time writing the same way, you wonder what it’s like to just talk instead. The voice is different—more immediate, weirder, because you can’t backspace. That’s the whole point, really.
Found this old quote making the rounds again — the kind of thing people used to pass around when we actually debated which browser you were using. “If you’re on a PC, your life will be happier if you give up Internet Explorer and switch to Firefox. If you’re using a Mac, your life is already happy. Carry on.”
The browser wars feel ancient now. IE is gone, Firefox isn’t the underdog anymore, and nobody’s buying a computer based on the default browser. But there was something good about that moment. IE was genuinely bad, Firefox offered a real solution, and thousands of people felt better for switching. And if you were already using a Mac, you didn’t have to think about it at all.
That’s what I miss — the casual assumption that the right machine meant happiness was included. No tweaking, no updates, no endless compromises. Just contentment as part of the package. It never actually worked that way, but there was something honest about believing it could.
Spent three hours writing German essays for class—absolutely brutal. Afternoon classes were just us messing around after that, nothing serious left to do.
The noon train was packed, obscenely so. Two cars that somehow held five times what they should have. It wouldn’t even move at first, just sat there. Then the announcement to depart from track 3, and right after, the power cut. I thought for a second we were about to get hit from behind, but eventually the thing lurched forward.
The track switches were chaos—everyone falling into everyone else. One of those moments you probably should experience once, just to know it can happen.
No idea what I’m doing tonight. Winter makes me lazy.
Found it on KaZaA while downloading music, sometime in the early 2000s. Some girl’s sex tape. Libby Hoeller. She’d broken up with her boyfriend in D.C., he got angry, and since he had this video of her from when they were dating, he figured why not push it onto every P2P network he could reach. Standard revenge plot. The internet just made it frictionless — a couple hours and it’s on thousands of computers.
The thing that actually got to me wasn’t the revenge itself. That’s just basic human pettiness. It’s the way the internet doesn’t forget. Doesn’t forgive. Doesn’t move on. If you Google her now, that’s what you find. Not her life after, not who she became, just that moment, permanent and searchable forever.
I participated in that. Everyone I knew did. Just by clicking, by passing the information along, by being part of the network that keeps the thing alive. The cruelty becomes structural. The humiliation becomes permanent. And there’s no way out of it once it’s out there. That’s the actually new part about the internet back then — not the malice itself, which is old. The scale. The irreversibility. The fact that it never actually stops moving.
School was okay today, even if the day drove me nuts. Went to the post office and sent fifty dollars off on what’s probably a long, slow journey—hell if I know when those people will actually process it and unlock my access to whatever I’m waiting for. But that’s how it goes.
Back home I worked on cutting the Prague video for a while until Mille came over. We went to Feneberg and then back to his place where he had One Piece running on his PS2. It’s decent enough. Meanwhile I still haven’t decided which console to grab next generation—Nintendo Revolution or the PS3. I’ll get to it. Probably just pick the one with the better commercial at this point.
Heard the new Pussycat Dolls song. Pretty good actually.
There’s this feeling I get sometimes where everything seems a little too scripted, a little too perfect. Like I’m living in someone else’s movie. You ever get that? What’s even the word for it?
Back at school sports for the first time in weeks and I immediately knew why I’d quit. Basketball completely wrecked me, just standing around gasping for air.
So now I’m waiting on Becca. I still need to hit the bank, grab fifty bucks so I can sign up for Suicide Girls. Genuinely brilliant site, honestly the most inspiring thing I’ve found online, totally worth the membership. Probably heading out again in a bit.
Oh, and I read a BILD newspaper in the bathroom for the first time in my life. A genuinely monumental moment.
Becca and I are back together. Was inevitable, we just work. Fifty dollars from the bank today. First time holding US currency. Foreign money just feels different.
Wednesday’s the O.C. finale. Didn’t see Caleb dying, or that stuff with Ryan and his brother. It’s cruel but it fits. Theresa will come back, I know it. But Sandy and Kirsten will make it—I can’t picture them any other way.
I’ve got work tomorrow I haven’t prepared for and won’t. Some fields are just machines pretending to be jobs. Hours shuffling numbers from one column to another. There was a guy who spent his whole life calculating Pi by hand, going further and further. A computer does the same thing in seconds now. That’s what all this is.
Got a new printer. Old one won’t talk to my Mac. HP. Small friction solved with money.
Wake up some mornings and think about ending it all. The alarm clock, that sound, the half-light—everything about my life compresses into that one moment. Last night I dreamed I was on some kind of trip with my bonsai tree, absolutely zero logic to it, but there I was.
School was decent, except I’ve noticed our Business teacher has completely given up. Used to think he was cool, thought he might actually teach me something, but somewhere in the last few weeks he just stopped caring. Asks the same three kids every single class, doesn’t bother explaining anything properly anymore. You can feel it. It sucks.
Afternoon in the city with Mille. Came home and watched some game show, some talent competition in the ads. Pretty standard evening.
Converting a video to DVD on a Mac has turned out to be way more annoying than I expected. To get the raw footage into the right format there’s this whole ecosystem of file types and options, most of which don’t do what you think they’ll do. You pick one, hit render, and then two hours later the status bar is still saying 845 minutes remaining. I wanted to use DivX — iMovie HD has DivX as an export option, right there in the menu — but it turns out you have to install the DivX codec separately first, or else iMovie exports in garbage quality. So I installed it, and things got slightly less infuriating, but it’s still not what I’d call easy.
People at school have already started asking when the video will be done. I figured this would be a quick weekend project. There’s just way more involved than I realized, and I’m running on less sleep than I should be, so I’m going to stop complaining and get back to it.
Rebecca and I broke up today. There were too many disagreements between us, too much friction underneath the relationship. I mean it when I say I wish her all the best. That’s that.
Being taken was somehow more attractive than being available — women materialized when you were already committed, like they could smell the unavailability. That’s how it worked for years. Now I’m actually single again, properly single, and I’m waiting for the inverse to happen even though it probably won’t.
First is the room. Photos come down. Things of hers that accumulated around the place get collected and boxed up and shoved somewhere dark. It’s starting to feel like a ritual, this operation of packing someone away. By now I could probably do it in the dark.
I’ll have to tell my mom she won’t be running into Rebecca at the store anymore. Rebecca’s parents think I’m a piece of shit, and they always will, because they’ll never hear her side. I’ve made peace with that — I’m just the villain in their story and it doesn’t matter what I say.
Then there’s the social machinery. New clothes. More parties. The clubs kill me, especially in winter. The noise, the anonymity, the crush. My thing is talking, finding the angle, saying what lands. You can’t do that when you’re screaming. I’m not built for club hunting and I know it.
But I’m not going to force anything. Maybe being single for a while is fine. Maybe it’s better than I think. Or maybe when nothing’s working I’ll just pay for it. Anyway. Here we go.
Was at a friend’s place the other day and checked my site on his Windows PC. Internet Explorer. The nav bar had this thick white stripe straight down the middle, fonts had turned Times New Roman, everything looked completely different from what I was seeing on Safari back home.
I’d been assuming everyone saw what I saw—Safari, Firefox, even the Mac version of Internet Explorer all rendered it basically the same. But standing there looking at his monitor, I realized I had no actual idea what most people were looking at. There was a whole version of my site existing out in the world that I couldn’t see from home, broken in ways I’d never know about.
I went to my grandmother’s birthday party at this restaurant. Started with pumpkin seed soup—nothing fancy but I’d never had it before and it was actually good. Good enough that I had them pack the leftovers.
The main was kangaroo meat. They bring out this hot stone in the middle of the table and you grill it yourself, fries and mayo on the side. So there I am in the middle of the restaurant cooking my own meal, watching it char on the stone. It sounds stupid but it kind of worked.
That’s the thing about it—it wasn’t that the food was incredible, it’s just that it stuck. The pumpkin seed soup, the hot stone kangaroo, the whole weird mechanism of it. The kind of meal you carry around in your head.
Just back from Prague and completely wrecked. We were out the entire time, moving constantly. My group was what made it—the kind of people where exhaustion feels like a small price for being around them.
I’m working through the footage now, trying to make something watchable out of all the video I shot. Sleep is the only thing I want right now.
Heading to Prague tomorrow with my class. Bringing my Sony Handycam because I’m working on this film project and I actually want it to be good, so don’t steal it.
You watch other people’s relationships and you see the same pattern over and over. John and Mandy just broke up — both of them wanted out, it just wasn’t working. So like everyone does, John tries to fix himself. Goes full goth, decides he needs something “real” this time, someone he doesn’t have to perform for. As if the problem was ever the costume.
Meanwhile Mille and Sarah, who work together, are in that drowsy new-relationship phase where they’re constantly touching each other and eating Chinese food and probably responsible for someone’s quarterly condom sales. They don’t think about the future. They don’t think about kids or mortgages or any of that. It’s just the next moment and the next time they get to see each other. It’s the only time it actually feels good.
Then there’s everyone else. The people who’ve been with someone for five years, ten years, a decade. The butterflies stopped around year two. Maybe they’re still there on special days, but it’s not the same. Most of the time it’s just work — keeping it alive, keeping it functioning, using whatever you have left. You tell yourself that’s what maturity looks like.
But you can’t stay in any of these. The new relationship runs its course. The long-term one develops problems and suddenly you’re back on the ground, dealing with real things. Breakups end. You’re single again, looking. You cycle through all of it — new, stable, broken — over and over until you’re dead. And it never gets easier, or maybe it does, but the cycle doesn’t change.
Had her birthday at her place, friends came over. At some point while we were all there I caught myself just watching her and thinking about how rare this is, how much I want it to last. I don’t usually admit stuff like that, but there it is. Things are really good with her right now.
I formatted my hard drive. Not intentionally—I was doing a clean install of Tiger, got sloppy, and erased everything instead. All my files, all my shit, gone. I sat there waiting for the OS to load and realized I was staring at a completely empty machine.
I figured I’d freak out. After 2004, when I wiped Linux and took half my Windows setup with it, I thought I’d learned some paranoia about data. But this time felt different. Lighter. Just this weird sensation of okay, start over. No dread. No panic. Just emptiness that was almost peaceful.
The RAM installation part was the real careful work. I had this plastic spatula (!) and kept thinking I’d snap the little retention clips. Got it done, though. The hard drive is where I checked out mentally.
Night before all that, I went to a party at Lydia’s. Mille talked me into bringing my new video camera and just filming stuff. It came out genuinely funny, if you were there, but at 20MB compressed it’s not exactly shareable. We had a good time anyway. Someone got sick but she’s apparently fine now.
Ben, if you’re reading: you owe me like 13 euros. Or maybe I owe you. Honestly can’t remember. Not being cheap, just want to put it on the record.
School starts tomorrow. Ten hours minimum. I’m not looking forward to it.
The real pain: my website was on a 1&1 server, so I didn’t have backups locally when the drive got nuked. I keep meaning to burn it all to CD for insurance and I never actually do it. So that’s sitting in the back of my mind now.
Love life news: Ana and Flo got back together. John and Mandy broke up. People separate and reconcile. It’s just how things go.
Becca and I watched the MTV Europe Music Awards last night. Borat was brilliant as host—genuinely one of the best I’d seen. But something nagged at me: 99% of the performances and nominations were American. It’s the Europe Music Awards. Where were the European artists? Robbie Williams, Rammstein—they were basically the only ones that actually registered.
I went to Gravis in Munich with Becca that day. We’d been spending all our time together lately, which felt good. Picked up a 1GB storage block for my Mac mini. The staff there is genuinely nice; the technician was friendly until I mentioned what I wanted to do. Then he told me it would be like “open heart surgery”—the Mac mini wasn’t designed to be opened, and upgrading the memory meant voiding the warranty.
But I wanted more RAM, so I took the risk. If I disappear from here over the next few days, you’ll know what happened. I killed the machine. Wish me luck. It’s Friday, at least.
Heard something on Giga today about Windows going cloud-only someday—no installation, just log in online and your whole interface appears. Pretty funny idea in theory, supposedly stops piracy, though I doubt anyone wants to use it.
Spent the afternoon with Becca, helping her paint her room. Three walls light blue. It’s the kind of work that’s surprisingly meditative once you get into it.
Then tonight was The O.C., which keeps getting weirder. Trey’s throwing a surprise party, and right before Ryan and Marissa kiss, some girl he was with earlier turns up half-dead in the pool. Absolutely ridiculous. That’s what the show does best.
Helped Becca paint her room today and it actually went well—one of those moments where it clicks and you both think maybe we should do this more often. Then Basti came over for the Halloween DVD night and immediately set about finding something wrong with basically everything: the TV, the room, the chips I bought, my internet connection, my web editor, the whole movie selection. He wasn’t wrong about Wrong Turn being a slog, I’ll give him that. But then he said something about the Mac and I was completely done.
I know the Mac thing doesn’t land with people. I don’t use Windows, Linux doesn’t interest me, and the Mac is just better—faster, more reliable, more intuitive. All the software is there. The same conversation every single time and it goes nowhere. People have already decided. I’m not trying to convert anyone. If you want Windows, fine, honestly I prefer it that way.
What gets to me is someone treating your tools like they’re up for debate. Like you’re supposed to justify how you work to someone who doesn’t work that way.
I was recharging my phone card the other day and it hit me that I haven’t entered an activation code in years. That’s what a tool that actually works does—it stops being something you think about. It just becomes part of the background.
My mom walks in around seven in the morning yelling at me to get up, like I’d somehow overslept. I’m barely awake and confused, so I just tell her I’m on vacation, and she leaves. But of course I can’t fall back asleep after that. So I end up at the computer working on the website. Then breakfast. Then listened to some music. Then back at the computer. Nothing really happened.
Yesterday was the same until Mille came by. We filmed some stuff with the camera—nothing serious, just messing around—and then he left. After that I spent the whole evening working on an MP3 list, which sounds simple but actually isn’t. I had to type everything in manually. Tedious work.
Now I’m just seeing what the rest of the day brings.
Nearly three in the morning and I’m wired from P.M. for the first time. Julian, Danny B., Mille, Ana, Knuffi—all there. The place is bigger than Nachtcafe, more going on, actual food. That alone makes it worth the trip back. Five euros for a Smirnoff though, which is insane, but the space, the room to move around, made up for it.
At some point we got into freestyle dancing. I remember the moment it clicked—two right, two left, two back, one forward, one back and spin—the steps locked and then it was over. The second you understand the pattern is when it ends.
What got to me was who didn’t show. Someone had said the whole crew was coming. Like it was locked in. But that didn’t happen. I’m not going to sit with it. Everyone picks their own thing. I’m exhausted. Need to sleep.
School ended yesterday. Got a week off, finally, though first there was the usual eight hours of slogging through classes—only French was worth sitting through. There’s talk about Prague coming up, and the logic seems to be that if I’m already having this much fun just being around people at school, an actual trip would be even better. We’ll see if that holds up when it actually happens.
Spent the afternoon at the train station with Mille, just standing around waiting for this girl he’d met online. She never showed up. He got bored and left with some coworker instead. So I ended up spending the evening with Ana instead, working out details for her to write a regular column here. Should be decent.
Later we went to September, this place we go to, and ran into Sarah with a couple of her friends and some little dog. They talked nonstop the whole time, just endless noise about nothing, the kind of people you watch and think about what they’re doing when nobody’s around. Or maybe that’s just me thinking.
Things with Becca have gotten pretty rough lately anyway.
Couldn’t get out of bed this morning. One of those mornings where you just can’t. Dragged myself to the station half-conscious, heading out to Kaufbeuren while the rest of the group had scattered to their own plans.
Then they handed back the math exam. Are you fucking kidding me. We’d just done a test and I’d actually got a decent mark, and now this—another exam, completely different material, nobody ready. Of course I tanked it. We all did. F’s all around. Bene threw a chair at the wall in this pure moment of rage that was almost beautiful in how unselfconscious it was. I couldn’t help but laugh, the kind of laugh you do when someone’s fury is so clean and obvious it becomes funny.
Last two periods the German teacher dragged us into this thing about class cohesion. Some people didn’t want to go to Prague, there’s apparently something wrong with the group, and he made us write down anonymously what was bothering us. I respect the move. He actually knows how to do this—not performative, just asking the real question.
Been watching The O.C. and the whole Ryan-and-Marissa thing is either going somewhere or it’s not—the show keeps dragging it out with this Trey subplot instead of just telling you what happens. It’s stupid to care this much about a television show but here I am, invested in two fictional teenagers like it matters.
Spent the whole day finishing the website redesign. If you’re reading this, that’s what you’re looking at. We’re supposed to launch November 1st and somehow we’re actually on track, which feels impossible but I’m not going to question it.
Got a 2 in math today. Can’t remember the last time that happened—maybe high school, who knows. It’s one of those small things that sticks with you even when everything else is background noise.
Becca and I have been together almost a year and a half now. We talked for a couple minutes today, which never quite satisfies but beats nothing. Anniversary’s coming up soon.
The leaves turn brown and all the spring couples start breaking up.
Becca and I met in April. Everything was warm and light. By November it’s dark at five in the afternoon and you’re inside all the time with this person you barely know, and something shifts. I watched it happen to half the couples I knew. B.’s girlfriend broke up with him at a party after over a year—just told him it was done, right there in front of people.
Spring makes everyone fall in love because falling in love is easy when the weather’s perfect and you can sit outside and there’s no friction. Summer confirms it feels good. But winter’s different. Winter is the actual test—are you with someone you want to be with when it’s cold and dark and there’s no escape? Or are you just someone who fell for the season?
Becca and I survived that first winter. I still don’t know if that means something real or if we’re just better at pretending.
We all got together in September for Kallilein’s birthday. The night was silly and rambling, the kind where you’re not sure how long things will last but you’re enjoying it anyway. The highlight was this tower we built - hundred-something pieces stacked up - which somehow became this thing everyone wanted to solve. I ended up as the tower keeper, whatever that means.
I’m driving to see my partner now. We’re going to cook lunch together and talk through what’s going on between us, the stuff we’re both dealing with.
I was in rough shape. Threw up twice the night before and had no idea why—one of those nights where your body just bails on you completely. Then couldn’t sleep.
I’d made some deal with Becca that we’d actually try this time, you know, really go for it. Those conversations feel real when you’re having them, like intention alone might change something. Then you’re sick and it’s 3 AM and you’re alone with the thought that maybe nothing fixes anything.
I gave up on sleep around 8 PM and queued up The O.C. Just kept watching. Ten episodes straight, no breaks, no stopping—one episode flowing into the next until the sun was up and I was still there in the dark. There’s something about being that hollowed out that makes television work the way it should. It doesn’t ask for anything from you. Just plays. Ryan and Marissa and all that Orange County melodrama unfolding while you’re basically a ghost in a chair.
School was obviously not happening. Sleep deprivation and nausea don’t mix. Didn’t bother calling in or making an excuse—just didn’t go. Honestly didn’t mind. The whole day dissolving felt earned somehow.
It’s dark outside. Just watched two episodes of The O.C. back-to-back—bought the season one DVD box today and grabbed the soundtracks while I was at it. “Rain City” by Turin Brakes is playing in the background. There’s a melancholy settled in the room that I’m not bothering to resist. I’m not in the mood to write about my day. I’m just putting this down, these few minutes of sadness and half-thoughts, and leaving it there.
I hate what The O.C. does to you. Every time an episode ends, you’re left with this melancholic feeling you don’t know what to do with, and then you’re stuck waiting a week to find out what happens next.
The blog dropped some coverage earlier for technical reasons. Won’t happen again. But here we are. Marissa and Ryan are slowly circling back toward each other. Alex keeps existing on the margins despite being more interesting than the show can figure out how to use. Everything’s basically the same as it was at the end of last season. I feel for her character, honestly. The whole season’s brought nothing new.
Next Wednesday is “Fire.” Ryan gets some hired thugs after him because Alex got jealous and took action. Then Charmed comes back too, which is somehow worse. But I’ll watch anyway. That’s what this show does to you.
Nickelodeon’s back on German TV. The news was probably circulating a while, but it’s happening now—MTV2POP is getting displaced, Nickelodeon’s taking its place, and they’re stripping Super RTL of a bunch of shows in the process. They’ve timed it perfectly for the school year, which is exactly the kind of calculated nostalgia move the channel would make.
What’s strange is watching something you grew up with suddenly return. You’re not the same person anymore, and the world it broadcast into doesn’t exist in any meaningful way. But the specific textures are still there—the green slime, those ridiculous host bits that felt hilarious at the time, that particular feeling of being in on something that was exclusively for kids. Saturday mornings stretched out forever.
I’m not sure what Nickelodeon will actually be in this version. It might just be a logo over something completely different, or it might genuinely try to recapture what it was. Either way, there’s something to be said for a channel mattering enough to come back. Even if I’ve changed, even if everything’s changed. The fact that it returns at all says something about what it was.
My mom woke me up early because her car wouldn’t start. We went out in the rain to push it around the driveway, me in my Nike hoodie getting completely soaked, but nothing happened. My uncle finally showed up with jumper cables and got it going.
By then I was wiped out but too wired to sleep, just sitting here at my desk not doing anything. My girlfriend’s coming over this afternoon to stay the night, so that’s the main thing I’ve got to look forward to, but it’s still hours away. New One Piece episodes just dropped too, which is decent.
Right now I’m just hungry and restless, killing time.
I made the jump from Windows to Mac sometime in the early 2000s, and I remember the relief being almost physical. The blue screens, the inexplicable crashes, the sense that everything was one update away from catastrophe—it all just stopped. I’d spent years troubleshooting drivers, running disk defrag utilities like they were religious rituals, restarting for what felt like the thousandth time before something simple would work. Windows felt like it was actively working against you, like the machine resented your presence on it.
Mac OS X was different. The Aqua interface, the brushed aluminum hardware, even the white plastic of the iBook felt like someone had actually thought about what it meant to interact with a machine. Every detail was considered. The trackpad, the font rendering, the way windows moved. It sounds pretentious to care about this stuff, but it was the opposite—it was about the machine not getting in the way.
People thought I’d sold out, joined some design cult, bought into Apple’s mystique. Maybe they weren’t entirely wrong. But the practical truth was simpler: the machine just worked. No driver conflicts, no registry corruption, no mystifying incompatibilities. I could actually focus on what I was doing instead of nursing a machine back to health.
That switch ended up changing how I approach things, though I didn’t realize it at the time. You spend enough time fighting with a machine and you start thinking about what it means to make something that works. Not in a revolutionary way—just the simple truth that someone had thought about the details, and had the discipline to edit them down to what actually mattered. Everything since then, I keep coming back to that. What’s essential, what can be cut, what serves the person actually using the thing instead of serving some vision of what a computer should look like.
Seth’s holding on to Summer way too hard, and he doesn’t realize until the end that letting go is actually the only move that makes sense. But knowing it and being able to do it are different things. Marissa probably felt something similar when she saw Ryan with Lindsay—that moment where someone you wanted has already left, and you’re just watching it happen after the fact. It’s bleak.
Julie keeps getting what she wants through pure manipulation, and everyone falls for it every time. She takes over the company, everyone acts wounded, and then they all just let her win. It shouldn’t be compelling but it is—there’s something darkly satisfying about watching someone win through being the most dishonest person in the room.
I thought this episode might warm me up to Lindsay. It didn’t. She’s still grating. I’m still rooting for Ryan and Marissa to find their way back to each other, even if it takes forever. And if that DJ shows up again I’m turning this off.
Yesterday after watching The O.C. (double episode) I was lying in bed wanting to listen to an album on my iPod. Hit play. Nothing happened. Checked if I’d hit the hold button like an idiot, but no. Tried every combination of buttons. My iPod was just dead.
I was already thinking about packing it up to send to Apple when I remembered these old magazines in my drawer—”iPod Love” and “iPod Special”—and pulled them out. There was a reset procedure in one of them: hold the menu and select buttons until the Apple logo appears. Sometimes you have to do it multiple times.
Tried it. Once, twice, three times. Nothing. Then it happened. The logo lit up and the iPod kind of gasped and immediately started playing “Lolita Strawberry in Summer.” I’d actually saved it. Not going to pretend that wasn’t a good feeling.
Finally caught The OC episodes I’d missed, two in a row on Wednesday. I can’t quite separate them in my head anymore, the timeline’s already gone soft, so I’m just going to let them stay blurred and talk about what mattered.
Everyone’s trapped in family problems they didn’t ask for, which seems to be the point right now. Ryan’s convinced he can’t be with Lindsay because she’s technically his aunt—the kind of thing that destroys you if you let it. Seth’s trying to impress Alex by being someone he’s not, a bad boy, when the only reason she’s interested in him is because he’s actually decent. That contradiction will wreck him eventually.
But Marissa got under my skin this time. Her mom sleeps with her ex-husband, and Marissa’s response is to get drunk and tear through a party, which is what someone that damaged would do. She ends up hating herself and her mother in equal measure. She finally cuts things off with DJ, and I don’t think either of them expected anything else. He was never anything but a weapon against her mother. I’ve always wanted Ryan and Marissa to work out, but watching her helpless against the people she’s stuck with—watching all of them, really—that’s the show’s real subject.
You can’t want the right person when family gets in the way.
I couldn’t figure out what I wanted. Next year I’d need a new computer, and the question was simple enough on paper: Windows Vista or a Mac? But nothing about it was actually simple.
I knew Windows inside and out. All the programs I needed, all the habits built up over years, the muscle memory that made everything work. The problem was I was bored with it. Everyone had Windows. It was safe and expected and something I’d just outgrown by using it so much.
A Mac was different. There was a philosophy to it, a completely different way of thinking about what a computer could be. I’d flip through Mac magazines and every time I saw one of those clean, minimal desktops, something would shift in my chest. The machines were beautiful in a way Windows wasn’t even trying to be. Apple represented something else—a different life, or at least it felt that way when you were looking at the pictures.
The decision made itself in those moments. I wanted a Mac. Wanting one and being able to afford one were separate problems, but I had time. Months ahead. Maybe by Christmas I’d have saved enough. A PowerBook would be perfect. Or a Mac Mini. I wasn’t going anywhere until I had one.
Rain has this quality I like—something melancholic about it that feels almost beautiful, even when it’s just weather doing what weather does. Lucky for us it didn’t rain yesterday because we had a van full of stuff parked at a flea market between Bad Wörishofen and Irsingen. Selling things by the hour is numbing once you’ve been there a few hours, just people walking past your table, but it was worth it—I made almost 300 euros. In the evening I went to Becca’s mom’s birthday party, one of those reliably pleasant events.
I’m just glad it only happens once a year. That’s the right frequency for that particular exhaustion.
Vista showed some genuine design thinking when the early builds started circulating. The glass effects, the transparency, this visual language that made Windows look like it might actually belong in the 2000s. There was something there.
I remember that anticipation before it shipped, before it became obvious how bloated it would be, before you realized what a drag it would actually be to use. That moment when the promise was still intact — there was something real about that.
Last night I had this incredibly vivid nightmare that’s been sitting in my chest all day like something heavy I can’t shake.
I was on a school trip with my class when a massive forest fire broke out. Somehow I became one of the helpers, handing out water bottles to people fleeing the flames. This man pulled up, locked eyes with me, and set a tree on fire right beside me. He pulled a gun and shot at me—missed—and I knew my only way out was to throw myself down a slope. I tumbled down the embankment and at the bottom I ran into a classmate. I asked him where the terrorist went and he pointed upward. I looked and watched this man jump out of a tree a few meters away and start running toward us. Another guy from my class fired a harpoon into his back and he collapsed, bleeding everywhere.
We walked toward him. Then suddenly he got back up and it wasn’t the terrorist anymore—it was Rebecca, my girlfriend, bleeding and stumbling around. I screamed at her: “Do you still want to kill me?” “No,” she said, but her eyes were empty and she didn’t seem to regret what she’d done. Then she collapsed.
I grabbed her and yelled for a doctor. A hospital suddenly appeared. I ran up all these steps and found a doctor and nurse next to another bleeding girl. I laid Rebecca on some cloth and screamed at them to save her. The doctor barely glanced at her, pointed at the blonde girl, and said, “At least she still has a chance,” then just walked away. I looked back at Rebecca and I could see in her eyes that she was dead.
All I could do was scream. Then I woke up, but that heavy, dull feeling from the dream followed me through the whole day.
My girlfriend came over. We had one of those conversations that doesn’t arrive anywhere but feels essential anyway. Then my favorite cousin. Then Mille, Palle and I somehow went shopping with zero money, which works out if you’re not too particular about buying things. Then nearly everyone made it to a thermal bath in Bad Worishofen—crowded and hot and full of people, which sounds bad but wasn’t. Pizza after.
The whole weekend was just momentum. Girlfriend, cousin, shopping, bath, pizza. No air between any of it. That kind of day that wears you out but also keeps you going.
Later I realized I’ve missed three episodes of The OC in a row. That’s the kind of gap you don’t come back from.
Watched Halloween 5 at Mille’s last night—painfully boring, no surprise there. But the movie wasn’t really the point. Somewhere around the middle, while Michael Myers was doing whatever, Palle and Madeleine figured out they liked each other. You’re all scattered on couches, not paying attention, and suddenly two people are hyperaware of each other.
By the end of the night, it was official. I made a toast, said what you’re supposed to say, and we moved on. That was it.
Japanese rock music, loud enough that everything else disappears. That’s the only way to redesign something that’s yours. The old design was too clean, too apologetic. This new version—darker, weirder—is what should’ve been there from the start.
When you build something for yourself, you get to change it. The white design had this sterile polish that made me hate looking at it. Like I was visiting somewhere someone else built.
I reorganized the archive, added photo galleries, started fixing all the broken audio and video sections that had been sitting half-finished for months. But that’s not the real point. The real change is the mood. The real change is that logging in now feels like coming home instead of showing up to work.
Maintaining your own corner of the internet matters more than it probably should. You get to be strange. You get to be dark. You get to like something purely because it feels right, and nobody gets a vote.
Things might not work properly. I’ll fix them eventually, or I won’t for a while. That’s the deal when you’re answering to nobody but yourself.
Bad Worishofen apparently has no parking. We were supposed to meet at Chaplin II and ended up driving around for twenty minutes looking for a spot. The bar itself is fine, nothing wrong with it, but there’s some kind of event happening inside—loud, chaotic, feels like a small bombardment. Not the vibe you want when you’re just trying to grab a drink with friends, so we give up.
Drive out to McDonald’s in Mindelheim instead, which is totally stupid but somehow made sense in the moment. I think I see my ex in there—pretty sure it was actually her—but I didn’t really want to know for certain. One less interaction to deal with.
Better moment came later at Mille when Friday Night News was on. I just completely lost it, couldn’t stop laughing, couldn’t breathe. Nothing was even particularly funny, but that’s just how it goes sometimes.
My girlfriend’s coming back from England soon and I’ve been kind of a mess about making time to actually see her. So I’m just going to say it: I love you, Rebecca. Sorry for being difficult about this.
His daughter won’t look at him anymore. That’s what stays with you. Johnny Depp’s George Jung spends two hours convincing himself that every bit of it—the cocaine, the money, everything—is for her, for security, for the family. And then she’s gone anyway.
You watch it happen fast. The money piles up, and he’s got an answer for everything. The lie is too perfect to resist. He really does believe it’s for her. Why shouldn’t you believe him? He’s not doing this for kicks or out of greed. He’s doing it for the one person who matters.
Then she looks at him with complete contempt. Won’t even let him near. And you realize that’s the actual cost of everything. Not the prison time, not the money, not the DEA. It’s losing the one person he claimed was worth all of it.
The film doesn’t try to redeem him or make it tragic in some way that lands softly. It just leaves him there, hollow. And the daughter is gone.
I couldn’t stop thinking about how completely wrong you could be about something. How certain you could be that you’re doing the right thing for someone, and just miss it entirely. And how there’s no fix for that, no version where you explain it later and they understand.
Drove to Munich yesterday with Ben, Lydia, Betty, and Bianca. They all had free train tickets from some grades-based promotion the railway does every year, so we figured we might as well go. Breakfast at Burger King, lunch at McDonald’s, dinner at Pizza Hut—a real health food adventure. The girls wanted to hit Orsay and Pimkie while the rest of us just wandered along. Everyone made it to Saturn. But I was mainly there for Neo Tokyo, this anime and J-Pop shop I’d been meaning to actually visit instead of just knowing it existed. Picked up more CDs than my budget could handle, which is always what happens the moment you step inside a place like that.
Good day. Nothing remarkable. But sometimes that’s the whole point.
Met up with everyone at Mille and ended up back at my place with Sabrina and her friend instead of heading to Chaplin. We put on a couple of terrible movies just to have something on, the kind you’re not really watching anyway.
But the whole night felt off. There’s stuff going on in the group that’s not been dealt with, and it was just hanging there the whole time. Everyone was trying to have a decent night, but you could feel it underneath everything.
I don’t know. I hope it works out, but I think it’s going to need actual conversations, and I’m not sure people are ready for that yet. Probably won’t know for a while.
Lydia’s seventeenth was last night. Her parents did a backyard grill thing. Pretty much everyone came. I dragged Eniz along since he wasn’t working. The whole evening came together—one of those where everyone’s in a good mood and nothing really goes sideways.
Betty got stung by a flying frog, allegedly. I spent an embarrassing amount of time playing with the grill lighter. The ketchup was hot and expired, which I discovered by using it. Madi somehow won the entire night just by existing and laughing the way she does—that kind of laugh that makes everything around it seem stupider and better.
Then Eniz did his thing. The kind of thing I legally cannot discuss. A plainclothes cop took notice. Lydia’s parents were genuinely good about it—fed us, didn’t make an issue. That kind of hospitality doesn’t come around often.
Friday’s supposed to be our party if the weather cooperates. If it doesn’t, we’ll find somewhere else. We usually manage.
Lydia turned seventeen today. I wanted to mark it somehow, to say I hope she stays exactly as she is. We haven’t seen each other in too long. One of those friendships where the time doesn’t really matter, but you still notice the gap.
It’s raining. The weekend’s over, saying goodbye the only way it knows how—for good. She started her England tour this morning. I couldn’t make Lydia and Betty’s birthday yesterday, had something come up. See what next week brings. Hope I can be there next time.
